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

Chapter One

London, 1849

Intent on confrontation, James Robertson bounded up the stairs of the townhouse and twisted the bell pull. The wait under the portico was mercifully brief.

Of course, one would expect the Earl of Anterleigh’s staff to be as efficient as their damnable master.

“Good day,” the footman intoned, even as he assessed him candidly.

James was, after all, an unfamiliar visitor—an unfamiliar visitor with unusually broad shoulders and a hatless head.

Quite suspicious.

The footman looked James up and down, eyes roving over his fine garb. Struggling with the mixed signals, he leaned around James, straining to look at his conveyance.

James knew the lacquer on his black-and-cobalt town carriage gleamed; his footmen stood to attention, sporting coordinating cobalt, black, and ivory livery.

“I’m calling on Lord Anterleigh.” He forced a measured tone.

As much as it grated, in order to pass, James used his enemy’s formal title. Unless he appeared to follow their rules, they would never admit him past the door.

He also suppressed any hint of his Scottish accent—and cleared his eyes and face of any expression. His years in England had taught him the value of aloofness.

After a last glance at his carriage, the footman stepped back to admit him.

James entered and stared the footman down, waiting for a sign of where David Chadbourne, Earl of Anterleigh, was.

The servant cleared his throat.

James raised an eyebrow.

“If you would be so kind.” The footman’s gloved hand gestured toward the silver salver on the foyer table. The tray was covered by an artful arrangement of calling cards.

All pretense evaporated. “I will nae be leaving a card. I will see Chadbournenow.”

The servant’s eyes widened, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

James held the man’s gaze even as he forced his shoulders to appear relaxed.

“And who, may I tell the butler, is calling?”

“James Robertson.”

“Please wait here, Mr. Robertson. The butler will see if Lord Anterleigh is at home.”

At home. James seethed at the phrase.

The poor footman couldn’t help a backward glance. James applauded his instincts.

After a moment, he followed, peering around the corner. The footman waited outside a closed door at the end of the long hallway.

Energy coursed through James’s legs down to his feet.Patience, patience, he reminded himself.

After a minute, the butler exited the room, holding an empty tray. As he listened to the footman’s news, his nose rose into the air.

By the time the butler turned his way, James’s stride had carried him halfway down the hall. He ignored the butler’s raised, pleading palms.

James’s bland expression was long departed.

---