by Zoë Archer
“From Florida, in the United States,” Harrold said pompously. “Costs an appalling amount to get them, but it’s worth it.”
More proud of the price than the actual quality of the cigar, Simon thought.
“The best things cost the most,” Stokeham agreed. “Went down to Wroxley’s shop and said to the man, ‘See here, I want a Norfolk jacket, and I won’t pay any less than two pounds for it!’ The man had to scramble, but he made one for me from vicuña wool, and charged me three pounds twenty for it.” He sat back, exceptionally pleased with himself.
Simon’s own haberdasher in London charged him two pounds for a bespoke coat, and that was a fairly outrageous sum. And Simon made sure not to go around bleating about the cost of it.
God, the evening just kept getting longer.
“But to continue what we were talking about earlier—we need women, don’t we?” Tufton swirled the liquor in his glass. “To tend to our needs, to ensure our homes are comfortable havens, to keep the children clean and polite.”
“And sequestered,” added Harrold. He directed a smirk at Simon. “Savor these early months, Shale. You don’t have to worry that the children will come racing down from the nursery, demanding your time.”
Early on, Simon had learned that, above all, he wasn’t to trouble Father. That meant keeping to the nursery, remaining silent at meals unless an adult spoke to him directly, and generally being a paper cutout of a boy to be taken down from the shelf and briefly admired before he was returned to where he belonged.
He never stayed on the shelf. He’d go missing for hours—usually into the woods or, if they were in London, to the zoo or park—and return home for scolding and a scrubbing so vicious, his lye-scented skin would be red until the next morning.
Thank God his older brothers had done their duty and reproduced, ensuring continuity. Simon wouldn’t inflict childhood on anyone—at least, not the way he’d been raised.
“Mrs. Shale is eager to become a mother,” he said.
“And that’s a credit to her,” Tufton replied. “Woman’s greatest purpose, beyond the solace of her husband, is motherhood.”
“They do have other purposes,” Stokeham added with a laugh. The other men joined him in his mirth, and Simon forced himself to chuckle.
“Pleasant as the ladies are,” he said, “now that they’ve repaired to the drawing room, we can discuss business.”
“Why, Shale, don’t tell me you’re a prude,” Harrold admonished.
“He can’t be.” Tufton snorted. “D’you see how he looks at his wife?” He heaved a sigh. “Almost reminds me of when Dorothy and I had just wed. But it doesn’t last, Shale.”
Harrold made a grunt of agreement.
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Simon answered. But he’d seen it often enough in his own class: marriages conducted more like commercial agreements, just as his parents’ marriage had been. The idea of a lasting passion—if that passion even existed in the first place—seemed as impossible as perpetual fire. Eventually, the fuel would be spent, the flames would extinguish, and all that would remain was cold carbon.
But there was Eva and Jack. They hadn’t been married long, but he could recognize it in how they spoke to each other, their incidental touches and glances. Flood and famine and war wouldn’t keep them apart.
Jack and Eva were the anomaly, not the standard. He never expected anything for himself like what they shared. Never thought that he could find a woman who’d delight and challenge him for the rest of his life. And he was part of Nemesis. What sensible woman could endure his many identities, the constant danger he willingly faced daily?
When an inner voice whispered her name, he feigned deafness.
He was a good confidence man—but he couldn’t swindle himself.
Now’s the time to secure her future, not think about your own.
“Having met my wife,” he said, “I hope we’ve gained some measure of your trust.”
“An excellent woman,” Harrold declared. “She seems entirely guided by you.”
“Oh, she is. There’s no fear that she’ll take any undue interest in our collaboration.”
“It’s a good sign when a man is in complete command of his wife,” Tufton declared. “If he cannot rule at home, where can he rule?”
“It seems that you rule well at Wheal Prosperity,” Simon noted.
Stokeham puffed on his cigar. “Our managers run it, but on terms that we’ve determined. Everyone profits.”
Except the workers. “It’s an unusual system, isn’t it, to pay using chit instead of actual wages?”
