Page 12 of Beyond Scandal and Desire
He studied her for a moment, and she fought not to squirm. The spectacles that rested on the bridge of his slender nose enlarged his blue eyes and made it seem that he could peer directly into someone’s soul. “I am familiar with him,” he finally said very quietly and flatly, giving nothing away regarding what his opinion of the man might be.
“He struck me as the sort of man who—if he found himself in need of a solicitor—would come to you, as he would no doubt be willing to pay for the best London had to offer.”
“You flatter me.”
She knew he dearly wanted to ask how she had become acquainted with Mick Trewlove, but if Mr. Beckwith was known for anything at all, it was for being discreet and respecting others’ privacy. “Would he happen to be a client of yours?”
He tilted his head slightly. “I am not at liberty to disclose who my clients are.”
The discreetness that had brought her to him was a deterrent to her gaining what she wanted. “I don’t suppose you would happen to know where his office or home is located.”
Clearing his throat, he leaned back. “If he were a client, it would be inappropriate for me to share any information I have regarding him. Just as I would not share any particulars regarding you.”
“If I were to leave a box on the corner of your desk, do you think it might magically make its way to him?”
“If I don’t know where he is, I am certain I could find someone who does.”
“Then I shall leave it in your care.” She removed the small leather box from her reticule and carefully set it on the edge of his desk.
“Is there a message that should accompany it?”
“No, I think the message will be quite clear when he receives it.” She rose. Mr. Beckwith shoved himself to his feet. “I appreciate you not asking questions.”
“My role in life is to be of service—not to judge.”
“I knew I could count on your discretion. Thank you, Mr. Beckwith. I hope you have a good day.”
“Lady Aslyn, every day I am alive is a good day.”
Strolling from the office, she wondered if Mick Trewlove was having a good day, as well.
She’d bloody well returned his gift. Charles Beckwith had arrived at Mick’s office without an appointment and delivered it himself, along with an admonishment in his gaze: Lady Aslyn was not to be bothered by the likes of Mick Trewlove.
He had thought the earl would be a challenge, but he’d never expected it of the lady. When he set his sights on a woman, he generally enjoyed her before the night was done. He’d known an aristocratic woman would take a bit more cajoling and enticing. He’d thought dangling trinkets before her, especially when they were procured in the middle of the night from a jeweler who owed him, was the key.
He’d been wrong.
Standing at the office window on the top floor of his hotel, gazing out on the small patch of London that belonged to him, he watched as the workers carted lumber, hammered planks into place, stacked bricks, attached roofs, inserted glass. The shops would bring more business to the area, more customers to his hotel. The lodgings he planned to build beyond would bring in rents from those who worked in the shops, those he would hire to keep the area clean, those who would see to the various tasks that most people didn’t even consider.
In his youth, he’d worked as a dustbin boy and then a dustman, selling the soot and dirt he collected to brick-makers—until he’d been able to afford his own brick and mortar business. London was expanding quickly. There was good money to be had in bricks. Once he had the bricks, he began building. His life had been one small step leading to another, until he was able to permanently wash off the dust. But it wasn’t enough.
He wanted to be acknowledged as the better son, to prove his worth was more than that of the legitimate spawn. He wanted his father to know he had vastly misjudged his bastard’s potential, to regret he had ever sentenced him to death.
Chapter 4
“Father, what do you know of Mick Trewlove?” Kip asked, and Aslyn very nearly choked on her glazed pheasant. They’d agreed not to mention him, and here he was mentioning him.
Oddly, the duke concentrated on slicing his poultry as though it required precision. “I’m not familiar with the man.”
“He’s razed all the buildings in a rundown area of London and is now replacing the structures. He’s already built a massive hotel and from what I can gather has plans for a series of shops. I thought we might consider investing with him—”
“Let’s not talk business during dinner.”
“Oh, let’s,” Aslyn blurted, wanting to hear more about the enigmatic Mr. Trewlove, although she knew it was improper to show any interest in another man. But her interest was mere curiosity, not anything untoward. “Well, not business necessarily, but of the new shops. Ladies always have an interest in new shops. What sort exactly?”
“I’m not sure,” Kip said. “He’s rather tightlipped about his plans.”
“You’ve spoken with him, then.”When, where? What had he said?
