Page 93 of Foes, Friends and Lovers
Dearest Gregory,
As your father stated, I have not had the pleasure or otherwise of meeting the current Lord Ecton. However, I have heard that, to put it bluntly, his lordship is held in very bad odor among the ladies of the ton. I have not come across any with a single good or even equable word to say of him, although most encounters seem to date back several years, to the time when he first came on the town. Nevertheless, regardless of any improvement in his demeanor and behavior, as the general consensus is that his pockets are to let, the prevailing wisdom is that all ladies of good character would do well to avoid him. His friends—although the feeling is they would be more accurately classed as not-that-close acquaintances—are more of a mixed bag. Some are wealthy and of higher rank, but as of this moment, all remain in that category of gentlemen who would not be found in any major hostess’s drawing room.
Regarding what reason Ecton might have to purchase the Hall estate—and how he might do that without access to significant funds, I do not know—but on that point, you might write to your uncle Gerrard in case he knows something I don’t that might explain it. As we are currently fixed at Somersham Place, I am unlikely to see him or Jacqueline in the next weeks.
Incidentally, Therese mentioned that she believed you had a chatelaine. Is that correct? If so, what’s she like?
Your loving mama, Patience Cynster
He loved his family, but they—especially the females—were inveterate busybodies.
The last of the letters was from Lord Grayson Child and his wife, Isadora—she who was the part owner and editor ofThe London Crier.
Child had written:
Dear Gregory,
What interesting questions you pose. Although neither Izzy nor I have any immediate information to share, both of us have been sufficiently intrigued to attempt a few discreet inquiries. Hennessy is also interested and will see what information his so-called ‘snouts’ might have. Thus far, all we’ve gathered is that Ecton is known in certain male social circles, meaning not the sort with which any lady with the barest modicum of sense would seek to associate, and while the other members of those circles are generally men of some wealth, or the sons of same, we’ve yet to find anyone who can vouch for Ecton’s financial standing.
More anon.
Oh, and Izzy and Hennessy say that if there’s any sensational story behind this, please don’t forget they exist.
Yours, etc. Child
Setting that letter aside as well, Gregory frowned. It was frustrating that no one had any firm facts, although the consistent reports that suggested Ecton was far from wealthy—or at least, nowhere near having sufficient wealth at his disposal to finance an offer for the Hall—made Gregory wonder if, perhaps, he’d made the offer on behalf of someone else.
Perhaps one of those not-that-close acquaintances who did have that sort of money to spare.
He pondered that, then grunted. Regardless of who was the ultimate buyer, the question of why anyone would wish to buy the Hall—for twenty thousand pounds, no less—remained the critical point of the mystery.
He glanced at the pile of letters. He was still awaiting replies from his younger brother, Martin, his sister and brother-in-law, plus Drake and Louisa, and last but very possibly not least, his cousin Toby. It was entirely possible that one of them might know why Ecton wanted to buy the Hall.
Telling himself that he would simply have to possess his soul in patience, he drew forth his list of the improvements he had in hand and, with a smile, struck out the entry for Vernon and the glassblowing studio.
Then he knuckled down to further his ideas for the other businesses.
Two days later, Gregory stood with Caitlin behind a row of five chairs lined up behind the study desk and endeavored to conceal his smug satisfaction as he watched Julia, the Edgars, and the Hammersleys sign copies of an agreement to supply the principal hotel in Northampton with a regular weekly order of their produce.
The hotel’s manager, a fussy individual, was seated on the other side of the desk, with Snibbs standing beside him. In deploying his talent for persuading the commercial classes, Snibbs had come up trumps; he’d convinced the manager that replacing his irregular orders with a standing order was the only way he could hope to secure reliable supply from the Hall businesses. Snibbs had hinted at increased interest from a new hotel in nearby Rushden and even an inquiry from Bedford. In the end, it was the manager who had approached the Hall, not the other way around.
“There!” The manager straightened after signing the last of the copies. He set down the pen and looked across the table. “That will set us up for the coming year, but I do hope you will all give due regard to fulfilling any additional orders we might place.”
All three business owners smiled and assured him that his orders would, naturally, take precedence when it came to allocating their harvests between their various customers.
Everyone rose and, across the table, shook hands, then Snibbs rang for Cromwell, who smiled, bowed, and escorted the hotel manager out.
“Well!” Eyes bright, Julia looked at her fellow business owners. “What a coup!”
Jennifer Edgar nodded. “I would never have believed he’d come around to the idea.” She smiled at Snibbs. “You worked wonders, Mr. Snibbs.”
Snibbs colored; it was the first time in their years-long acquaintance that Gregory had seen Snibbs look remotely bashful.
“Aye,” Harry said. “And at those prices, too.” He looked at the Hammersleys. “How does the deal stack up for you, Malcolm?”
“It’s good,” Malcolm said, then he beamed. “Extremely good, truth be told.” He looked at Gregory. “But I’m thinking we all owe our thanks to Mr. Cynster here.” He dipped his head to Gregory. “Left to ourselves, we would have just continued to grumble about the Northampton Arms’ irregular orders and done nothing about it—none of us would have thought of seeking agreements like this.” He waved his copy of the agreement.
“Hear, hear!” came from numerous throats, and it was Gregory’s turn to feel bashful.
