Page 25 of Hazard a Guest
“Many times, in fact,” he said, drawing a polite distance and extending his hand, as though they were simply colleagues and not at odds. “I attempted to buy Brigid’s Forge from you thrice: once when it was still the Sparrow’s Tail, once a few years later, and most recently perhaps a year past. I’m afraid I’m quite captivated with the place.”
Her brow wrinkled and she took an involuntary step back, sizing him up one more time.
“No,” she said in disbelief, shaking her head, “no, that can’t be you.”
She didn’t remember him from last year or five years past, no. Like she’d told Dot, there were too many of those men strolling in from off the street, attempting to casually purchase her very lifeblood away, to keep track of.
But only one person had ever tried to buy the Forge back when it was only a sparrow’s tail: a boy.
Ember herself had only been nineteen at the time, of course, and to her, he had seemed absurdly young. Maybe sixteen? Maybe less?
He’d been dressed like so many errand boys and news hockers, ill-fitted and functional with a dirty hat pulled over his brow.
He’d come in with a cracking voice and a frame too big to manage, desperate and insistent that he was already the owner, that he’d already shaken hands with Mr. Withers. He’d begged her. He’d cried. He’d shown her pocketfuls of money and offered to go retrieve witnesses to confirm his story.
She’d told him to go away. She’d closed the door on him and his devastation, which had only served in that moment to collide with her own. And she’d walked away.
He shrugged, looking unabashed about the boy he’d been then, some ten years ago. “I’m afraid so.”
For the first time in a very long time, Ember Donnelly was rendered speechless.
And Freddy, bless him, offered a gallant assist in the only way he knew how: by being an overly social annoyance.
“Well, Beck, I expect you don’t remember me quite so well as Miss Donnelly,” he said, leaping almost bodily in front of her with his hand outstretched, as though he was going to catch afalling blade she couldn’t see. “We’ve also met a few times! I’m very impressed with the Tod & Vixen; it’s come up very finely and very quickly, hasn’t it?”
“Lord Bentley,” returned Beck, stepping back with what looked like smug amusement as he accepted the handshake. “I remember you very well. I suspect people rarely forget you.”
“Don’t flatter me,” Freddy warned. “I’ll just want more.”
Beck laughed then, seemingly charmed by Freddy’s one and only skill. “I’m proud of the Vixen, yes. Later to the game than I’d have liked for her to be, but thriving all the same. I’m thinking of opening a second club, in fact.”
Ember recoiled, her back coming against the cold pane of glass behind her. It was the only thing stopping her from toppling right off the cliff and into the sea.
“You must not have siblings,” Freddy said easily, “or you’d know a beloved child hates when a sibling comes along. Even in business, I think one beloved child has far more potential than a brood of resentful siblings. However would you choose which one to frequent, night to night?”
“I’d find a way,” Beck replied easily. “But your concern is noted, Lord Bentley.”
It was at this moment that Mr. Cresson reappeared, seemingly from the ether. Ember hadn’t seen him enter the dining area or weave his way through tables and breakfasting toffs. She hadn’t seen much of anything other than Beck looming over her and Freddy attempting to be a human shield.
Nevertheless, he was suddenly at her side, his warm fingers brushing against the inside of her elbow as he gently pulled her from the pane of glass that had been holding her body up.
Those silver eyes scanned her face with open concern, but he did not speak. He did not embarrass her.
“Ah,” she managed to say, her voice gone only a little ragged. “I had forgotten, Mr. Cresson, please forgive me. Gentlemen, I’m afraid I am wanted on a tour of the winter gardens. Please don’t mind me.”
“By all means,” said Freddy with a little bit too much enthusiasm.
Beck only tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Perhaps we will talk more later, Miss Donnelly,” he said with that same measured voice. “Enjoy the gardens. Hopefully they are not so bare as they seemed when I saw them before.”
She clutched at Joseph Cresson’s arm, squeezing more than she knew was appropriate or necessary, begging him to get her out of that room.
Bless him. He did exactly that.
She did faintly hearhim the first three times.
“Miss Donnelly,” he had attempted, and she’d wanted to answer, but she felt somewhere outside of herself as they walked, somewhere beyond control of her own tongue.
“Ember,” he finally tried, low and concerned, and that was enough.
