Ever His Bride by Linda Needham Page A

strength, his claim to power.
    He greeted a knot of wealthy clients as he
passed them on his way down the stairs. He’d made a dozen fortunes
for these men; without his guidance they would lose them again, and
so they stayed on. Some even sought his friendship, which he always
declined. Friendship and business didn’t mix, so he avoided
friendships, relationships of any sort entirely. Uncomplicated
acquaintances provided him with the contacts he needed for success.
Beyond that, he needed no one.
    Especially not a wife.
    “A glorious day, Claybourne, wouldn’t you
say?”
    Hunter turned on the stairs and stared up at
Lord Vincent, wondering for an awkward instant if the grinning
fellow had somehow heard of his recent marriage. Not that it
mattered. The marriage wasn’t to be a secret; he had just planned
to keep the fact of it private.
    Hunter offered his most pleasant smile,
searching the man’s face for a trace of such news of his marriage.
“You gentlemen seem in grand spirits.”
    “Why wouldn’t we be?” Vincent laughed and
bounced the two steps down the stairs to sling a hail-fellow’s arm
over Hunter’s shoulder. “Brakestowe Iron Works!”
    The group rumbled “ayes” and “hurrahs” from
the landing.
    “Ah, yes.” He’d forgotten. This exchange
wasn’t about his marriage. More evidence of Miss Mayfield’s
distractions from his day; he should have remembered that
Brakestowe’s quarterly profits were announced at nine, should have
been there to hear the good news himself. Instead, he’d spent his
morning marrying himself to a thief.
    “The shares have sold out, as you probably
know, and are now worth half-again as much as we paid for them,
just as you said they would be, Claybourne. You’ve made us all very
happy.”
    “And very rich,” added Lord Haverstone.
    Hunter offered a benevolent smile and patted
Vincent on the arm. “Did you think I would misadvise you, my
lord?”
    “Never!” the man bellowed, raising a fist in
salute. “Hurrah!”
    The others followed suit, and Hunter
continued down the stairs to a satisfying round of cheers. He
counted bishops, peers, and members of the royal family among the
most prestigious of his clients. Yet he never revealed to anyone
the names or the substance of his dealings with them. Privacy and
security were the bywords of the Claybourne Exchange. His good name
was his fortune.
    Branson, his footman greeted him at the curb,
glancing warily toward the fiercely frowning woman who glowered
from the window of the brougham. A wet cat locked in a wire
cage.
    “Good luck, sir,” Branson said, stepping
away.
    Hunter opened the door himself, expecting his
wife to spring on him. Instead, she continued her murderous glower
and leaned deeper against the seat, her arms folded across the ugly
portmanteau that dwarfed her lap. He wondered for an unsettling
moment if she might be armed with pistol or knife.
    “Do you find great joy in imprisoning me, Mr.
Claybourne?” she asked, as he took the seat opposite her.
    “We’re going to the Bank of England, Miss
Mayfield. Drive on!” he said with a rap to the roof. The carriage
entered the traffic.
    “To the Bank? Why? I thought we were finished
with each other. I have work to do, Mr. Claybourne.” She lifted a
writing portfolio from her bag. “Do you see this? My travel
articles for the Hearth and Heath. I have deadlines to
meet—”
    “One final detail, Miss Mayfield. A paper to
sign.”
    She peered out the window and added another
fret to her brow. “Why travel in a carriage, Mr. Claybourne? Why
not walk? The Bank of England is right there, across Threadneedle
Street. Is your station so lofty you’d rather not brush shoulders
with the rabble, or dirty your boots on the street?”
    To answer the woman was to give credit to her
comment, so he remained silent. The short ride was punctuated by a
grisly growling coming from somewhere in the vicinity of his wife’s
midriff. The Cobsons weren’t known for their