Belgravia (20 page)

“Yes, I do,” nodded Stephen. He remembered the fellow, all right. This was the young man who had been seated next to her in the place of honor. He was the man she had paraded around the party. He was working at something with that pompous fool Trenchard. And now here he was again.

“Charles has just been telling me all about his plans. He has a cotton mill in Manchester.” She was beaming.

It seemed very strange to Stephen. “Are you interested in Mancunian cotton mills?” he said.

“Lady Brockenhurst has given her patronage to my efforts.” Charles smiled, as if this explained anything.

“She has?” Stephen looked from one to the other.

The Countess nodded. “Yes,” she said. But she did not elaborate. Instead, she ushered Charles toward the head of the stairs. “And I have delayed him quite long enough.” She laughed lightly, sweeping past Stephen to follow Charles down the stairs. “I have so enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Pope. I look forward to our next meeting.” In the hall, the waiting footman gave Charles his coat and held the door as he left. Caroline glanced up, but rather than rejoin her brother-in-law, she walked into the dining room and
closed the door. It was some minutes before Stephen came down. He had the nagging suspicion that what he had just witnessed and his need for money could somehow be combined to his advantage, but he had not yet formulated how.

When Charles Pope walked out of Brockenhurst House into the bright sunshine of Belgrave Square, he was excited. His meeting with the Countess had gone well, and she had promised him more money than he could possibly have hoped for, double the amount she had originally proposed. Of course the burning question was why? But then why had Mr. Trenchard been so generous in advancing the deposit for the mill in the first place, on such advantageous terms? Now his new patroness would allow him to establish his cotton sources in India and expand the business in a way that he’d thought would take another decade. Again, why? It was very puzzling. He felt truly honored to have been invited to Lady Brockenhurst’s house, and she had made him feel welcome. But he could not help wondering what he could possibly have done to deserve such good fortune.

“Someone looks terribly pleased with himself.”

Charles spun around and squinted into the sun. “You?”

“Me?” The girl smiled.

“Lady Maria Grey, if I am not mistaken?” He had asked after her at the party, pointing her out to their hostess, and so he knew her rank. It was a blow. If he had hoped she was within his grasp, he knew at once that she was not. Still, it was good to see her again. He couldn’t deny it.

“The very one. And you are Mr. Pope.” She was wearing a tight, buttoned, dark blue jacket over her wide petticoats and a bonnet trimmed with flowers of the same color. He thought he had never set eyes on a lovelier sight. “And why, may I inquire, are you so full of the joys of spring?” She laughed pleasantly.

“Just business. You’d find it very dull,” said Charles.

“You don’t know that. Why do men always presume that women are only interested in gossip and fashion?” They stared at each other. There was a slight cough. Charles turned to see a
woman in black. She must be Lady Maria’s maid, he thought. Of course. She’d never be allowed out unchaperoned.

“Forgive me,” replied Charles, bringing his hands together as if in supplication. “I meant no offense. I simply didn’t think the financing of a cotton supply would be particularly diverting.”

“I shall be the judge of that, Mr. Pope.” She smiled. “So, tell me some more about your mill and your cotton, and if I find the subject tiresome, I shall stifle a yawn behind my gloved hand and then you’ll realize that you have failed. How would that be?” She cocked her head to one side.

Charles smiled. Maria Grey was unlike any woman he’d met. She was beautiful and charming, certainly, but also forthright, challenging, and possibly rather stubborn. “I will endeavor to meet the challenge,” replied Charles. “Are you on your way somewhere?”

“I’m going to the new London Library; I was thinking I might join. Mr. Carlyle is a friend of Mama’s, and he waxes lyrical over its merits, which, according to him, are vastly superior to those of the library at the British Museum, although I find that hard to believe. Ryan is accompanying me.”

She nodded at the woman with her, but Miss Ryan did not seem very comfortable with the way things were progressing. At last she spoke. “M’lady—”

“What is it?” But the maid was silent, so Maria took her to one side. She returned in a moment, smiling. “She thinks Mama will disapprove of our being seen walking and talking together.”

“Will she?”

“Probably.” But this answer did not seem to indicate that the proposed adventure was not going to happen. “Where are you headed?”

“I was on my way back to my office.”

“And where might that be?”

“Bishopsgate. In the City.”

