“I’m willing to listen,” Sherbourne said, as the waiter placed a rare steak before his lordship, “but our discussion can wait for a more private setting.”
Brantford took up his knife and fork. “You must be joking. One’s club is the holiest of holies, Sherbourne. Why do you think the fashionable impure have set up shop across the street? No one in this establishment would dare mention who was seen paying them a call, much less who was in his cups or betting too heavily. Behind these walls, discretion is assured.”
Sherbourne had it on the very best authority that discussing business in a social setting was inexcusably bad form. Charlotte could explain why a club wasn’t a social setting, though all that transpired here was gossip and indolence.
“If I’m to take on an investor,” Sherbourne said, “then that individual will be privy to my ledgers, my budgets, my financial plans for the mine, right down to the last farthing. Anybody who’d discuss that level of detail where a competitor might lurk at the next table is a fool.”
Brantford speared his steak, which swam in a pool of thick, red juice. “You come close to insulting your betters, Sherbourne.” His tone was amused and chiding.
“You come close to disqualifying yourself as a possible business associate, Brantford. I will not sacrifice common sense for the sake of traditions I have little reason to trust.”
Brantford sliced off a bite of meat. “A modern sensibility, and one of which I approve, though not too loudly. Tell me about your mine.”
The mine was still mostly sketches, estimates, and schedules. “Every geological indicator bodes well for good quality coal immediately beneath the surface. No other mines operate in the valley, so finding labor should be easy, and we’re close enough to the sea that transport of the product will be cheap.”
“Who’s your engineer?”
“Hannibal Jones.”
“Good man, though you must be paying him a fortune to have enticed him away from Waxter.” Between bites of steak, Brantford continued his interrogation. His questions were intelligent and kept to the polite side of prying. From the nods and occasional greetings sent the earl’s way, Sherbourne deduced that his lordship was well liked and well known.
Though the aristocracy did not air their linen before outsiders. Brantford could have fought duels with half the men in the dining room, and Sherbourne would never hear a word about the contests, much less about any underlying provocation.
“So,” Brantford said, helping himself to more wine, “shall we engage in a bit of commerce, Sherbourne? I’m casting about for new investments, and I can send my man of business around to have a look at those ledgers you mentioned.”
“If you and I become involved in the same venture, I’ll be dealing with you, not your toady. Intermediaries introduce delay and error, to say nothing of their own little agendas and schemes.”
Sherbourne’s ambitions were tempered by pragmatism. He aspired to become accepted by polite society, which was not the same as included. To achieve his goal, he’d have to remain at least modestly wealthy, which his family had managed to do for a half-dozen generations.
To ensure that his sons had a chance to continue that tradition, Sherbourne could not afford a fool for an investor, no matter how well connected or titled.
Brantford set his plate aside, the steak only half finished. The dining room had filled with lesser titles, younger sons, and a smattering of old, quiet money. Sherbourne was gradually putting names with faces—or with entries in Debrett’s—but most of these men had likely gone to school with Brantford or even now sat with him in the House of Lords.
Why wasn’t Brantford investing with one of them?
“Times change,” Brantford said, “and you’re right that subordinates are not always the most efficient means by which to accomplish a goal. You may bring the relevant documents—”
Sherbourne shook his head. “I’m not hauling my confidential information all over Mayfair like some tinker come to repair your pots. You have approached me about selling you an interest in a venture likely to be very profitable. The least you can do is take a stroll to my doorstep and pass an hour in my study.”
An investor wasn’t strictly necessary, but the right sleeping partner, as such an associate was termed, could create options, especially now when marriage settlements would reduce Sherbourne’s reserves. With an influx of capital, Sherbourne could develop the mine more quickly, other investors were more likely to contribute, and subsequent projects—for Sherbourne always had subsequent projects—would benefit from the connections formed in the mining venture.
Even so, Sherbourne would not yoke himself to a simpleton, not for any amount of coin or goodwill.
“Where is your doorstep, Sherbourne?”
He provided a direction several doors up from the Albany, the most prestigious lodging a bachelor could claim in London.
“Then perhaps next week I’ll take that stroll.” Brantford filled his wineglass yet again, then shook the last drops—the dregs—into Sherbourne’s glass.
A blatant gesture in the direction of my cock is bigger than your cock, confirming once again that England was owned and run by a pack of overgrown schoolboys.
Nonetheless, Sherbourne had formed no particular opinion of Brantford as an individual, which was to say, he hadn’t affixed to his lordship any of the labels that applied to most titled men of means: buffoon, parasite, idiot, disgrace to the species, hound, well-dressed incompetent.
Though Brantford expected Sherbourne to await a possible call on a day yet to be disclosed, on the slim chance that a business association might result.
Sherbourne simply lacked the humility to accommodate the earl, so he provided Brantford instructions, much as Charlotte Windham would have.
“I am a busy man, Brantford, with many demands upon my time. I haven’t the luxury of idling about like some blushing debutante who hopes you’ll get around to asking her for a minuet. I conduct business in a businesslike manner or not at all. You either make and keep an appointment with me, or you find another project to grace with your coin.”
Brantford studied him while laughter erupted from a table that included two earls, a baron, and a ducal heir. Sherbourne hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t attracted notice in any way, but he’d reached the limit of his manners.
“And that,” Brantford said, a slow smile breaking over his features, “is why your endeavors are notoriously profitable. Shall I come by Tuesday at two of the clock?”
Better. “Two o’clock will suit.”
Brantford rose and extended a hand. “Until next we meet. A pleasure, Sherbourne.”
That gesture was as unexpected as Brantford’s smile. Sherbourne rose and shook hands—without smiling—but when he reached the street he did toss his hat into the air and catch it on the end of his walking stick. He had enormous work to do before he was accepted by polite society, but that achievement would come closer to fruition if an earl became involved in the mining venture.
And if Sherbourne were accepted, then his children might find themselves not merely tolerated, not simply accepted, but included among the best families in the realm.
Provided he could equip them with the right mother.
*
Hour by hour, Charlotte was talking herself into accepting Lucas Sherbourne’s marriage proposal. He would provide well. His property marched with the Duke of Haverford’s, meaning Charlotte would be neighbors with her sister Elizabeth.
Sherbourne wasn’t stupid, arrogant, or idle, as Charlotte’s previous suitors had been.
She took another turn down the stable aisle, the horses eyeing her as they munched their hay.
She could mail bank notes from any location, provided she had a little discreet assistance from a loyal staff.
“I’m not being entirely fair,” she informed Her Grace’s bay gelding. “Mr. Sherbourne is quite bright, confident without being an ass, and he brings a sense of energy with him as some women wear a signature scent.”
He was also attractive.