“He sounds rather mercenary to me,” Giana said, “married for money when he was but twenty-two.”
“The word is ‘ambitious,’ Giana,” Aurora said.
“When his wife’s father died some seven years ago,” Thomas continued, “Saxton sold the Nielson shipyard in Boston and moved the entire operation to New York. Since that time, he has made a series of risky, but very imaginative moves—”
“Like what, Thomas?” Giana asked.
“Well, he managed—how, I do not know—to gain a stake in the ferry business controlled by Vanderbilt. It has brought him a goodly income without much outlay. Today Saxton, at the age of thirty-one, is one of the wealthiest shipbuilders in New York, and one of the ablest. Certainly he is possessed of the Americans’ peculiar breed of arrogance and brashness, but his judgement seems sound enough.”
“He sounds like a boy marvel,” Giana said dryly. “What does he want from us, Thomas?”
“He wants a merger with Van Cleve. He proposes to build six new ships for the Van Cleve line—at a savings for us, because he also owns very productive lumber and steel mills—so that we can take better advantage of the increasing demand for cargo shipping to India.”
Giana interrupted him. “But why does he need us, Thomas? If he builds the ships, why does he not just create his own shipping line?”
“It seems some years ago he directly involved some of his own ships in the India trade. Write it up to his youth, I suppose. In any case, he had great hopes, only to discover that the existing British trade agreements, including our own, did not allow for interlopers. By allying himself to an established shipping line that already has guaranteed contracts, he is removing a good deal of the risk to himself.” Thomas paused a moment before continuing. “Of course, to realize his profit, Saxton must buy into us. He wants fifty percent ownership, making us the Van Cleve/ Saxton ship lines.”
Aurora herself answered Giana’s outraged gasp. “Saxton undoubtedly knows that the Van Cleve shipyards in Plymouth are not what they were twenty years ago. Profits are low because we must compete with the Americans’ abundant raw materials and labor, and we ourselves haven’t the capital needed to bring the shipyards up to snuff. Saxton would bring us quite a sum, and build the ships we need more quickly than we ourselves can. He knows the loss of the Constant hurt us badly, and that we are in danger of losing some of our most profitable trade contracts. The truth is that we need Saxton more than he needs us, and he knows it. Thus his outrageous demand for equal ownership.”
“You believe he knows how much the loss of the Constant hurt us?” Giana asked.
“Certainly he knows. A man of his acumen would not have less information about our business than we do about him. He doubtless is quite aware of all our commitments, commitments that will not be met if he or someone else isn’t brought in quickly to rescue our hides.”
“How I wish we could divert funds from our other holdings, and tell all these vultures to go to the devil.”
“As much as we all would like that, Giana,” Thomas said, “we must reserve our capital for Aurora’s partnership with Mr. Cook. With the masses of people who are traveling by rail as part of Mr. Cook’s tours, from all parts of England to the exhibition, that is likely to be our proverbial golden goose.”
“Would you like to study Mr. Saxton’s proposal in detail now, Giana?” Aurora asked.
“I suppose so,” Giana said, taking the sheaf of papers from Drew. “I just wish we didn’t have to bring in an outsider, and an American of all people. This Mr. Saxton sounds dangerous.”
Thomas laughed heartily. “It will be our job to remove his teeth. You and your mother will probably enjoy just that, since our Mr. Saxton is reputed to be something of a ladies’ man.”
“A lecher?” Giana asked.
“Not that, Giana. His wife died some five years ago, supposedly in a boating accident at the Saxton summer estate in Connecticut. He has one daughter from his marriage, Leah, a houseful of servants, and a young man’s need for pleasure. He cuts a wide swath with the ladies, so I hear.”
Giana snorted. “Why did you say ‘supposedly,’ Thomas? You are not hinting that he did away with his wife, are you?”
“Certainly not. The American newspapermen are a sensational lot, and with Saxton being young and quite wealthy, and his wife something of a recluse, they blew the tragedy out of all proportion. No, our Mr. Saxton is not a man to murder his wife. He appears to enjoy his work and his ladies. No harm in that, certainly.”
