Page 1 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
CHAPTER 1
April 1848
Glasgow
“Good morning, Mr. Carrick.”
Thomas looked up from furling his umbrella and smiled at Mrs. Manning, the middle-aged receptionist seated behind her desk to one side of the foyer of the Carrick Enterprises office.
Mrs. Manning held out a commanding hand. “Let me take that for you, sir.”
As the door to the stairwell swung closed behind him, Thomas strolled across and dutifully handed over the umbrella.
Mrs. Manning’s thin lips curved approvingly as she took it; despite her habitually stern demeanor, she had a soft spot for Thomas. The company offices occupied the front half of the first floor of a building on Trongate, close to the bustling heart of the city, and the widowed matron ruled over her empire with a firm but benign hand.
“You have no meetings scheduled this morning, Mr. Carrick—just the discussion with the Colliers late this afternoon.” Mrs. Manning glanced across the room. “And nothing’s come in this morning that falls to you.”
Opposite the reception desk, a long polished counter ran along the wall, and there were numerous pigeonholes set in the wall above. Before the counter, Dobson, the general clerk, was quietly sorting letters and deliveries; an ex-soldier and man of few words, he nodded in acknowledgment when Thomas glanced his way.
Turning back to Mrs. Manning, Thomas murmured, “In that case, I’ll take the opportunity to go over last month’s accounts.”
“You’ll find them on the bureau behind your desk, sir.”
The foyer was paneled with fine-grained oak. The half-glassed door through which Thomas had come bore the company name and logo—the outline of a steamship superimposed on a square crate—in exquisitely wrought gilt signage. Round marbled-glass bowls suspended by heavy chains from the stamped-metal ceiling shed the steady glow of gaslight upon the scene. The ambiance was all restrained prosperity—the sort that was so assured no one thought to make anything of it.
Yet it wasn’t old money behind Carrick Enterprises. Thomas’s late father, Niall, had started the import-export business thirty-five years ago; as a second son with no inheritance, Niall had had to make his own way in the world.
In that, Niall had been joined by his brother-in-law, Quentin Hemmings. Although Thomas’s father had died long ago, Quentin was still very much a part of the day-to-day running of Carrick Enterprises.
As Thomas headed for the open door leading to the inner offices, Quentin appeared, filling the doorway, his gaze on a sheaf of papers in his hands.
Almost as tall as Thomas, Quentin exuded the air of a gentleman of ample means quietly yet definitely satisfied with his lot—and, indeed, marriage, family, and business had all treated Quentin well. His brown hair might have been thinning somewhat, yet his face and figure remained that of a vigorous man still engaged with all aspects of life.
Sensing an obstacle in his path, Quentin glanced up. His face lit as his gaze landed on Thomas. “Thomas, my boy. Good morning.” Quentin brandished the papers he held. “The contracts with Bermuda Sugar Corporation.” Quentin’s hazel gaze sharpened. “There’s just one thing…”
Fifteen minutes later, after having agreed that Quentin should seek further assurances as to delivery dates from Bermuda Sugar, Thomas finally stepped through the doorway and strode down a narrow corridor. Lined with offices on the side overlooking the street and with storerooms on the other, the corridor ended at an imposing door that led into a large corner office—Thomas’s. Quentin’s office lay at the other end of the corridor, filling the other front corner of the building.
Thomas was five paces from his door when another tall gentleman stepped out of the adjacent office, papers in hand—Thomas’s cousin Humphrey, Quentin’s only son; he glanced up, saw Thomas, and halted, grinning.
When Thomas paused alongside him and arched a laconic brow, Humphrey’s grin turned puckish. “You are going to have to choose which of Glasgow’s finest you favor, and soon, or the situation will descend into feminine war. And when it comes to hostilities, ladies are more inventive than Napoleon ever was. There will be blood on the ballroom floors—metaphorically speaking, at least. Mark my words, young man!”
Thomas chuckled. “Where did you hear that? Or should I say from whom?”
“Old Lady Anglesey. She collared me and bent my ear over you and your peripatetic interest. Luckily,” Humphrey went on, “I was clinging to Andrea’s arm and she acted as my shield, but I was nevertheless conscripted as a messenger.” Andrea was Humphrey’s intended, although they were not yet formally engaged.
Along with Humphrey, Thomas had accompanied Quentin and his wife, Winifred, to a society soirée the previous evening. Considered one of the most eligible bachelors in Glasgow, Thomas was a target for the matchmakers, and even more for enterprising young ladies attracted by his appearance and persona as much as by his wealth.
Thomas heaved a sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to choose sometime, but I keep hoping I’ll find someone like Andrea.” Someone who fixed his interest and held his attention. Someone with whom he felt a real connection.
“Ah, well.” Still grinning, Humphrey clapped Thomas on the shoulder. “We can’t all have the luck of the gods.”
Thomas laughed. He glanced at the papers in Humphrey’s hands.
Humphrey promptly waved them. “Rosewood headed for Bristol.” Excitement tinged his tone. “I think I can persuade the company that Glasgow would be a better destination.”
“That would make a nice addition to the mahogany we’ve coming in.” Thomas nodded. “Let me know if you pull it off.”
“Oh, you’ll hear—you’ll definitely hear.” With another wave of the papers, Humphrey took off down the corridor, no doubt to consult with one of their brokers about how best to wrest—not to say steal—the deal away from the Bristol merchants.
