“I’m the big sister. With Ma and Da gone, I thought it was all my responsibility. I thought . . . that I was protecting you.”
Her sister’s smile was fond. “We’re not babes in arms, Jessie. Might even surprise you to know I’m not a virgin. I think Fred isn’t, either, but he and I don’t like to talk about such things with each other.”
Jess gave a watery laugh. “You’re both my world.”
“And you are ours.” Cynthia pressed a kiss to Jess’s damp cheek. “Now, are you going to read that London letter, or shall I?”
“I’ll read it.” There was a chance that Noel had written about their intimate encounters, and Jess needed to preserve his privacy.
She opened the letter and scanned the contents. Her breath left her in a rush, and she managed to rasp, “Oh, my God.”
“What is it?” Cynthia demanded.
“A shop on Bond Street wants to meet with me—with us,” Jess corrected. Stunned, she continued, “They want to discuss selling McGale & McGale soap. We’re to bring as much stock as we have.” Jess stared at her sister. “They said it was because the duke had recommended our product to a ballroom full of England’s elite. Already, they’ve turned away dozens of customers looking to buy our soap.”
Cynthia let out a little shriek before throwing her arms around Jess. “My God, Jess. This is unbelievable—the very best news.”
Jess hugged her sister, who was as tall, if not taller, than Jess herself. How obstinate she’d been to believe that Cynthia and Fred were still her little brother and sister.
She fought to make sense of what the letter from Daley’s Emporium had said. Here was the possibility that McGale & McGale might be able to salvage itself—because of Noel.
But . . . “Cyn, if we can’t get the blunt to make the repairs and modernize, we can’t meet demand. They’ll place an order we cannot fill.”
“A step at a time, love. Let us celebrate this good fortune for a moment and then we can think logistics.”
“Wise girl,” Jess murmured.
Cynthia broke the embrace first. “I’ve got to find Fred. He needs to hear the good news.” After giving Jess another kiss on the cheek, Cynthia ran down the path toward the barn and outbuildings, calling for her brother.
Alone, Jess allowed herself to sink to the ground, right on the threshold of her home. She read the letter again. Elation filled her, mixed with caution, which was the peculiar alchemy of adulthood. She wanted to believe that everything would be all right, but there was no certainty.
The urge to talk to Noel hit her strongly. He could offer his thoughts and opinions, say something witty to lighten her worry. He understood her ambition—he understood her.
Jess started to rise so she might grab pen and paper, then she stopped herself. Her hands curled into fists in her lap.
Even if she did write him, he’d never open her letter. Likely, he’d throw it into the fire and walk away before it became ashes—a fitting symbol. They had been mere embers, then blazed together before turning cold and dead.
As she knelt in the doorway of her family’s home, she looked skyward. Success beckoned, but the price . . . the price was immeasurable.
Noel tipped his head back, draining his glass. There was no satisfying burn that came from strong liquor. Come to think of it, he hadn’t felt that heat in days, not since he’d first started down this determined path of carousing. It was as useless as drinking tepid tea. He threw the glass to the floor, causing the people at his table to jump and look like startled rabbits.
“Give me something stronger,” he demanded to the room at large.
A man in a publican’s apron appeared, smiling too wide so he seemed like a ghoul. “What would you like, Your Grace?”
“Scottish whiskey,” Noel said. “American bourbon. Water from the sodding Thames. I. Don’t. Care.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And more wine for my dear, dear friends,” Noel added, waving at the assortment of bucks and demimondaines draped around the table, who cheered in response. “Who are you, again?”
“Your bosom companions, Your Grace,” a florid-faced lordling declared. “Recall—we met at the opera earlier and you swept us up in your excellent hospitality.”
The last few hours, hell, the last few days, were a haze that Noel neither wanted nor cared to remember. His head was full of shrill laughter and his mouth tasted like a puddle in the middle of Charing Cross Road.