Delia stared into the maid’s face. Minnie was the same age as her and her closest friend in the world, despite the vast differences in their stations. She was the only person she could confide all her troubles to.
“He wants me to marry Lord Stanton,” she whispered, her blood running cold again. “My life is over. Oh, Minnie, what am I to do?”
Chapter 2
Highgrove Hotel, London
The wind was whirling snowflakes high in the air as Ambrose Hartfield strode into the lobby of the hotel he was staying at in London. He was cold, angry, and bitterly disappointed. His whole reason for being in London, for travelling all the way down here from his home city of Bradford in northern England, had just disappeared like the snowflakes hitting the ground outside.
The concierge rushed forward, a simpering smile on his face, taking his heavy black coat and hat. “Is there anything I can assist you with, Mr Hartfield?”
Ambrose gazed at the man steadily. He still wasn’t quite used to being treated like royalty in these exclusive places, even though it had been years now. “Yes, you can get me a brandy. I will be at the bar.”
The man almost genuflected before him. “Of course, sir. Please make yourself comfortable.”
The lounge in the hotel was almost empty when he entered it. A large fire was roaring in the fireplace, a cosy heat emanating from it. Ambrose nodded curtly to a moustached gentleman in a chair next to it who was reading a newspaper before continuing on to the bar. He took a seat there. His brandy materialised before him within a minute.
He swirled the brown liquid in the tumbler before taking a long sip. It was just what he needed after his morning. He still couldn’t believe what had happened. Dana Industries, which had promised to supply him with a new range of cutting-edge looms for his wool factory, had abruptly cancelled the meeting. It had taken him half an hour to find out that the company had just gone bankrupt, and his journey to London had been for nothing.
Ambrose sighed, taking another sip. It had been a long journey to get here in his private coach. He had cancelled other business in the North to do so. And that was apart from the fact that he hated being away from his factory for any length of time at all. It was a wasted trip, and Ambrose loathed wasting time and energy.
He sat back in the chair, brooding. He could try to make appointments with other machine manufacturers. But he knew that was probably pointless. There were adequate manufacturers in the North. The only reason he had agreed to come all this way was because Dana Industries were selling a new type of loom that could make production quicker and safer for his workers.
To his knowledge, no other manufacturer in London or in the North were selling it. He had wanted to be innovative and was prepared to pay the price to do it.
No, he just had to cut his losses and get back to Bradford as soon as he could. That was just the way of it sometimes.
“Hartfield? Is that you?”
Ambrose spun around. A man was standing there, smiling at him. To his surprise, it was Jack Baldwin, a business acquaintance from Bradford.
“Baldwin,” he said slowly. “What areyoudoing here?”
“I could ask you the same,” said the man, calling for a brandy. He sat down next to Ambrose. “I have business here for a few weeks. I heard the Highgrove was one of the best hotels in London, so here I am.”
Ambrose nodded, gazing at the man covertly over the rim of his tumbler. He didn’t know Jack Baldwin very well. They’d shared a few conversations here and there over the years. Baldwin owned two factories in the cotton industry, whereas he worked in wool. The man had a reputation as a tyrant, working his employees to the bone.
The word around Bradford was that Baldwin’s factories chewed through workers like they were bread, spitting them out when they were maimed or worn out—a fact that offended Ambrose, who always prided himself on treating his own workers well.
However, Baldwin was also one of the most successful factory owners in the city. He had recently been appointed to the city council. The man was becoming very influential, so Ambrose didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, no matter how questionable his business practices were. And besides, he never had much to do with him anyway.
He looks like a weasel, thought Ambrose, staring at him disdainfully. Furtive and shifty-eyed.
“You should be comfortable here,” said Ambrose, draining his brandy. “I have no complaints. Hot water on command. A good bar and a substantial menu.”
Baldwin nodded. “Are you staying here long?”
Ambrose shook his head. “I am just about to leave. A meeting fell through, and I must get back home.” He called over the footman behind the bar. “Can you tell them to get my carriage ready? I want to be ready to leave in an hour.”
The footman nodded, scurrying off to do his bidding.
“Have you been around town at all?” asked Baldwin, lighting a cigar. “Any recommendations of what to do or where to go after work?”
Ambrose shrugged. “I only arrived yesterday. I suppose it depends on what your interests are. Museums? Theatre?”
The man’s small dark eyes glittered. “I was rather thinking more along the lines of a discreet bawdy house, Hartfield. Entertainment of the female variety.”
Ambrose gave him a long look. He should have known Baldwin was the type to frequent brothels, even though the man had a wife and two small children tucked away in Bradford. In his experience, whoremongers kept up their pastime whether they were married or not. Sometimes they frequented such establishments more, not less, when they were married.