A Hellion In Her Bed Part 2

"Exactly. If you'll recall, this wasn't my idea."

"Then you must promise not to inst.i.tute any major changes."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "No."

Alarm flared in her features. "At least promise not to make risky investments."

"No. You either let me have full control or find yourself a manager."

It felt good to have the upper hand. He refused to have her coming behind him, second-guessing every decision. If he was going to run the place, he would run it his way. And once the year was up, he'd be free to live his life as he pleased ... and ensure that his siblings could do so as well.

Not that Gran would accept his terms. She'd never given up control of anything, for even a day. She certainly wouldn't give it to her "parasite" of a grandson for a year.

So it was with some surprise that he heard her say, "Very well, I will meet your demands. I will have it put into writing for you by tomorrow."

The gleam in her eyes gave him pause, but it was gone so fast, he was sure he'd imagined it.

"I do have one caveat," she continued. "You must keep Mr. Croft on as your secretary."

Jarret groaned. Gran's secretary at the brewery was one of the strangest men he'd ever met. "Must I?"

"I know he seems odd, but I promise that in a week or so you will find yourself glad that you kept him on. He's indispensable to the brewery."

Well, it was a small price to pay for gaining his life back. He'd definitely gotten the better end of their bargain.

Chapter Two.

Plumtree Brewery was nothing like Annabel Lake had expected. Breweries in her town of Burton were small, cozy places that smelled of hops and roasting barley. Plumtree Brewery smelled primarily of the coal that fired the ma.s.sive steam engine she was gaping at. It powered long rakes that moved in eerie silence to stir the malt in the twelve-foot-high boilers. Her brother's brewery, Lake Ale, had nothing on this scale. Perhaps if it had ...

No, the equipment wasn't causing Lake Ale's present crisis. Hugh's drinking was the cause of that.

"You there, what are you doing?" asked a workman with arms the width of tree trunks, who was loading a barrel onto a wagon.

She picked up her box, careful not to jar the contents. "I'm looking for Mrs. Hester Plumtree."

"That way." He tipped his head toward a staircase leading up to a second-floor gallery.

As she mounted the stairs, she drank in her surroundings. The place was a brewer's dream. The iron floors and brick walls made it nearly fireproof, and the gleaming coppers were two stories high. Imagine measuring hops into that. It boggled the mind!

After she, her sister-in-law Sissy, and Geordie had arrived in the city early this afternoon, she'd sampled Plumtree's porter in the inn. She had to admit it was impressive, nearly rivaling her own recipe.

A smug smile touched her lips. Nearly.

With some maneuvering, she opened the door at the top of the stairs and stepped into another world. A woman clearly ran this brewery. The outer office had fashionably striped settees, walnut chairs, and beautiful but st.u.r.dy rugs. Annabel couldn't imagine a man caring about such things.

Sitting at a neat walnut desk in the center of the room was a slender blond clerk, so absorbed in his work that he didn't notice she'd entered. She approached the desk, but he continued to excise clippings from a newspaper with a razor, making precise cuts along lines that appeared to be ruled in.

She cleared her throat.

He jumped up so dramatically that his chair fell over. "Who ... what ..." As he spotted her, he fixed a smile to his face that made it look like a skull in repose. "May I help you?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Annabel Lake. I'd like to see Mrs. Hester Plumtree, if you please."

Alarm spread over his features. "Dear me, you mustn't. That is, you can't. It's impossible. She's unavailable."

"How could she be unavailable?" Annabel knew a dodge when she saw one. Beyond him was only one door. It had to be Mrs. Plumtree's, and since the clerk hadn't said she was out, the woman must be closeted in there, avoiding visitors. "I heard she's here from dawn to dusk every day, and it's not quite three."

He blinked, clearly thrown off guard. "Well, yes ... that is true, but not today. You must leave. No one is allowed in. No one. Leave your name and where you can be reached, and when she becomes available once more-"

"How long will that be?"

Sheer panic crossed his face. "How should I know?" He wrung his hands, casting a nervous glance at the door. What a strange little man.

She softened her tone, attempting to put him at his ease. "Please, it's very important that I speak with her."

