Sweet Siren: Those Notorious Americans, Book 3 Read online

  Killian saw the strain on his son's face. Pierce was concerned not only for his sister, Lily, but also for his cousin Marianne as their time approached. But he had another interest near Willowreach. Inexplicably, for a dashing man with mad dark looks who could attract any young woman he wished, he was drawn to Lily's husband's married sister, Elanna, the Countess of Carbury. He was worried sick about her. She too was at full term with her own pregnancy but she'd been outrageously angry about her condition, taunting her husband with threats of leaving him after the birth of her baby. Everyone in the family was on edge that she'd actually do it—and that the hot-headed earl would do something vicious to stop her.

  His son was becoming everything Killian had hoped for. Sharp-witted, shrewd, quick to act on instincts that he'd honed the past few years, Pierce was already a millionaire in his own right. Soon, he'd sign an agreement in Paris that would earn him four or five times his current income. But this focus on Elanna would bring him only pain. The young woman seemed to specialize in it. And why Pierce thought he might be her savior, why he fancied the idea he might alleviate her suffering or change her Killian could not fathom. But Pierce’s focus on her could only lead to disaster for both of them.

  I must stop brooding about him. It gains me nothing. Him, either. Talking to him failed. In fact, no amount of persuasion could induce Pierce to end his infatuation with the woman.

  "I agree," he said to his son. "We'll do this quickly today. Not worry about things we can't change."

  Pierce cocked his head. "To fret is not like you. Is it all the babies you worry over or is this property here in town so tempting that you don't yet know how to negotiate it?"

  Killian paused, his son too wise about his behavior to give him peace. Yes, he was bedeviled. Three pregnant women approaching their delivery dates. Birthing could be perilous, even life-threatening to woman and child. And then there is that other matter. One other woman in particular who refused to see me time and time again. And I've no clue why.

  "No, I won't have tea with you, Mister Hanniford," Liv had refused him only yesterday as he stood before her on the corner of South Moulton Street near Hanover Square. She wore a gold wool cape that set off the coopery highlights of her hair and the sadness in her chocolate brown eyes. It was her fourth refusal in as many months to any of his invitations. This one she gave in person, sadly, while the others had been notes, responses to his written invitations addressed to her modest residence in Earl's Court. "Please don't ask me again."

  He'd been undeterred. "I think I deserve a reason, Liv."

  Her eyes flashed dark fire as she tried to appear polite. "I cannot walk with you. Ride with you. Dine with you."

  "Do you warn me off because there is a gentleman who preoccupies your social life?" He ventured to be bold and intrude on personal issues.

  "No. None." She tipped her head to examine him, her gaze narrowed and suspicious. "Why not ask about town to learn that?"

  "Because I hoped you'd tell me," he said with a solemnity.

  Her beautiful eyes widened as if—as if that was a shocking revelation. "Then how do you know where I live?"

  "A business associate told me. It was in the course of a discussion of decorators and—"

  "I see. You wouldn't ask but someone just told you."

  "Yes." He stepped nearer to her and the fragrance of jasmine rose to send a thrill down his spine. Part of her anger sounded like fear. Of what? That she'd find him amusing? He grinned. That he would wager on with ridiculously good odds in his favor. "If there’s no one special, then I see no reason why you cannot enjoy yourself for a few hours in my company."

  She'd flowed closer, discretion in her posture, sorrow in her eyes but resolve in her words. "We are not suited."

  "The way you kissed me says otherwise."

  "Don't, Killian." That last was a plea.

  And he knew then whatever her conflict with him, she struggled with it. He’d give her reasons to accept him. "I like Chopin. You render it so well. I like the water. You find peace when you're near it. I like talking with you, walking with you—"

  She put a hand to her mouth. Tears glistened in her eyes.

  "I especially enjoy kissing you."

  "It matters not." She bit her lower lip, shook her head and marched around him toward the Square.

  He let her go, watching her stride away with speed. He'd learned quite by accident that she had a business relationship with his architect. He hadn't asked about town. Hadn't had to. He'd simply walked into Antram's office one morning last December to discuss details of their contract and Roger mentioned that his most popular decorator was Lady Savage, Olivia Bereston.

