Page 2 of A Gentleman's Reckoning
John looked through the window on his left where the voice came from, but he could not see anyone. The glazed windowpanes were thin enough, but it was more likely the cracks along the window frame that carried the sound of voices as well as a stream of frigid air. The man outside took a step back, and John saw his fine-cut coat through the edge of the window.
“I have more invested in the steam-powered machinery than I would care to lose.” The man speaking had the refined accent of a gentleman, and his words were easily distinguishable. “Although Perkins invested twenty-five percent, I invested forty. Therefore, I must cover my assets.”
Perkins.Unless the man was referring to some lesser-known gentleman, Perkins was Lord Perkins, the earl. And this man spoke as though they were on intimate terms. John looked through the window again and now made out the shoulder andsleeve of a man’s coat but it was not enough to identify him. He and his companion were standing along a stretch of wall between John’s window and the one behind him and must not have imagined their words would carry. Or the gentleman thought that no one of consequence would be here to overhear the conversation at this hour.
“I need you to sell off my shares quietly,” the voice continued. “Not everything at once, for that would look suspicious. Sell off thirty percent so that I only lose ten. Or thirty-five, if you can. My source in the Commons tells me the tax they plan to vote in will ruin all potential for gains.”
“And should Parliament not levy the tax in the end? You will lose out on the shares you sold,” the other man observed, his accent less refined, though educated.
“It doesn’t matter that four years have passed; people still fear Luddite retaliation and will bow to their demands. There is no doubt those fools will vote for the tax,” the first gentleman retorted, his tone revealing his tension. After a moment, he must have regretted the lapse, for he added in a more conciliatory voice, “But if by some miracle they don’t, then I will still have benefitted from my more moderate investment.”
“I hope so, my lord.”
“We are agreed then. Look for someone to purchase the thirty percent minimum. He should be a businessman, not a gentleman. Someone who will not be able to harm my reputation once the money is lost. Do your best to make me appear innocent. You’ve done it before.”
“Yes, my lord,” the man repeated.
“Send written word to my Brighton address that Mr. Such-and-Such has requested to purchase my shares, so that it appears I did not seek the transaction. And move quickly. I was able to get a lead on the information before the other investors, but it will soon be common knowledge. I need to remove myself from London before it is.”
“Yes, my lord.”
John wondered who thislordmight be. Despite his own questionable night, he was unimpressed with the man’s way of throwing his peers under the wheels of their collective loss while seeking to minimize his own. He frowned as he fiddled with the knife on the table in front of him. That was the behavior of a scoundrel.
Just as he was debating whether he should lumber to his weary feet and head outdoors to try to catch sight of the peer, the man stepped backwards in front of the multi-paned glass, temporarily blocking the light. He was facing away, but his carved cane and signet ring were distinctive and identifiable this close to the glass. It was none other than Lord Goodwin, the earl who was known for his consistent attendance at church, curating investors to build a foundling asylum, and for his character upon which there was no smear. Well—almost no smear. There had been unfounded rumors that he had pocketed some of those investments, leaving the asylum in a state of disrepair, but those had been widely rejected as false. Now…
Lord Goodwin! Blast!Was there truly no righteous man in all of London?
John sat poised as he contemplated this development, wondering what he should do with the information. On one hand, he could not allow the earl to get away with such a scheme. But how was he to inform Lord Perkins or the other investors in these promissory notes without solid proof, other than what he had witnessed? John was a member of White’s and Boodle’s because his deceased stepfather had been one. He was generally well-liked but he was not a peer and was hardly a man they would listen to over an earl. If Lord Goodwin knewhewas the one informing on him, John’s own reputation would be in tatters.
Despite the dilemma this posed, and despite his own deplorable state, John knew he had only one option before him.He must warn the other investors through the only one whose name he now knew. Perhaps he could request a private audience with Lord Perkins and tell him what he had learned, asking that he remain nameless. Of one thing he was sure: if he merely sent an anonymous letter, it would not be taken seriously, and they would all lose out. He would have to go and see the lord in person. Then, once the bill to impose the steam duty passed into law, the truth would back his claims. He would have Lord Perkins’s gratitude with none the wiser.
These thoughts raced through his mind, and just as he came to the conclusion that he should not be sitting in plain sight in case the earl thought to look through the window, Lord Goodwin turned.
John froze in place, skewered by the earl’s piercing regard, perfectly aware of the implications. He may have been young and of little consequence, but he spent half his time in the clubs, and the earl could not fail to recognize his face. It would be a simple matter to find out who he was. The face of Lord Goodwin that John had always thought benevolent now wore an icy expression of disdain as he glared at him. He touched his hat and turned away.
John leaned back in the hard booth, his head pounding in earnest. Why had he not simply stayed in London? Now, he was honor bound to inform Lord Perkins and everyone else what Lord Goodwin was planning. But he would not have the cloak of anonymity, for Lord Goodwin would know who had been the source.
His hope of a discreet word in Lord Perkins’s ear was out. Instead, he was more likely to be stripped bare before thebeau monde. Still—he had no choice but to go through with it.
Chapter One
April, 1817
Mayfair, London
“My lady, you wished to be woken at ten.” Charity, maid to Lady Eugenia Stanich, hesitated, the curtain only partially open. “However, you’d be excused for staying abed, you would.”
Geny shook her head, which sent a small throb of pain through it from fatigue. “No, for if I do not go, who will read to the orphans? I cannot allow society’s amusements to keep me from doing what is most important.”
Her maid opened the curtains wide and allowed the sun to stream into Geny’s room of gold, white, and yellow. Normally the brilliance and the colors cheered her, but this morning they seemed almost an affront. She tossed the covers to one side and put her legs over the edge of the bed, refusing to give in to her exhaustion. After all, it was not often her father insisted she attend a ball that would last until the wee hours. She would like to attribute such delicacy to his abiding affection for her, but she feared it was more due to his distraction—that he hadforgotten he had a daughter at all. That was, until he had a potential match he wished her to consider.
But perhaps that was unkind.
“I’ve brought you chocolate,” her maid said as she went over to the wardrobe and began to sift through the gowns there.
Geny allowed her to choose one. After all, her maid had good taste in clothing, and she did not particularly care. She went over and sat in the chair in front of the dressing table where the chocolate was placed. Rarely did she take hers in bed. With each sip, thoughts of all there was to do flew through her mind, and it made her feel restless, as though she were wasting time even pausing to dress. The poor did not have a choice of whether they wished to take chocolate in bed or wake at the crack of dawn to begin work.
“I will lay out the blue cotton dimity.” The maid performed the action as she spoke, then came over to brush her hair.
