Page 44 of A Pure Lady for the Broken Duke
“Who else am I to spend it on? Your Uncle is nowpersona non grata. The most important thing right now is to find you a Duchess.”
Thomas replied, “I shall tell you what I told Wilcox. I am not about to be bullied into accepting a wife I do not care for. I will acquiesce to your request for a ball, but I shall not promise to marry anyone unless she suits me perfectly. Is that also understood?”
Augusta smiled. “We are like a couple of hard-headed butting rams, are we not?” He was not budging. “Very well, I shall organize the ball. You carry on with your plans, and we now have two options open for us toward recovery.”
* * *
Wilcox climbed the stairs of the dingy tenement building in East London. He made sure he had easy access to his pistol—just in case. Arriving at the top floor he knocked lightly on the door which was opened by a small woman.
“I have been sent by Cranston,” he said. “I am here to see Ezra Stanton.”
“And who be you?” the woman asked.
“I am Wilcox Mowbray.”
She closed the door without saying anything else, and Wilcox waited.
The door was swiftly flung open, and a man appeared. He was rough in appearance and had a disfiguring scar slashed across his forehead and down his left cheek. “Cranston sent you?” he asked.
“Said we might be able to do some business. If you are Ezra Stanton.”
“I am. Come in.”
The man opened the door and admitted Wilcox inside.
The room was neither a dwelling nor quite an office. Even though it was broad daylight, the room was dark and lit by a single oil lamp sitting on the only table with two chairs on either side.
The two men sat on the chairs and stared at each other for a moment sizing each other up.
“Cranston tells me you need transport,” Wilcox opened.
“I need reliable transport and remote and secure docking. Customs and Revenue are all over my old routes.”
“Hmm. I might be able to help. But it would need to be in the West Country.”
“That would be my best option as well.”
“And I want fifteen percent—off the top,” Wilcox demanded.
Ezra shook his head. “Not a chance. Five percent on tobacco, six percent on chocolate, and I can go to eight percent on spirits. My best offer.”
“Let us say six and a half percent on all items. Simplifies bookkeeping and is less of a hassle,” Wilcox countered.
“Six percent.”
Wilcox stood. “You are wasting my time. Good day, sir.” And Wilcox turned to leave.
“Wait. Wait. Tell me what your plans are, and then we can see.”
Wilcox sat back down and drummed his fingers on the table. “I have access to a major shipping company in the West Country. They trade to the Americas, Asia, Anatolia, India, and even parts of Africa. What do you say? Are you interested?”
“Can you provide me with the routes and sample cargo manifests? I want to see what you are talking about. And I need to know where the goods will be stored and how I can access the warehouses without annoying government supervision. Can you do that?”
Wilcox hesitated. “It might take me a while, but I am certain I can. And I will need the shipping invoice paid in full at the same time I get my commission.”
“Get me the information, and then we might be able to come to an agreement—but not before. You know where to find me.” And Ezra stood up. It was clear it was time for Wilcox to leave.
* * *