  Figuring the gods smiled on his hopes to construct a country house suitable to his rising fortunes in Europe, Killian had done what any potential client did. He asked for a description of her experience. Little in the way of personal information came from his inquiry and Killian had not broached that subject. For the past four months, he'd visited Roger's office once a week for scheduled meetings regarding his new home and estate. While nothing definitive could be decided until he purchased land he liked, he relished the idea he might accidentally see her at Antram's offices. That had not happened until yesterday. And now the memory of her torment plagued him.

  Why did she refuse him? Kisses as delectable as those they'd shared were not ordinary. To reject the truth of their attraction defied every instinct in his Celtic soul. Chances were she would kiss him again like that and when she did, they would explore more deeply than their mouths. Her fear told him she knew it.

  "Father? You are not listening to me."

  "You're right." He reached to take down his greatcoat from the rack. It would be cold as hell by the ocean today. When last he'd seen this property in February, snow had frozen on his nose and eyelashes. He liked the odd serenity of snow falling on water and wondered if Liv did, too.

  "It's not like you to be distracted."

  Killian agreed. "With grandchildren about to fill my days, I've much to think about." Besides, Pierce would think him a blithering idiot if he told him all the reasons why they'd come to Brighton. "You make me smile."

  "Well, aside from the fact that you're changing the subject, that's good because you haven't really smiled in months. Tell me what I've done to cause it and I'll do it again."

  Killian shook his head, weary of his internal conflict about his intended actions in town today. "You know me so well."

  "Thank God I do or I never would have learned how to finagle a good price out of anyone!" Pierce crossed one leg over the other and brushed his hand down his thigh. He wore a dove grey wool suit that matched his eyes and contrasted with his raven hair. He appeared to be exactly what he was, decisive, dangerous and rich as Midas. "Won't you give me a hint of what we're about here today?"

  For this trip, Killian had requested he come along but told him only that he wished his advice. "The agent I'm meeting sells this land for a family."

  Pierce picked up his bowler hat from the seat next to him and smoothed the brim. "I see. You're not usually inclined to show interest in the landed gentry or their holdings. Why meet this one?"

  Pierce loved land. In the past six months, he'd become insatiable in its acquisition. As prices fell from the bad harvests and import of American corn and South American beef, the aristocracy were shedding their holdings like water off ducks. Pierce saw the opportunities. He bought and sold what he liked and did it in thousands of acres. Killian often joked that soon his son would own more of England than the Crown. Pierce would chuckle, but had never denied it.

  While Killian applauded any venture Pierce wished to put his hand to, he questioned if owning so much of England would bring Pierce any satisfaction. Last year, Pierce had invested in Paris public works. Water works, to be precise. When the new water reservoir and sewer systems were finished in the French capital in two years, Pierce estimated he would earn more than a million francs each year for more than fifteen.

  But
what he was doing in England was a different story. Pierce was buying farm land. Yet he wasn't a farmer. He wasn't a miner. He was, however, devoting more and more of his time to managing what he purchased. With a new cadre of personnel whom he hired as his estate managers, Pierce trained his staff to do his bidding. His emphasis was to improve the crops and update the agricultural methods like rotation that worked well in the States. But more and more of his advice focused on efficient use of tools and fertilizer.

  Farming had never interested Killian, but then his children each showed signs of interest in subjects which had never been his priority.

  Nursing and medicine for Lily, the Duchess of Seton. Painting for his niece Marianne, the Princess d'Aumale and Duchess de Remy. For his youngest daughter, Ada, flirting with every eligible man in Great Britain fully absorbed her. But Pierce had two fascinations. Agriculture. And Elanna, the reckless Countess of Carbury, who did not seem to know Pierce existed.

  Odd, how your children turn out.

  Killian bent to look out the train window. They were slowing, coming into the station in the seacoast town.

  "Will you tell me our goal before we get to your appointment or am I to guess?"

