Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
“ B ut my lord, I am afraid that you do not have security for this loan.” The banker folded his manicured hands on his desk. His small smile was smug. “We cannot risk an amount such as this. It is, er , known that many of your properties are already mortgaged. There is nothing that I can do for you.” He coughed delicately. “My hands are tied, your lordship—quite tied.”
Though he was a young man—shiny-faced and self-satisfied and sporting a pale blue silk neckcloth held by a large garnet stickpin—he spoke as though he were explaining facts to a child.
Keynsham frowned. He’d come prepared for questions about his proposal, of course. What he hadn’t prepared for was a dismissal without being heard at all.
But it wasn’t just that. There was something underlying the banker’s condescending manner that didn’t seem to fit. The man seemed… frightened .
But why?
Since the ambush in the woods, Keynsham had trusted his instincts when they told him that a situation wasn’t as it seemed. And now they were warning him that, even though he was in a well-known bank, something was wrong. He hesitated only a moment before gathering his papers and rising. “Well, then. I shall take up no more of your time. Good day.”
The banker’s face registered shock. He seemed to have expected Keynsham to plead his case—and to show him the contents of the folio under his arm. He cleared his throat. He had gone pale, and as he stood, Keynsham saw beads of sweat on his forehead. “I, er… see. Well. You must please yourself, your lordship. Of course. Of course.” He made Keynsham an obsequious bow—but saw him only as far as the door of his office.
Downstairs, on the main floor of the bank, clerks at large mahogany desks conversed with customers under a vaulted ceiling. The whole place emitted a low hum of money. Keynsham strode across the airy room’s red marble floor—half bemused and half irritated.
No one understood better than him that his father’s imprudence had left him in a bad position. Yet the proposal that he’d prepared was meticulously calculated. If the banker had bothered to look at it, he would have seen that the risk was lower than it might first appear, and the potential for profit much greater… and moreover, that Keynsham had security for the loan.
There were other banks and other bankers, of course. But as he stepped onto the pavement he was frowning. Something wasn’t right. The only question was whether he would meet the same treatment at his next appointment.
When he was satisfied that the viscount had left the building, the young banker pulled out a sheet of paper and a quill and wrote a note. He blotted the ink, folded the paper, sealed it, and hurried down to the crowded City street himself.
“Here! You!” He’d used the boy before when he had letters he wanted delivered—letters that dealt with matters that fell outside the bank’s official business. “Take this to Bell’s Buildings. Be quick about it and there’s a sixpence in it for you.”
“Yes, sir!” The urchin ran off.
The banker wiped the nervous sweat off his hands on the sides of his trousers and went back to his desk. He supposed that he ought to have drawn out the conversation and seen why the viscount had wanted the money. But he didn’t want to know. All he wanted was for this to be over.
The man to whom the note was addressed looked like a gentleman, dressed like a gentleman, and spoke like a gentleman. But there was something in his eyes—something reptilian, ruthless, and cruel—that made the young banker shudder. And then there was his reputation… a reputation about which he seemed to hear more every day.
Yes, he’d needed money to pay some unexpectedly large gaming debts… but he wished to God that he’d borrowed it from anyone else. He wanted only to forget that he’d ever met the man.
Indeed, if he never saw him again, it would be too soon.
There was a knock on the door. The man guarding the landing announced, “Message for you, boss.”
A grubby boy darted into the luxuriously furnished office. Wilkes barely glanced at him as he tossed him a sixpence. He tore open the note and scanned it. “No reply.” The boy ran out again. The guard shut the door.
Wilkes dropped the note onto his desk. Suddenly, he felt as though he could take a deep breath again. His fears had been foolish. Everything was unfolding exactly as he’d foreseen: The viscount was trying to borrow money. He wouldn’t get it. The walls were closing in on Lord Alford even more quickly than Wilkes could have hoped.
He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. Well, the young lord had brought this upon himself. And if there was one thing that Wilkes had learned the hard way, it was that there was no room for leniency.
It was time to teach everyone—from Viscount Alford to the lowest cutpurse in St. Giles—a lesson about what happened to those who meddled in his affairs.
