A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(12)
By the time Aunt Esther joined them five minutes later, claiming to have confused the day of her appointment—as if the Duchess of Moreland couldn’t keep the days of the week straight—Charlotte had decided only that she must have at least three days to consider Sherbourne’s proposal.
Three days was not long to ponder a decision that would affect Charlotte’s entire future, but 4,320 minutes was an eternity to wait before she could sample another one of Sherbourne’s kisses.
*
Sherbourne suspected that the London newspaper had been invented so that men dining alone at their clubs had a fig leaf to drape across their pride. A fellow poring over the financial pages while consuming his steak could make the food—necessary for the life of every species—look like the afterthought crammed between more important undertakings.
Sherbourne refused to indulge such a fiction. A good steak was worth appreciating. Too many hardworking subjects of the crown rarely had that privilege.
He thus sat in unlordly splendor alone at a table by the window, the passing scene on the street holding his interest between bites of fine English beef. The days were growing shorter, but the nights had yet to acquire a true chill. The thoroughfares of St. James were thronged as the sun set and the mood of the neighborhood shifted from work to play.
Directly across the street were two discreet brothels, indistinguishable from their genteel neighbors but for the volume of masculine foot traffic coming and going through their doors. Young men mostly, well dressed, and—based on their expressions as they emerged—well pleasured.
In a just world, the ladies would be well compensated for putting up with the young fools, though Sherbourne knew from long experience that the world was not just.
“Good evening, Sherbourne. Might I join you?” Quinton, Earl of Brantford, pulled out the chair across from Sherbourne. “Presumptuous of me, but when Parliament sits, one must resort to desperate measures to avoid the politically impassioned.”
A waiter was already crossing the room, cutlery for a second place setting in his hand.
“Brantford,” Sherbourne said, gesturing with his wineglass. “How flattering, to be elevated to the status of a desperate measure. By all means, join me.”
The waiter organized silver in a precise pattern on the linen tablecloth, then whisked a table napkin across Brantford’s lap and poured his lordship a glass of the expensive vintage Sherbourne had planned to savor over the next two hours.
“Humor makes so many situations more bearable,” Brantford said, sipping his wine. “That is decent potation, if I do say so myself.”
Brantford had a title and means. His family seat was in the north, and his holdings included coal mines. Sherbourne had made it a point to acquaint himself with aristocrats who held mining shares, or—like Brantford—owned mines outright.
In recent weeks, Sherbourne’s status among proper society had shifted from politely excluded to cordially tolerated. Now an earl—albeit a presuming one—had singled Sherbourne out for a shared public meal.
“The Duke of Moreland favors that wine.” Moreland had sponsored Sherbourne’s membership at this club, and dropping a ducal association into the conversation seemed prudent, though Sherbourne had no idea how His Grace preferred to wash down a steak.
“Moreland’s duchess has polished her former cavalry officer to a high shine,” Brantford replied, “though she’s had decades to do it. I hear you have some interesting commercial ventures in train over in Wales. I admire initiative in a man, or in a woman, for that matter.”
Brantford smiled at his wine, as if recalling a lady of recent and intimate acquaintance. He was attractive, his blond locks arranged à la Brutus, and his blue eyes complemented by a sapphire cravat pin.
Sherbourne sat back—the steak was overcooked—and signaled the waiter.
“Are you having a meal,” Sherbourne asked, “or was conversation your aim?” Conversation that Brantford had turned to business with all the subtlety of a hound on the scent.
“I’ll have the usual,” Brantford said to the waiter. “Conversation is always part of a civilized meal. I know mining, Sherbourne, while you’re about to sink your first shaft. We can benefit each other, if you’re amenable to taking on a partner.”
The partner Sherbourne wanted to take on—Charlotte Windham—had until the day after tomorrow to give him an answer to his proposal. If she agreed to marry him, settlements would require an immediate outflow of cash into the keeping of the lady’s relatives.
Had Sherbourne so boldly broached a commercial matter, he’d have been labeled an encroaching mushroom, ill-mannered, grasping, and—the death knell of a gentleman’s reputation—not good ton. The same gauche overture from an earl was supposed to be flattering and admirably direct.
Sherbourne took a sip of hearty claret, the wine’s smoky-sweet notes lingering nicely.
An investor who brought both funds and expertise to a business undertaking was worth considering, even if that investor did have a title and wore a waistcoat that made a nun look stylish by comparison.
“I’m willing to listen,” Sherbourne said, as the waiter placed a rare steak before his lordship, “but our discussion can wait for a more private setting.”
Brantford took up his knife and fork. “You must be joking. One’s club is the holiest of holies, Sherbourne. Why do you think the fashionable impure have set up shop across the street? No one in this establishment would dare mention who was seen paying them a call, much less who was in his cups or betting too heavily. Behind these walls, discretion is assured.”