T he clamor of the laboring man’s teahouse surrounded him in a discordant cacophony of orders, complaints, and a ribald joke or two.
Jacob watched the crowd from his table near the wall, alert and observant as always without actually involving himself.
Growing up alongside his father’s fast-expanding network of storehouses and teahouses, Jacob had never been shy of things and people to observe.
There was always something interesting, something worth latching his curious mind onto—whether it was the tall tale of a traveling sailor or two, a shrewd client or supplier bargaining for better terms, or a new and more efficient way of doing inventory or steeping tea or serving customers hungry for more and more of the Asian-rooted beverage.
It was fascinating how one drink could go from being newly introduced to English soil less than two hundred years ago to becoming a quintessential part of being English .
Members of the aristocracy might turn up their noses at people who did not originate from the same tiers of society as they did, but that disdain did not seem to apply to other foreign things.
Mr. Terrance, Jacob’s pious and soft-spoken clergyman tutor, liked to mention how people from all sorts of backgrounds were all made in God’s image, equally suitable to becoming His children.
Jacob liked to believe himself an equal, in mind and in body, to men born to more privileged positions.
But he was also fairly certain those men did not think so.
“Here ye go, sir.”
A serving boy plopped Jacob’s tea onto his table, a good ten minutes after he’d ordered it.
Jacob took in the sight of the scrawny young creature—more boy than man.
Such delays would not have been tolerated at any of the Hawthornes’ establishments, but the entire point of patronizing this unsavory location near the docks was to do the opposite of what his father wanted.
“Thank you,” said Jacob, unable to hide his trained pronunciation even in a scant few words.
The boy shrugged and scuttled away. Jacob stared at the tea, which really looked nigh undrinkable, and shoved it aside with a sigh.
I give you two months to live as you please—sow your wild oats, if you must. Revel with your friends and muse upon your future. And when the two months are done, I expect you at the altar to do your duty.
His father’s words swirled in his mind. What was two months of freedom compared to a lifetime of bondage?
Jacob had never been the sort to have any wild oats to sow.
Being mentored by Mr. Terrance had surely seen to that.
And if even a small part of him had ever been tempted to stray from the straight and narrow, a few front-row seats to the turmoil of sailors with too many bastards to feed or too many enemies to hide from had been enough to keep him steady.
In fact, compared to most men his age, Jacob might even be considered boring.
It was a sobering realization—that his life had been so devoid of adventure that Father found the best use for him to be a bargaining chip for his ever-continuous social ascent.
A large man passed by his table, hands on his hips. Jacob looked up at the unremarkable features marred further by an ugly snarl. “Are ye havin’ anythin’, guv’nor?”
The question was supposed to be a hospitable one, although it was rather very inhospitably put.
“I have my tea, thank you,” said Jacob.
“Then drink it and have on with it,” the man who could only be the owner of the dubious establishment barked. “Can’t keep a table for ye all day. We ain’t high society over here.”
Jacob wanted to laugh at the irony of being equated to high society, even if his light coloring did sort of stand out. But a quick glance at the growing line near the door indicated that the owner had good reason to want his customers not to linger.
“I’ll try not to dawdle.” Jacob dropped sixpence on the table, to the glint of the owner’s eye. “Not that this tea is worth dawdling for.”
“I beg yer pardon.” The temporary contentment dissipated immediately. “This tea ain’t nothin’ but the very best, from China itself, sir. Nothin’ short of the emperor’s own brew for ye.”
Jacob’s jaw twitched. Being raised the son of Alastor Hawthorne had few benefits and plenty of shortcomings, but the ability to spot a liar at his first word was one of its advantages.
“I suppose we can agree to disagree,” Jacob responded.
“Look ‘ere, sir. I dunno who ye think ye are, but?—”
Sounds of shouting and a harsh whistle or two floated in from the teahouse’s open door.
A few men jeered as more people flocked to watch the latest altercation.
Jacob eyed the growing gathering with a wary eye.
There were reasons the London docks were considered a largely unsavory area of town, even if it did drive the economy of the entire kingdom.
“Off with ye,” growled the owner.
Jacob acknowledged him with a brief nod before leaving his table, tea entirely untouched.