“Then we shall walk with you for part of the journey. The library is at forty-nine Pall Mall, so we won’t take you out of your way. And while we go, you shall explain to us the world of cotton and exactly what you’re planning to do in India, in as entertaining
a manner as possible. Then we shall part and continue about our business.”

And so, for the next half an hour, as the three of them walked through the Green Park, Charles Pope explained the intricacies of the cotton trade. He talked about how he planned to expand, and after that about a new loom that had an automatic braking system that would shut down as soon as the threads broke. And all the time Maria was watching his excitement and listening to the fervor in his voice and enjoying the way his lips moved. By the time they reached the corner of the Green Park and Piccadilly, Maria knew almost everything there was to know about the harvesting, supplying, and weaving of cotton.

“You win!” she declared, spinning her lilac parasol on her shoulder.

“Win what?” Charles was confused.

“I did not have to stifle a single yawn. You were both informative and amusing. Bravo!” She laughed, clapping her gloved hands. He made a bow. “I should love to come and see your offices for myself one day,” she said.

“I’m afraid if your mama did not think we should walk together”—he looked across at Ryan, who was standing with a stony face—“I’d find it hard to believe that she would think a visit to Bishopsgate quite the—”

“Nonsense. You say Lady Brockenhurst has taken an interest in your company, so why shouldn’t I come and see it for myself?”

“I don’t see the connection.” Charles frowned.

But Maria had spoken without thinking. Now she stumbled over her reply. “I’m… engaged to her nephew.”

“Ah.” How foolish he was to feel disappointed. To feel worse than disappointed, as if he had lost a pearl of great price. What was he thinking? That someone as beautiful and clever as Maria Grey would have no suitors? Of course she was engaged. And anyway, she was the daughter of a noble family and he was a nobody, the son of no one. But still all he could say was, “Ah.”

“Perhaps Lady Brockenhurst and I could visit you together,” continued Maria a little too brightly.

“Nothing would give me more pleasure.” Charles Pope smiled and raised his hat. “To work,” he declared, then he bid them good day, turned, and walked off up Piccadilly.

John Bellasis was in Mr. Pimm’s Chop House at number 3 Poultry, sipping a tankard of ale, when his father marched through the door and sat down opposite him. John had been visiting a broker friend who had an office around the corner in Old Jewry, as he did most Tuesdays. He was already working out ways to expand and invest his future fortune. It was important to be seen to go through the motions, he told himself, so that those to whom he currently owed money would have confidence they might eventually be paid.

“There you are,” announced Stephen.

“Good day, Father. How did you know where to find me?”

“You’re always here,” said Stephen, leaning in. “So.” He slapped his hands hard on the table. “He said no.”

“Who?” John put down his pint and pushed away his plate of well-chewed mutton bones.

“Your uncle, of course.” Stephen tugged at his bands. “What am I to do?” He knew his tone was becoming shrill, but he was panicking. “I only have two days… or rather, one day now.”

“How much did you ask him for?” John didn’t need to guess the reason for his father’s distress. It was always about money and bad debts.

“A thousand pounds.” Stephen looked down at John’s plate to see if there was anything worth picking at. His fingers hovered over the bones but eventually plumped for a cold buttered carrot. “I owe Schmitt.”

“Schmitt? That brute!” John raised his eyebrows and sighed. “Then you had better pay him.”

“I know.” Stephen nodded, chewing the carrot. “Can you think of anyone who could help me?”

“You mean a moneylender?”

“Of course I mean a moneylender. If I could borrow from them to pay Schmitt, that would give me a few days to negotiate a loan,
or something. There’ll be an interest payment, but if I can borrow even five hundred then I might be able to buy myself some extra time.”

“I know a few. But I am not sure you could get that amount of cash so quickly. Why can’t you go to a bank?” John drummed his manicured fingers on the table. “They know who we are, they know the family has a fortune and that eventually it will come to me. Couldn’t you borrow against that?”

“I’ve tried before.” Stephen was holding nothing back. “They think my brother is too healthy and the wait will be a long one.”

John shrugged. “I do know a Polish chap, Emile Kruchinsky, who lives near the East End. He could get you the money in time.”

“What does he charge?”

“Fifty percent.”

“Fifty!”
Stephen puffed his cheeks out as he watched the waitress bend over to clear the small wooden booth opposite. Her plump backside swayed left and right as she wiped the table. “That’s a bit steep.”

“It’s the going rate for emergencies,” replied John. “They have you over a barrel and they know it. Is there really nothing left to sell?”

