Her gaze on the open windows, she whispered, “I don’t want him supping from my plate, or even”—she groped for words—“drinking from my glass.”
“Nonsense, girl, of course ye do. Every woman wants her husband to be enthralled by her, and ye’re the only one of my girls who’s capable of such a feat.” Lord Gaynor’s booming voice made her cringe as he added, “It won’t hurt to talk to him, now will it?”
In a way, Lord Gaynor was right, but she didn’t want to talk to her betrothed. When Adam turned his intense gaze on her, she felt just as giddy as any schoolgirl. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to faint from fright or fling her arms around his neck, and both reactions made her nervous. Avoiding him seemed the best course of action, easily followed, for he’d made no attempt to seek her out in the few weeks she’d been there.
Yet her da, the eternal matchmaker, seemed determined to bring them in contact. Lord Gaynor pinched her cheek with his well-tended hand, then pinched her other cheek to even the color. “There now. Ye look lovely.”
Hopeless as a prisoner on Tyburn Hill, Bronwyn followed him through the doors to the study.
Adam lifted his head from the papers he’d been filling with the scribble of numbers and observed them without emotion. “Yes?”
Lord Gaynor shoved Bronwyn onto a chair in front of the huge expanse of desk. As he strolled to the decanter, she miserably knitted her fingers in her lap. All of her fingernails were stripped, she noted. She risked a glance at Adam. If he’d heard her father’s proclamations on the terrace, he gave no sign. But that meant nothing. He never gave a sign of his sentiments, never gave any of himself away.
Pouring an ample measure of his morning libation, her father said, “Been meaning to ask ye, Adam, about the date for the wedding. Need to set it. Need to start the whirl of parties.”
Bronwyn closed her eyes. Trust her da to attack the situation with a vengeance.
From too close, she heard Adam answer, “The wedding? I assumed we’d take this time to get to know each other, and marry in, say, October?”
“A sensible plan,” she approved, opening her eyes and preparing to rise.
Her father’s heavy hand pushed her back down. “A wretched long wait,” he complained. “Surely a summer wedding would be better?”
“No.”
Adam’s blunt refusal barely fazed Lord Gaynor.
“When the roses are blooming—”
“No,” Adam said again.
“M’wife brought a wedding gown made to Bronwyn’s specifications.”
Adam leaned back in his chair and studied her father. “It occurs to me, Lord Gaynor, that perhaps you’re bored in my home.”
Dismay slid across Lord Gaynor’s face. “No, no! Not at all. Your home is one of the newest and best in Kensington. Convenient to London, yet with the charms of a country estate. There’s a darlin’ country village with a quaint shop…” A rueful Irish smile tilted Lord Gaynor’s mouth as Adam pulled a disbelieving face. “M’wife and I do find it a bit quiet,” he admitted.
“And you can’t leave until the wedding is performed,” Adam speculated.
“Of course not. Wouldn’t be proper.”
“If I could perhaps sweeten the deal with a little loose change.” Having opened the drawer beside him, Adam pulled out a slip of paper and wrote a few words. Presenting it to Lord Gaynor, he instructed, “Give that to Northrup, my secretary. He’ll get you a draft on my bank. Of course you have use of my carriages—they’ll convey you where you wish. My mother is here to act as chaperone, and Olivia will be happy as long as her sister remains, I suspect.”
Bronwyn’s heart plummeted to her toes. He meant to keep her. She’d been hoping he would sink his honor and hers, too, and dismiss the marriage contract. But no, it seemed he would not, and she knew her father too well to think he’d refuse the money. Every penny produced by his Irish estates slipped through his fingers as easily, as relentlessly, as sand through an hourglass. Indeed, the need for money had been his reason for urging an early wedding, she was sure. He wanted the dowry Adam had agreed to settle on her.
Fingering the paper, Lord Gaynor protested, “I couldn’t take such a loan.”
“Consider it a gift,” Adam urged. “Lady Nora would be glad of a visit to the city, I’m sure.”
As Bronwyn expected, Lord Gaynor pocketed the voucher. Yet he frowned and queried, “Is it true what your friend said?”