  Killian fished his watch from his waistcoat pocket. "Always on time."

  Pierce sighed. "I give up."

  "I suppose you'll learn soon enough." My need of a house. A proper country house. "I'm hoping to buy land here along the coast."

  Pierce's bright eyes twinkled. "Here? You don't say? But I thought you liked that cottage in Ashford near Lily and Julian's Willowreach."

  "I may buy it as well."

  "Splendid. I like an adventure, especially one so unusual as Black Killian Hanniford spending his millions like a drunken sailor."

  "Come now." Killian tugged on his overcoat. "I'm not that daft." Am I?

  "You're different lately. That I can say. For now though give me details on what we're about to see, please, so that I don't look like the idiot son in front of this man."

  "I've learned of a project begun but abandoned for a crescent of townhouses up for bid five miles east of Brighton." And a smaller parcel ten miles away. "Another plot east of Hove."

  "Townhouses? That's not like you to show interest in home development. And Hove? That little town outside Brighton? It's insignificant."

  "Very soon, it won't be. The population of Brighton has doubled in the past forty years since the trains began running from London."

  Pierce frowned. "The area along the south coast has not prospered since the early part of this century when the Prince of Wales built the Royal Pavilion. Queen Victoria prefers Osborne House to the seaside and she even sold the Pavilion, contents and all, to the Brighton City fathers."

  "But the English, like Americans, favor seaside vacations for health benefits. The town will continue to grow. I'm sure of it. I want a piece of that growth. You might too, so I hoped you'd look at these and give me your assessment."

  "Father, you know what I'm interested in. City development. Country estates with rich land gone bankrupt."

  "You're a good judge of a bargain, Pierce. Besides, every town does need new housing."

  "You've never been interested in building houses." Pierce scrutinized him. "Why now?"

  Since I concluded it's the only way to get Olivia Bereston to talk to me. "Variety in investments is a good idea. You have said the same. I ask you to hold your conclusions until you see the property and hear my general plan."

  Gerald Carruthers was a genial sort, tried and true Englishman, rotund, pink-cheeked and jolly. "Now this land is offered for sale by a different owner than the plot of half finished townhouses," the man informed Pierce. Killian had learned who the owner was months ago. "Eager to sell, he is."

  Killian placed his hands on the ledge of the medieval ruins facing the sea. The stones, once part of a Dominican monastery, surrounded an earthen terrace framing the blue waters where the Atlantic Ocean met the English Channel. Ivy and lichen climbed the old stones. Protected from the winds off the coast, wild flowers sprouted at the base around his feet.

  Inhaling the briny sea air, he leaned out to sea and recalled the morning he and his sister had climbed aboard a rickety ship in the port of Waterford. Colleen had enough money for their passage, saved from her barmaid wages in the local pub. With their father and mother gone the year before, she sought to buy a better life for herself and Killian. And she had. Their accommodations had been steerage, a spare berth in a damp and moldy ship, packed to the gills with other Irish in rags eager to change their futures.

  "I say, Father," Pierce said, shaking his head, "why would you want this parcel? Ten acres is too small to build any townhouse crescent. Aside from this view of the ocean, it adjoins only craggy farmland. Not even fit for sheep, I'd say."

  "I wouldn't want this as a development property. I like the view. The air. The seclusion. Especially this—" He pointed to the four eight-foot-tall arches.

  "They're remains of a twelfth century monastery," Carruthers said with pride. "Some say a few Knights Templar hid here in the fourteen hundreds when they were chased from France by one of their kings. Brought gold with them and buried it on the grounds. Many a man has dug here about but no one's ever found it."

  "Intriguing bit," Pierce said, though Killian smiled that his son was unimpressed by the lure of easy money. "Unusual, Father. But what do you mean to do with it?"

  "Improve it." Killian strode along the rough-hewn granite arches. Cluttered with seaweed and errant weeds, the glossy rocks could do with pruning. "Landscaping to clear the detritus. Level it. Place flagstones and create a terrace to sit and contemplate the water."

  Pierce snorted. "I do believe you're turning mellow on me."