By most counts, Jacob could be considered an observant man, as keen an observer of the times as any son of a shrewd businessman could be expected to be. But he was not a busybody, and he knew better than to get himself embroiled in altercations that could have him losing money or limbs or both.
Resolved to stay sober and out of the way of bodily harm, he shifted along the edge of the crowd.
It was difficult, given how the entire doorway to the teahouse was blocked with curious onlookers, but Jacob managed to slide behind a couple of smaller boys until he stood under the noontime London sun.
“It cannot possibly cost that much!” a young woman’s voice demanded in the middle of the small crowd. It was a high voice, with a well-educated accent. Jacob frowned at the impossibility of a lady being found anywhere close to where he currently was.
“Ye ain’t gettin’ your bag back if ye don’t pay up, missy.” The mean words were accompanied by an even meaner sounding laugh.
The people around them laughed, and Jacob felt a tug of worry. Whoever this woman was had nothing to do with him, but Mr. Terrance’s constant reminders for Jacob to use his education for good whispered around the edges of his consciousness.
He walked on, away from the crowd.
“This money is meant to help me find my mother,” the woman’s voice said once more, a slight hint of panic now in her tone.
“Then ya shouldn’t ‘ave lost ‘er in the first place, should ya?” The mockery in the man’s voice carried far past the circle around them.
“Mr. Driver, please.”
“I ain’t drivin’ ye anywhere unpaid, miss.”
With a resigned sigh, Jacob turned to look—and instantly stood bewitched.
In the middle of the small circle of onlookers, a young woman stood in her quality crimson cloak.
Her slender frame could almost be mistaken for a girl’s, although the confidence with which she stood her ground showed her to at least be nearer twenty than twelve.
Entrancing dark brown eyes, their edges tucked ever-so-slightly into delicate, upturned corners, flashed fire at the man opposing her.
The woman’s skin shone, smooth and translucent as ivory yet warmed by a golden hue beneath.
A face like that belonged in a museum—not in the middle of a scuffle by the docks.
And while common sense dictated that anyone foolish enough to be in her position likely deserved whatever fate awaited her, Jacob couldn’t help deciding otherwise.
The ill-fated traveler and her opportunistic driver exchanged a few more barbs before Jacob stepped into the circle, his tall frame and gentlemanly looks easily parting the crowd for him.
“Ah, there you are,” he addressed the woman. She turned and looked at him with shock, then caution, and then a hint of relief. “I was wondering what took you so long.”
She looked as if she was grasping for something to say when Jacob turned to her aggressor. “Ah, thank you for taking my dear friend’s bag for her.” He tossed the man a shilling. “That should be more than enough for your trouble, I’m sure.”
The most likely misnamed Mr. Driver handed over her belongings begrudgingly—and Jacob watched his full retreat to his hack before turning to face the woman. The crowd had dispersed by then, apparently finding little to interest them when it came to a gentleman and a lady deciding to meet.
But the soulful almond eyes gazing back at him were extraordinarily interesting indeed.
The idea of leaving home in search of her mother’s family had appeared to be a very sound idea for the first few hours of the day.
Taking advantage of the servants’ general lack of interest in her affairs, along with Mother’s determination to ignore what she perceived to be her stepdaughter’s childish tantrum, Amelia had managed to pack her carpet bag with a few good essentials, all her pin money, and her mother’s jewelry box before slipping out the side door unnoticed.
The people out at Upper Wimpole Street at the early hour might not have been entirely considered genteel, but no one had harmed her as she rushed to the nearest corner and hired a hackney cab for the London docks.
And since it had proven so easy to hail down transport, she’d concluded that it had to be equally easy to hail down a ship to take her to China.
Surely, there couldn’t be that many complications.
The fact that her hackney driver and his mustachioed face had decided to try to trick her of all her money simply had to be a small matter of bad luck. At least, she kept trying to tell herself as much.
“What were you thinking?” The tall, blond man who had come to her rescue whipped around to face her once Mr. Driver had driven out of sight. He shoved her bag back at her. Amelia looked up as she caught it, disquieted but not entirely cowed.
She lifted her chin. “I was trying to pay for my ride without getting robbed of every penny, in case it wasn’t obvious, sir.”