Page 24 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
Adopting a severe expression, praying it chimed with acting the part of Viscount bloody Castlereagh’s most revered member of the Northern Board of Customs and Trout Collecting or whatever it was—did such an establishment actually exist?—Kit stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“If you brought us here to brag, Rossingley, then you could have saved yourself the bother,” chuntered Gartside. “As fascinating as you clearly believe this cotton stuff is, I have a table and three chums awaiting my sharp wits at White’s, and—”
“He hasn’t b-b-brought us here to b-b-brag, have you?” Sir Richard’s eyes narrowed. “He needs s-something.”
“Quite right,” agreed Rossingley warmly. “I knew you’d understand.” He took a minute swallow of port. “In principle, Mr Angel here—and thereby the British government—has approved an enhanced trade agreement with Mr Hamilton’s family and the building of four more cotton mills adjacent to my existing one. All that remains, in order for my enterprise to become the biggest producer of cotton cloth in the whole of England, is to expand the trade route via the Bridgewater Canal and then build the blasted things.”
“But even you can’t do that on your own,” chimed in Cobham, Sir Richard’s obvious interest stirring his own. “Can you, Rossingley?”
The earl tilted his head thoughtfully. “More that I am of the opinion one should never put one’s eggs all in the same basket, should one not?” His tone was solemn. “As tempted as I am to keep this potential goldmine to myself, even I am reluctant to fund the building of four millsandsponsor widening the trade route through Liverpool Docks all by myself. The project is costly as well as complicated and necessitates more than one sound mind to oversee it. Working atveryclose quarters with Mr Angel, of course.”
Before Kit could divine whether that last comment was quite as innocuous as it seemed, Rossingley sucked in a breath.
“Mr Angel assures me that, in partnership with a shrewd fellow investor, the project is viable and will become the biggest of its kind in England.” He hooked Kit in his glittery gaze. “Isn’t that right, Mr Angel?”
Kit swore he was going to kill him. All that remained was the method. “Y-yes,” he replied weakly. “Absolutely.”
“Maybe in the world,” interrupted Mr Hamilton in his southern drawl. “England already produces half of the world’s cotton cloth. Rossingley’s empire would sure be as big as anything we have back home.”
“Indeed, Mr Hamilton.” The earl gave him an appreciative nod. “So I have been informed.” He turned his regard back to the others. “You have been invited here tonight as I view you all as possible partners in this venture. It goes without saying that you all have reputations as honest businessmen of great wealth and excellent standing.”
The words hung there as the gentlemen examined one another. To his left, Kit became aware of Cobham leaning forward, brow furrowed in concentration, his full glass of port and his waiting mistress forgotten. Sir Richard’s eyes were closed; his fingers twitched as if performing sums in his head. Gartside’s oily gaze was so fixated on the earl it was a surprise he didn’t recoil from the putrid heat of it. Meanwhile, Mr Hamilton simply crossed one well-shod foot over the other and examined his well-kept fingernails as if the earl was discussing a rout at Gentleman Jack’s or his favourite snuff box. Kit found himself in the same position as Gartside, unable to tear his eyes away from the immaculate slender figure in lilac, commanding the attention of every man in the room.
“Developing such a swathe of land will be controversial and likely spark some unrest,” Rossingley continued smoothly. “There has been a recent outbreak of smallpox at a mill in Bury, and a growing number of workers are petitioning Parliament about working conditions. There’s a call to put a halt to expansion. Which means that we must tread lightly. It is imperative that my proposal not be spoken about in public until everything is signed and sealed. So, as gentleman, I trust you will be as silent as clams until I choose a suitable investment partner, and the deal is done.”
“Only one p-p-partner?” queried Sir Richard.
“Only one,” confirmed Rossingley. “Given the project is of such magnitude and national import, Angel here will be charged with selecting the right chap on my behalf. And…” At this point, he slowed to capture the eye of every man in the room. “…as I have already made clear, I would like that person to be one of the fine gentlemen here in this room.”
Kit stared at Rossingley intently as he topped up everyone’s port except his own. His guests stared at one another. Trickery was afoot, of course. Of that much Kit was certain. Trickery on a vast scale.I’m going to steal his estate. Kit had thought that wild assertion had been simply an excess of brandy talking. Now, with the man spinning a tale so outlandish, he wasn’t so sure.
A sliver of excitement curled in the pit of his belly. Rossingley’s foppish exterior was nothing but an affection. The man was cunning as a snake. The whole thing was an elaborate lie, or huge tracts of it, built on nothing but the earl’s title, wealth, and good standing.