The rest of Keynsham’s morning went the same way. He’d made appointments at all the foremost banks. But at each of them he received the same strange treatment.
He could have understood it if the bankers had looked over his projections and found flaws or raised other objections. But just like the first man, they seemed to wish to rush him out of their offices as quickly as possible—as though even having him on the premises was a risk. Indeed, it was almost as though they were terrified to be known to have spoken to him at all.
He drove home, his mind at work. What had just happened? He hadn’t missed so much as a single mortgage payment on a single farm. So why had he become persona non grata in the City? And how was he to borrow the money that he needed? Without it, his bold plans would remain just that: plans.
In the two weeks since he’d last seen Celia—that was how he thought of time now—he’d driven back to Grange Grove several times to meet with Downey. They’d walked the site together. They’d costed the materials needed to finish the first two streets of houses, and discussed the plans not only for the remaining streets, but even for the second and third phases of the development.
Keynsham had met Downey’s wife. He was beginning to think of him as a friend. He didn’t want to let Downey down.
His mind was busy with these worries as he walked into his dressing room and straight into a stack of chairs that hadn’t been there when he’d left.
“Your lordship!” His valet, Rogers, came at a sprint at the sound of furniture crashing to the floor. At the sight of the viscount sprawled amidst the chairs, he stopped dead in the doorway. “Can you speak? Are you injured?”
Keynsham winced, sat up, and assessed the damage to himself and the furniture. One of the chairs was now missing a leg. He clambered ruefully to his feet, rubbing his ribs. “Really, Rogers. I cannot imagine why you have booby-trapped my dressing room.”
Rogers—who’d been with him at Quatre-Bras and Waterloo—was indignant. “I assure you, your lordship, that I did nothing of the sort! I shall demand an explanation of Mr. Brock!”
He rang the bell. Martin, the first footman, appeared. “His lordship has been injured , Martin. Fetch Mr. Brock.”
Martin turned pale. “Your lordship! I… I… that is… her ladyship…” He hurried out. A few moments later he returned with Mr. Brock, the butler.
“Your lordship!” Mr. Brock was aghast. “I beg your pardon! Her ladyship instructed us to remove the chairs from the Blue Drawing Room and place them in your dressing room.”
Rogers, who didn’t get along with Brock, glared at the butler. “The scene speaks for itself. His lordship could have been killed!”
Keynsham dusted off his palms. “Oh, I hope not. It would be a hard thing to survive the war only to be cut down by a side chair. But what I should like to know is why the furniture is being moved at all.”
Brock and Martin exchanged a look. Brock cleared his throat. “Her ladyship is… preparing for the ball.”
Ball ? It was apparent that Keynsham needed to have a conversation with his mother. “I see. That still does not answer my question.”
The butler and the footman exchanged another look.
Keynsham sighed. Now that he thought of it, he realized that he hadn’t seen much of his mother for at least a fortnight. This was often a sign that she was up to something, and wished to avoid questions until she’d got her way and it was too late for anyone to do anything about it.
But before he could go downstairs to see for himself what she was doing, his mother appeared. “Brock! What on earth was that noise? I told you to… Oh. Good morning. I… I did not expect you back so soon.”
“Ma’am.” He made her a bow.
Lady Alford had been considered a great beauty in her youth, which was why the fifth viscount had married her. She was beautiful still, though hard lines of ill-temper now ran down from the corners of her mouth. “Well. I shall not disturb you.”
“Oh, you are not disturbing me at all. Indeed, I was about to come and find you, in order to discuss the preparations for this, er… ball .”
Martin and Brock appeared to be backing slowly toward the door. “You may take these chairs somewhere else,” he said to them.
“Very good, your lordship.” Brock looked relieved. They withdrew.
Lady Alford’s golden hair was twisted up into a high knot, with fashionable ringlets before her ears. She wore a cream silk morning gown, a fashionable figured Kashmir shawl, and an expression of exasperation. “But the chairs must go somewhere . We must have space for the dancing !”
“Space for dancing?” Had she gone mad? “As you undoubtedly recall, ma’am, Alford House is equipped with a ballroom.”
