The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

But Bradenton didn’t take his meaning. “Yes, there is rather a bit of the riffraff here.” He glanced over at Oliver.

Oliver didn’t say anything. To a man like Bradenton, he was riffraff.

“But the riffraff usually manage themselves,” Bradenton continued. “That’s the point of an institution like Cambridge. Anyone can aspire to a Cambridge education, so everyone who aspires chooses to start here. If you do it right, by the time they’ve finished their degrees, the most ambitious ones have become just like us. Or at least, they want to enter our ranks so badly that the next thing you know, all their ambition has been subsumed into the greater glory.”

He gave Oliver a pointed nod.

Once, Oliver would have been annoyed by such a speech. The sly implication that Oliver didn’t belong, the even slyer one that he’d been subsumed into Bradenton’s goals instead of being a person in his own right…

When he was thirteen, he’d knocked Bradenton down for committing precisely that sin. But now he understood. Bradenton reminded him of an old farmer, walking the perimeter of his property every day, testing the fences and peering suspiciously at his neighbors, making sure that his side and their side were clearly delineated.

It had taken Oliver years to learn his lesson: keep quiet and let men like Bradenton test the fences. It wouldn’t do them any good, and if you were careful, one day you’d be in a position to buy their whole damned farm.

And so Oliver held his tongue and smiled.

“The ladies will be arriving shortly,” Bradenton said, “so if you’d like to start with a brandy…” He gestured off the entryway.

“Brandy,” Whitting said decisively, and the party moved to a side room.

Bradenton had an entire room reserved for nothing more than this—a sideboard with glasses, a decanter of amber liquid. But at least the chamber was smaller and therefore warmer. The marquess poured generous splashes into tumblers. “You’ll need this,” he said, passing glasses to his nephews first and then to Oliver.

Oliver took the spirits. “Many thanks, Bradenton. Speaking of this coming February. There is something I wanted to talk to you about. The voting reform act, in this coming parliamentary session—”

Bradenton laughed and tipped up his glass. “No, no,” he said. “We are not going to discuss politics yet, Marshall.”

“Well, then. If not now, perhaps we might speak later. Tomorrow, or—”

“Or the next day or the one after that,” Bradenton finished with a gleam in his eye. “We have to teach Hapford how to get on before we teach him what to get on about. Now is not the time.”

That, apparently, was not an attitude shared by all. Hapford had looked up with interest when Oliver started speaking; at this, he frowned and turned away.

Oliver could have argued. But then…

“As you say,” he said mildly. “Later.”

A man like Bradenton needed to receive deference. He needed a neighbor who stopped five feet from the fence instead of challenging the property lines. Oliver had swayed the man before, and he knew how it was done. Bradenton could be directed, so long as nobody penetrated the illusion that he was in charge.

Instead, Oliver let the conversation meander to the subject of mutual friends, the health of Oliver’s brother and his wife. For a few moments, they could pretend there was nothing to this but a cozy, intimate environment. But then Bradenton, who stood by the window, raised his hand once more.

“Drink up,” he said. “The first lady has arrived.”

Whitting looked out the window and let out a whimper. “Oh, God, please no. Never tell me you invited the Feather Heiress.”

“Blame your cousin.” Bradenton lifted an eyebrow. “Hapford wants a few minutes in the corner with his fiancée. And for whatever reason, Miss Johnson insists on having her invited.”

“Speaking of whom,” Hapford said, with a quiet dignity that looked out of place on his boyish features, “I would prefer that we not slander my fiancée’s friends.”

Whitting let out a puff of air. By the grim look on his face, Oliver would have imagined that he had just been sentenced to three years of hard labor. “Spoilsport,” he muttered, and then edged up to Oliver. “Someone should warn you,” he muttered.

“Warn me about what?”

The man leaned forward and whispered dramatically. “The Feather Heiress.”

“Her wealth comes from…goose down?”

“No.” Whitting didn’t look at him. “It’s originally from transcontinental steamers, if you must know. She’s called the Feather Heiress because being around her is like being beaten to death by feathers.”