by Kelly Bowen
“You don’t like it?” Anne asked in a stilted voice.
August cursed his lack of attention to his expression and schooled his features back into neutrality. “On the contrary. The drawing and design are extraordinarily accomplished. You have a very keen eye.”
Anne’s lips pulled into a smile, and a faint blush touched her cheeks. “Thank you.”
August glanced up at her. That thank-you had been far more heartfelt than the one she had offered him for a silk gown and a string of pearls. He looked down at the pages again. “Yet why are you drawing tavern signs?”
“Because the one that exists right now is appalling. The swan looks like a bat that’s had its neck stretched. It gives an otherwise tidy establishment a shabby appearance, and it should be replaced.” The smile wavered, and a faintly defiant note had crept into her answer.
August looked down at the book again. On the page that had been hidden by the loose sketch was what resembled a blueprint. A careful schematic drawing of rooms in what looked like the layout of an inn. “What’s this?” he asked, tilting the book so she could see.
Her defiant look stayed firmly in place. “A drawing of what the main floor of the Trenton would look like if I had any say.”
August stared at her, flummoxed. “What’s wrong with it the way it is?”
“What isn’t wrong with it? The dining room is completely undersized and stuck at the back of the building like an afterthought. The kitchens might as well be on the other side of the world—your serving staff spend hours in a day walking unnecessary miles back and forth. And the lobby is about as welcoming as the Tower of London. It’s cold and stark. A hotel should be warm and welcoming.” She paused. “Should I go on?”
“No. And a hotel should be clean and serviceable,” August told her. “Unnecessary frills cost money.” He stopped and shook his head. This was ridiculous. He wasn’t about to debate the merits of running a hotel with his sister. He held up the two drawings. “You’re so talented, Anne. Why don’t you consider applying your talents to portraits? Landscapes? Anything that you might share with other young ladies of the ton? You might be surprised at the friendships that are realized through a common interest.” August knew Anne had had lessons in watercolors and was more than competent, yet these pages were devoid of anything save stark lines of ink and graphite, almost mathematical in their precision.
“I’ve considered it.”
“And?”
“They hold little interest to me.” She reached out and snatched her book back. “Landscapes or the young ladies of the ton who go along with them.”
August suppressed a groan. “Anne, I—”
“Your Grace?” A brisk knock on his door accompanied the question, and a man with a mop of slightly windblown hair stuck his head into the study. “Oh, my apologies, Your Grace, Lady Anne. I didn’t realize you were both in here. I’ll come back—”
“No need, Mr. Down,” Anne replied. “I was just on my way out.” She glanced back at August, folding her precious book under her arm. “Thank you again for…everything.”
“You’re welcome,” August replied, once again at a loss. He put the drawing of the tavern sign on his desk with a sigh.
“Goodbye, August,” she said with finality, hesitating just before the door. “And good day to you, Mr. Down,” she murmured, and then she was gone.
Duncan Down eyed her retreating form before turning back to August with a respectful, if sympathetic, look. “Shall I come back at a better time, Your Grace?”
“No,” he said tersely as he went to the sideboard to pour himself a very stiff drink. “Brandy, Mr. Down?” He glanced behind him as he poured.
“Appreciate it.” His man of business paused at the desk and glanced in dismay at the untidy pile of shavings from the shaft of the newly sharpened quill. “I can purchase you a new set of quills, you know,” he remarked. “There is no need to use each until it is a barely recognizable stub. I just finished with your monthly ledgers, and I can assure you that there is more than enough capital to purchase an entire flock of birds, as well as the continent on which they might be found. Just yesterday I saw a lovely set made from swan—”
“Nothing wrong with that quill. Still works just fine. And no point wasting money on swan feathers when ordinary goose writes just as well.”
“Yet you buy South Pacific pearls when you could have purchased—”
“Those were a gift for Lady Anne.” August cut him off with a black look. “And nothing is too good for my sister.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Though I will trouble you in the future to keep Lady Anne away from my monthly ledgers.”
“Your Grace?”
“She mentioned she took a peek at the books when you had them out yesterday. She was worried about the price of fish being sold to the Trenton, of all things.” August scowled. “My sister should not have to worry about the price of anything ever again, Mr. Down. Do you understand?”
Duncan was silent for a second too long before he said, “Of course, Your Grace.”
“Is she right?” August asked, almost as an afterthought. “About the increase?”
“She is. I was going to bring it to your attention today.”
“Then I trust you will deal with our greedy fishmonger. Get rid of him.”
“Would you like me to inquire as to whether he would reconsider his prices? He has, after all, been providing us with a good product for almost three years—”
“Then he’s had three years to learn that I do not suffer fools. Find someone else.”
Duncan inclined his head. “Consider it done, Your Grace.”
“Good.” August returned his attention to the glass in front of him before turning and handing it to Duncan.
“The contract to purchase the warehouses on the north side of the London docks will be ready for your signature this afternoon,” Duncan said as he took a small sip of his brandy. “The East India Company has already expressed an interest in leasing the warehouse space, as well as their frustration that they were unable to purchase it first. I would reckon the value in those warehouses has just increased tenfold, should you consider selling in the future. As always, a sound and very profitable investment, Your Grace.”
