Chapter Twelve
ONE TENDED NOT to decline a supper invite from the elusive eleventh Earl of Rossingley, if only to placate one’s wife waiting at home, impatient to discover which of the multiplying stories about the former dandy were true. Such an opportunity would allow her to be the first amongst her pals with the news confirming he’d become a delinquent, deformed, a drunkard, or a dolt.
As they met in the drawing room prior to the guests gathering, the earl filled Kit in on the fellows fortunate enough to receive an invitation. The flustered coquette with whom Kit had trifled in the carriage had vanished, replaced by a cool, commanding peer of the realm. The teasing snips of information Rossingley casually offered Kit whilst still giving very little away regarding the blasted plan , made him all the more intriguing.
“Lord Cobham loathes Gartside.” All business, Rossingley began ticking his guests off, one by one. “The man broke off an engagement to his only daughter in a very public, very distressing manner.”
“Why am I not surprised,” Kit answered.
“Which is why I have arranged to have them sat side by side,” Rossingley added with a hint of mischief. “Sir Richard also loathes him, though his reasons are of no concern to you.”
“And the other guest?” Kit prompted. The table had been laid for six.
“He is a mystery to all.” Rossingley’s pale eyes glittered. “I daresay everyone will find him fascinating and irritating in equal measure.” He adjusted his impeccable cuffs. “Which is precisely why I have invited him.”
Surveying the earl’s guests as they took their seats, Kit would be hard-pressed to find a more peculiar gathering in the whole of the ton . There was a paucity of ladies for a start, but then the earl had never fostered a reputation as a ladies’ man, despite the efforts of many a flirtatious debutante and their scheming mamas.
With his lilac embroidered waistcoat, ramrod frame, and sweep of shockingly white-blond hair, the earl cut a striking figure. Kit mused how Lord Cobham might report back to a disappointed Lady Cobham that Rossingley didn’t appear to have succumbed to any afflictions whatsoever; on the contrary, that fine country air must suit him. And then he might further suggest when this darned thing was all over, they might also retreat to the country, taking their wretched daughter with them. A suggestion that would not land well with his verbose lady.
Sir Richard Hinton, taking up a seat opposite Kit and abstaining from all offers of beverage except for water, wouldn’t report back to anyone at all. Introducing himself as a bachelor, the unprepossessing baronet spoke little whilst observing plenty.
The third of the earl’s guests, a Mr Arthur Hamilton, not only puzzled Kit but, as Rossingley had forewarned, became a source of increasing annoyance. Over the entrées, Kit mostly ignored him, deciding the flamboyant young American was nothing more than a bothersome social butterfly. Over the excellent venison, however, Kit revised that opinion; the man was a street rat masquerading as a bothersome social butterfly. By dessert, he concluded the man was both. He also deduced that Mr Arthur Hamilton was a fellow sodomite and one with clear designs on pinching the earl from under Kit’s nose. Which simply would not do.
And then there was the final guest. Sir Ambrose Gartside himself. The less said about him the better, but prematurely balding, self-important, and weaselly summed him up perfectly. One of those folks whose only path to making their own candle shine brighter was to blow out someone else’s, using whatever means they had at their disposal to do it. That Kit maintained a veneer of civility was neither tactic nor sentiment but a clear instruction issued by the earl prior to his guest’s arrival. Trust me , his lordship had ordered, impaling him on those silvery-blue eyes. Remember, Angel, I have a plan .
Gartside had no idea who Kit was, of course. And having been introduced by the earl in rather vague terms as ‘a man of business visiting from the provinces’, he’d immediately dismissed him, with a barely disguised sneer, as unimportant. Trust me . Fortunately, the earl’s warning still rang in his ears because the alternative to Kit’s cordiality was chaos, and Kit didn’t think his exquisitely mannered earl would be too thrilled if his dinner party dissolved into a common brawl. He comforted himself with the reminder that if the mysterious plan failed and he still wanted to kill Gartside, he’d lead him to a quiet spot and strangle him.
