“All the more reason,” Brantford said, “that Sherbourne should ally himself with somebody who can be the voice of wisdom in the face of Haverford’s fanciful notions. His Grace is a fine fellow, but like my papa-in-law, he clings to land rents, flocks, and herds as the only acceptable sources of income.”
“Those aspects of our economy remain vitally important.” Meyerbeek tapped his hat onto his head. “Might I suggest, if you do invest in Mr. Sherbourne’s mine, that you pay a call on your business partner in Wales and inspect the works yourself? Haverford lives in the immediate area and would take your involvement more seriously if you showed the flag, as it were.”
Wales had decent shooting, and Veronica didn’t exactly need her husband underfoot during the little season.
“I’ll consider it. My thanks as always for your efforts, Meyerbeek.”
Meyerbeek went on his way, folders tucked in a plain black leather satchel. Brantford waited a suitable interval—one did not perambulate about Mayfair with one’s man of business—then timed his own departure so he’d be only a few minutes late for his appointment with Sherbourne.
Sherbourne’s butler was all anybody could wish for in an upper servant, and the townhouse was appointed in elegant, if slightly overstated, good taste. Brantford’s host greeted him in a room that might have been any lord’s estate office—ancestors scowling down from portraits on the walls, carpets thick and recently swept—but for the plethora of correspondence in four different trays on the desk.
“You are a busy man.” The letters Brantford could see all bore a recent date. Sherbourne was also, apparently, a man who didn’t let his affairs go untended for long.
“I said as much,” Sherbourne replied. “Please have a seat.”
A seat facing the desk was a novel perspective, putting Brantford uncomfortably in mind of frequent interviews with his papa when deportment at university had been disappointing.
Sherbourne likely knew this. He didn’t know enough to ring for tea, though, which was a shame when the man could maunder on at such tiresome length about a damned coal mine.
“You have a solid grasp of the venture you’re undertaking,” Brantford said, “and the terms you propose for my role are agreeable, in principle. When can you reduce them to writing?”
Sherbourne opened a drawer, produced a sheaf of papers, and passed them across the desk.
“You’ll find four copies, two for you and two for me. I’ve signed them all. My staff can witness your signature, if you’re inclined to invest.”
A conundrum presented itself: Sherbourne’s quaint insistence on doing business face-to-face had proved useful. Brantford liked knowing that he wasn’t engaging in commerce with some vulgar cit, liked knowing exactly where Sherbourne would dwell when in town. He liked seeing proof that Sherbourne was industrious and conscientious about his affairs.
For Sherbourne to insist on an appointment on his terms and on his turf was a petty stratagem, but tolerable. This notion of signing a legal document on the spot, though…not the done thing.
“I’d need time to read every word,” Brantford said. “I mean no slight to you, of course, but any scribe can make a mistake or misinterpret his master’s directions.”
Sherbourne rose and withdrew a key from a japanned box on the mantel. “I wrote out all four copies myself. As contracts go, it’s brief and to the point.” He wound the clock on the mantel, which would typically be a butler’s job.
The hour approached three, and at four Brantford was expected at a cozy little household off of Cavendish Square. A gentleman kept a new mistress waiting at peril to his exchequer.
“Let’s have a look,” Brantford said, smoothing out a copy of the contract. “Though perhaps you’d be good enough to order us a tea tray while I read?”
His objective was to get Sherbourne out of the room, because a bit of judicious reconnaissance was called for.
Sherbourne merely tugged on a bell pull twice.
Well, damn. Lucas Sherbourne was no fool, an oddly cheering realization. Brantford’s money would be safe in Sherbourne’s hands, and that was the larger concern. Besides, the terms on paper weren’t exactly binding on a peer of the realm, despite what the courts might lead the common man to believe.
Sherbourne resumed his seat behind the desk and took up the first of the items stacked in the nearest tray.
“You’re soon to be married, I hear,” Brantford said a few minutes later. In all the world, was any soporific more effective than lawyerly prose?
Sherbourne didn’t even look up from his reading. “Miss Charlotte Windham has looked with favor upon my suit.”
“You can’t fool me, Sherbourne. You’re no more smitten with your bride than I am with the prospect of Lady Deerwood’s card party tonight.”
Sherbourne set the letter aside, shot his cuffs, and folded his hands on the blotter. “Did you just insult my fiancée?”
Oh, dear. The lower orders could be high sticklers, witness the proliferation of etiquette manuals they consulted on everything from social calls to funerals.
“I insult neither you nor your lovely bride, Sherbourne. I insult the institution of marriage. I have years of experience with holy matrimony that you have yet to acquire. Allow me my crotchets, hmm?”
Sherbourne resumed reading. “If your experience of marriage has been disappointing, then you insult yourself, for I know a gentleman would never slander his wife.”
Brantford resumed reading, mostly to hide a smile. Sherbourne was precious, in his ferocious propriety and his unrelenting focus on business. The clubs were buzzing about his upcoming nuptials, wondering how and why he’d become engaged to the formidable Charlotte Windham.
Money had doubtless played a role. As a bachelor, Brantford had observed Miss Charlotte from the safe distance of the men’s punch bowl. She had an air of discontent, and at an archery tournament her aim was notoriously unreliable.
Or rather, too accurate. Perhaps the Windhams had paid Sherbourne to spirit the lady off to Wales.
“That reminds me,” Brantford said, giving up in the middle of the paragraph about indemnifying and holding harmless. “I’ll want to inspect the works firsthand. I’m told it’s sound business to have a look oneself, rather than rely on—what is the word?—toadies?”
Sherbourne’s smile was cool. “You’d travel out to Wales to see the mine?”
Brantford would travel out to Wales to do some shooting, pay a call on His Grace of Haverford, and avoid several tedious weeks of card parties while Veronica bought out the milliners’ shops.
“Seems prudent to have a look at where my money’s going,” Brantford said. “This is your first mining venture, while I’ve seen many. I understand Haverford has tried to hamper the operation with quaint notions of lavish housing and exorbitant wages for the workers. We’ll soon enlighten His Grace about how business is done.”
Sherbourne set a silver standish on Brantford’s side of the desk. “We will do no such thing, unless you sign those contracts now. I leave for Wales immediately after my wedding, and work on the housing at the mine started last month. We’ll sink the main shaft before St. Andrew’s Day.”
Brantford chose a quill from the three in the standish. He wasn’t about to give himself a headache reading two more pages of heretofores and however-exceptings. A difference of opinion on a business matter was settled amicably or not at all. Only fools or those already afflicted with scandal resorted to the courts.
“A moment,” Sherbourne said as Brantford dipped the pen. “We need witnesses.”
Good God. “As you please, Sherbourne, but I draw the line at allowing you to count my teeth.”
A butler and clerk appended their signatures as witnesses, then departed without a word.
“Thus do we become partners,” Brantford said, extending a hand. “Shall I take my copies with me?”