Priceless (6 page)

“You hold yourself so cheaply?”

“Not myself. But men want beauty, wit, a gracious way with the harp. Nothing more.”

Mab sighed. “You’re a parrot, repeating your lessons.”

“Mab”—odd how Bronwyn felt so at home with the name—“your son offered for me because he believed I was like my sisters.”

“And how are they?”

“Beautiful and empty-headed.” Bronwyn nibbled her
thumbnail. “To marry into the Edana family guarantees a man will have a wife who’ll pull him to the top of the social heap. My sisters are, without a doubt, the best hostesses in London. An invitation to one of their parties is a privilege much sought after.”

“Then you’ll be giving parties like that?”

“No doubt.”

“And the ton will fight for your invitations, as they fight for your sisters?”

“I’d better pull it off, or Lord Rawson will be disappointed again.” With a shrug of sorrow for her ragged nails, Bronwyn demolished her manicure.

“How else is Adam disappointed?”

“I’m not witty. I don’t play the harp.” Sweeping her hand along her length, Bronwyn explained, “I’m certainly not beautiful.”

“Ah.” Mab’s head went down, and she hid the expression in her eyes while she stitched. “Of course, your sisters’ beauty has made their lives perfect.”

“Well, no.” In her mind, Bronwyn drifted out of the room. Mab’s constant probes made her remember the dream she’d had as a child. The dream of a man who’d laugh with her, talk with her, love her for herself. But the picture of Adam, scowling, sarcastic, intruded into her imagination, and she sighed. “Actually, their husbands keep mistresses, and some of my sisters have their lovers, too.”

Satisfied, Mab said, “Their beauty hasn’t kept their husbands by their sides. But there is another way.”

On Adam’s return to the drawing room, he found Walpole taking his leave. “Must you go, Robert? This is going to be a deadly bore without you.”

“Love to help you out”—Walpole’s grin denied his concern—“but indeed I must leave. The actress who is my trollop
has made a small fortune on Change Alley and is retiring. Tonight, she insists, is her farewell performance. You don’t expect me to miss it, do you?”

Adam walked with him toward the door. “What was her name again?”

“Mrs. Ash,” Walpole said.

“Mrs. Ash is such an exhibitionist, she’ll return to the stage regardless of her wealth.”

“Oh, it’s not her farewell performance on the
stage
,” Walpole corrected.

Adam digested that. “Then you must not be late. How would she perform without you?”

“My thought exactly. But I did want to speak to you.” Walpole glanced about him. “Where can we be alone?”

Adam led the way into his study, and Walpole shut the door behind them.

With lifted brow, Adam studied him. “If you’re going to tell me a state secret, I don’t want to know.”

“The only state secret I know is that the Prince of Wales hates his father,” Walpole said absently.

Adam snorted. “Quite a secret.”

“It’s quite a state.” Walpole took a turn about the room while Adam leaned against the edge of his desk. “It’s this South Sea Company business,” Walpole burst out. “There’s something wrong with it.”

“Indeed there is,” Adam agreed, “but I thought we’d covered that.”

“There’s something more.” The normally placid man tapped his fingers against the elaborate marble fireplace mantel. “My spies are bringing me some damnable rumors, and I don’t like them. I can’t confirm them, but I don’t like them.”

“Such as?”

“There’s more here than a simple swindle. The directors are too smart for their own good, and I believe they have plans for the government.”

“The government?”

“You know I used to be first lord of the Treasury and chancellor of the Exchequer.” Walpole rolled the title off his tongue, and Adam grinned.

“A very able chancellor, too.”

Settling his shoulder against the mantel, Walpole shrugged without modesty. “I tend to agree. Now I’m merely a lowly Member of Parliament.”

“Hardly lowly,” Adam observed. “You may pretend to be a country squire, you may be the lewdest man I’ve ever met—”

Walpole beamed, not at all offended.

“—but there’s none more competent than you when it comes to steering the government. Someday, God willing, you’ll direct this country to its proper glory.”

Scratching the stubble on his chin, Walpole said, “I’ll not argue with you. England just needs a good, long peace and she’ll be the greatest nation this world has ever known. I tell you the truth, Adam, I’m planning to direct her.” His shrewd gaze met Adam’s. “Nothing will stop me.”

Such a clear declaration didn’t shock Adam, but he wondered, “To how many other men have you confided your ambitions?”

“No one.”

“Not even when you’d spliced the main brace and were so drunk you couldn’t see straight?”

“Perhaps once,” Walpole admitted.

“In your usual shy, retiring manner, you told an entire dinner party you planned to run the government, is that correct?”

“I detect sarcasm in your voice.”

Adam placed his fingers on his chest and pulled a long face. “I? Sarcastic? Good God, Robert, you’re lucky no one has shot you.”

“I told you, I’m nobody.”

“Who’s clever enough to be somebody.” Adam shook
his head. “Robert, Robert, Robert. What will I do with you?”

Fingering the design of the marble, Walpole demanded, “Spy for me.”

“What?”

“You heard me. There’s some plot afoot, and I want to know what it is.” Earnest and inquisitive, he peered at Adam. “There’s a buzzing that fades whenever one of my informants gets close.”

Adam covered his sense of savage frustration. “And you thought perhaps I would be well suited for the nasty business of spying?”