Therefore, despite occupying the seat adjacent to the earl and consuming the most tender, succulent mouthfuls of meat, Kit was out of sorts. Not only was he forced to curb his anger while making polite discourse within six feet of his sister’s attacker, but he was also contending with Mr Hamilton’s determined efforts to render his charming host helpless with laughter. Which he did far too frequently. Adding to his woes, Kit also prayed that Lord Cobham didn’t examine him too closely. Whilst one plethoric iron-haired gentleman in evening dress looked very much like another, Kit had a niggling suspicion that around six months ago, he’d relieved Lord Cobham of a silver snuff box.
But what truly soured his wine was that he simply couldn’t fathom why his earl had gathered such an odd group at all. Yes, Cobham had a daughter in a similar predicament as Kit’s own poor sister. But why invite him to dine with Gartside? Sir Richard, Kit had been apprised, had neither wife, sister, or daughter, and neither did he have a country estate or a fondness for card games. So, what was his objection to Gartside?
As for Mr Hamilton, Kit wouldn’t have the man within ten miles of his own dining table if ever he had sufficient funds to purchase such a piece of furniture. And he would gladly banish him to another continent if he continued batting his lashes at the delectable earl.
And then there was Gartside. Unless one could add being a sodomite to Sir Ambrose’s list of crimes, which Kit hugely doubted, Kit was totally befuddled as to why the earl would ever invite such a thorough bastard into his house to sit alongside Cobham and the rest of them in the first place.
Kit had to patiently drum his fingers until the dessert course came to an end to find out. He had a feeling he wasn’t alone in his musings, as by the time the earl’s guests retired to the sumptuous drawing room, Grosvenor Street’s well of mannerly conversation had run dry. A restlessness settled amongst them or perhaps a realisation that this was no ordinary supper gathering. When the earl’s townhouse butler, Hargreaves, finally withdrew, Lord Cobham—no stranger to his host’s port already this evening—pounced.
“What the deuces is going on, Rossingley? You behave like a recluse for three years, then pop out of the woodwork and demand my presence at dinner with—” he threw his lofty gaze in the direction of Gartside, Mr Hamilton, and Kit, himself, before adding, “these gentlemen.” He said gentlemen in the tone one used after mistakenly stepping in horse muck. “Are you so out of touch?”
The earl responded with a beatific smile. “Believe it or not, my good sir, we all of us have much in common.” Adopting the master of the house’s rightful position of warming his backside against the fireplace, he eyed his attentive guests thoughtfully. “A great deal in common, in fact.”
“Is it that when we take our last breath, we all go to the same place?” suggested Mr Hamilton in an affected drawl. He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his coat as he treated Lord Cobham to a weary look. “Because I’m at a loss to see how I could possibly have an association with anyone who finds Palmerston’s views on the General Maritime Treaty in any way worthy of a fifteen-minute monologue.” Lord Cobham frowned while Kit suppressed a smirk. “And if I ever find myself in that unfortunate position, then could my last breath be sooner rather than later?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” answered the earl.
A slow, seductive smile eased across Hamilton’s face in the direction of their host. At the same time, a look of annoyance spread across Kit’s as jealousy ripped through him, like the slice of a paper cut. He hadn’t anticipated competition for the earl’s affections.
“I must say, this is frightfully cloak and dagger, Rossingley old chap,” huffed Gartside. “I do wish you’d get on with it.”
“D-did w-we all at-t-tend Eton?” hazarded Sir Richard, then cringed as four sets of eyes turned to him.
Some of these nobles, thought Kit irritably, really had no idea an entire world of misery existed beyond Mayfair.
“’Fraid not, old chap,” replied Mr Hamilton in a remarkable imitation of Lord Cobham. “It’s a dreadful thing to admit, but I’m an old Harrovian through and through.”
Kit nearly guffawed, astounded the American strumpet had even heard of that revered educational establishment, let alone the nerve to claim to be a former pupil. Sprawled across the chaise, his every move and every gesture were designed to better display his wares to the earl. The man was an utter enigma, one Kit had already decided much earlier in the evening that he didn’t care for. If anyone was going to tup the earl tonight, it would be him, and him alone.
