At a glance? Hell, no. And Rafe did not have the patience to go through both lists to find it, either.
“Curry.” She jabbed her finger in the center of the page. “And over here, arrack punch. See?”
He drummed his fingers, expecting that there must be some explanation forthcoming.
“There wasn’t a single Indian dish in my mother’s cookery book. Today, you wouldn’t find a collection of recipes without them.”
He looked blankly at her.
“Hold that thought. There’s more.” Next, she pulled out a length of fabric and thrust it at him. “Here.”
He turned it over in his hands. A piece of light, patterned cloth. “What am I to do with this?”
“Just look at it. Think about it.” She bounced on her toes a little bit.
Rafe looked at the fabric. He thought about it. He had no idea what sort of thoughts he was supposed to have about a few flowers and springs printed on cheap cotton.
“It’s chintz,” she said. “When we were children, it was all the rage to have imported Indian cotton. For curtains, shawls, quilts. Pillows. But now the factories use domestic cotton and print chintz here. None of it is imported anymore.”
He frowned. “I’m not right to play Piers in this scenario. He’s the world traveler.”
“No, no. This is about England. And you’re the perfect person.” Her eyes sparked with excitement. “Trust me.”
Rafe shifted in the armchair, feeling ill at ease. “Can we come to the point?”
“The point is this.” She flattened both hands on the top of the desk. “What happens in India doesn’t stay in India. It comes home to England and becomes the latest fashion here. This was true for curry, and it was true for chintz, and it’s going to be true for beer.”
She opened a folio, bringing out her last bit of evidence. A newspaper clipping. Wonderful. More reading.
He stared at the small, printed notice. “So there was a shipwreck.”
“It’s not the shipwreck that we’re concerned with. It’s the cargo.” She pointed to a specific line. “The ship’s bill of lading notes that it was transporting a new kind of pale ale. The manufacturers up north have been brewing it for a few years now, specifically for export to India. The climate there isn’t suited for beer-making, and the extra hops in the brew help this ale survive the sea voyage. It’s all the rage among Englishmen living there. Piers even mentioned it me in one of his letters.”
“But they’re already manufacturing it up north.”
“Yes. For export.” She leaned her hip on the desk. “That means this is the ideal time to stake out a share of the home market. As men like Piers return from their travels, they’ll be looking for the ale they enjoyed abroad. Then the taste for it will spread. Just as it happened with curry, or chintz. Within a generation, no one will be drinking porter anymore. Pale ale in the India style is going to be the beer of choice. I’m certain of it. This is the brewery’s chance.”
She ceased talking and took a slow, deep breath.
“Well?” she prodded, after a few moments had passed. “Are you convinced?”
He sat back in the chair and regarded her, admiring. “I think I might be. You should have been a lawyer.”
“Oh, I have other, better plans.” She smiled. “I’m going to open a brewery. And I hope you’ll be my partner.”
“You’re going to ask Piers to be your business partner?”
“Of course not.” She laughed a little. “Rafe, I’m asking you.”
Her partner? He didn’t know what to say.
“I thought you might have some hesitation,” she said. “I’m prepared for it, actually.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “Prepare to be dazzled.”
Dazzled.
“Forget anything I said the other day about punching tankards into walls.” She went to the office entryway. “Imagine your name on the door. Right here. Lord Rafe Brandon, Partner in Brandon Brewery.”
“Clio . . .”
“No, no. I’m just getting started.” She gestured widely around the room. “Imagine, this is your office. You’d have papers and ledgers. And a secretary to sit right here.” She flew to a smaller desk at the side of the room and sat behind it, posing with a quill. “Shall I take a letter, my lord?”
“A secretary.” He leaned back in his chair. “Would she be as pretty as you?”
“He would be middle-aged and balding, but very efficient.” She rose from the desk, drifting back toward the door. “And people would come to meet with you, all day long. Important people.
“People like . . .” She ducked outside the door, and after a minute returned, wearing an old, borrowed coat and a straw hat. In one hand, she clutched a garden rake. “Farmers.”
Again, she went out, then reappeared wearing a cap, holding a pewter mug in one hand and using the other hand to drape a finger-moustache over her top lip.
She made her voice deep. “Or brewers.”
Rafe fought the urge to smile. He lost the battle. She was adorable. Ridiculous, and possibly addled in the mind, but adorable.
She disappeared one more time. He waited for her to reappear in the doorway, brandishing another outlandish prop or dressed in costume.
Instead, what appeared in the doorway was Ellingworth. Decked out in a tall hat. And spectacles.
“Even esquires,” she said.
Now he couldn’t help but laugh.
She emerged from behind the doorjamb to give the bulldog an affectionate rub. “Actually, meetings with esquires are unlikely. Barristers, no. Solicitors, yes.”
Solicitors. Bloody hell.
Rafe rubbed his face. He didn’t know what to say, other than the truth. “I’m not suited to office work.”
“But that’s the best part. You wouldn’t be here all the time. Once the day’s business is concluded, you’d be off to walk the fields, or to consult with the cooper about new casks, or to taste the latest brew. I can promise you all the beer you can drink. And I’ll even throw my heart in the bargain.” She popped up to sit on the desk before him, her feet dangling. “Well? Aren’t you a little bit tempted?”
Tempted?
Rafe had three toes over the threshold of Perdition. The picture she made before him would tempt a saint. But this arrangement she proposed? Managing, record-keeping, correspondence . . .
She swung her legs back and forth. “Well?”