“None at all,” Aurora agreed, standing. “Giana, my dear,” she continued to her daughter, “I understand that you and Drew are going to the exhibition again today.”
Giana nodded, her eyes brightening. “I promise you, Mother, it’s worth being squeezed by all the crowds.”
Drew said, “To be honest, Mrs. Van Cleve, there aren’t too terribly many people interested in McCormick’s mechanical reaper, besides Giana. She shows little interest in the other thirteen thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine exhibits.”
“Strive for a bit more enthusiasm, Drew, if you please. There is money to be made with his invention. I understand he has moved his company to Chicago, and is beginning production of his reaper on a grand scale.” She smiled and added, “Drew has told me of an expert machinist here in London. Perhaps we could consider sending the man to America to learn how to build the reaper, then patent the process ourselves here in England.”
Aurora chuckled and said to Thomas Hardesty, “I cannot imagine where Giana got this unscrupulous streak.”
“Come, Mother, you know that I am jesting, I think. At least we could consider marketing his reaper here in England.”
“Perhaps Mr. Saxton would have something to offer you in such a proposition,” Thomas said.
“Maybe so, Thomas. Mr. Saxton will come to London for the negotiations, will he not?”
“We shall insist upon it.” Thomas shot Aurora a droll look. “His London business associate, Hammett Engles, would perhaps be a bit apprehensive about dealing with Aurora by himself again.”
Giana gave a crow of laughter. “I remember Mr. Engles and his shipping stocks. Such a conceited man.”
“Perhaps he is,” Aurora agreed in a mild voice. “Getting him to sell short to a buffleheaded female like me was gratifying.” What she did not mention was that Mr. Hammett Engles was no longer an adversary, but rather, she supposed, something in the nature of a suitor. She found, perversely, that she enjoyed his boundless conceit, if only for one evening a month at the opera.
Drew consulted his watch. “A Mr. Claybourn is due here shortly, ma’am.”
“Ah, yes,” Aurora said, rising to shake out her skirts. “He is Daniele Cippolo’s English representative. Daniele, I fear, with all the political debacles in Italy, has found himself short of capital. The Orion will likely have to be our project, and ours alone.”
At precisely ten o’clock the following morning—a sunny morning, Aurora saw from her bedroom window—there came a stalwart rap on the front door. Lanson, his eyes all curiosity above his crooked nose, answered the door.
“I am here to see Mrs. Van Cleve,” Damien said, not bothering to hand his hat and cane to Lanson.
“I will ascertain, sir—”
“Good morning,” Aurora said in a ridiculously high voice as she swept down the staircase. She wore a vivid green silk gown fitted snugly at her waist and billowing out over half a dozen petticoats.
“How beautiful you look, my dear,” Damien said, his gaze following her descent. “And punctual. I see that I was right about you, Aurora. You are as calm as a placid lake.”
Giana appeared, as if on cue, in the doorway of the library, her eyes darting from her mother’s becomingly flushed face to the tall gentleman who was turning leisurely toward her.
“You are Aurora’s daughter? Quite beautiful, my child, but your mother stole a march on you. What is your name?”
“Georgiana Van Cleve, sir.”
“Not,
I assure you,” Aurora said, “Mary or Prudence.”
“No,” Damien said, smiling down at her, “I knew you would never be guilty of anything less than perfect taste. Let us go, my dear. Georgiana, you may or may not see your mother for dinner this evening.”
“But, who are you, sir?” Giana prodded.
“Why, I am Damien Arlington, of course.”
“What is your business, sir?” Giana asked.
Damien looked at her, clearly puzzled. “Business, my dear child? If you really wish to know, I shall ask my man about it.”
Giana looked at him, nonplussed.
“Perhaps this evening, Georgiana,” Damien said. “Come, Aurora.”
