The Pursuits Of Lord Kit Cavanaugh. Stephanie Laurens

      One would. Sylvia studied Kit. “He enjoys it, I think.” He’d certainly seemed to, and the readiness with which he’d helped had earned him an acceptance among all at the school—and with the hired men, too—he wouldn’t otherwise have had.

      Finally, the blackboards were positioned and every last book, slate, and piece of chalk had been put in its proper place. Jellicoe and Cross declared themselves satisfied that all was in readiness to commence lessons the next day.

      The boys cheered.

      Then Sylvia called them to attention and announced that, in light of their sterling efforts, given all was as it needed to be for the school to carry on, she believed the boys could be excused for the day.

      The cheer her words elicited rattled the rafters.

      “Very well, boys,” Jellicoe said. “You’ve heard Miss Buckleberry. Off you go, and make sure you’re here on time tomorrow morning.”

      With whoops and more cheers, the boys headed for the door and streamed out and away.

      Kit waited while Sylvia consulted with Jellicoe and Cross, then farewelled Miss Meggs. He followed the teachers and Sylvia out of the door.

      She locked up and held out the key to Jellicoe. “I’ll call sometime tomorrow to see if anything has cropped up.”

      “I can’t see what will.” Jellicoe accepted the key, then glanced at Kit and smiled. “We now have a stable place to call home, and Cross and I, and Meggs, too, are determined to make the most of it.”

      Kit returned the smile and lightly touched Sylvia’s back, urging her down the steps before him. He’d had other motives—ulterior motives—beyond helping the school, yet that ambition had grown during the day to be significantly more important than it had been that morning.

      Miss Meggs had already hurried up the street toward the Abbey. After noting her dwindling figure, the rest of them turned toward the river.

      They ambled along in the westering light, a sense of contentment—of achievement—wrapping about the four of them. They turned left into the street that followed the river—the Butts, as it was called. A little farther on, they passed the churchyard of St. Augustine’s Church and continued into the section of street known as St. Augustine’s Back. Kit and Sylvia parted from Jellicoe and Cross just before the drawbridge. The teachers entered a tall lodging house, while Kit and Sylvia continued to the steps and climbed onto the bridge.

      They paused by the railing to watch a ship steaming down the Frome, then walked on.

      “When you were talking to the men,” Sylvia said, “you mentioned a partner—a Mr. Cobworth.”

      Kit nodded. “Wayland Cobworth. He’s an old school friend from Eton days and has become a designer of yachts. He and I share a passion for ocean-going yachts and have for more than a decade, so when I decided building yachts was what I wanted to do, finding Wayland and convincing him to become my partner was the obvious next step.” He caught her eyes and smiled. “You can’t build yachts without a designer, and Wayland is world-class.”

      She lightly frowned. “Was he the man you were chasing in the West Indies when Rand and Felicia announced their engagement?”

      “Yes—I was in Bermuda when the letter telling me of their impending nuptials reached me. I had to leap on the next ship to make it back in time, but luckily, by then, I’d persuaded Wayland to throw in his lot with mine.” Kit glanced in the direction of the warehouse. “He had to remain for several more weeks, but he followed and arrived last week. He’s been spending the day interviewing men for the business.”

      She looked at him curiously. “You’re not involved?”

      His lips twitched into a grin. “Wayland and I make a good team—we have complementary skills. He’s a superb designer and knows to a T what sort of craftsmen we need and which particular supplies, tools, and timbers. As a designer, a creator, he’s exacting and precise, but he’s hopeless at organizing beyond that sphere—dealing with suppliers, bankers, invoices and wages, investors, and all that sort of thing. He’s too impatient—he just wants to build yachts.”

      She nodded. “All the day-to-day decisions and actions.” She glanced at his face. “That’s not so very different to my role with the school.”

      He inclined his head. “Indeed, it’s very much the same. You organize, and Jellicoe and Cross teach. I organize, and Wayland designs and builds.”

      “And when it comes to selling what you build?”

      “That will be mostly up to me, with Wayland enthusing in the background.” His fond smile fading, he glanced at her. “I can’t tell you how thrilled Wayland was at the prospect of getting into the warehouse a day early. He’s champing at the bit to start transforming the space into our workshop, so that when the bulk of the men he’s hiring turn up on Monday, he’ll have everything ready to start laying our first keel.”

      They’d reached the front of the building that housed Kit’s office. He halted and looked at her. “Which way are you headed?”

      “Home.” She waved farther along King Street. “I live not far away, and with the school ready but shut, there’s nothing more I need to do today.”

      He waved her on. “I’ll see you home.”

      Sylvia hesitated for only a second, then inclined her head in acceptance. “Thank you.” Were this London, any gentleman of his class would make the same offer, and any lady with her head on her shoulders would acquiesce. Viewed in that light, him escorting her home didn’t mean anything beyond simple courtesy, something she suspected that, in him, was ingrained.

      Side by side, they strolled on along King Street, the soft sunshine of the afternoon laying gently across their shoulders.

      He’d slipped his hands into his greatcoat pockets and was looking down at the pavement before them. “I also want to thank you—and the school—for the chance to reach out to the sort of craftsmen Wayland and I most need to contact. That was a bonus.”

      Smiling at his earnestness, she looked ahead. “I think all associated with the school would say that you’ve earned any advantage the school community can hand you.”

      He shrugged. “It wasn’t that much—it was easy for me to do.” He glanced briefly at her. “It was you who showed me the way—who opened my door and laid the opportunity at my feet. I just picked it up.”

      She suppressed a snort, but there was no real way to counter that argument.

      She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. It was close enough to the truth, yet...

      She was starting to realize he had a habit of self-deprecation, of making light of what he did—often, it seemed, because he was wealthy and matters were easy for him to arrange. Because his assistance cost him nothing beyond money he could readily afford.

      But was it correct to discount his contribution purely because it was easy for him to make?

      She suspected her father would say not and, instead, maintain that the actions of men possessed the same intrinsic value regardless of wealth.

      They reached the corner of King Street and Back Street, and she waved to their left. “It’s this way.”

      As they strolled on, she asked, “Have you seen Rand and Felicia recently?”

      He nodded. “After the wedding, I stayed at Raventhorne Abbey, and they visited several times—their last visit was just before I left to come here.” He glanced at her face. “They’re both well.” After a moment, he asked, “Does Felicia know you live here—in Bristol?”

      She blinked, then, considering the question, frowned. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve mentioned the school—she knows all about that and my association with it—but I’m not sure I’ve actually told her I’ve removed to Bristol myself.” She glanced briefly his way and met his