“We couldn’t know, but now we do,” Jess said darkly. “If we don’t fix the farm up and soon, we’ll lose everything. The business, the land—our home. And without the farm and the house, you, me, and Fred become rootless. We’ll drift apart like so many salsify seeds on the wind.”
“We won’t lose each other,” Cynthia said, though her words were tinged with uncertainty.
“Without the house, where would we go? Off in separate directions to earn our bread, never united beneath a single roof.” Jess rubbed her forehead. “How can I hie off to Paris when we’re in such desperate straits? The task is mine. And I’ll make everything right. I swear I will.”
McGale & McGale had been part of the lifeblood of their family for a generation, when Jess’s parents spent the months between growing seasons making and selling high-quality soap from their home. The soap itself used honey produced from the McGale beehives. For over two decades, the family enterprise had been limited by its size, selling in shops within a thirty-mile range.
“That bloody fire,” Jess muttered. “I’d been right in the middle of formulating how to expand, thinking perhaps we could even sell in London and Manchester if we could meet the demand.”
“Then the fire,” Cynthia said glumly.
“It leveled all my plans.” The family’s dream of supplying luxury soap to Britain’s hardest-working citizens was on the verge of collapse. “But we’re not giving up. It’s not over. I’ll fix everything.”
“How will you do that?” Cynthia asked. “Forgive me, Jess, but what we need is a miracle, and they’re in short supply.”
Jess took purposeful strides to the little cupboard that held her books and other essential items. She pulled out a stack of fragrant, paper-wrapped McGale & McGale Honey Soap, which she’d brought from home to use for her own toilette.
Holding up the soap bars, Jess declared, “Tomorrow, McGale & McGale conquers London. I’ll pound on every Bond Street shopkeeper’s door and introduce them to the wonders of our honey soap. I’ll require an up-front deposit so we can make enough repairs to meet the initial demand. Then orders will come pouring in and we’ll renovate the whole farm.”
She never permitted herself the luxury of uncertainty. Even when her parents had been alive, Jess had been the one they turned to if something needed to be done. She balanced the ledgers, she negotiated the prices of crops and raw materials for soap production. She did whatever was required, and she did it well.
“Oh, Jess.” Cynthia grasped her hands. “If anyone can make that happen, it’s you.”
“I keep my promises, Cyn.”
Jess’s plan had to work. Her family counted on her, and she couldn’t let them down.
Chapter 2
London
Over the years, Noel had learned a very important lesson: there was no better test of a friend’s loyalty than a bout inside a boxing ring. Only members of his closest circle would ever attempt to punch him. The hangers-on, the lackeys, and the sycophants would never be so bold.
Noel ducked to avoid McCameron’s right cross, but just barely. He countered with a hook to the body—which his friend blocked before quickly firing a counter jab to Noel’s jaw. This time, the punch connected, and stars erupted.
“Go gentle on the bloke,” Curtis called from beside the ring. “Dukes have porridge for muscles.”
“Not . . . this . . . sodding duke,” Noel managed to gasp as he struggled to keep his feet.
Blast him, McCameron was barely winded, but then he’d always had a ridiculous amount of athletic prowess, and while Noel sparred with his friend thrice weekly, McCameron would always be the better sportsman. It hardly seemed fair—except Noel was a duke with no fewer than eight homes, was a trusted confidant to Lord Liverpool, and possessed more wealth than three archbishops combined, while McCameron drew a second son’s modest allowance along with a pension from years of service in His Majesty’s army. So, there was a measure of balance.
Still, when Noel attempted to throw a left cross, the punch went wide.
McCameron took a step back and held up his wrapped hands. “You’re fit to be knocked on your arse,” he said in his burr. “Time for a rest. At the very least,” he added when Noel began to argue, “it will give me a moment’s pause so I can collect myself before you give me the drubbing I deserve.”
“Don’t . . . flatter me.”
Yet Noel had to bend down and rest his hands on his thighs to make his head