The celebration dinner was everything Sebastian Crawford had dreamed of and everything he had known, from the moment he sat at the head of the table, would not be enough.
The dining room of the Crawford mansion sat atop the hill overlooking Manchester, all marble floors and crystal chandeliers and oil paintings of men who had made their fortunes in wool and now made their fortunes in cotton. Seven long tables had been pushed together to accommodate the forty guests—mill owners, bankers, two members of Parliament, and a lord whose title was older than the factory...
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