Page 27 of The Time for Love
His gaze, like Oliver’s, on the streetscape ahead of them, Martin replied, “Even if they have no interest in managing the business, that doesn’t equate to not being interested in the works in terms of the value of their shareholding.”
“Exactly.”
They skirted two nannies pushing prams, and as they resumed their steady perambulation, Oliver asked, “Where are you putting up?”
Martin told him. “And you?”
“The King James in Campo Lane. It’s a block or so north of the Kings Head.” After a fractional pause, Oliver asked, “Do you know where Sycamore Street is?”
Martin grinned. “As it happens, I do. We’re heading in the right direction.”
“Fancy an amble that way?”
Martin’s grin widened. “Why not?”
CHAPTER5
Half an hour later, Martin and Oliver ambled through the rooms of the Iron and Steel Club. Located on Church Street, in an older building adjacent to the town’s famous Cutlers Hall, the club premises were only a short distance from Martin’s hotel.
Gaining entry to the august establishment had merely been a matter of identifying themselves as investors from London, visiting the town on business. Their names had helped. Like Martin, Oliver hailed from one of the better-known families in the ton.
They’d called at Edward’s house in Sycamore Street and had been informed by the starchy butler that at that hour, his master would be at the club.
Keeping their eyes peeled for anyone they knew, they worked their way through the club’s extensive lounge, but most of those occupying the armchairs were too old by a decade to be Edward Carmichael. On returning to the corridor, Martin stopped a footman and asked for their quarry and was directed to the smoking room’s far right corner.
They found the smoking room and discovered that the stipulated corner played host to a grouping of four armchairs arranged in a square around a low oval table. Three of the chairs were empty, while the one deepest in the corner was occupied by a large barrel-chested man in a brown tweed suit who was flicking through a newspaper.
Edward Carmichael had a fleshy face; he would have jowls when he was older. His features were heavy yet austere, with a broad nose, firm lips, and thick eyebrows. His curly hair was brown, the same color as his suit, and his complexion suggested he would readily color with anger, frustration, or embarrassment. His hands were large, thick-fingered, and his waistcoat was a trifle snug around his stomach. He sat stiffly in the chair, his attention on the contents of the paper.
Martin glanced around the room. Enough of the chairs were occupied to excuse him and Oliver claiming the empty chairs in the corner grouping.
Martin exchanged a look with Oliver, then with Oliver at his shoulder, he strolled down the room, paused beside the chair opposite Edward’s, and in an arrogantly languid tone, inquired, “Do you mind?”
“Heh?” Edward looked up.
Gracefully, Martin waved to the chairs. “We were wondering if we might avail ourselves of these seats, old son.”
His guess regarding Edward’s tendency to color up was borne out. Under Martin’s heavy-lidded gaze, Edward’s face turned pink. He shuffled the newspaper and sat even straighter. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”
Edward’s widening gaze took in Martin’s and Oliver’s elegance, and more welcomingly, he added, “By all means.”
Martin smiled sweetly, as did Oliver, and they sat, lounging in the chairs.
Oliver reached into his coat pocket and drew out a silver case. Opening it with a practiced flick, he offered it to Martin. “Cheroot?”
Martin didn’t normally smoke but would in pursuit of a worthy cause. “Thank you.” He picked up one of the thin rolls of fine tobacco. Oliver stuck one between his lips, then as if just noticing Edward, leaned forward and held the case out to him. “Would you like to join us?”
Edward beamed. “Thank you. I will.” He helped himself to a cheroot, then Oliver slid the case away, drew out a pack of lucifers, lit one, and held the flame around until they were all puffing contentedly.
A footman rushed up with an ashtray, which Oliver accepted and set on the low table between them.
Martin blew out a thin stream of smoke, then focused on Edward, who was puffing appreciatively. “Martin Cynster.” He waved a languid hand at Oliver. “And this is Oliver Coulter.”
“Edward Carmichael,” Edward returned.
“Carmichael?” Oliver frowned slightly. “Do you live in town?”
“Indeed, I do,” Edward replied.
