A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(26)

Which scandal would, of course, wash up on Brantford’s own shores.

“Very noble of you, sir.” Meyerbeek tied up another set of papers. “You are well on your way to a handsome fortune. Nonetheless, I must echo his lordship’s caution where Mr. Sherbourne’s new coal mine is concerned.”

Meyerbeek’s penchant for caution was as reliable as Veronica’s appointments at the milliner’s. The woman was addicted to buying hats.

“You don’t trust Sherbourne?” Behind the closed doors of Brantford’s private office, he could pose that question to a subordinate. In the clubs, nobody would dare be so blunt when Sherbourne’s bank held mortgages on a number of titled estates.

“Mr. Sherbourne’s integrity as a businessman is above reproach, from what I’ve gathered. He doesn’t engage in sharp practice, doesn’t go back on a contract signed and sealed, but the mining operation is different.”

Mines were simple businesses. One dug a hole, excavated valuable ore, and got paid for it. Miners grumbled about low wages, and the occasional mine collapsed, but England’s appetite for coal was insatiable and thus the profit was reliable.

“Different how?” Brantford asked, keeping his seat behind his desk.

“The Duke of Haverford is Sherbourne’s neighbor and soon to be connected to him by marriage. Haverford is only supporting this mine because Sherbourne has promised to run it as an example of the most enlightened business practices. The workers are to have decent housing, no children will be employed below the surface, that sort of thing. Very forward-thinking, if you take my meaning.”

Progress was good and usually went hand in hand with profit. Forward thinking could be troublesome.

“All the more reason,” Brantford said, “that Sherbourne should ally himself with somebody who can be the voice of wisdom in the face of Haverford’s fanciful notions. His Grace is a fine fellow, but like my papa-in-law, he clings to land rents, flocks, and herds as the only acceptable sources of income.”

“Those aspects of our economy remain vitally important.” Meyerbeek tapped his hat onto his head. “Might I suggest, if you do invest in Mr. Sherbourne’s mine, that you pay a call on your business partner in Wales and inspect the works yourself? Haverford lives in the immediate area and would take your involvement more seriously if you showed the flag, as it were.”

Wales had decent shooting, and Veronica didn’t exactly need her husband underfoot during the little season.

“I’ll consider it. My thanks as always for your efforts, Meyerbeek.”

Meyerbeek went on his way, folders tucked in a plain black leather satchel. Brantford waited a suitable interval—one did not perambulate about Mayfair with one’s man of business—then timed his own departure so he’d be only a few minutes late for his appointment with Sherbourne.

Sherbourne’s butler was all anybody could wish for in an upper servant, and the townhouse was appointed in elegant, if slightly overstated, good taste. Brantford’s host greeted him in a room that might have been any lord’s estate office—ancestors scowling down from portraits on the walls, carpets thick and recently swept—but for the plethora of correspondence in four different trays on the desk.

“You are a busy man.” The letters Brantford could see all bore a recent date. Sherbourne was also, apparently, a man who didn’t let his affairs go untended for long.

“I said as much,” Sherbourne replied. “Please have a seat.”

A seat facing the desk was a novel perspective, putting Brantford uncomfortably in mind of frequent interviews with his papa when deportment at university had been disappointing.

Sherbourne likely knew this. He didn’t know enough to ring for tea, though, which was a shame when the man could maunder on at such tiresome length about a damned coal mine.

“You have a solid grasp of the venture you’re undertaking,” Brantford said, “and the terms you propose for my role are agreeable, in principle. When can you reduce them to writing?”

Sherbourne opened a drawer, produced a sheaf of papers, and passed them across the desk.

“You’ll find four copies, two for you and two for me. I’ve signed them all. My staff can witness your signature, if you’re inclined to invest.”

A conundrum presented itself: Sherbourne’s quaint insistence on doing business face-to-face had proved useful. Brantford liked knowing that he wasn’t engaging in commerce with some vulgar cit, liked knowing exactly where Sherbourne would dwell when in town. He liked seeing proof that Sherbourne was industrious and conscientious about his affairs.

For Sherbourne to insist on an appointment on his terms and on his turf was a petty stratagem, but tolerable. This notion of signing a legal document on the spot, though…not the done thing.

“I’d need time to read every word,” Brantford said. “I mean no slight to you, of course, but any scribe can make a mistake or misinterpret his master’s directions.”

Sherbourne rose and withdrew a key from a japanned box on the mantel. “I wrote out all four copies myself. As contracts go, it’s brief and to the point.” He wound the clock on the mantel, which would typically be a butler’s job.

The hour approached three, and at four Brantford was expected at a cozy little household off of Cavendish Square. A gentleman kept a new mistress waiting at peril to his exchequer.