“I can’t imagine Mr Hamilton and I have anything in common whatsoever,” stated Gartside with an air of finality. “He’s done nothing but agitate. Why he’s here defeats me.”
“To improve the scenery,” quipped Hamilton. “Which is distinctly lacking. My lordship excepted, of course.” He gave the earl one of those smiles, again, of the type setting Kit’s teeth on edge.
The earl returned it with a mildly disapproving look, suggesting now was not the time. As far as Kit was concerned, the time would be never. “Mr Hamilton is here at my behest,” the earl said. “For reasons which will soon become clear.”
Cobham dabbed at his damp forehead. “Well, do get on with it, Rossingley. I have my mistress to call upon within the hour.”
“That lady is truly blessed,” murmured Mr Hamilton.
Inevitably feeling the warmth, Rossingley moved away from the fire and perched his neat, small behind on his solid desk. He’d deliberately intended to keep them all waiting, Kit was sure of it. Though it was entirely feasible, given his sweet tooth, Rossingley had become distracted by the Bakewell pudding.
“Some of you may be aware that, a year ago, I acquired a large cotton mill in the small northern town of Runcorn, situated on the outskirts of Manchester. Like others who have gone before me, and as Sir Richard can no doubt attest, it is proving to be an extraordinarily decent investment. I have purchased the most sophisticated carding and spinning machines available, meaning that instead of piecemeal cotton cloth production, all the stages of assembly now take place under one roof. Added to the recent installation of powered looms, my factory is the most highly productive mill in the north of England.”
Whereas Sir Richard showed a very keen interest, Gartside’s eyes glazed over. He sighed heavily.
“I was hoping we were here to play a few hands of piquet, Rossingley. Not receive a potted history of cotton manufacture.” According to Rossingley, Gartside’s enthusiasm for business matters extended to calculating race odds and no more, much to the vexation of his deceased father.
“Have some patience, my good fellow,” countered Rossingley briskly. “I’m just coming to the interesting part. What you may not be aware of is that I also acquired a parcel of land adjacent to my mill. This extends it to eight hectares and plenty large enough for the construction of four more profitable mills. And they can all share the same power supply, thus making my process even more economical.”
“Runcorn is l-l-linked to t-the Bridgewater C-C-Canal,” observed Sir Richard knowledgeably.
“Indeed.” Rossingley shot him a grateful smile. “Which brings me around to Mr Hamilton and Mr Angel. Mr Hamilton’s family owns a large cotton plantation in South Carolina; his raw cotton is transported to England via Liverpool and provides for my mill.” He inclined his head towards Mr Hamilton, who beamed back. “May I take this opportunity to point out that Mr Hamilton’s family does not use enslaved labour?”
Kit had the impression neither Cobham nor Gartside cared one way or another how the Hamiltons procured their raw cotton, but the observation won an approving nod from the more enlightened Sir Richard. The earl continued.
“The construction of four more mills will establish me as the Hamilton plantation’s most important overseas business partner. Indeed, I will become the biggest single buyer of raw cotton in England.”
“My word, you have been busy,” spluttered Cobham. “And there was the ton believing you had intractable gout or an exhausting young filly keeping you chained to the bedchamber.”
“’Fraid to disappoint,” answered Lando with a tiny smile. “I have simply been ensuring that when I throw in my dinner pail, my eldest son inherits a healthy earldom.”
At this, he gave a pointed look in Gartside’s direction, not that the man picked up on it.
“Now, if I may.” The earl gestured with his glass. “The time has come to properly introduce Mr Angel here. Or, if I may be so bold as to use his full title—Master Collector of Customs at the Northern Board of Customs and Chief Inspector of the River. As the most senior government officer at Liverpool Docks, Mr Angel oversees His Majesty’s customs in the region in their entirety. He reports to, and has the ear of, the foreign secretary himself.”
For a second, Kit wondered if he was still in possession of his own ears, never mind someone else’s. He… he what?…he was who ? Four sets of eyes swivelled in his direction.