August waved his hand impatiently. “I don’t wish to talk about fish vendors or warehouses at the moment, Mr. Down.” He stalked over to the door and shoved it closed with his foot before returning to his desk and retrieving the deed to Haverhall. He trusted Duncan with his life but his servants about as far as he could throw them. The ease with which he had obtained information over the years from servants everywhere, either by shrewd conversation or simple coin, had taught him that lesson.
August placed the deed in the center of his desk. He jabbed his finger into the middle of it. “I want you to tell me what you were able to discover about this.”
For all of Duncan’s talents in law and accounting, his true gift lay in his ability to uncover information from places one did not even know existed. Places a duke could not venture without people taking note. He was a man whose boyish face was rarely noticed and easily forgotten, and it hid a razor-sharp mind. His gentle nature, accompanied by the canny application of charm and coin, made him seem always a friend and never a threat. And no matter what August had asked of him, he had never disappointed.
His man of business took his time settling himself into one of the wide upholstered chairs that sat near the corner of the desk and gave August a long look. “I must ask, Your Grace, was this a test for me?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“In the course of my inquiries, I was advised that you are already acquainted with Miss Hayward.”
August felt a muscle working along the edge of his jaw as he wondered exactly what his man of business had been told. “We crossed paths years and years ago. I haven’t seen her since, so I hardly think that qualifies as ‘acquainted.’”
“So your previous…encounter w
as not why you agreed so easily to the absolute secrecy of the sale?”
August set his glass down on the corner of his desk with an irritated thump. “I would have danced an Irish jig naked on the back of an ass if it had been a condition that would see Haverhall finally become mine.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And I would have insisted on confidentiality even if the Haywards hadn’t.” Almost all of August’s holdings were already acquired anonymously through subsidiary companies that he had crafted, not easily traced back to the duchy. That make it easier for the competent individuals he hired to manage his investments on his behalf, and he did not like to advertise the extent of his empire.
August snatched his glass up again. “So no, my previous encounter did not influence my decision to accept her terms. Nor has it provided me the reason why Clara Hayward suddenly and inexplicably decided to sell what seems to amount to her purpose in life. That was your job.”
“Ah. Well, I had to ask.” Duncan suddenly grinned at him. “You were right, of course.”
“About what?”
“When you said that there must be something more to the sale of the school.”
August leaned forward impatiently. “Of course I was right.”
Duncan took another slow sip of his brandy. “Were you aware that the current Baron Strathmore is a trained physician still practicing?”
“I was, yes.” Another eccentricity of the Hayward clan that seemed to have been forgiven thanks to barrels of Strathmore money, though he wasn’t sure what this had to do with Haverhall.
“Did you know that he served during the Waterloo campaign?”
“Hmm. That I did not know.”
“Departed immediately after he was widowed, though the accepted story seems to be that he spent his period of mourning simply traveling.”
“His wife was a shrew. Given what happened at the end of their marriage, I can understand why he might jump at the chance to shoot things. Therapeutic, I might suggest.”
Duncan examined the edge of his glass. “He didn’t shoot things. He served as a battlefield surgeon.”
August felt another tug of impatience and took a healthy swallow of brandy to hide it. “Very honorable, I’m sure. But get to the point, Mr. Down. What does any of this have to do with Haverhall or the Strathmore shipping empire or—”
“There is no empire.”
August’s glass froze halfway to his mouth. Carefully he set it aside. “I beg your pardon?”
“There is no empire, though the baron is doing an extraordinarily admirable job of hiding that fact. What remains, as far as I can determine, is the crumbling framework of what used to be a ridiculously profitable import and export company. It could be revived, of course, though I’m not sure the good doctor is the man for the job.” Duncan left that last bit dangling.
August tipped his head, an old familiar feeling of heady anticipation starting to tingle through his veins. “Do tell.”
“Old Strathmore made the bulk of his fortune on the trade of common goods. He exported furniture, cutlery, glassware, and toys, all purchased directly from the craftsmen. His ships returned with sugar, tobacco, cotton, copper, iron ore, and the occasional shipment of indigo. Nothing glamorous, but all bulk items in high demand. And he increased his profits by distributing and selling them himself.”
“What changed?”
“Aside from Lord and Lady Strathmore’s indecently extravagant lifestyle?” Duncan drained the last of his brandy. “It would seem extravagance became contagious. The late baron decided there could be more profit in bringing in luxury items from the East Indies. Gold, diamonds, spices, silk.”
“He wasn’t wrong,” August mused, bracing his hands on his desk.
“He wasn’t lucky either. Or perhaps he trusted the wrong people. Either way, he leveraged his company to purchase bigger ships to make the journey east instead of west. He committed huge sums of money to secure cargoes, hired more crews with heavier armaments—”
“He overextended himself.”
