The Pursuits Of Lord Kit Cavanaugh. Stephanie Laurens
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in the country you call home?”
He looked ahead. “Not as such. The Abbey is now Ryder and Mary’s home and purely a place to visit.”
“No house in London?” She imagined a London rakehell of his wealth would definitely have a house in town.
“I used to share lodgings with Rand, but now... If I want to stay in town, I’ll just use my room in Raventhorne House in Mount Street.” His lips twisted wryly. “Truth to tell, I avoid London as much as I can.”
“You do?” That surprised her. “Why?”
He looked at her, meeting her gaze. “The more pertinent question would be: Why wouldn’t I?” When, at a loss, she blinked at him, he elaborated, “There’s nothing that attracts me in London, much less holds my interest. No yacht-building. No sailing of that sort.” He shrugged and looked at the pavement again. “Nothing I fancy.”
Nothing he fancied? Sylvia might have thought he was pulling her leg, but he looked and sounded utterly sincere and combined with what she’d seen of him and learned of him that day...
She was starting to suspect her earlier opinion of Kit Cavanaugh had been not just inaccurate but comprehensively in error.
Which raised the tantalizing prospect of who the man beside her truly was—what manner of man he actually was.
Pondering that, she gestured to the left. “My lodging house is this way, on the far side of the park.”
He turned with her, then asked, “Tell me what you know of the Dock Company.”
That didn’t take long, but his subsequent questions about the city, about the atmosphere now that, with the advent of larger, heavier ships, the dock work was shifting downriver, displayed an inherent grasp of what made communities tick and prosper.
“So,” he said, “the mayor and the city council are stable and entrenched, but are floundering regarding the adjustments necessary to meet the challenges confronting the city.”
She tipped her head. “That’s a reasonable summation. As yet, there’s been no major public protests, but from time to time, the mood turns rather ugly—or should I say dejected?”
He nodded in understanding. “The latter sounds nearer the mark.”
“This is it.” Sylvia paused outside the gate of the terrace house in which she lodged and turned to face the man she had for years regarded as her romantic nemesis; thankfully, he would never know. She put out her hand. “Thank you for your escort.”
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