Rooted to the spot, it took all of his poker skills honed from two years fleecing his fellow man at the card tables not to gasp out loud. He was what ? A Master something…something Collector of the River ? The most senior government official? Buggeration. Kit didn’t have the first clue about the cotton industry, let alone the shipping one. What the blazes was the earl up to?
While all present sized him up, Kit became acutely aware of two things. One, he was now the centre of attention and not entirely happy about it, and two, he understood why the earl had ensured he was clothed in his tailor’s finery. Very snug, very hot finery. Trust me , he’d said. And Kit had until he’d pulled this rabbit from the hat. The lord was as bold as brass!
“Monthly meetings with Castlereagh, I understand?” reiterated the earl, his steely pale gaze boring into Kit’s.
Trust me . At that moment, Kit felt more of an urge to kill him. “Absolutely,” he agreed with a lot more swagger than he felt. “We dine together the third Wednesday of every month.”
Adopting a severe expression, praying it chimed with acting the part of Viscount bloody Castlereagh’s most revered member of the Northern Board of Customs and Trout Collecting or whatever it was—did such an establishment actually exist?—Kit stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“If you brought us here to brag, Rossingley, then you could have saved yourself the bother,” chuntered Gartside. “As fascinating as you clearly believe this cotton stuff is, I have a table and three chums awaiting my sharp wits at White’s, and—”
“He hasn’t b-b-brought us here to b-b-brag, have you?” Sir Richard’s eyes narrowed. “He needs s-something.”
“Quite right,” agreed Rossingley warmly. “I knew you’d understand.” He took a minute swallow of port. “In principle, Mr Angel here—and thereby the British government—has approved an enhanced trade agreement with Mr Hamilton’s family and the building of four more cotton mills adjacent to my existing one. All that remains, in order for my enterprise to become the biggest producer of cotton cloth in the whole of England, is to expand the trade route via the Bridgewater Canal and then build the blasted things.”
“But even you can’t do that on your own,” chimed in Cobham, Sir Richard’s obvious interest stirring his own. “Can you, Rossingley?”
The earl tilted his head thoughtfully. “More that I am of the opinion one should never put one’s eggs all in the same basket, should one not?” His tone was solemn. “As tempted as I am to keep this potential goldmine to myself, even I am reluctant to fund the building of four mills and sponsor widening the trade route through Liverpool Docks all by myself. The project is costly as well as complicated and necessitates more than one sound mind to oversee it. Working at very close quarters with Mr Angel, of course.”
Before Kit could divine whether that last comment was quite as innocuous as it seemed, Rossingley sucked in a breath.
“Mr Angel assures me that, in partnership with a shrewd fellow investor, the project is viable and will become the biggest of its kind in England.” He hooked Kit in his glittery gaze. “Isn’t that right, Mr Angel?”
Kit swore he was going to kill him. All that remained was the method. “Y-yes,” he replied weakly. “Absolutely.”
“Maybe in the world,” interrupted Mr Hamilton in his southern drawl. “England already produces half of the world’s cotton cloth. Rossingley’s empire would sure be as big as anything we have back home.”
“Indeed, Mr Hamilton.” The earl gave him an appreciative nod. “So I have been informed.” He turned his regard back to the others. “You have been invited here tonight as I view you all as possible partners in this venture. It goes without saying that you all have reputations as honest businessmen of great wealth and excellent standing.”
The words hung there as the gentlemen examined one another. To his left, Kit became aware of Cobham leaning forward, brow furrowed in concentration, his full glass of port and his waiting mistress forgotten. Sir Richard’s eyes were closed; his fingers twitched as if performing sums in his head. Gartside’s oily gaze was so fixated on the earl it was a surprise he didn’t recoil from the putrid heat of it. Meanwhile, Mr Hamilton simply crossed one well-shod foot over the other and examined his well-kept fingernails as if the earl was discussing a rout at Gentleman Jack’s or his favourite snuff box. Kit found himself in the same position as Gartside, unable to tear his eyes away from the immaculate slender figure in lilac, commanding the attention of every man in the room.