But for the life of him, Kit couldn’t pinpoint what Rossingley was up to. How did he know so much about the cotton trade? And why these particular guests? Presumably because they were as wealthy as he purported. No doubt Cobham had deep pockets, Sir Richard too. And he’d have to take the earl’s word regarding Hamilton, the odd American. But why Gartside, when both he and Rossingley knew the man had begun accruing unpaid debts all over theton? He still had some funds at his disposable, according to the earl, but they were slipping through his fingers as fast as he could shuffle cards.
“One thing, Rossingley,” queried Lord Cobham, the first to formulate his thoughts. “The investment sounds promising—I will need my man of business to look into the finer details, of course. But if this thing is to be done so quietly, why the devil have you not simply approached us one at a time in a more discreet manner?”
The earl smiled broadly. “Oh, the answer to that is quite simple. Mr Hamilton here has already made me an excellent offer to be my business partner, one he doesn’t believe I can refuse. Essentially, it is with the aim of supplying his own American cotton to English mills in which he would have a half share. And, I admit, I was sorely tempted. But—forgive me, Mr Hamilton, for being so indelicate, though I have already expressed this opinion to you.” He threw Hamilton an apologetic smile before readdressing the others. “One simply cannot trust foreigners, can one? As much as I’d enjoy Mr Hamilton’s blunt, I don’t care for it. And nor does the Northern Board of Customs as Mr Angel can vouch. If American cotton supplies take a downturn—and simply one poor summer will suffice—we would revert to Indian trade routes, yet be stuck with an American owning half of all my mills.”
“As you can imagine, gentlemen,” answered Hamilton, with the first hint of displeasure Kit had heard from him all evening. “I have reassured Rossingley on numerous occasions that my plantation thrives regardless of inclement weather. I can provide all his needs.” His dark gaze flicked to Rossingley. “Every single one of them.”
“And I have reassured you,” Rossingley countered with a sweet smile, “That whilst your offer is much appreciated, I prefer to deal with old friends and families who have been in the ken of my own family for nigh on a hundred years. One cannot ignore the weight of history, my dear Hamilton, even if one hails from a country so thrillingly grand and progressive as America.”
“You are m-m-mitigating risk,” got out Sir Richard.
“Exactly,” said the earl, pleased. “Like every astute businessman should. So, if you are interested in pursuing this venture, over the coming days, you will have ample opportunity to study the finer details with Mr Angel, who will be delighted to share them with you. After that, if you feel you have the heart for it, place a bid! Join me! And if your offer comes close to the amount that Mr Hamilton and his family are prepared to put on the table, then I daresay I will have found myself an excellent business partner. What say you, chaps?”
Chapter Thirteen
LANDO’S HEART SUSTAINEDa wild and erratic beating long after his guests had departed. Trepidation and excitement were replaced by a surge of strength now vying with nervous exhaustion. A strained drumming pounded at his temples; he felt as if he wanted to both run around and crash into a dreamless sleep. And yet, he’d never felt more revitalised. The naked audacity! The cheek, the sheer nerve, the gall! The gumption! He blew out a long breath as if blowing away all the tension that, up until now, had held his spine rigid and his mind so focussed.
Tommy Squire had played his part well—too well if Angel’s smouldering possessive silence was any marker. Cobham and Sir Richard, too, though unwittingly, of course. Embroiling his upstanding cousin, Sir Richard, in his scheming gave Lando a pang of guilt, but already his nimble mind had an idea forming as to how he would make it up to him after this thing had been put to bed. Though of a reticent disposition, Richard’s shrewdness was known and celebrated throughout theton. Less well known was that an unpleasant young oik by the name of Ambrose Gartside had bullied him mercilessly at Eton, accounting for his crippling stutter and lifelong inability to communicate with the fairer sex. Returning to his comfortable bachelor lodgings at the Albany, Lando knew he’d mull the scheme well into the dawn. If he couldn’t discern cracks in it, then there weren’t any to be found.
In his turn, Gartside had watched Sir Richard like prey, his dull eyes flitting between Cobham and Lando’s clever cousin. He’d hung on their every question, and there had been so many of them, one after another, like keen archers firing arrow after arrow at Lando’s armour. Only his wealth, status, and unimpeachable pedigree blinded them to his scheming and the sham it was.
Dear Charles would have been so very proud of him.
Leaning against the drawing room escritoire, Lando rubbed at his weary eyes, still restless but fit for nothing more than his bed.