"No, no, no, no, no ... It's out of the question. Quite entirely out of the question. Not allowed. She is ... I mean ... You simply must go!" He came around the desk as if to escort her out.

Annabel hadn't come all this way just to be tossed from the office by some odd clerk. Before the man could react, she darted around the desk the other way and rushed through the door into the office beyond.

The person behind the ma.s.sive mahogany desk was decidedly not an aging woman. A man sat there, a young man about her age or slightly older, with raven hair and handsome features.

"Who the devil are you?" she burst out.

Leaning back in his chair, he laughed. "I rather think that should be my line."

The clerk rushed in to grab her arm. "My lord, forgive me." He tried to tug her toward the door. "Beg pardon, but I don't know why the young lady-"

"Let her go, Croft." The man stood, his eyes still glinting with amus.e.m.e.nt. "I'll take it from here."

"But my lord, you said no one is to know that your grandmother-"

"It's all right. I'll handle it."

"Oh." Two spots of color deepened in the clerk's cheeks. "Of course. Well then. If you think it's safe."

The man chuckled. "If she bites or sets fire to my desk, Croft, you'll be the first person I call."

Croft released her arm. "There you go, miss. Talk to his lordship. He'll take care of you." Then he slid from the room, leaving her alone with what could only be one of Hester Plumtree's grandsons.

Oh, dear. Annabel had heard about the outrageous Sharpe men from Sissy, who'd never met a gossip rag she didn't like. When the man strode for the door, shutting it firmly behind her, she felt a moment's panic-especially when he returned to give her a thorough once-over.

She wished her day gown didn't shriek of last year's fashions, but it couldn't be helped. Times were lean in the Lake family. She'd rather not waste her funds on clothes when she could save toward a good school for Geordie, since Sissy and Hugh clearly couldn't afford one.

Which of the infamous Sharpes was he? The madcap youngest grandson, Lord Gabriel, whom people called the Angel of Death for his reckless horse racing and all-black attire? No, for this man wore a waistcoat of buff velvet beneath his dark blue coat.

Might he be the eldest, the notorious rakeh.e.l.l? Not him, either-Sissy had just this morning read to her the news that the Marquess of Stoneville was honeymooning in America with his new wife.

That left only the middle grandson, whose name she couldn't recall. He was a gambler and probably a devilish rogue like his brothers. No man could have the features of Michelangelo's David without attracting a great many women. And those unearthly eyes-they seemed to change from a gorgeous blue to an equally gorgeous green with every trick of the light. Men as handsome as that quickly learned that they could take advantage of their good looks whenever they wished. Hence the roguery.

"You'll have to forgive Mr. Croft," he said in a low rumble, leaning against the desk's cluttered surface. "Gran has trained him to hold off intrusions at all costs, Mrs...."

"Miss," she corrected him automatically. When a wolfish smile tugged at his full lips, she fought the sudden shiver coursing down her spine. "Miss Annabel Lake. I'm a brewster, Lord ..."

"Jarret. Jarret Sharpe." His face had stiffened.

That wasn't unusual, she thought cynically. The men running the large breweries seemed to have nothing but contempt for female brewers. That was why she'd come to Mrs. Plumtree in the first place-so she wouldn't be brushed off.

"I suppose you're here looking for a position," he said coldly. "My grandmother must have sent you."

"What? No! Why would she send me? I don't even know her."

He eyed her warily. "Forgive me. Brewsters are rare enough these days, but young, unmarried, and pretty ones ... Well, I just a.s.sumed that Gran was up to her tricks again."

"Tricks?"

"Never mind. Not important."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but if I might speak to Mrs. Plumtree-"

"That's not possible. At present, she's ... unavailable."

Annabel was rapidly growing to hate that word. "But surely she'll return soon?"

At the hopeful note in her voice, he gentled his expression. "Not for some time. She's spending the next year dealing with family concerns."

A year! By the time a year had pa.s.sed, the creditors could be hauling away Lake Ale piece by piece.

He must have sensed her distress, for he added, "But she left me in charge, so perhaps I can help you."

Him? What was his grandmother thinking? How could a woman whose business ac.u.men was legendary hand over her business to a scapegrace?

