Page 111 of Trade of a Lifetime (Trade Wind 1)

Burn the house!

Andhe’d not seen or heard from Clara for nine days, not since the tent. In his darkest moments, he prepared himself never to see her again.

Even if she didn’t believe the charges, it was difficult to imagine a lady continuing her “adventure” with a man blamed for killing dozens and destroying a vital area of London.

As hoped,The Timesran a prominent article the next day about the Council meeting and Mr. Irons’s unexpected defense. It also cited anonymous but reliable sources pointing to an accidental cause due to improper storage in a nearby warehouse.

Chavers was out before dawn, procuring as many newspapers as possible.The Timeshad increased its circulation, as Londoners devoured every bit of coverage about the fire, which still smoldered.

Chavers and the guards distributed copies to the crowd; by late morning, the throng disbanded enough for the last of them to be run off for good.

As soon as it was safe, James penned a note to Clara, inviting her to visit.

Only then did he step outside, enjoying the sun on his skin for the first time in a week. It wasn’t Clara’s touch, but would have to do for now.

When he made it to the countinghouse, it was a relief to see his core employees and return to a semblance of routine. He shook their proffered hands, glad to see that they, too, were recovering.

But fighting the fire and living under a cloud of suspicion had taken a toll—on James, and those who lived it alongside him. They worked only a few hours before he and everyone else ran out of steam.

After Thomson lost track of his thoughts mid-sentence, James interjected, “Go home to your family.” He repeated the directive when Thomson opened his mouth to argue. “You’ll have a new warehouse to manage as soon as we can build it. You’ve done enough for now, Garrett. Go home to Bridget and your new bairn.”

They clasped shoulders for a long minute before Thomson left. The man knew more about his background than anyone else in the firm, even Chavers. When they graduated from St. Andrews and James had no family present, it was the Thomsons who included him in their celebrations, and took him in before he left for London.

After sending everyone home, James rattled around the countinghouse without aim. He stood from the latest attempt to sit at his desk. Rolling his shoulders, he wished he had a ship to unload, even if he was, in truth, too exhausted.

“Lock up and go home,” he told the last clerk on his way out.

Standing outside in the sunlight again, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

Within the hour, his mouth set grimly, he stood in the same place he had those months ago—under the portico at David Chadbourne’s townhouse, intent on making his way in.

The butler himself answered the door, and James no longer had the element of anonymity. With outstanding reflexes, the butler’s eyes narrowed, and his foot lodged behind the door, ensuring it didn’t open past a few inches.

“I come in peace. I’m James Robertson, and I ask you to tell Chadbourne I wish to see him—to thank him. I’ll wait here.” He said this last out of respect to the staff he’d surely scandalized during his last visit. He didn’t want them worrying that he’d force his way in again.

The door closed softly in his face, the lock snicking into place.

James paced the porch. More likely than not, he’d be left without word, without admittance. He couldn’t even be sure Chadbourne was home. But he had to try.

The front door to Chadbourne’s home opened again—this time all the way.

“Lord Anterleigh and Lady Clara will receive you in the drawing room.”

The announcement was delivered in a dead tone that matched the man’s face, but it landed with the force of a punch to James’s gut. Breath stolen, he froze for a moment before his feet propelled him over the threshold.

What was Clara doing here?It’s her brother’s townhouse, dobber.

He followed the butler without paying heed to the furnishings or artwork they passed.

“Mr. James Robertson,” the butler announced, as if he were an honored guest instead of reviled outsider.

Chadbourne stood to greet him. James had no idea what form of recreation kept Chadbourne in the shape he was, but there was unusual strength behind the man’s handshake, however soft the skin on his hand.

“Thank you for receiving me,” said James before turning his attention to the bejeweled woman who sat quietly on the divan in a sea of dark purple silk skirts. As he bowed, he wondered if they could hear his heart pounding. “Lady Clara.”

“Mr. Robertson.” She inclined her head in a measured gesture; her hands were perfectly still on her lap.

But he knew her now. He saw the glow in her green eyes, noticed her affected breathing no matter how she masked it.

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