She heard her mother’s laughter, and turned to Lanson. “I think I will see Mr. Hardesty this morning.”
Aurora was still laughing when Damien assisted her into an open carriage. She saw a coat of arms painted on the door, and realized for the first time that the driver, Ned, was liveried.
“What is so amusing, Aurora?”
“My daughter,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I expect you may be receiving a formal dinner invitation from her soon.”
“She is a lovely girl. I will look forward to it.”
Aurora shook her head, still smiling. “That remains to be seen, sir. Who are you, Damien?” she asked. “I saw a coat of arms on your carriage.”
“You want all of my names, my love? Very well. I am Damien Ives St. Clair Arlington, eighth Duke of Graffton.”
“Oh dear. You have made a mistake, sir—your grace.”
“Ned, keep a smart pace,” his grace called to his driver. “A mistake, Aurora?” he said, tucking her hand over his arm.
“I am Aurora Van Cleve. I am in trade—business!”
“Of course you are, my dear. I have never been able to abide stupid women, and I knew you for a remarkable woman the moment I saw you. I do wish though that you would not make it a habit to stand in the middle of the street.”
“I was thinking how we could fit the cargo hold of the Orion for passengers to America.”
“Poor brutes, the Irish. What with the famine, they haven’t much reason to stay, have they? And did you solve the problem, Aurora?”
She shook her head, incurably honest. “No, I fear that I was thinking about you.”
“Most appropriate, for you were rarely out of my thoughts last night.”
She realized suddenly that he had not been at all surprised by her announcement. “You know who I am?”
He appeared genuinely amused. “Indeed. Do you not think that I would wish to know all about the lady I am going to marry?”
“Marry.”
“My son, Edward, Lord Dunstable—a dull fellow, but stalwart in his duty—told me that your thankfully dead husband was something of a rotter. Appalling the way your father sold you to the fellow, and you only seventeen.”
Aurora stared at him in astonishment. “Perhaps Morton Van Cleve was a rotter,” she said, remembering the pain. “I do know that if he had any notion that his fortune would fall into my hands, he would have paid the devil himself to blight me with fire. As to my father selling me, well, he was a gambler, you know, his blue baronet’s blood could not save him, only me. My husband made a very generous settlement. Yes, he was a rotter. We never loved each other. He merely wished another possession.” She halted abruptly. Why had she confided any of her bitterness to a stranger?
“Well, it is over now, my love,” his grace assured her, patting her gloved hand. “You will enjoy being married to me.”
“But it has been over for many years, and I have been my own woman. I don’t know what made me prose on about it, really. And marriage to you, your grace—I begin to believe you mad.”
He eyed her with tolerant amusement. “Mad? To love you? Really, Aurora, do not insult yourself, I do not like it.” His incredible silver eyes swept over her, lingering for just a moment at the cream Valenciennes lace at her throat. “I fear we are a bit too old to have children, but Edward, my heir, is hale and hearty, as are his two younger brothers and three sisters.”
“I would like to enjoy the lovely scenery for a while, your grace.” Obligingly he fell silent, content to watch her.
The Iron Horse Inn, situated on a quaint cobblestoned corner in Windsor, boasted a view of the castle from the windows in its private dining room. Aurora was tenderly assisted into her chair, while the waiter, a young man with a pointed beard, hovered over the duke, awaiting his pleasure. She held her tongue until Damien had ordered and the waiter had withdrawn from their private dining room.
“I have been a widow for many years, your gr—”
“Damien, if you please, Aurora. I trust you will like the chicken? Their bechamel sauce is renowned.”
“Damien, I am not some sort of addlepated female. You took me quite by surprise, but I am a very responsible woman, usually. I am quite used to making my own decisions and doing things just as I like. I have not found gentlemen to be overly gratified at my occupation. Gentlemen do not like women with brains.”
“I pray you will not insult me again, Aurora. Never, I repeat, never, compare me to other gentlemen.”
The waiter returned with the wine, which the duke did not bother to taste. He merely waved him away again.