Annabel surveyed him, trying to determine his reliability. For a gentleman given to sedentary pursuits, he filled out his coat and trousers very well. But what man wore superfine to a brewery?

A man who knew nothing about the business, that's who. A man who probably dabbled in it to amuse himself, which meant he was of little use to her. Still, what choice did she have? He was in charge. And she and Sissy had come all this way.

Steadying her nerves, she held up her box. "I'm here on behalf of my ill brother to propose a business venture."

He arched one finely groomed black eyebrow. "What sort of business venture? And who is your brother?"

"Hugh Lake. He owns Lake Ale in-"

"Burton-upon-Trent. Yes, I've heard of it."

She blinked. "You have?"

Leaning back, he thumbed through a stack of papers until he found one with scribbled notes. "Your father, Aloysius Lake, founded it in 1794, and your brother inherited it a few years ago when your father died. Your specialties are brown ale, porter, and small beer." When he glanced up to find her gaping at him, he said, "I do try to know something about our compet.i.tion."

So he wasn't just a pretty face, after all. "Actually, I'm here because Lake Ale would rather be your business a.s.sociate than your compet.i.tor."

With a dubious expression, he crossed his arms over his rather impressive chest. "According to my information, Lake Ale only produces fifty thousand barrels a year to Plumtree's two hundred fifty thousand. I fail to see what you can do for us."

She wasn't sure which shocked her more-that he knew Lake Ale's level of production, or that he spoke to her like an equal. It was gratifying not to have him suggest that she trot on home and get her brother. Then again, given his grandmother, he was probably used to women knowing such matters.

"Before I explain, I wish for you to sample something." Setting the box on his desk, she withdrew its precious cargo-a bottle of ale and a gla.s.s. She uncorked the ale and filled the gla.s.s halfway, careful not to put too much head on it.

When she offered it to him, he eyed her askance. "Thinking of poisoning the compet.i.tion?"

She laughed. "Hardly. But if it makes you feel better, I'll drink some first." She sipped, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. There was no mistaking the glint in his eyes when he followed her tongue as it swept the foam off her lips.

"Your turn," she said coldly. She thrust the gla.s.s at him, half expecting him to make some naughty comment about her mouth before progressing toward suggestions that had nothing to do with brewing.

Instead, he held up the gla.s.s to scrutinize the amber liquid. "It's a pale ale?"

"Yes, an October brew."

"Ah. Nice orange-gold color." He swirled it in the gla.s.s, then thrust his nose into the scent, breathing deeply. "Aggressive aroma of hops. Some fruity notes."

While he sipped it, she twisted her mother's ring on her finger. It had always brought her good luck, which was why she never took it off, even at the brewery.

His eyes deepened to a cobalt blue as he let the ale lie in his mouth a brief second before swallowing. He sipped again, as if to confirm his impressions.

Then he drained the gla.s.s. "It's quite good. Full-bodied, with a nice bitter finish. Not too much malt, either. Some of Lake Ale's stock?"

She let out a relieved breath. "Yes. I brewed it myself."

He straightened to his full height, which was considerable compared to her own five foot one. "I still don't see how this concerns Plumtree."

"I want you to help me sell it."

With his manner all business again, he handed the gla.s.s to her. "I'll be perfectly frank with you, Miss Lake. This isn't the time for new ventures in the ale business. With the Russian market going soft-"

"That's precisely why I'm here. With my brother ill, we, too, have been having difficulties. But I can help both our companies make up for the loss of the Russians." She packed the gla.s.s in her box, leaving the ale bottle on the desk. "You've heard of Hodgson's Brewery?"

"Of course. He dominates the India trade."

"Not since he joined up with Thomas Drane. They decided to cut out the East India Company by shipping it directly there themselves."

His eyes widened. "Idiots."

"Exactly. No one takes on the Company and wins." Though the Company profited from the Indian goods brought to England, it allowed its captains to profit from goods they brought out to India and sold to Englishmen there. Ale had become the captains' primary private cargo, specifically the October ale brewed by Hodgson's. The brewery had thought to cut out the captains and was now suffering for it.