“Only Harley Street, and that’s mortgaged to the hilt. I doubt we’d walk away with a penny piece.”

“Then you must convince the bank or visit the Pole,” John said, and sniffed.

“Do you know whom I saw in Belgrave Square today, at your uncle’s house?” Stephen said, frowning. “That man, Charles Pope.

“Trenchard’s protégé? The one who was at the party?” John looked confused. “Why was he there again?”

“Who knows?” nodded Stephen. “But he was. He and your aunt were laughing away, in her private sitting room of all places. I caught them as he came out. It seemed very rum to me. The boy blushed when I saw him. He really blushed.”

“You don’t suppose they were enjoying an assignation?” John joked.

“Good gracious, no.” Stephen chuckled as he leaned back into
the banquette. “But there is something going on there, let me tell you. She’s investing in his business.”

“She is?” John sat up. Now that money had been mentioned, he was suddenly interested. “Why would she take an interest in any business, let alone business with an unknown man from nowhere?”

“Exactly,” agreed his father. “And they were very friendly, for two people who have just met. Do you remember the way she paraded him around the rooms at her soirée? It was almost unseemly. A woman in her position, and such a young man.…”

“Who is he? Does anyone know anything about his background? There must be something we can turn up.”

“Not that I can tell. I don’t like the look of him myself, and I certainly don’t like the hold he has over my Lady Brockenhurst. She’s making a fool of herself.”

“Do you know how much she’s invested?”

“Well, young Mr. Pope looked exceptionally pleased with himself when he left,” mused Stephen. “So I imagine it must be a good sum. Why on earth is she giving money to a stranger when my dear brother will not even help out his own flesh and blood?”

“Exactly.” John nodded. They both sat at the wooden table in silence for a moment, contemplating the injustice of the situation.

“We need to discover who this man is,” said Stephen eventually.

“I think I may be able to help you,” said John.

“How?” Stephen looked at his son across the table.

“I’m quite friendly with the younger Mrs. Trenchard,” John ventured. “She told me that her father-in-law has known Pope for a while.”

His father was looking at him. “How friendly?”

“I bumped into her at the National Gallery and we had some tea.”

“Indeed?” Stephen knew his son only too well.

John shook his head. “It was all perfectly respectable. She was there with her maid. I could ask her what else she knows.”

“The maid?”

“I meant Mrs. Trenchard, but perhaps that’s not a bad idea.
Servants always find out everything. And whatever is going on with this Charles Pope, I want to know about it. All we have to go on is that he’s a business friend of that clodhopper James Trenchard, and now, suddenly, my fastidious aunt is throwing money at him, money that should one day, given a cold breeze in the right direction, be ours. Is it so unreasonable that we should want to know why?”

Stephen nodded vigorously. “The answer must lie with the Trenchards.”

“And when we unravel that, we can trace the connection with my aunt.”

Stephen nodded again. “There has to be some history between them. Between Mr. Pope and Caroline, or possibly between him and Peregrine. And if we find it out, then maybe, as Caroline is being so free with her finances at the moment, she’ll pay to keep that information secret.”

“Are you suggesting we blackmail my aunt?” John looked at his father. For once, he was almost shocked.

“I most certainly am. And you will start us off by learning the secrets of the Trenchard household.” Stephen’s right leg began to bounce up and down under the table. This could be the answer to all his prayers.

Two days later, John walked into the Horse and Groom public house in Groom Place. It might have been only a few minutes’ walk from Eaton Square and the grand houses of Belgravia, but it was a different world.

He had managed to arrange a brief meeting with Speer on the pavement opposite the Trenchards’. On the pretext of planning another rendezvous with Susan, he’d picked the maid’s brains as to where the members of the Trenchard household enjoyed spending their hours off. Of course she knew he was up to something, and, for a moment, he’d contemplated asking her to do a little digging on his behalf, but he suspected she and Susan shared most of their conversations and he did not want Susan privy to too much of his business quite yet. She was delightful, of course, but the
speed with which she had fallen into bed made him wary. She was clearly not a cautious woman, and he was not sure how far he could trust her. Eventually, the maid suggested that if he wanted some inside help, he should start with Mr. Turton, the butler, and he always drank at the Horse and Groom around the corner. John was surprised at first. The butler was usually the best paid and therefore the most loyal in a household. But he decided Speer must know what she was talking about.