Page 14 of Terms of Trade (Trade Wind 4)

Chapter Four

Early February 1850

Χα?ρετε.Nicholas Irons offered the silent greeting to the marble statue that dominated the foyer of the Sportsman Club. Hermes had been carved into a dynamic running pose, presenting him as the Olympian god of athletes.

Nicholas, however, offered his respects to Hermes in his other role, that of god of trade and luck. If Nicholas's Greek ancestors were anything like the family today, they, too, would have preferred Hermes posed with a purse full of coin.

The club on Pall Mall was housed in a white neoclassical structure, and Nicholas and the Earl of Anterleigh arrived through the member entrance, tucked under a portico supported by Doric columns.

“To the dining room?” Nicholas asked as they rounded the statue.

David Chadbourne, Lord Anterleigh, shook his head. “Robertson will meet us in the drawing room. He’ll wish to return home shortly.”

“Ah, yes. Married only for a year. He has fairer company to dine with than us bachelors, indeed.”

Chadbourne shot him a cool look before proceeding to the grand marble stairway. That particular look required little deciphering; had it needed translation, Nicholas was well-placed. Not only did Nicholas manage the earl’s firm, but they had been friends since boyhood.

The drawing room’s only nod to the building’s neoclassical architecture was the dentil moulding around the ceiling; the decor otherwise eschewed simplicity. Gold swag and heavy scarlet draperies, tied back, framed the tall windows. Gold medallion designs repeated in the ornate scarlet carpeting. The walls were a deep pine green, as were the large, tufted leather club chairs and divans, arranged in groupings around the room.

Only a few gentlemen congregated this early in the evening. Whether they conversed, read, or simply relaxed, they graced the furniture with an air of patrician calm—except for James Robertson.

Unbridled energy radiated from the Scottish-born industrialist. His hazel eyes scanned the room; he leaned forward, elbows perched on his muscled thighs. One long leg bounced in constant motion, and a lock of nearly black hair rebelled and fell onto his forehead. His tailored clothing was of the highest quality, but couldn’t hide his uncommonly powerful form. The damned man had the body of a stevedore and a face that made ladies swoon.

The instant Robertson saw them, tension released like a spring and he stood from the deep, rounded chair. He raised his chin in greeting and extended his big hand to shake Chadbourne’s first, then Nicholas's.

“How fares Clara?” Chadbourne asked after his sister, Robertson’s wife.

Nicholas glanced away to offer them a semblance of privacy, sensing from his tone that the question was more loaded than the routine words would indicate.

Robertson’s voice softened. “Recovering. Her color’s returned this week, and she’s investing her attentions in Violet House anew. She and her partner are determined to expand. Making inquiries about purchasing the entire damned street.”

Nicholas wasn’t certain what all that meant, but Chadbourne looked both relieved and bemused.

Robertson addressed Nicholas this time. “How went the matches today?”

Nicholas winced and rolled a shoulder, as much as his fashionably close-fitting coat allowed. He and Chadbourne had arrived fresh from their tennis club near Primrose Hill.

Chadbourne huffed out a laugh. “That’s Irons’s humble manner of indicating thathewon today. Say, Robertson, join us for a spot ofjeu de paumesome time,why don’t you?”

The wry look that Robertson sent them both did not surprise Nicholas.

“I’ll leave the royal tennis to the royals.”

“I’m no royal,” Nicholas countered. “It’s a wicked game for mind and muscle, one you may enjoy. I daresay it’s against my interests to encourage you to join us. You’d crush me on the court after a few turns.”

“Reserve your flattery for the wenches, Irons. I’m likely to crush my own feet, at best. No, when I feel the restless urge, it’s off to the docks to unload cargo.”

“Don’t tell me that Clara’s given up on dancing with you,” said Chadbourne doubtfully.

“Clara is persistent.” Robertson grinned. “Each time her toes heal, she renews her efforts to instruct me.”

“She’s not the only tenacious one in the family,” Nicholas warned him. “Where your wife is persistent, her brother is dogged, and he’s keen on you joining us on the courts. Seeks a challenge, he does.”

“My sort belongs on the docks, and you know it,” Robertson said to Chadbourne.

“Your sort? Why, Mary, Queen of Scots is said to have favored the sport quite keenly.”

Nicholas hid his discomfort at Chadbourne’s ill-conceived attempt at inclusion. However well-intentioned, he had a habit of missing the mark with Robertson, who didn’t respond to Chadbourne’s latest.

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