“My friend?”
“That fellow Walpole.” Lord Gaynor tossed back his liquor and refilled his glass as if he needed fortification. “Is it true about this money business? Are ye as clever as he says?”
Adam said nothing for a few beats, then admitted, “Yes.”
“Rather disreputable, isn’t it? Making so much money?”
Bronwyn moaned so faintly she knew they couldn’t hear it. Still, Adam bent a glare on her, and she thought the temperature of the room dropped appreciably.
“Not so disreputable as being poor.”
The chill didn’t seem perceptible to Lord Gaynor. “Good thing your family’s an old and noble one. Don’t know how ye’d stand the disgrace, otherwise. Ye’re acting like a merchant.”
“So kind,” Adam murmured.
“Just keep it quiet,” Lord Gaynor said. “If ye don’t rub society’s nose in it, ye’ll keep their respect. I’d hate to have it known my daughter married a clever man.”
Adam’s quiet voice agreed, “Most humiliating.”
Wishing she were anywhere else, Bronwyn closed her eyes again.
“I’m going to be your papa-in-law, and as your own father is dead, I thought ye’d appreciate a little advice.” Lord Gaynor sipped his drink and nodded. “Thought ye’d appreciate it. Not that I mind your head for business. Why, I’d even take a bit of advice from ye and not feel besmirched.”
Adam leaned back in his chair and pulled the feather of his quill through his fingers. “Of course, I’d be glad to advise you, but I doubt Bridget—”
She looked up at him.
“—Bronwyn”—he corrected himself—“would be interested.”
Lord Gaynor drained his glass, then squinted across the breakfast room at Adam. “She’s a clever miss. Ye’d be surprised.”
Adam lifted an eyebrow at her, as if he were questioning her. She looked back down at her hands and wished her da would keep his mouth shut. If he believed cleverness was unacceptable in a man, what madness made him think it should be acclaimed in a woman?
Adam sounded almost amused as he said, “I’ve been down at Change Alley, and the stocks are frenzied as ever.”
“Has the proclamation against the stocks not licensed by Parliament taken effect?” Lord Gaynor asked.
“Enforcement will begin on Midsummer Day—June twenty-fourth.” Foreseeing a long conference, Adam capped his inkwell with a cork. “The rumor of it has burst a few of the bubbles. The owners have packed up shop and left without a whimper. There are others, however, who say they’ll ignore the proclamation, or claim their obsolete charters are legal.”
“Will they succeed in fighting the proclamation?” Lord Gaynor asked.
Bronwyn wrinkled her forehead. When had her feckless da learned enough to comprehend the intricacies of the stock market?
“If I knew that, I could make a lot more of that money which so embarrasses you,” Adam said acidly. “Enforcement will be spotty at first, but it should be efficacious eventually.”
“And when it is?” Lord Gaynor’s eyes glowed.
“Stocks will drop like rocks.” Adam dropped a paperweight as illustration. “Anyone holding the burden of stock will be crushed. Bankrupt.”
A thought as dramatic as it was illuminating streaked across Bronwyn’s mind, and boldly she asked, “Will men be killed?”
Adam looked startled. “Perhaps.”
Lord Gaynor patted the top of her wig. “’Tis not something ye should worry your pretty head about.”
She looked to Adam, and he replied to the
demand in her face. “Certainly the rabble will riot, for they’ll no longer have the illusion of being rich. Men will be killed then.”
“Is there another way to kill a man with this stock?”
Adam tugged at his ear as if he couldn’t believe her questioning, but he answered steadily, “An interesting turn of phrase—killing a man with a stock.” He looked at her inquiringly, but she said nothing. “I have no way of knowing for sure, but I believe there will be suicides.”
“Suicides,” Bronwyn said. “Riots. I think I understand.”
As bewildered as Adam, Lord Gaynor asked, “Understand what, Bronwyn, me colleen?”
Reawakened to her surroundings, Bronwyn bit her lip. “Nothing, Da. Lord Rawson just explained something I had heard but didn’t understand.”
Her father stared at her oddly but asked Adam, “Should I be selling me South Sea stock?”
“You do own some, then?” Adam asked.
