Page 5 of The Devil's Bargain
Cursing her traitorous body, Caroline turned away. She had more important things to focus on than how magnificent Devlin Elmstone looked in his perfectly tailored coat, or how his voice seemed designed to make her shiver.
She was starting to understand why he was called the devil of London’s business world. The man was clearly a master at finding weaknesses to exploit. She refused to let her inconvenient attraction become one of them.
Devlin surveyed the crowd at the Merchant’s Exchange with predatory attention, noting alliances and weaknesses in each cluster of London’s business elite. His gaze settled briefly on the solitary figure in black silk who stood near a marble column. Edward Thurlow’s widow, looking exactly as lost among London’s business elite as he’d expected.
Caroline Thurlow weathered the deliberate slights with typical feminine fragility. When Augustus Sutton brushed past without acknowledging her greeting, she seemed to shrink slightly. When Mr Whitmore loudly discussed the “shocking decline in standards” while staring in her direction, she busied herself examining a painting, her hands fidgeting with her sherry glass in obvious discomfort.
“Shameful business, that Thurlow situation,” muttered Harry Burns at his elbow. “Woman trying to run a water works, living with the mistress... hardly proper.”
“Indeed.” Devlin watched her respond to a patronising comment about “ladies’ understanding of business” with a self-deprecating laugh and vapid smile. “Though I suspect the company won’t remain in her delicate hands much longer.”
“Planning to acquire it, are you?” Burns asked knowingly.
“It would be a kindness, really,” Devlin mused, noting how she kept glancing anxiously toward the exit. “Save her from the embarrassment of running it into the ground. These technical matters require a firmer hand than most women possess.”
Yet something about her presence here nagged at him. Why would a helpless widow attend such a gathering unless... But no. Her obvious discomfort and scattered attention confirmed his initial assessment. She was simply out of her depth, as any proper lady would be in such circumstances.
A commotion near the entrance drew his attention. Nathaniel Worthington had arrived, the man’s usual bombastic manner amplified by brandy. Devlin’s eyes narrowed. Worthington owed him a considerable sum, and his patience had reached its limit.
“Gregory!” Worthington boomed at a friend, weaving through the crowd. “Just the man I wanted to see. About that—”
“A moment.” Devlin caught Worthington’s arm in a grip that was meant to look companionable but was strong as iron. Hesteered the man toward a quiet alcove, noting how Caroline watched their progress with interest.
“My dear Worthington,” Devlin said softly once they were alone. “I’ve been most understanding about your delayed payments. But my understanding, like my patience, has limits.”
“Now see here, Elmstone—”
“No. You’ll sign over the deed to your warehouse by week’s end, or I’ll call in every marker you’ve laid in the city. How long do you think your reputation would survive that particular scandal becoming public?”
Worthington’s face mottled. “You wouldn’t dare—”
“Try me.” Devlin smiled, all teeth and no warmth. “I’m sure your wife would be fascinated to learn where her diamond necklace actually went.”
He left Worthington sputtering, not wanting to waste another moment on the useless mongrel. He made his way to where Caroline stood in seemingly vacant contemplation of a maritime painting.
“How are you finding the painting, Mrs Thurlow?”
“Oh! The colours are ever so pretty,” she replied with a flutter of her fan, letting her fingers trail delicately along its edge in a way that drew his eye. “Blue is my particular favourite, you see.”
She shifted slightly, the light catching the copper highlights in her hair as she tilted her head to study the painting. The movement caused her skirts to brush against his leg with innocent casualness.
“Indeed.” Devlin’s mouth curved in barely concealed condescension, his gaze lingering on the graceful line of her neck. “Though I find the artist’s grasp of wave mechanics particularly fascinating. The angles of reflection, the careful attention to fluid dynamics...”
“How clever you are, Mr Elmstone!” She turned toward him, stepping just slightly closer than propriety strictly allowed. Hereyes widened with admiration as she tilted her head like a curious bird. “I confess such technical matters quite escape me. Edward always said a woman’s mind wasn’t suited to understanding the sciences.”
He guided her toward a secluded window alcove, already calculating how best to manipulate this simple widow. “Your late husband was quite accomplished in his innovations. The recent improvements to the filtration system were particularly impressive.”
“Were they?” She blinked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “I’m afraid I never understood his work. All those dreadful numbers and mechanical things.”
“Come now, Mrs Thurlow.” He softened his voice to what he imagined was a comforting tone perfect for flattery. “Surely you need not maintain this pretence of ignorance. A woman in your position must have some grasp of business matters.”
“How kind you are to think so!” Her laugh was light, empty. “But truly, Mr Elmstone, I must now rely entirely on Mr Finch for such things. These gatherings quite overwhelm me, but one must maintain appearances, mustn’t one?”
“Then perhaps you’d consider selling to someone better equipped to manage such technical concerns?” He injected warmth into his smile. “I could offer you a very comfortable future, free from these tedious business obligations.”
“You truly wish to buy London Water Works?” She pressed her handkerchief to her lips in apparent distress. “You best speak to Mr Finch. He’ll explain things to me. He’s quite patient with me, you see.”
“I shall,” he said, certain he could wear down her feminine hesitation. His eyes roved over her form with appreciation. “A pretty widow like yourself shouldn’t have to concern herself with business affairs.”
