Page 66 of Never a Duke
Ned was a man late for a pressing appointment. “Be careful, Billy, and save something for yourself against the day when Tryphena’s empire crumbles.”
“I come to see you, dint I? Somebody’s moving against her. Somebody has an eye on her turf. She’s scared, and I never seen her this scared afore. You take on her enemy, that’s a problem solved for her, though she don’t see it that way.”
“Be careful,” Ned said again. “Keep your bolt-hole well stocked, and your head down.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Ned Wentworth. Be off with ye. My reputation won’t stand for bein’ seen passin’ the time of day with your kind.”
Ned reached into his pocket, thinking to pay Billy for his considerable trouble.
“Keep yer coin, Wentworth, though I might ask you to return a favor someday. There’s talk about cleaning up the docks, and God knows where an honest whore and her jolly boy will find work then.”
“There’s always talk about cleaning up the docks.” Prim, condescending, simple-minded, virtuous talk that took no notice of how many people made their livelihoods on those vice-laden docks.
“You weren’t on your own long enough to see how the times are changing, Neddy boy. In my day, the fancy lords went slumming in the lowest hells, the beggars were happier, and we took proper care of our grannies. Now, the poorhouse is worse than a prison, the temperance unions would take all our gin, and the transport ships send our grannies and kiddies to the ends of the earth. I’ve had a good run, but the reformers want to take it all away.”
That sentiment—about a good run being a precarious form of success—was oddly resonant. “Then change your patch, Billy. Try your luck elsewhere, and drag Tryphena kicking and screaming with you if you must. She’s good at both.” Ned flipped him a coin, which he caught. “For luck. And you have my thanks, Billy.”
Billy nodded. Ned saluted with his riding crop and cantered out of the alley.
Chapter Twelve
An hour after sunrise was an hour after sunrise.
Thirty minutes beyond the designated time, Rosalind had cantered and walked her mare sufficiently that a return home would be justified. The park was filling up, and the groom was doubtless wondering what all this fresh air was in aid of.
Rosalind’s first thought was that Ned had simply meant something different by “an hour after sunrise” than she had thought. The horizon in London being obscured, the actual moment when the sun rose was inexact.
Not this inexact.
Her next thought was that Ned had been held up by pressing bank business, except no bank did business at the crack of doom.
She was inching up to the notion that Ned could have come to harm, when a rider on a dark horse cantered across the grass to intersect her. The dew had yet to burn off, and thus the gelding traveled over a sparkling green expanse, sunbeams slanting through the majestic maples, wisps of mist rising from the Serpentine.
Rosalind’s heart sighed with equal parts relief and wonder. Ned Wentworth was magnificent, and he was hers, despite all the drivel George had spouted.
“My lady.” Ned touched his hat brim with his riding crop. “You are a fine sight on this lovely morning. Will you walk with me while my horse catches his breath?”
“I would be delighted.” Rosalind turned her mare alongside Ned’s gelding. The groom dropped back a few yards, but only a few.
“I meant to be here earlier,” Ned said, “but failed to rise on time. I apologize for my tardiness. How are you?”
If the groom heard that apology, he’d know this was not a chance meeting, and he might report that to Papa. More likely, the groom would grumble into his ale about her ladyship’s flirtations in the park, and Higgins, who frequented the servants’ hall, would overhear him. From Higgins to Lindy to Papa was a short distance.
One that had never much bothered Rosalind before, though she resented it keenly now. “I am glad to see you,” she said, directing her mare down a path that was wide enough for two people to ride side by side. “You look a bit short of sleep.”
“I am a bit short of sleep. I was up late reviewing loan applications.”
Rosalind thought of George, getting drunk and calling it communing with his muse. “And you’d like to lend to them all?”
“No, not really,” Ned said. “Too many merchants think that if they can only get their hands on some cash, then all will come right, but the ideal loan applicant is already doing well. His or her venture is competently managed, the customers and employees are happy, the goods or services are successful. The loan is not sought to come right after a bad patch, but rather, to turn a good patch into an excellent patch.”
“How many of the loan applicants are ideal?”
“Next to none. Nobody wants to borrow money if they can help it, because defaulting on a loan can have such terrible costs. Borrowing is generally a desperate act rather than a prudent strategy, but Rosalind, I would rather not discuss the tedious business of banking on such a fine morning in such wonderful company.”
“I don’t find it tedious,” she said. “How would you change things, if you were the King of Banking?”
Ned’s lips quirked. “Like the Prince of Thieves? I’d make the rules for debtors the same for the shopkeeper and the lord. A peer cannot be imprisoned for debt, while everybody else can be. How is that fair?”
