“True.”
“Jack!” Shaw bellowed. “Where’s that screwdriver?”
“Coming!” Jack darted out from the other side of the tool rack and raced across to hand Shaw the tool.
Wayland looked toward the doors. “We’ll need to do something to secure this place rather better.”
“Leave that to Mulligan and me. I’ll talk to him when he can spare a minute.” Kit glanced at Wayland, then looked toward the larger office, which was almost ready for occupation. “Aren’t you impatient to get back to your designing?”
Wayland grinned. “I am, actually.” He glanced at the men. “Once they reach the point of moving on to new construction, I plan to slip away and start sorting out the space.”
Kit grinned, then, seeing Mulligan step back from the fray about the keel, ambled over to consult the foreman about what they could do to ensure there wasn’t another break-in.
After discussing all the options and deciding on the simplest and likely most efficient way of securing the workshop—namely heavy door handles plus a heavy-gauge chain and padlock—Kit quit the workshop and made his way into the city.
His first stop was the ironmonger Mulligan had recommended for the chain and handles, then he called in at a hardware store for the padlock—the largest and heaviest they had.
Weighed down with his purchases, he headed for his office. Having gained approval from both the Dean and the Abbey by Sunday afternoon, he’d ordered the signs for the workshop and school on Monday; the sign maker had promised to have both signs ready by the end of the week.
Miss Petty was seated at a new desk in his outer office, which now looked like an efficient office and not a deserted space. He told her about the damage at the warehouse, then held up the packages he carried as proof that they were taking steps to improve the workshop’s security.
She pursed her lips, then shook her head. “The maliciousness of certain people never fails to surprise me. I’m no expert on carpentry, but that keel was shaping up to be a thing of beauty.”
Kit agreed. “Luckily, the damage proved to be relatively minor.” He paused, then said, “It really wasn’t that bad. I think that because everything’s been going along so well, the attack was a bigger shock than, perhaps, the actual damage warranted.”
With a nod, he continued into his office, turning that observation over and around in his mind. The damage hadn’t been that bad. Given the many tools ready to hand, why had the perpetrator limited himself to inflicting only minor—relatively easily rectified—damage? He could have wrecked the very expensive bilge board. That would have caused Kit, Wayland, and their crew considerable grief. Instead...
Had the attacker intended to cause serious harm, but not known enough to do so? Or had he been interrupted by something, and he’d fled before he could do serious damage?
The first scenario would fit the Stenshaw lads. The second...some unknown someone else.
Kit realized he’d come to a halt before his desk. He set down the packages and rounded the desk to sink into his admiral’s chair. Several letters had been laid neatly on his blotter, and there were several others he needed to write, as well as the reports he’d promised his brothers.
Pushing the question of who had broken into the workshop to the back of his mind, he picked up his letter opener and got to work.
In midafternoon, he walked with Miss Petty to the workshop.
The only evidence of the break-in that remained was a pile of broken struts in one corner and the broken latch dangling uselessly on one door.
Shaw and one of his team were once again busy in the offices, Shaw plainly doing his best to finish off Miss Petty’s space. He waved a nail at the secretary, who was eyeing him straitly. “Be done by knock-off time today—promise.”
Kit saw Miss Petty’s lips twitch, but she subdued them and regally inclined her head. “Good. Because I will need to move my files in before I can sort out your wages.”
His eyes widening, Shaw waved. “Done by this evening—you have my word.” He set the nail in place and drove it home.
Kit handed his purchases to Mulligan, who immediately started attaching the handles to the main doors.
Wayland came up, frowning over one of his sketches. Kit spent the next half hour discussing curves and drag and the best timbers for decking.
Once Wayland went off, grumbling beneath his breath, Kit lent a hand with the work on the keel, keeping himself busy for the rest of the day and ignoring the insistent prick and prod of his instincts.
He wanted to see Sylvia—purely to assure himself that she was all right. Given he really wasn’t sure what might be evolving between them, he shouldn’t be over-attentive. He shouldn’t hover. Much as he wished to.
She’d lived in Bristol for two years without his protection; this was her city more than his.
Yet...
By dint of a significant exercise of will, he forced himself to concentrate on what should be uppermost in his mind—namely, the business of Cavanaugh Yachts.