“The idea came to us from seeing how American mines were operated,” Harrold said. “They may be barbarians over there, but no one can dispute how rich some of them have become. If we can get twice the revenue from the same amount of workers, why shouldn’t we? They don’t know any difference. As I said, I’ve seen how they live, and they’re barely more than animals. Money doesn’t matter to them.”
“What would they do with more income?” Tufton demanded. “Drink themselves senseless? Have more squalling brats?” He shook his head. “This system is much better for all concerned.”
Simon said, “When I researched the running of Wheal Prosperity, saw its innovative system for paying the workers, I was struck dumb with admiration. Think how many men of industry could be even more wealthy if they only adopted your methodology. In truth,” Simon continued, “that was the deciding factor in my decision to approach and include you gentlemen in my overseas enterprises. These are men of innovation, I thought. Who better to have as part of my commercial ventures than such entrepreneurial thinkers?” He took a sip of his brandy, the taste cloying on his tongue. Harrold probably paid some exorbitant amount for it, too. Damn, Simon longed for a decent whisky. “Mark me, gentlemen, we will all profit from our mutual association.”
Silence fell, weighted with smoke and schemes. At last, Harrold said, “Why don’t you go on and join the ladies, Shale? My partners and I have some discussing to do.”
Simon pushed back from the table and ground out his cigar in a gaudy ashtray. “Again, you show yourself men of singular wisdom. I’d be suspicious of you if you didn’t discuss the merits of my proposal. I shall see you upstairs.”
He bowed, then sauntered from the room as if the fate of hundreds of people—and Alyce—didn’t depend on the next fifteen minutes.
* * *
Perched at the edge of a low, overstuffed chair, Alyce discreetly sniffed at the tiny glass of liqueur in her hand. Little glasses had been handed around to all the women once they’d reached the drawing room, poured by more blank-faced servants.
She’d been careful not to drink much wine at dinner—the few times she’d had wine, it had loosened her tongue and her inhibitions. If she’d had more than a glass tonight, she’d wind up standing on the dining room table and either throwing cutlery or setting the owners’ ears to blistering. Not the best course of action, considering why she and Simon were here in the first place.
She tried to keep from glancing at the door, hoping to see him stride into the drawing room. What were the men talking about? It had to be about the business arrangement he was proposing. He’d seemed assured that the owners would agree to the scheme—he’d run other confidence ploys before—but that didn’t keep her pulse steady.
And what if something happened to him? What if the owners had set up an ambush, and three bruisers came crashing into the dining room as soon as the women left, and were at this very minute pummeling Simon bloody? She’d hear something, wouldn’t she? She strained to hear above the women’s dull patter for any sounds of fists, grunts, or broken furniture. She’d already seen him fight—briefly—once before. He was fast, brutal, and effective. It could be over in moments.
God, she really was walking the edge of sanity right now. Gentlemen—even ones who stole from their own workers—didn’t hire thugs to attack possible business partners. Not in the gentlemen’s own homes, at least. The furniture loo
ked costly. They wouldn’t want it wrecked.
She drew a steadying breath. She just wanted Simon here with her. This place was an adder’s nest.
Maybe she ought to have that drink after all. It seemed safe enough, and she carefully sipped at it. It tasted of almonds, coating her mouth with sugar. Altogether not too bad. She sipped a bit more.
“My mother passed that receipt on to me,” Mrs. Harrold said proudly from the sofa on the other side of the room.
“I didn’t know your mother was Mrs. Beeton,” Mrs. Tufton answered with a thin smile. “This tastes just like her instructions for homemade crème de noyaux.”
“I assure you, it’s entirely a family receipt.”
The two women politely glared at each other. “My elderberry liqueur has been honored many times at local charity functions.”
Alyce sat up straighter. For the past ten minutes, the two married ladies had been talking about their children, speaking with pride about the cleverness of little Arthur or how very good young Ursula’s needlework was. Unease had been churning in her stomach as they’d chatted. If she and Simon carried out this ploy, these women and their children would lose their money, the means of keeping themselves fed and a roof over their heads. Could she justify destroying their lives for the sake of her own, and the workers of Wheal Prosperity?