“Developing such a swathe of land will be controversial and likely spark some unrest,” Rossingley continued smoothly. “There has been a recent outbreak of smallpox at a mill in Bury, and a growing number of workers are petitioning Parliament about working conditions. There’s a call to put a halt to expansion. Which means that we must tread lightly. It is imperative that my proposal not be spoken about in public until everything is signed and sealed. So, as gentleman, I trust you will be as silent as clams until I choose a suitable investment partner, and the deal is done.”
“Only one p-p-partner?” queried Sir Richard.
“Only one,” confirmed Rossingley. “Given the project is of such magnitude and national import, Angel here will be charged with selecting the right chap on my behalf. And…” At this point, he slowed to capture the eye of every man in the room. “…as I have already made clear, I would like that person to be one of the fine gentlemen here in this room.”
Kit stared at Rossingley intently as he topped up everyone’s port except his own. His guests stared at one another. Trickery was afoot, of course. Of that much Kit was certain. Trickery on a vast scale. I’m going to steal his estate . Kit had thought that wild assertion had been simply an excess of brandy talking. Now, with the man spinning a tale so outlandish, he wasn’t so sure.
A sliver of excitement curled in the pit of his belly. Rossingley’s foppish exterior was nothing but an affection. The man was cunning as a snake. The whole thing was an elaborate lie, or huge tracts of it, built on nothing but the earl’s title, wealth, and good standing.
But for the life of him, Kit couldn’t pinpoint what Rossingley was up to. How did he know so much about the cotton trade? And why these particular guests? Presumably because they were as wealthy as he purported. No doubt Cobham had deep pockets, Sir Richard too. And he’d have to take the earl’s word regarding Hamilton, the odd American. But why Gartside, when both he and Rossingley knew the man had begun accruing unpaid debts all over the ton ? He still had some funds at his disposable, according to the earl, but they were slipping through his fingers as fast as he could shuffle cards.
“One thing, Rossingley,” queried Lord Cobham, the first to formulate his thoughts. “The investment sounds promising—I will need my man of business to look into the finer details, of course. But if this thing is to be done so quietly, why the devil have you not simply approached us one at a time in a more discreet manner?”
The earl smiled broadly. “Oh, the answer to that is quite simple. Mr Hamilton here has already made me an excellent offer to be my business partner, one he doesn’t believe I can refuse. Essentially, it is with the aim of supplying his own American cotton to English mills in which he would have a half share. And, I admit, I was sorely tempted. But—forgive me, Mr Hamilton, for being so indelicate, though I have already expressed this opinion to you.” He threw Hamilton an apologetic smile before readdressing the others. “One simply cannot trust foreigners, can one? As much as I’d enjoy Mr Hamilton’s blunt, I don’t care for it. And nor does the Northern Board of Customs as Mr Angel can vouch. If American cotton supplies take a downturn—and simply one poor summer will suffice—we would revert to Indian trade routes, yet be stuck with an American owning half of all my mills.”
“As you can imagine, gentlemen,” answered Hamilton, with the first hint of displeasure Kit had heard from him all evening. “I have reassured Rossingley on numerous occasions that my plantation thrives regardless of inclement weather. I can provide all his needs.” His dark gaze flicked to Rossingley. “Every single one of them.”
“And I have reassured you,” Rossingley countered with a sweet smile, “That whilst your offer is much appreciated, I prefer to deal with old friends and families who have been in the ken of my own family for nigh on a hundred years. One cannot ignore the weight of history, my dear Hamilton, even if one hails from a country so thrillingly grand and progressive as America.”
“You are m-m-mitigating risk,” got out Sir Richard.
“Exactly,” said the earl, pleased. “Like every astute businessman should. So, if you are interested in pursuing this venture, over the coming days, you will have ample opportunity to study the finer details with Mr Angel, who will be delighted to share them with you. After that, if you feel you have the heart for it, place a bid! Join me! And if your offer comes close to the amount that Mr Hamilton and his family are prepared to put on the table, then I daresay I will have found myself an excellent business partner. What say you, chaps?”