“I suppose you may call it that.” She waved an irritable hand. “Of course, when the place was built a century ago, people were happy to have any sort of simple little space in which to jig about.”
“Simple little…” He took a breath. “Ma’am. The ballroom is nearly one hundred feet long. It was remodeled by Henry Holland himself not twenty years ago.”
His mother emitted a puff of exasperation. “Well, precisely ! Twenty years ! People have seen it! Something new is wanted! Something… something surprising !”
“ Ma’am .” He rubbed his forehead. “This is a house—not a balloon ascent at Vauxhall. No one can reasonably expect to be surprised . Now, I have not troubled you with the details, of course, but you are perfectly aware that my late father left us with considerable debts. So let me be clear: We cannot afford an expensive entertainment.”
“But Pomona must have”—
“What Pomona must have is a simple yet elegant evening party which will allow her to appear to advantage. And let us also remember that this will be the first entertainment that we have given since my father’s death, and that a large and boisterous gathering would be in poor taste.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, large ?”
“Let us say fifty or sixty guests at most. Of course, if you feel that is too many” —
“ Fifty !” She clapped a hand to her breastbone as though she’d been stabbed. “ Fifty guests ! You cannot possibly be serious ! Why, at Colonel and Mrs. Beaumont’s ball for Miss Beaumont’s come-out there were over four hundred !”
“ Ma’am .” He held up a hand. “We are not in competition with a family that owns half of Yorkshire. And besides, the Beaumont’s ball was not considered elegant. Indeed, it was so overcrowded that many ladies found it unpleasant—not to mention that it was infiltrated by pickpockets. We cannot wish criminals to attend Pomona’s ball.”
“ Criminals! How perfectly ridiculous! Of course there will be no criminals at my ball. You need not patronize me !” She tossed her head.
“Sixty guests. No more. Do I make myself clear?”
She ignored this. “Criminals indeed! Why, I am almost certain that the prince regent himself will attend! After all, he always attended Lady Sophronia’s balls.”
“Ma’am. Please do not change the subject. Are we in agreement?”
“But I do not understand !” She clasped her hands tightly. “What about the money ?”
“What money?”
“Miss Spry’s thirty thousand pounds! Surely you realize that the ball cannot be a stingy affair! Not when it is also to serve as the announcement of your marriage to an heiress .”
“Ah.” He should have seen this coming. “Well, as to that, there has been a…” He cleared his throat. “I regret to say that Miss Spry has not yet had leisure to hear my proposal.”
She stared. She gasped. “Not yet had… What can you mean? No! No ! It is not possible! It was all to have been settled! Why has it not been settled ?”
He wished that he knew the answer to that himself. “Miss Spry has been unwell. It has not been possible to make a private appointment with her ever since the unfortunate episode in which she, er… fainted.”
His mother gave an unladylike snort. “I have never believed that for a minute. Why, it must have been a most particular fit of the vapors indeed—if she could not be brought round again by the sight of a ring box from Rundell and Bridge!”
“ Ma’am .”
She lifted her hands in a pantomime of bewilderment. “But it has been a month ! I cannot recall a single instance in which a young lady has cried compromise and then dragged her feet afterwards. Not a single one! It is simply not done !”
“Be that as it may, as a gentleman, I must defer to the lady’s wishes.”
“But everyone knows that you ought to have been married immediately!” She sank into the remaining unbroken drawing room chair, clutching her temples. “This will cause talk . Everyone will say that there has been some serious objection to the match. They will dredge up all the rumors about the estate. They will say that it must be the money!”
Well… as far as he knew, it was the money. That, at least, had been obvious, based on what Mr. Spry had said about him having been “left in a fix.”
Lady Alford flung an elegant hand over her eyes. “This is ruination! Just when it seemed that we were to be saved! I am the unluckiest woman alive!”
Keynsham glanced at the clock. There was something that he wished to check in his study. “Ma’am, please. We need not imagine the circumstances to be worse than they are. If there is any gossip, it is best if we do not dignify it with our notice. The less we say, the better.”
“Now we see what the young ladies of today are come to! Willful! Spoiled! Lady Deverel tells me that Miss Spry has been driving herself about in her own phaeton! She was in the park only yesterday. With a pink dog beside her!”