It’d be so much easier if she could just paint these people as nothing more than villains, deserving their fate.
“Are you much involved with charity, Mrs. Tufton?” she asked.
“Of course. All women of good morals are. We all have our little handicrafts that we sell at charity bazaars. My ornamental picture frames are in great demand.”
“And my embroidered pillow cushions are snapped up immediately,” retorted Mrs. Harrold.
Miss Stokeham yawned loudly behind her hand as she stared into the fire. Clearly, charity functions weren’t her favorite topic.
“And what becomes of the funds you raise through these bazaars?” Alyce asked.
Mrs. Harrold frowned at her. “I assumed London ladies held charity bazaars and fund-raising events, as well.”
“Oh, we do,” Alyce answered quickly. “Only, I was curious to know if the fine women of Plymouth had their own way of doing things. Perhaps I could learn from you and pass the information along to my sisters in generosity.”
Both Mrs. Harrold and Mrs. Tufton smiled smugly. “The Plymouth Ladies’ Beneficial Society is known throughout Cornwall and Devon for its munificence.”
“And who are the lucky souls who benefit from your aid?”
Mrs. Harrold blinked. “Well … I’m not sure. Someone handles those considerations. They’re altogether too taxing for me.”
“The deserving poor, most likely,” added Mrs. Tufton. “Good, honest middle-class people who may have fallen on difficult times. Not like those wretches who live in filth and degradation. And there are so many of them. Just last week, I was doing my Wednesday shopping when some horror of a woman and her scrawny babe had the temerity to approach me and beg for charity.”
“What street was it?” Mrs. Harrold asked.
“Cornwall Street.”
“I shop there thrice a week!”
Miss Stokeham stirred herself up enough to add, “And I’m there nearly every day. They’ve got the best shops in town.”
“I cannot believe a beggar would approach you on Cornwall Street,” Mrs. Harrold said, affronted.
Mrs. Tufton sniffed at the indignity of it. “She said her husband was a sailor who’d died in a shipwreck, and she and her children were starving.”
Mrs. Harrold’s eyes widened. “The nerve! Did you give her any money?”
The other woman scoffed. “And support her idleness? I told her to find some useful employment and stop being a parasite on society.”
“Quite right.”
Harmony between Mrs. Harrold and Mrs. Tufton had been restored, thanks to the penniless, hungry sailor’s widow. Miss Stokeham yawned again, finding nothing of interest in talking about the poor.
It wouldn’t be so difficult to ruin the owners, after all.
The door opened and Simon finally walked into the drawing room. The thorns of tension loosened from her chest. But the other men didn’t follow him in.
“Ladies.” He bowed. “The gentlemen had some additional matters to discuss, and graciously liberated me so that I might indulge in your company.”
What did that mean? Why had the owners forced him to leave the dining room? It couldn’t be good.
“Mr. Shale, you do have the sleek manner of a solicitor,” Mrs. Harrold said, and giggled.
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Let me assure you, madam, that rumors of my profession’s tendency toward servility are greatly exaggerated. I took to the law because I believe in sincerity. Every word from my mouth is the truth.”
“Is that so, Mrs. Shale?” asked Mrs. Tufton.
“My husband is the soul of honesty.”
“Naturally, you would say that,” Miss Stokeham said, rousing herself from her stupor. “He’s your husband.”
“Oh, but I’m an excellent judge of character. When I meet someone, I’m seldom wrong about them.”
“And how do you find us, Mrs. Shale?” Mrs. Harrold asked. Her smile could freeze the ocean.
“Entirely deserving,” Alyce answered. Of getting your arses thrown in the gutter.
At a nod from Mrs. Harrold, a servant handed Simon a glass of liqueur. Simon downed it in one drink, then grabbed one of the chairs. “Will you forgive my breach of decorum,” he asked the women, “and permit me to sit close to my wife? I find even a few minutes out of her company to be intolerable.”