“Now, try the wine, it is a light, dry Bordeaux.”
“I own vineyards in Bordeaux,” she said desperately.
“Then you can advise me on our cellar,” he said serenely. “To us, Aurora, and our future together.”
Aurora sipped her wine. “I own Van Cleve enterprises, Damien, and I . . .”—she took on a militant look—“and I control all my businesses myself, with my daughter’s help.”
“Excellent, my love.”
“I am very wealthy, Damien. I vowed long ago never to wed again and let a man control my fortune.”
“Whatever would I do with another fortune?” he asked her with some surprise. “If you wish it, I will let you manage mine as well. I really have no head for business matters.”
Aurora regarded him helplessly. “A duke does not marry a woman of the merchant class, Damien, even if she is a baronet’s daughter.”
“I trust,” his grace continued serenely, “that you do not dislike men, after your rotter of a husband. I am an excellent lover, so I have been told.”
“This is plain speaking indeed.”
He gazed at her for a long moment, a question in his eyes. “You are a woman of sense, my love—why should I not speak plainly? My first wife, now happily in the hereafter, was a silly woman, vain and demanding, and an earl’s daughter. I abided her because she did, albeit begrudgingly, give me children. I vowed that my second wife, if I ever found a lady to my liking, would be the woman of my heart. I have been looking for some ten years now. I am thankful I did not run you down yesterday.”
“You know nothing about me. You—”
“Learning all about you would likely take more years than I have left to me. I am forty-seven, Aurora. Will you have me?”
The ever-lingering waiter appeared again with their lunch. Damien shot him a frustrated look and waved him away. “Stay gone this time, Cranshaw,” he shouted after him.
Aurora looked down at her chicken breast bathed in bechamel sauce, and giggled. “The wine is making me light-headed,” she said. She clasped her hands in front of her. “I am not a lady to sit about dispensing tea, Damien. Indeed, I am a woman of strong character, and I cannot abide the useless lives ladies of fashion lead.”
“A railroad line is being completed to Bradford, a small village just to the west of Graffton Manor. I am thinking of purchasing my own private car. Will you advise me?”
Aurora shook her head, not at him, but at herself. “Yes,” she said, “I will advise you.”
“And will you kiss me? I cannot think of my lunch looking at your beautiful mouth.” He rose from his chair, cupped her chin in his long fingers, and raised her face to him.
“You are the woman of my hear
t,” he said and kissed her.
Chapter 10
It was a struggle to see through the thick gray veil of early-morning London fog. Alexander Saxton turned down Court Street, thankful he could make out the sign above the fog line. He regretted he hadn’t taken a hansom cab to the Van Cleve building on Grayson Lane from his hotel. Jesus, how could these people stand to be shivering in the middle of July? A man nearly ran into him as he rushed by, likely a clerk on his way to work, and late at that. Not so very different from New York, he thought. As he crossed the street, he heard an offended yell. “Eh, gov’nor, mind where yer going.” A cart filled with beer kegs rumbled by, the driver shaking his head at Alex. No, Alex thought, not much different at all from New York.
He rehearsed the coming meeting in his mind, reviewing the points on which he planned to give and those on which he would not bend. Why his London associate, Hammett Engles, could not have handled the early negotiations was beyond him. He had insisted that Alex come to London and conduct the entire matter himself, writing that Aurora Van Cleve was not a woman to be taken lightly. Still, he would have sent Anesley O’Leary, his assistant in New York, had not his London solicitor, Raymond Ffalkes, agreed that he himself should be in London for the duration. Although Alex hadn’t much cared for the pompous Ffalkes when he dined with him and Hammett the night before, the man appeared to know his business. Alex needed a holiday, and he had never visited London. He did look forward to seeing the exhibition in Paxton’s incredible Crystal Palace and partaking of London’s other pleasures. He would deal with the wily Mrs. Van Cleve in his spare time and take himself to Paris by the end of the week.
Evening Star Page 15
