The Captain's Kidnapped Beauty. Mary Nichols

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СКАЧАТЬ him, you would hardly believe it; he was the epitome of a dandified man about town. Ashley, Lord Cadogan, was chasing smugglers with the help of his brother-in-law, Ben Kingslake, and Captain Alexander Carstairs had just returned a kidnap victim safe and sound to her distraught parents without it having cost them a penny in ransom money. James himself was tied up with their sponsor, Lord Trentham, a Minister of the Crown, in maintaining law and order in an increasingly disgruntled populace.

      ‘Allow me to offer condolences on the loss of your uncle and cousin,’ James said to Alex as they prepared to disperse. ‘To lose both together was a double tragedy.’

      ‘And felicitations on your elevation to the peerage,’ Harry added. ‘Marquis of Foxlees, no less.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Alex said. ‘It was a great shock and I have hardly had time to gather my wits. A peerage is something I never expected and I’m not at all sure I like the idea.’

      ‘The same thing happened to me,’ Ash said. ‘My cousin was the heir and he died out in India and his father, my uncle, soon afterwards. It was an upheaval adjusting to it and just before my wedding, too.’

      ‘At least I don’t have a bride waiting for me,’ Alex said.

      ‘That will soon be remedied, my friend,’ Harry said, flicking a speck of dust from his immaculate sleeve. ‘Sooner or later, everyone in the Piccadilly Gentleman’s Club succumbs to falling in love.’

      ‘Not me. I will have my hands full sorting out my uncle’s affairs. It is just as well I have no case on hand at the moment.’

      ‘That, too, can be remedied,’ Jonathan put in.

      ‘I think we can allow Alex a short respite to sort out his affairs,’ James said with a smile.

      They stood up, replaced hats on heads and headed from the room in Lord Trentham’s house where they held their meetings and emerged on to the busy thoroughfare of Piccadilly, where they went their separate ways.

      Alex set off on foot to Long Acre because he wanted to hire a carriage to carry him to Norfolk and his newly inherited estate. He had not visited it in years, mainly because his uncle and cousin were so rarely there. They were seafarers, just as he was, just as his late father had been and his father before him. His uncle, his father’s older brother, had bought Foxlees Manor when his wife had decided, after a half a lifetime of following him all over the globe, that she had had enough of travelling and living in hot, uncomfortable places and wanted to stay at home.

      That did not mean his uncle had given up his voyaging; the sea was in his blood and, being captain of an East Indiaman, he found it a lucrative business. He simply came home at the end of every voyage to spend a little time with his wife and their son, Harold, until Harold himself became a seaman and followed in his father’s footsteps. The marchioness had died soon afterwards and his uncle and cousin rarely visited Foxlees Manor after her demise. When not at sea they lived in their town house on Mount Street.

      They had both been lost when their ship foundered in a storm while rounding the Cape of Good Hope and so Alex found himself a Marquis and owner of the Mount Street house and the Foxlees estate. It was something he had neither expected nor wanted, but he admitted the town house was a great deal better than the bachelor apartments he had hitherto occupied.

      He enjoyed his life as Captain Alexander Carstairs, member of the Piccadilly Gentleman’s Club; it fulfilled his sense of adventure at the same time as he was doing some good in society. He had a full social life and many friends—what more could a man ask? But with his elevation to the peerage and the acquisition of an estate came responsibilities and these he could not shirk.

      He emerged from Newport Street and crossed the road into Long Acre, looking for the coachmaking premises of Henry Gilpin.

      ‘The Earl of Falsham has failed to pay his interest again this month, Papa,’ Charlotte said, looking up from the ledgers on which she was working. ‘Last time I wrote to remind him, I warned him that if we did not receive at least some of what was owed, we would take him to court. He did not even favour us with a reply.’

      The Earl had bought two carriages two years previously, a splendid town chariot for two hundred and ninety pounds and a phaeton for seventy-two pounds, borrowing the money from her father to pay for it. For the first six months he had diligently paid the five per cent interest on the loan, but since then nothing at all. Charlotte, who kept her father’s books, had written every month on behalf of the company to remind him, but the Earl had ignored her letters.

      Henry Gilpin sighed. ‘You know how I hate taking customers to court,’ he said. ‘It ruins their reputation. As soon as news of the case gets out, every dunner in the country beats a path to their door. Let’s not forget that the Earl did introduce me to his cousin and he pays promptly.’

      ‘I am persuaded his lordship is counting on you remembering that.’

      Henry chuckled. ‘No doubt you are right. Send the Earl another stiff letter. Give him seven days to reply and if he does not, then court it shall be.’

      It was not that Henry Gilpin was in need of the money—he was one of the richest men in the kingdom—but his wealth was built on sound business practice and allowing bad debts to accumulate was not one of them. He did not in the least mind people owing him money so long as they paid the interest. To make sure of that he always insisted his debtors take out a bond for double what they owed in the event they reneged. The bond was backed by their assets which could, and sometimes did, include their estates.

      Charlotte looked up from the desk at which she was working and looked about her. The Long Acre premises had been much enlarged over the years and were now big enough to house the whole coachmaking business, a workshop for the construction of the undercarriages, another for the body, one for the wheelwright, furnaces for the metal working, paint shops, leather shops, design rooms and offices, huge stores for the timber: mahogany, pine, birch and deal; racks of cloth and lace for the interiors—everything necessary for constructing coaches of every description. And in each department there were men to do the work, two hundred of them.

      Charlotte was the only woman and she had had to plead with her father to allow her to work there. He had no son and she was his only child, so one day she would own it all. She needed to know how it operated and she loved the cut and thrust of business, the smell of varnish, paint and hot metal, loved watching the new coaches taking shape under the skilful hands of their operatives and derived huge satisfaction from the pleasure of their customers for a job well done. Since her mother had died, it had become her father’s whole life and hers, too. Not for her the round of meaningless social gatherings intended to unite eligible young men with suitable brides.

      ‘But you do not need to concern yourself with it,’ her father had told her when she first broached the subject of working at Long Acre with him. ‘One day you will marry and your husband will take over.’

      ‘I may not marry.’

      ‘Of course you will. You are a considerable heiress and that alone would secure you a bridegroom, even if you were not so lovely.’

      ‘Lovely, Papa?’ she queried.

      ‘Of course you are. You are the image of your dear mother, God rest her. You can afford to be particular. A title, naturally, and the higher the better. I do not have a son to make into a gentleman, but I am determined you will be a lady.’

      ‘If I am not already a lady, then what am I?’ she had demanded with a teasing smile. ‘An hermaphrodite?’

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