This was news to Keynsham. Every day he’d called at the Spry mansion, and every day he’d been told that Miss Spry was still indisposed. Still, there was nothing that he could do about the situation.
A painful stab of hope shot through him. He ordered himself not to entertain it. Even if, by some miracle, he were freed from his obligation, he couldn’t dare to hope that Celia would ever speak to him again.
He bowed to his mother. “Please excuse me. I have business to which I must attend.”
“This is most interesting.” The elderly banker took off his gold-rimmed spectacles and squinted at Keynsham. “Most interesting indeed. The fourth viscount—your grandfather, of course—was involved in a similar scheme. It proved most profitable. Although, of course, you would be taking a more active role.”
Keynsham was so surprised at not being dismissed that it took him a moment to recover. “I am prepared to do it, sir. You may see my documents.” He pushed them across the wide desk.
Because Keynsham had spent so many hours with the estate records, he’d remembered that this man’s information appeared amongst his grandfather’s tidy ledgers. After his conversation with his mother, he’d hurried to his study and looked up his direction—though until he’d arrived at the door, he’d been unsure whether the man was even still in business. But this discreet private bank in Knightsbridge was his last hope.
The banker put his spectacles back on and opened the portfolio. He ran his finger down the columns of numbers in silence. “Yes. Yes. I see.” He turned the page and examined those numbers too. He jotted some figures on a piece of his own paper and studied them. The clock on the mantel behind his desk ticked.
Finally, he looked up at Keynsham again. “Did you put these figures together yourself?”
“Yes.” Keynsham cleared his throat. “It seemed to me that it is not much different from managing an estate. One’s tenants require housing, and so do other workers. I—I happened to be in the area and saw the houses myself. I spoke to one of the men who’d been building them.”
“Yes.” The banker drew the word out, running his finger slowly down the column of numbers, as though for the pleasure of reading them again. He looked at the plan of streets yet to be built. “Quite so. Quite so. London is expanding rapidly. And I see that there is an option to purchase these two additional tracts, too.”
He tapped the papers with his forefinger. “I must counsel you that it is unconventional. What is more often seen is the building up of new sections of the city—Mayfair, of course, and now Belgravia—on land already owned by some wealthy family—like the Grosvenors or the Portmans. And thus are great fortunes multiplied.” He looked back at the plans. “Your scheme is more risky.”
Keynsham took a breath. “Two full terraces of houses are almost complete. With the remaining materials—and the men’s wages—my foreman estimates that one of them can be ready in a fortnight. Twenty eight families will thus be housed. Over sixty more houses can be complete by next quarter day. And I am certain that there is demand.”
“I see.” The ghost of a smile seemed to flicker about his mouth. “Well, you certainly have a head for figures. And if appearances are anything to go by, your lordship, you, er… have the necessary tolerance for risk.”
It took Keynsham a moment to realize that the banker was making a joke about the lingering bruises on his face. “Ah. Yes. A mere accident.”
The banker raised his eyebrows. “Of course, your lordship. Of course.”
Keynsham took the deed out of his breast pocket. “I have security for the initial loan: A house in Grafton Street.”
“Oh? Grafton Street?” The banker frowned and unfolded the paper. “Interesting. Interesting. I was not aware that your family owned property there.”
“Nor were most people.” Keynsham cleared his throat. “My late father bought it, er… sub rosa , only a few years ago.”
“Ah.” The banker raised his eyebrows even higher. “Well, well. I see. I shall have to value it, of course.” He studied the deed, then refolded it. “However, I am certain that it will be sufficient.” He closed the portfolio. “I see no reason to decline.”
Keynsham waited for him to say more. But the banker merely took off his glasses and began polishing them. “I beg your pardon,” he said, finally. “Did… you just agree to loan me the money?”
The man inclined his head. “I did indeed, your lordship.”
Keynsham had to force himself not to leap up in triumph. “I see. Thank you.”
“Oh, there can be no need to thank me, your lordship.” The old banker rose. “No, no, do not thank me. You will, after all, be paying interest.”