Page 37 of Hearts of Briarwall

He dismounted and patted Goldy in thanks as she was led away. He turned to Lydia, studying her smile and the warmth behind it, pushing down the nervous energy that rose inside him in response. He shook his head. “I have no complaints.”

Her grin widened. “Good. Now, walk me back to the house before both of us drop dead on our feet.”

His grin pushed through, and he swept his hand toward the house. “After you.”

“I think not,” she said and took his elbow. “We shall continue together. You need me to hold you up, and I need you to catch me should I fall.”

He chuckled. “Are you that unsteady?”

“No, I’m that sleepy. Now quiet. I’ve no wish to wake the servants.”

Mrs. Parks and a kitchen maid were still awake, waiting with a pot of tea, cold ham and cheese, and warm scones. After Lydia and Spencer ate their fill, leaving some for Andrew, and shared the good news with the servants, they quietly made their way upstairs with their electric torches for lamps. When they reached Lydia’s door, Spencer paused.

“Lydia,” he said, trying out her name on his lips, his voice steadier than he felt.

She lifted her gaze to his, her pleasure at his use of her first name apparent in her expression. Fine. He’d let her have this small triumph. He needed a bigger one.

He hushed his voice. “May I ask your opinion on something?”

Her eyes widened once more. “Of course,” she whispered.

He swallowed. “I’m meeting with your brother later today about an investment opportunity. A very good investment opportunity. I want him aboard as much for his sake as my own. Can you give me any tips or warnings as how to best go about it?”

She studied him in the light of her torch. “You may know him as well as I. Be honest. Be yourself. He likes you. He is ... at ease with you, and that is a rare sight.”

He nodded. It wasn’t anything revelatory, but the encouragement was welcome.

Lydia reached for her door handle. “I’m sure you’ll do well.” She leaned forward with a secretive grin. “As long as it isn’t anything to do with motorcars.” She waggled her brows. “Good night, Spencer.”

His words lodged in his throat. He’d been so careful, testing the waters with Andrew, but he’d found nothing to warn him that while Andrew might have healed from his parents’ accident more than thirteen years ago, he was still outright against motorcars entirely.

Lydia opened her door and slipped inside, blissfully unaware that she’d upended any amount of confidence he’d gathered thus far.

Chapter 8

Spencer paced back and forth in one of the private meeting rooms of the club. True to his word, he’d played a laughable game of tennis—and he would’ve laughed at himself but for the fact that his nerves were stretched tighter than a racquet string. He’d tried to speak to Andrew before the presentation, but Andrew had cut him off with a hardy slap on the shoulder telling him not to worry, and oh—by the by, he’d invited several interested parties to listen to the proposal and had arranged for a room at the club to lend it added legitimacy.

Spencer had rushed through his post-game toilette in order to be the first to arrive at the room and think while the others finished dressing. His portfolio and notes lay on the table in the center of the room, and he’d run through his practiced speech so often he’d been afraid of losing the fire beneath his words. That was no longer his main concern.

As long as it isn’t anything to do with motorcars.

Spencer paused and closed his eyes. He should’ve guessed. What had he been thinking? He knew the family’s history and yet still allowed himself to think enough time had passed and surely Andrew Wooding could look to the future now. Could see the wisdom in this venture.

And here he was, about to make a grand fool of himself. He could hear his father now:“Why bother fixin’ what don’t need mendin’?”His father had struggled to embrace solid change, no matter Spencer’s attempts to make him see reason, but had no qualms with throwing everything he worked for at underhanded schemes.

“What did you send me to school for,” he muttered, “if not to learn how the world could look?”

And now Spencer had learned that Andrew, though different from his father, might likely throw this particular facet of the future—and Spencer—out the door of this very club.

The door clicked open behind him, and Andrew walked in, his stride brisk, his expression eager. He was followed by Oscar Burke, the young man with the build of a fighter and the energy of a hunting spaniel. Just after him, Sir Lawrence Piedmont—more of a giraffe with long legs and neck—entered with all the presence of thetonbut none of the intrigue.

Spencer still found the man bland, and, thankfully, about as good at tennis as himself. He seemed genuinely pleased to renew his acquaintance with Spencer, however, and his apparent wealth buoyed Spencer’s hope.

In discussion with Piedmont was an older gentleman, portly and dignified, finely dressed, and completely unknown to Spencer. A footman entered with a tray of crystal decanters and a teapot, set it on a sideboard and removed glasses and teacups from the cupboard below, bowed to the room, and closed the door behind him.

As the men turned to help themselves to refreshment, Spencer pulled Andrew aside once more.

He spoke low so the others couldn’t hear. “Andrew, I must speak to you. I am torn. I feel I cannot leave you out of this, and yet I fear I’ve misjudged. Perhaps I was blinded by my enthusiasm.”

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