“I bought before I came,” Lord Gaynor said without elaboration.
“For how much?”
“For three hundred.”
Adam nodded, satisfied. “You’ll do well. Don’t sell yet. I’ll warn you.”
“I’ll depend on it. ’Twould be a good thing to have a bit of loose cash.” Lord Gaynor strode toward the door. “Are ye coming, me colleen?”
Bronwyn glanced at Adam, then half rose. Yet she had to confirm her suspicions; the dead Henriette’s words haunted her. Kill a man with a stock, Henriette had said; was this stock an investment in a company? She reseated herself. “Not yet, Da.”
His mouth dropped. He appeared as shocked as if she’d declared she’d visit a dragon in his cave, but he couldn’t imagine she would stay to discuss finance. Beaming at her, he said, “There’s me lass.”
Bronwyn writhed under his heavy approbation, so thick it hung in the air like a skunk’s scent. After he left, silence blanketed the room; Bronwyn looked around her with false interest. “You certainly have a large study,” she said brightly.
Adam gave no response.
“With…with the most modern of furniture.” She craned her neck to look up. “And the whole house is constructed in the Palladian style, is it not?” Still no response, and she found Adam’s gaze unblinking on her face. She gave up. She would never be clever with small talk. Clearing her throat, she pursued her topic with less tact and more interest. “Da seems quite enthralled with this stock business. Do you think you could explain it to me?”
Adam steepled his fingers. “What would you like to know?”
She asked the first question that popped into her head. “How did my da get enough money to invest in such a venture?”
“First he had to have a little capital, some money to invest.”
She thought about it. The moneylender again, no doubt. “He had it.”
“The South Sea Company is loaning money to investors so they can buy their own stock, ensuring a flow of money to their coffers from even those too poor to invest properly.”
“And stock is…?”
“A certificate of investment in a company by an individual which gives him the right to a percentage of the largess.”
Bronwyn blinked. “So my da took a little cash down to Change Alley, found someone from the South Sea Company, told him he wished to loan them money. The man took the money, gave Da some vouchers, and if the company makes a profit, Da is entitled to some?”
Adam pushed back his chair and stood. He leaned across his desk, supported by his fingers, and searched her face as if he had discovered gold where he expected only clay. “Extraordinary.” Pushing away his large chair, he dragged two smaller ones to the kneehole and commanded, “Come around here.”
She gaped, horrified by the invitation.
A flash of impatience, then he schooled himself to geniality. “Please come here.”
Cautiously she stood. The desk was massive, new, made of walnut and polished until it shone. It was a very long walk around the edge; she thought she would trip on the fringed rug if she attempted it. But Adam waited on the other side, and for some reason she didn’t want him to think her a coward. Using her mother’s mincing steps, she trod the long loop to his side. He held one of the chairs; she seated herself. He scooted himself in beside her, so close their knees touched. So close she could smell the scent of mint that clung to him like an Irish breeze.
An odd paralysis gripped her, and she held the desk’s scalloped edge until the decoration dug into her palm. Adam made no attempt to ease her discomfort. His coat had been discarded, his throat bare of a cravat. She’d never seen him in such disorder. Always before he’d been formal, proper, fashionable, if severe. She’d refused to consider how he’d look in the marriage bed. A glance at his chest, clad in only his shirt, made her realize why. The fullness of the soft cambric couldn’t disguise the muscles beneath, and she was too aware of his arm as it rested on the back of her chair. Tight against her bared shoulders, its warmth seeped into her skin.
She sat up straight, so her back didn’t touch the chair. “Credit!” She attacked with vigor. “I don’t understand credit.”
He bent his dark gaze on her face, observing, “Nor does most of the country.”
Why was he staring at her so closely? Was there a mark? Did the beauty patch above her upper lip hang loose? She’d been uncomfortable before; now she hung on the hook of suspense. Her fingers fastened on the ruffle of her silk apron, and she plucked at the hem. “How does one buy stocks on credit?”
“With a payment that locks one into a certain number of stocks.”
