9. Chapter 9

Chapter nine

Iris blinked at the banker, biting her lip to keep her mouth from falling open. His return expression was somewhere between sympathy and exasperation. She scrambled for something to say. Anything to move past what he told her.

“You really can’t give me a loan?” she asked. Uselessly, she knew.

“I really can’t,” he said anyway. “We do not loan to women, and you won’t find a bank in England who does, I’m afraid.”

“But…” she trailed off with a shake of her head. “It isn’t fair. I’ve got more than enough for a down payment, and the mortgage—”

He held up a hand to stop her. “Fair or not, our policy stands.”

“Is there anyone else interested in the building?”

“Whether there is or isn’t is of no consequence. We do not loan to—”

“So that schoolhouse will continue to sit empty?”

Her shock had disintegrated and skipped over disappointment right into rage. According to records, the building had been empty since before the war. It was briefly used as a hospital before Hugh offered up Buckland Hall, and all those wounded soldiers were transferred to the countryside. Ever since, it had been intact, but vacant.

Iris thought it was the ideal location for the shelter she wanted to open. A one-room schoolhouse was the perfect place to begin. It had plenty of space for the women of York, and would only require minimal repairs and cleaning. She checked the listings and found she could afford the down payment with everything she had saved from her maintenance from Lewis, plus extra for mortgage payments for the first few months. All she needed was a loan. Which she was apparently not going to get.

“Perhaps not. If your brother wanted to buy it, we could discuss options.”

“My brother can’t buy it,” she snapped. Hugh could no more afford that old schoolhouse than he could a villa in the south of France. But he had options. “If you truly cannot give me a loan, our business here is complete.”

“I’m sorry, Lady Iris,” he said, and to his credit, he seemed to mean it. “It’s just…the way it is.”

“Hopefully not for long.” She got to her feet, pulling her jacket on. “If women can get themselves the vote, surely someday they’ll be able to get loans.”

She didn’t give him a chance to reply before she swept out of his office. Rosier was waiting in the car, a newspaper against the wheel. He hurried to close it and toss it into the passenger side to clamor out and open the back door for Iris. She thanked him when he offered his hand to help her into the seat.

“Did you get all your business done, my lady?” he asked as he slid back behind the wheel.

“Unfortunately no,” she told him. “Let’s get back to the house.”

“Yes, my lady.”

He turned the engine, and the car lurched forward. Iris stared out the window, without seeing anything as her mind still whirred with where she could go from there. No loan meant she would have to save up enough to buy the building outright with cash. But would the owner even sell to her? The same problem that denied her the loan could get in her way again.

She wondered if there was a way to find out. She would have to locate the record of deeds. If an individual owned the schoolhouse, perhaps they could be persuaded. If it belonged to the town, she may need to use Hugh’s influence to get it. As much as she hated having to rely on him. She wanted this project to be hers. Something she did entirely on her own. But was that possible? She didn’t know.

She was still considering her next steps when she walked into the house, greeted by Mr. Oliver.

“Luncheon will be ready soon, my lady,” he said. “If you want to get changed, I can let the kitchen know you’re back.”

“No, thank you, I’m not hungry,” Iris replied, handing her hat, coat, and gloves to her lady’s maid. “I’ll see Hugh and the family at dinner.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The servants headed back downstairs. She walked toward the stairs leading to her room, but a figure emerged from Hugh’s study. Rowland Sinclair. Because her day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

“Lady Iris,” he said in greeting, that smug little grin on his annoyingly handsome face.

“Mr. Sinclair.”

She tried to ignore him, but to her chagrin, he followed her. Up the stairs to the second floor landing.

“Mr. Sinclair, people will talk,” she warned.

“People will talk no matter what,” he replied, catching her arm and turning her around. “Are you all right? You look ready to spit nails.”

She frowned at the expression, but made no attempt to soften her face. She wasn’t in the mood, and she knew he wouldn’t care.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” she demanded.

“Came to collect the earnings from the tour,” he said. “It put quite a dent into that debt. It was a great idea.”

“What did I tell you about flattery?”

“It’ll get me nowhere, but don’t take it personally if I disagree. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, eh?”

“It’s nothing. Things didn’t go my way at the bank. Now I’ve got to figure some other things out.”

“What happened?”

She held his gaze, unsure how much to divulge. But she was furious, and he was offering an ear, so she unloaded. Told him everything. The building she wanted and why she couldn’t have it.