“Newlyweds,” Mrs. Tufton said. But Alyce couldn’t quite tell if she spoke fondly or with some bitterness.
He set the chair down beside Alyce and draped himself elegantly in it. This close, she could see the tiny, tiny lines of tension around his mouth, but to anyone else, he’d look perfectly at ease.
The women took up a discussion of troublesome servants, leaving Simon and her a small bit of privacy.
“And?” she asked him, wearing a smile like a mask.
He gazed at her with warm fondness. “And … we’ll have our answer in the next few minutes.”
“What if they say no?”
“They have to say yes.”
“But they might not.”
The other women glanced over at them, and Alyce realized she’d spoken a little too loudly, with too much strain in her voice.
“I keep telling you, darling.” Simon patted her hand. “The furniture warehouse promised us they’d have the divan you wanted.”
“But it’s such a popular style,” she said. “They might not have it in stock.”
“If it turns out that we can’t get that particular divan,” he answered, “we’ll find a different one. I vow to you, one way or another, we’re going to get what we want.”
She muttered, “I wish I had your confidence.” They sat in an expensively decorated drawing room, but really they were balanced on the blade of a knife.
“Trust me,” he said, his smile genuine. “Your husband won’t let you down.”
CHAPTER 14.
Minutes later, Harrold, Tufton, and Stokeham ambled into the drawing room. Simon remained seated. He smiled affably, as if he didn’t feel himself strangled by steel cables. Beside him, he sensed Alyce bracing herself, though she also wore a placid smile.
He wanted to leap to his feet and demand, “Give me your answer, you bastards.” Instead, he waited as tea was poured and everyone murmured inconsequential words. A reluctant, sullen Miss Stokeham was persuaded to play piano. She banged out Chopin, challenging everyone to keep smiling.
“Shale,” Harrold murmured. He nodded toward one curtained corner of the drawing room. “A moment.”
Now Simon would have his answer. He rose and followed Harrold to the corner, making certain to keep his expression genial and bland.
He hadn’t
lied to Alyce earlier. If this plan didn’t work, they’d find another way to get Wheal Prosperity out of the owners’ and managers’ hands—there was no other choice—but it would take a hell of a lot more work, and they’d already poured so much time and energy into this scheme.
“Tufton, Stokeham, and I discussed it,” Harrold said, when they’d sequestered themselves. He took a sip of tea.
Simon waited. This was always the crucial, delicate moment. When the mark decided to take the bait or not. You couldn’t pressure them into making a decision, in case you appeared desperate, inciting their suspicion. But he couldn’t appear too indifferent, lest his target feel as though the risk weren’t worthwhile. So he schooled his features to look attentive, like a man at an agricultural fair.
He avoided glancing at Alyce—too much would show in his face if he looked at her.
“Come round the office at ten tomorrow morning,” Harrold said. “Bring your wife, as well, so we can make the transfer.”
“Very good,” Simon answered. He did not throw his teacup down and shout in victory. But that didn’t mean the urge wasn’t there.
Harrold grinned, a man well pleased with himself. “Can’t wait to see the look on Darby’s face when he realizes he’s been scuttled.”
Jack would enjoy letting his rage out. He might even get the chance to break some furniture.
“It promises to be an interesting morning.” Simon set his cup aside on a table and bowed. “The hour is late, and we’ve imposed too much on your hospitality.”
“Not at all. Been a very pleasant change from the usual dinner parties Mrs. Harrold hosts. I actually gave a damn. And your wife is a very charming young woman. You’ve got my envy, Shale.”
As quickly as he could, Simon disengaged himself from Harrold. He strode over to Alyce. Judging by the way she clutched at her wrists and the taut muscles of her neck, her composure was beginning to fray. No blame in that. Even he was about to explode like a burning ammunition magazine.
“We’re expected at the gentlemen’s office tomorrow morning,” he said.
She pressed her lips tightly together—he suspected it was to keep herself from yelling in triumph. “Not too early, I hope,” she said.
