Chapter Six
The brothers had called on Mr. Wintergreen the day after they arrived in London, only to be told that he was not at home, and neither were the Wintergreen sisters.
They next called on Lady Marple, but they were unsuccessful there, too.
Her ladyship had gone out, and was not—in any case—receiving today.
For the next three days, the message was the same.
That wasn’t all they did, of course. After two weeks out of London, they had catching up to do—meetings to attend, letters to answer, reports to read.
Their solicitor had drawn up a contract following their written instructions, and one of their earliest meetings was to sign it so it could be sent to the Pentworths in Sheffield.
Then there was a meeting with their bank, who didn’t have a co-operative agreement with a Sheffield bank, which meant another meeting with another bank who did have such an agreement and could act as an intermediary.
As soon as Pentworth had signed and returned the contract, their bank would transfer the required sum to the partner bank, who would notify the Sheffield bank, so the inventor could draw down the money. It had been a busy few days.
“Sometimes, I think I’d like to be one of the idle rich,” said Drake.
“You’d be bored witless in less than a week,” Bane assured him.
On the fourth day, an invitation was delivered to them at their lodgings. “Drake,” Bane said, “this is from Lady Marple. We have been invited to her ball, which is three Thursdays from now.”
Drake held out his hand and inspected the card. “Excellent!” he said.
Bane was reading the note that came with the card. It was a brief message to tell them they would find the ladies at home if they called on Thursday after three in the afternoon. Two more days. He showed it to Drake. “Is she encouraging us, do you think?”
“We’ll find out when we visit, I expect.” Bane was very familiar with how the landed gentry and aristocracy froze out those they considered beneath them.
Drake had something else on his mind. “If we are going to attend balls, we will need made-to-measure evening clothes,” he said.
He had a good point. They didn’t want to stand out for the wrong reasons, and tailor-made clothes would help them to fit in.
On the other hand, Bane had heard that a Bond Street tailor charged like a wounded bull. “What do you suggest?”
Drake grimaced. “I don’t suggest we go to a fashionable tailor and then fail to pay him, like an aristocrat. Or waste our capital on clothing. But there’s a man I’ve heard of in Spitalfields—a German tailor called Swartz. He’s very good, apparently.”
“We can take a look,” Bane agreed.
They could afford it. They had more than enough to dress like dukes if they chose.
But they both agreed. Capital was for investing, not dissipating.
To pay Bond Street rates to outfit them with fashionable clothing—at ten guineas for a single evening jacket each and perhaps a guinea and half for each shirt—would mean either cutting back on eating or digging into their capital.
“In a way, fine clothes are also an investment,” Drake pointed out. “We’ll be mixing with people we might want as investors in our own ventures, and meeting possible brides.”
“By which you mean the Wintergreen sisters,” Bane offered. “I agree to fine clothes, but not to Bond Street prices.”
It was true, though. If they wished to pursue an acquaintance with the sisters, they needed to be part of the social scene.
Bane didn’t much like the idea of facing the ton, but even less did he like the idea of other people courting Miss Wintergreen, and possibly winning her, while he stayed away.
“I’m in favor of buying whatever we need at the best price we can manage,” he said.
“Though if we are going out into Society, I’m wearing my hood. ”
He told Mr. Swartz the same thing when they visited him to decide whether to employ his services. The man’s eyes widened, but all he said was, “Perhaps a black silk one, sir. For evening.” That and his prices, which were half those of Bond Street, made up Bane’s mind, and Drake agreed.
Indeed, the order they placed was larger than they had originally intended. They would be able to turn themselves out creditably during the day, as well as for evening events.
“After all,” Drake said, as they left, “what is the point of being wealthy if we never spend anything?”
“If you are thinking of marrying, you might need to be able to convince the girl’s father that you can support a wife,” Bane pointed out.
“What about you?” Drake asked. “Do you look at Miss Olivia Wintergreen and hear wedding bells?”
Bane wouldn’t go quite that far. “I hear the possibility of wedding bells, I suppose.” From his side of the equation. He doubted that the lady would consider him.
Drake nodded. “Exactly. We need to spend time with them and see if this attraction survives and maybe grows into something more.”
“I expect their father would prefer a title for them,” Bane warned. “I’m sure he’d prefer a husband who wasn’t born a scandal.”