“He borrowed heavily to cover losses. It cost a bit of coin, but I was able to obtain records that document the loss of one of his Indiamen to a storm, three others to pirates. Or maybe mutinies. Hard to say for sure when the crews disappear with the cargo. But all of those ships were laden to the gunwales with a king’s ransom in goods already purchased.”
“What’s left?” This was the important part.
Duncan snorted. “A great deal of debt.”
“Ships?”
“Five vessels of varying sorts, including two clippers. The current baron has sold three Indiamen and two large brigs last year. Of his remaining ships, two are active. Two more have been refitted and are now waiting for crews, and the last needs expensive repairs.”
“The two ships that are active—where are they?”
“Back to their former routes and former cargoes. Virginia, mostly. It would seem that Strathmore’s dependable network of trade partners in the West survived intact.”
August straightened with keen interest. Owning a vast fleet himself, he knew just how valuable those trade networks and partners were. “And his distribution arrangements here?”
Duncan made a face and shrugged. “I wasn’t able to confirm that. But he’s been selling cargo to someone. He, along with his siblings, seems determined to save a sinking company.”
“Commendable, I suppose, but with two ships?” August drummed his fingers on his thigh. “He’ll be dead of old age before he makes any headway.”
“It’s a tricky knot, that of requiring money to make more money.”
Which was why Clara Hayward had sold Haverhall. The answer was obvious now. Selling any more of their remaining fleet would cripple any chance their family might have at expansion or recovery of the shipping company. “They’re trying to get the remaining ships crewed and repaired in a timely manner before they rot at their moorings,” August murmured. “I would have done the same.”
“The baron does strike me as a resourceful man.”
August felt his brows lift. “You spoke to him?”
“Of course I did.” Duncan covered his chest dramatically with his fingers. “For the terrible heart palpitations I’ve been having.”
“Palpitations.” August shook his head. “The only thing that makes your heart palpitate is money, Mr. Down. And lots of it.”
“There is something about a pot, a kettle, and the color black I feel I should mention at this juncture, Your Grace.”
“How much trouble are the Haywards still in?” August asked, ignoring the jab. The heady anticipation he had felt before was still buzzing through him.
“There is no agricultural or industrial revenue to subsidize their income—Haverhall is the only land that existed in conjunction with the Strathmore title. But the profits from the school alone weren’t enough to cover the loan from Strathmore’s banker that is coming due in six weeks. Capital plus interest.”
August didn’t even want to know how Duncan had discovered that, but he didn’t doubt him for a second. “Strathmore is relying on the ships that are currently in the Americas to return in time with their cargo to counter his debt.”
“Yes.”
August turned away and paced the room, stopping by one of the towering bookcases. He ran his fingers thoughtfully down the ancient leather spines. From experience August knew that ships were notoriously unreliable when it came to punctuality.
“I want that company,” he said to no one in particular. Strathmore’s ships would be a welcome addition to his fleet, but it was the baron’s trading network that held the real value. A network that could be expanded and exploited to his advantage.
And to have a chance at that, before the baron was forced to put the company up for sale on the open market and ignite a bidding war, August knew that he would need to insert himself into Strathmore’s world. Convince him that he was a friend, a confidant, and the answer to all his troubles. Discover exactly what he truly desired and then s
how him the path to achieving it. Sometimes it took minutes. Other times much longer. But August was a very patient man. And everyone had their price. Everyone had their breaking point.
“Is Lord Strathmore still in London?” August asked.
Duncan smirked, making it obvious to August that he knew exactly what he was thinking. “He is.” His man of business made a show of glancing at the mantel clock. “What’s more, he can usually be found at the British Museum late on Wednesday afternoons. I am told that he escorts his sisters there regularly.” He paused, a sandy brow raised. “Thinking of reacquainting yourself with the baron, Your Grace?”
An unseemly excitement shot through August, different from mere anticipation, though he did a decent job at convincing himself that it was the prospect of adding to his holdings that was responsible for it, not the possibility of seeing Clara Hayward again. “I need to get to Strathmore before he’s forced to sell. If he puts that company up for sale on the open market, there will be at least a dozen men clamoring to buy him out. And competition like that will drive the price up well beyond what I’d like.”
Duncan sniffed. “I’m surprised there haven’t been at least a dozen men clamoring to entice Miss Hayward to the altar before all of this. Surely someone else might have discovered that she owned Haverhall. Surely you’re not the only one who’s recognized the profit that could be realized by developing that land.” He put his empty glass aside and took his spectacles out of his pocket, polishing them on his sleeve. “Men have married for far less, and English law falls squarely in their favor.”
August bristled at that and then wondered why he should, especially since Duncan wasn’t wrong. “Maybe Miss Hayward has been wise enough to see through those who would court her only for her pecuniary assets. Maybe she has no interest in marriage at all.” It came out far more vehemently than he would have liked.
“Then those are things you and Miss Hayward have in common, Your Grace,” Duncan suggested with a suspicious amount of nonchalance. “Perhaps it will give you something to discuss if you find yourself reacquainted in your pursuit of the good doctor.”