Swept away by enthusiasm, Walpole paid no attention to the warning signs. “Particularly well suited. You know the coffeehouses on Change Alley as well as any man on earth. If there’s a way to discover this intent—or even the source of the intent—you can do it.”

“What makes you think I can do you any good? Everyone knows you’re my friend.”

“Perhaps you can’t, but it’s worth an effort. Spying pays well,” Walpole hinted. “Court appointments, favors, even cash.”

Adam’s fury abruptly sprang out of control. He leaned forward, his breath rushing between his teeth as he fought to keep his hands from around Walpole’s neck. “If that’s what you think of me, get out of this house and never come back. My father stooped to every dishonest endeavor that came his way and was damned proficient, but to you, at least, I thought I’d proved—”

“Damn it to hell!” A string of ever-stronger expletives, notable for their variety and description, clouded the air around Walpole. “Do you still fret that old scandal? No one remembers it—there’s nothing older than last year’s news, and that was years ago.”

“My father dishonored this family so thoroughly, the stain will never be wiped away. Do you honestly believe no
one remembers?” Adam asked with a sneer. “The ladies titter behind their fans, while the men step back from me as if they will be contaminated by my presence.”

“Maybe, just maybe, that’s because you stalk around like the devil seeking new souls.” Walpole strode toward Adam, poking his finger into the air like a schoolmaster about to cane a boy. “Social gatherings are frivolous conversation, flirtations, deep drinking, revelry. Then you come in and glower at the assemblage—just as you’re glowering now—”

Adam tried to lighten his expression, and Walpole shook his head. “Better to cover your eyes, Adam. You go to a party and the hostess sighs. She knows if you join a casual game of cards with the gentlemen, they’ll all find excuses to leave. Not because you’ll contaminate them, but because they know they’ll be solving the world’s problems before the first hand is done. Can’t discuss their fancy women, can’t talk horses, can’t talk about their newest shipment of smuggled brandy, just have to be somber. Talk finance, or farming methods, or some other deadly dull subject.”

“Come, I’m not that bad,” Adam objected.

“Put a damper wherever you go,” Walpole insisted. “And with the ladies, it’s worse. You subject those fragile flowers of the ton to that stare of yours, and they either want to get in your breeches or faint. Or both. The fire of your gaze, the ice of your personality, fascinates them. No wonder you had to seize on a fiancée who hadn’t met you. I don’t understand why that young woman hasn’t run from the house screaming.”

Adam snorted, but his temper began to fade, and Walpole flung his arm about Adam’s shoulders. “I meant nothing by offering you a bribe. How the hell do you think the nation runs? Corruption’s the backbone of the English system, and it’s the best in the world. Why cavil at success?”

Steady as a rock, Adam answered, “I don’t give a damn if the whole world does it, it doesn’t make it right.”

“Self-righteous bastard!” Walpole glared right into Adam’s eyes. “If you think I’m going to work my arse off for a pittance, you’re mad! Why take a government appointment if you can’t feather your nest?”

“Mayhap you should do it for Mother England,” Adam suggested.

“Mayhap
you
should do it for Mother England,” Walpole repeated right back at him.

Understanding came quickly. “Spy, you mean?”

As Adam’s reason returned, Walpole grew bold. “For God’s sake, man, think. If I don’t take the reins of the government, who will? The king just wants to return to his beloved home in Hanover to swive his dirt-ugly mistresses. The Tories are in total disarray. My Whigs have no well-defined leadership, and when this South Sea bubble bursts, every man and woman who bought stock will riot. You’ve been in London when the rabble riots. You know they’ll overturn the carriages of the rich and break every shop window between here and Islington.” Walpole’s earnest appeal lost nothing by being self-serving. He was right, and Adam knew it. “This rumor could be my key to the most influential post in England.”

“And it could be a chimera.”

“And it could be a chimera,” Walpole conceded. “In that case, you aren’t spying, are you?”

A disgusted smile curved Adam’s lips.

Encouraged, Walpole coaxed, “Say you’ll do it.”

Adam lowered his head. The role of spy tasted foul in his mouth, but what choice did he have? When he’d been sick unto death with the infection in his leg and the ship’s leech had threatened to amputate it, he’d thought he would never again see the green shores of England. He’d vowed to kiss the sweet earth if ever God allowed him to return. He would do anything to preserve
this country, and he believed Walpole was the man to carry England to its greatest heights. Fixing Walpole with the intense stare he was still unaware of, Adam said, “I’ll do it.”

“Da, let me go.” Desperate to escape, Bronwyn tugged at
her hand, her ruffled silk apron fluttering about her waist.

Lord Gaynor paid no attention as he dragged her along the tended paths toward the study where Adam worked. “Ye’ll have to talk with him sooner or later, me darlin’,” he advised. “Saying ‘How de do?’ on your wedding night’s not decorous at all.”

“Maman doesn’t care,” Bronwyn protested.

“Your mother’s an excellent woman, but she’s a bit of a cold fish when it comes to matters of the heart. A little practical, if ye follow me meaning.” He stopped on the wide terrace and patted her hand. “Just leave this to your ol’ da. I’ll have Lord Rawson supping from your plate before the day is over.”

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 paper
weight 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 cam
bric 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—”