  Or senile.

  Gerald Carruthers laughed politely. "It's a stunning site, for fair."

  "Who owns the land?" Pierce asked.

  Killian laughed to himself. Caught.

  "The Savage estate," Carruthers said.

  "Is that so?" Pierce asked with a sideways glance at Killian and crossed his arms. "I've met Lord Savage in town. He's done the rounds of banks, I hear. In search of liens against his estate."

  "The young lord," Carruthers said with careful diplomacy, "does indeed seek ready cash."

  "This plot is not entailed?" Pierce pursued the line of logic. "He can sell this legally?"

  "He can," Carruthers said with certainty. "When he inherited six years ago, it's my understanding, the Savage estate was already indebted. Poor land management."

  "Aren't they all that way," Pierce mourned. Then he walked around Killian and faced him. "You like this because it's on the coast?"

  "I do."

  Pierce inhaled and turned in a complete circle to view the environs. "Hmm. It's secluded now, but civilization may encroach. Why not buy that acreage there as well?" He pointed toward the land to the west and the stony beach, empty save for one elderly fisherman who struggled to haul his small rig ashore.

  Killian contemplated the man, his boat, the future of this enterprise. It mattered how he bought what he wanted. Learning over decades that intentions were one means to please the universe, he knew methods were as vital to the success of a venture. He'd failed himself and others at one endeavor because he'd not been careful to attend to the ethics of it or the details. "What do you know about that gentleman, Carruthers?"

  "Old Dunwoody's in his seventies. Any sum you offered him would be princely."

  "Does he live nearby?" Killian asked as he surveyed the downs north from the beach.

  "He has a cottage behind that hillock there." Carruthers pointed to the northeast. "He fishes every morning, eats his fill but sells most of his catch to the monger in Brighton."

  "Family?"

  "Wife and sons long dead, sir."

  "So fishing is his life," Killian concluded remembering a hoary fisherman in Waterford who lived to ride the waves and bring in whelks and mussels, sole and crab. Silent as the tomb, but kept to himself, happy
in his lot.

  "You'd say so, yes, sir. Not soft in the head yet, though. A talker. Happy to weave the local legends. Especially of the Savages."

  "Does he? Well, good for him." Killian said, fighting the urge to ask about the owners. Killian directed his next question to the agent but locked his gaze on Pierce. "What would be a proper price to offer him?"

  "Two hundred eighty pounds, sir."

  "Double it," Killian said as Pierce grinned in disbelief. "And tell him we want him to remain in his house and to fish at will."

  Carruthers blinked. "And—and you want this parcel, too?"

  In truth, it was the first time he'd glimpsed it last month that he'd made up his mind. The sea was too strong a pull to deny...as well as that other factor of the owner and the previous ones. "I do. Make an offer to Lord Savage. Eight hundred is his asking price?"

  Carruthers was up on his toes, bouncing with delight at his sale. "It is, sir."

  "Offer ten."

  Pierce blew air from his mouth and plopped his hat on his head.

  As they strolled down the hillside, Pierce caught up with him. "No bargain, that land."

  "I wasn't looking for one."

  "What are you in search of?"

  The answer that popped into his mind was not one he was ready to admit to anyone. After decades of acting only after research and deliberation, Killian was not one to bet on an unsure proposition. But he'd give Pierce an answer that would satisfy them both until he was at peace with the probability that he might do the impossible. He might fail.

  He glanced at Pierce and looked away lest his son see more than he should. "A home."

  Chapter 7

  May 1879

  No. 10 South Moulton Street

  London

  Liv re-read the last paragraph of the contract for the decoration of the seaside home to ensure she hadn't misinterpreted anything. The venture seemed too good to be true. To help Roger Antram design the interiors of twenty-four townhouses in Hove and one palatial country home west of it, she'd be fully employed for the next two years. Perhaps three. She'd buy a few new gowns and better yet, afford to take Camille out of that hideous boarding school and send her to a better one. Better than that, she'd earn more than she had in the past two years. A bright prospect when she'd lived so many years without any.