Page 5 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Normally, he was even-tempered, in control, and completely sure of himself; being battered by such countervailing compulsions was unnerving.
Shoving aside the contradictory impulses, he managed a bald “I see.” Not that he did, but he needed to refocus on what he’d come there to achieve. “In that case, my business here is, indeed, with you.” He met her emerald gaze. “I’m here to demand you cease and desist with your current exposé.”
He watched her face for some hint of reaction—in vain.
Her gaze level, her tone measured, she informed him, “As I’ve already told you,The Crier’supcoming exposé has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”
He held her gaze. “If your new Golden Ball is Martin Cynster, then your exposé is most definitely of concern to me.”
A faint frown in her eyes was the only sign that he’d guessed correctly.
Feeling on surer ground, he smiled, all teeth. “We’re friends.”
“Of course you are.” She lightly tapped the blotter with a fingernail, a gesture he recalled as indicating she was thinking rapidly. Her gaze remained on his face; he had no idea what she hoped to read there. “Regardless,” she said, “as the exposé doesn’t concern you personally, then—”
“Do you seriously want to bring down the wrath of the Cynsters on your enterprise?” He arched his brows high. “They might not yet have noticed your pending exposé, but soon enough, one of them will, and they’ll realize who your target is, and then you’ll face far more pressure than an evening visit from me.”
To his surprise, she appeared unmoved. “Actually, I’m willing to wager the Cynster ladies have already noted the upcoming exposé. They all takeThe Crier, you know.”
That was said with a certain pride. Andof course, the Cynster grandes dames would pore overThe Crier. Virtually all were active ton hostesses, and not a one was above playing matrimonial games.
“My information,” Izzy went on, “is that they are, at present, blissfully unaware that their prodigal son is anywhere near as wealthy as he is. He’s kept the extent of his fortune a close secret.” Her gaze refixed on him. “As have you.”
“Indeed, and perhaps you should dwell on why that might be.”
“To keep yourselves off the matchmakers’ most-eligible lists?”
“Business.”
She frowned. After a moment of regarding him, she invited, “How so?”
He was happy to enlighten her. “Martin and I are carefully—cautiously—investing the wealth each of us, independently, brought back to this country.” He paused, marshaling his thoughts, then went on, “In making business investments and, even more, acquisitions, having the other side know you’re sitting on a veritable pile of gold is not helpful. Instead of being reasonable and naming a price that has some relation to the asset’s value, any business owner or company chairman is going to push for an exorbitant sum, and far from negotiating down to something sensible, they’ll stick to that high price or even seek to inflate it further.”
Presumably through owning the printing works, she’d gained some degree of business acumen; from her expression, she understood the scenario he was describing.
“And that’s just the legitimate businesses Martin and I might be interested in. If you imagine matchmakers are the worst we have to fear, then you have no idea of the avariciousness of the men who seek to part those with great and unexpected good fortune from their money.” Candidly, he added, “I would rather face the ton’s matchmakers en masse than have to wade through the importunities of every last shyster in Britain. And if such men gain an inkling of the wealth Martin and I possess, they’ll descend on us like locusts.”
She held his gaze for a long moment, then grimaced. She searched his face, seeking he knew not what, but from the quality of her frown and the fact she was biting the inside of her lower lip, he assumed she was debating whether or not to believe him.
Eventually, she asked, “Is it truly that bad? Or are you painting a dramatic picture in an attempt to sway me?”
Her suspicion—more, her lingering distrust—brought a hard and unyielding emotion to the fore. Obeying the promptings of his inner demons, he stated, “If I was at all inclined to indulge in drama, then all those years ago, when I overheard you, your mother, and your aunt assessing my suitability as a husband in terms of pounds per annum, instead of turning around and quietly leaving the house, I would have stormed into the drawing room and told you what I thought of young ladies who valued a man purely on the basis of his wealth.”
Long before he got to the last word, her eyes—her whole expression—had filled with a creeping horror that, he suddenly realized, he didn’t understand. She made no attempt to deny his description. How could she? It was the truth, and they both knew it, yet she’d paled until her complexion resembled alabaster, and the shock and dismay in her eyes were entirely genuine.
He searched the deep pools of her emerald eyes, drowning in distress, and once again felt shoved off balance.
Some part of him had wanted the truth of their past stated and clear between them. He couldn’t comprehend why him describing an event she knew in every detail had so shaken her.
In an attempt to regroup, he forced himself to evenly state, “As you’re aware, I didn’t react in any histrionic manner then, and neither am I being overly dramatic in describing how much damage having Martin’s and my wealth broadcast to all and sundry will cause—how much of a threat the exposé you propose to run poses to our respective futures.”
Her expression had shuttered; he could no longer glean any hint of what she was thinking, not even in her usually expressive eyes, which now seemed dull and opaque.
When she remained silent, he hardened his tone to one he used in tense business negotiations. “You owe me, Izzy, and I’m calling in the debt. Halt your exposé. It hasn’t gone too far yet.”
She stared at him. He wasn’t even sure she was seeing him and not some ghost from the past, then she breathed in and shook her shoulders slightly, as if throwing off the shackles of memory. Her gaze refocused on his face, then she winced. “It’s not that simple. I can’t just”—she gestured—“cancel the exposé. If I do, I’ll never be able to use the ploy to generate interest, drive distribution, and boost sales again. And we—The Crier—can’t afford that. Our advertisers would leave in droves.”
“Be that as it may—”