“Can you imagine anything so ridiculous?” she said, struggling to keep her tone even. “No loans, simply because I don’t have a cock between my legs.”

“Don’t say cock.”

“Why? Because it isn’t ladylike?”

“No, because it does things to me that I know would offend you.”

He winked at her. She laughed in spite of herself, and it forced some of the tension from her shoulders.

“Seriously? All that and you choose me saying ‘cock’ to focus on?”

“After you said it, it was difficult to focus on anything else.”

She rolled her eyes and leaned against the wall. Her chest grew heavy as her amusement dissolved and reality returned.

“It’s times like this I wonder if getting divorced was a mistake,” she said with a sigh.

“Based on what you’ve told me, I think you’re better off.”

“Am I? Because at every turn, I’m faced with some hurdle that would never be in my path if I were still Mrs. Mooring.”

He didn’t say anything at first, instead reaching into his jacket for a cigarette. He offered her one, but she shook her head. He shrugged, lit it, and took a long drag.

“Hurdles are meant to be leapt over,” he said.

“Hard to leap with chains around your ankles.”

“So take the chains and smash the fucking hurdles.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Easy for you to say. You’re a man.”

“My being a man has made some things easier for me than others, but if you think I haven’t had to fight through a roadblock or two, you’re wrong. I grew up on the streets of Liverpool with nothing but the clothes on my back, the air in my lungs, and my family at my side. I fought tooth and nail to get to where I am today.” He paused to take another drag. “You’ve got something I didn’t have back then—money and a title. There’s a bargaining chip there, you just have to find the right person to deal with.”

“My own bank won’t even—”

“I’m not talking about the bank.”

She pursed her lips.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he said quickly.

She forgave him with a glance. “I’m not interested in getting involved with people like you. I’d rather keep everything legal.”

“Hate to break this to you, but everyone is involved with people like me. Whether they know it or not.”

“That cannot be true.”

“It is.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“The police?”

“Yep.”

“Parliament?”

“Oh, definitely them.”

“Banks?”

“Even them.”

“Damn, I thought I’d have you there,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to trust the bank.”

“I don’t trust anyone for the most part. Except my family. Speaking of which…”

He reached into his jacket again, and pulled out a bow, similar to the one he wore pinned to his lapel. The ribbon was wrapped around a safety pin and tied into a sloppy bow. Only this one had a coin glued to the center, smashing the knot down. He held it out to her.

“What’s this?” she asked before taking it.

“It’s from Claire. She thought you deserved a medal for being brave when Titanic sank, like soldiers get when they’re brave in battle.”

“Is that why you wear that silly thing?” she questioned. “Because your niece made it?”

“Of course,” he answered, as if it were obvious. “But she made you one even better.”

Finally, she took the makeshift medal and examined it closer. It was touching when she thought about it. A young girl being compelled to make her something to recognize what she did. Iris never thought of herself as brave. Not until Claire said it that day of the tour.

She held it back out to him. “Pin it on me.”

“What?” he chuckled.

“You don’t pin a medal on yourself, do you? Pin it on me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Heat surged in her belly when he said it, which she did her best to ignore, but it was difficult with his hands at her chest. He pinched the fabric of her blouse on the left side, stuck the pin through, and fastened it. She wondered if he felt her heartbeat quicken to a gallop.

“There,” he said, his clear blue eyes tenderly gazing at her face. “It suits you.”

His fingers lingered a moment before he let his hands fall back to his side. Her skin tingled, longing for his touch. She inwardly scolded herself. Even if Rowland was attractive, what did it matter? He was still a ruthless gangster, and she had no place in his world. And he had no place in hers. No man did. That much, she was determined would remain true.

“Thank you,” she said, and cleared her throat. “Are you headed back to Liverpool straight away?”

“I am, I’ve got business to attend to this evening.”

“Textile business or…?”

“Or,” he answered. “That man I told you about, Bishop Goddard?”

“I remember.”

“I found the pub where he and his men get their drinks.”

“So?”

“So we’re going to burn it to the fucking ground.”

The warmth in his eyes from earlier was gone, replaced with a chill that sent a shiver up her spine. She had no desire to get involved in things of that nature. And yet, she couldn’t stop herself before she spoke.

“Be careful.”

He smiled. “Yes, my lady.”