“The scandal was Father’s, Bane,” Drake pointed out, as he always did. But Society didn’t think that way.
No point in arguing with Drake. They’d covered this ground before. “We have an hour before the meeting with our broker,” he said. “Three Crowns for a bite?”
The cook at the Three Crowns inn had a light hand with pastry and a deft touch with spices. Besides, the innkeeper was as good a brewer as his wife was a cook, and kept a good cellar besides.
They were soon seated at a table in the corner, enjoying a meat pie with mashed potato and mushy peas, and a mug of the host’s best brown ale. “Isn’t that our broker?” Drake asked, pointing with his chin, to a man who was just walking in the door.
He, too, had arrived early, perhaps for another meeting, for he was in earnest conversation with another gentleman.
A fashionable gentleman, at that. The cut, style, and quality of the man’s clothing suggested wealth and social position, an impression that brought forcibly home to Bane how right Drake had been to insist on visiting the tailor.
The broker didn’t notice them in their shadowy corner, and the innkeeper found the pair a table in a sunny window, obviously a premium spot reserved for men of the quality of the broker’s companion.
Bane continued to watch while the two of them sat and talked, the broker scribbling notes in the same notebook he’d used when taking instructions from Drake and Bane. A business meeting, then. One of the inn’s servants brought the two men a meal, and they continued their discussion as they ate.
Bane and Drake had finished their own meal and their table had been cleared by the time the pair they were watching were done. The gentleman stood and the broker hastened to do likewise, holding out his hand to grasp the one extended toward him.
“Come on,” said Drake, pushing out of his chair. He strode across the room toward the other two, Bane following behind, wondering what his brother was up to.
The broker’s eyes widened and he smiled, then said to the other man, “My lord, these are the brothers I told you about. Mr. Sanderson and Mr. Sanderson, well met, sirs. Lord Andrew Winderfield, may I present Mr. Wolfbane Sanderson and Mr. Mandrake Sanderson?”
Lord Andrew—which meant he was the younger son of a duke or a marquess, if Bane remembered rightly.
He presented his hand to each of them in turn.
His grip was firm and his smile friendly.
“Mr. Atkins tells me you might be prepared to act as a reference, gentlemen. The investment club to which I belong is thinking of commissioning his services as a broker.”
“We have been pleased with his performance, Lord Andrew,” Bane confirmed. “We have only recently moved to London, but he has been acting on our behalf for three years, and to excellent effect.”
The aristocrat nodded. “A good recommendation, indeed. Perhaps you would be kind enough to speak to the other members of my little group? We meet here tomorrow at around this time. Please, join us for another of Mrs. Waters’ delectable pies. She bakes them fresh every day.”
“Thank you. We shall,” said Drake, before Bane could make a polite excuse. And perhaps his brother was correct. It couldn’t hurt to give their broker a helping hand, and—if they were about to venture into society—it was not a bad idea to do a favor for a group of nobles.
*
Cilla
Dressed in the palest of pinks, Cilla checked her reflection in the mirror then moved out of the way so that Livy could have a turn. Today was Cilla’s first experience of London-style afternoon calls. In a way, she supposed, it was Livy’s, too, for her sister had never looked lovelier.
Livy was staring into the mirror as if she could not believe her eyes.
For today, she had chosen a day dress in mazarine blue silk.
The fabric had been woven with self-color stripes, shiny and dull, shiny and dull.
Apart from a minute ruffle at the hem, cuffs, high waist and neckline, it was unadorned.
The shade made her hair look darker and her eyes more silver than Cilla had ever seen them, and the superb cut flattered her figure.
“You look lovely, Livy,” Cilla said, sincerely.
Livy’s smile suggested that she almost believed it. “So do you, Cilla darling. Shall we go down?”
They had come over to Aunt Ginny’s house after breakfast, for a dance lesson and then another shopping trip, this time for dancing slippers and other footwear. Rather than go home to change, they had arranged for Barker to bring an afternoon change of clothing over to the Marples’.
So, to attend Aunt Ginny’s afternoon calls, all they needed to do was walk downstairs.
They met their cousins on the stairs, Pearl looking lovely in white, Beryl in pale green, and Ruby in the softest of blues.