She wanted to scrub at her skin. “How does one make money? If one tries to redeem the stocks at the office of the South Sea Company, and they’re not completely paid for—”
“What one tries to do is sell them to another investor, leaving him with the debt and taking the profit,” he explained, patient with her ignorance.
“Why would an investor buy a debt?”
“Because he’s—”
“Betting the stock will rise even higher,” she interrupted as the light dawned, “and he’ll be able to make a profit, also.”
For the first time since she’d lived in his house, he smiled. He smiled at her. Her breath caught. She froze. The man she’d thought of as severe, austere, a maiden’s vampire fantasy, transformed himself into a wicked highwayman, waiting to rob her of her good sense. Their eyes locked.
“Is something wrong?”
She thought his voice had deepened, and the smile she found so appealing became a knowing stare.
“No, you…were explaining how the sale of stock worked.” He had grooves beside his mouth, she saw, that deepened with his pleasure. The hem of her apron came loose; she pulled at a thread. “Is there an unlimited amount of South Sea stock to buy?”
“No.”
“That keeps the stock in demand,” she guessed.
“There is more to you than meets the eye.” His fingers touched her cheek, and she jerked back from the contact. His lids drooped; he appeared to know a secret. “I won’t hurt you. I just wanted to see if your skin is as soft as it looks.”
Confused by his attention, she shrugged. “It’s just skin. Like your skin.”
“Not at all like mine.” He lifted her hand away from the ruffle and brought it to his face. “See? The wind and salt of the sea have toughened me.”
He pressed her palm to his chin. She wanted to pull away, but that would be foolish. For some reason she didn’t want him to think she was foolish. Instead she avoided looking at him and felt the stubble of his beard with an increased awareness. Why was she noticing his features in such detail, when she had stayed in his study to speak of stocks?
“And I’m tanned dark by my constant rides into London,” he murmured.
“I’m tanned, too.” Retrieving her hand from his grasp, she flashed him a grin to prove she didn’t care.
“But no freckles. Your complexion is clear as a sunny day.”
Her chin dropped with her s
urprise, but she thought she recovered before he noticed. “Do you buy stocks from the South Sea Company proper, or do you buy from the other investors?”
“Northrup goes to the South Sea Company when the directors have a consignment to sell. For instance, on April fourteenth, he bought shares at the quoted price of three hundred pounds.”
“Each?”
“Each. On April thirtieth, he bought shares for four hundred pounds.” He paused. “Each.”
Was that humor? Spying the twinkle in his eye, she smiled timidly. Understated and rusty, perhaps, but it was humor. “Have you sold that stock?”
“No. In fact, I’ve bought more.”
She smiled more widely, hoping to coax another of those heart-stopping grins from him. “How do you know when to sell?”
“The coffeehouses on Change Alley are a lively place for information, if a man knows what to listen for. There are informants, some reliable and some not, who’ll sell their knowledge for the right price. There are rumors to sift through.”
Her glow broke through to him, and his teeth gleamed in another evidence of his pleasure. His smile sapped the strength from her spine, and she slid against the chair back.
He continued, “An astute man knows what to listen for, and I’ll sell when it’s time. Are you worried about your father’s investments?”
Intent on the arm he wrapped around her shoulders, on the pressure of his knees against hers, she said, “I didn’t even realize he’d made investments. It’s so unlike him to be wise.”
“The stock-buying madness has struck the whole country. I would have been surprised if he were exempt.”
He watched her closely, and she wished she hadn’t revealed so much about her father. She tugged at a loose seam along the ruffle.
Abruptly changing the subject, Adam asked, “Why were you so startled that I noticed you are attractive?”
“Attractive?” She mulled over his choice of adjectives. “I think I have reason to be startled that you now think I’m attractive.”
His half smile acknowledged his guilt. “Haven’t your other admirers been as observant?”
“No,” she faltered. Should she tell him she’d had no other admirers? Should she ask if he were an admirer? She watched him as he picked up his quill and turned back to her. “No,” she decided. He ran his finger along the edge of the feather as if testing its sharpness, and she gripped the apron in a stranglehold. The small sound of tearing silk dismayed her, and to cover it she asked, “Is the whole world gaining wealth?”