A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(27)

“Let’s have a look,” Brantford said, smoothing out a copy of the contract. “Though perhaps you’d be good enough to order us a tea tray while I read?”

His objective was to get Sherbourne out of the room, because a bit of judicious reconnaissance was called for.

Sherbourne merely tugged on a bell pull twice.

Well, damn. Lucas Sherbourne was no fool, an oddly cheering realization. Brantford’s money would be safe in Sherbourne’s hands, and that was the larger concern. Besides, the terms on paper weren’t exactly binding on a peer of the realm, despite what the courts might lead the common man to believe.

Sherbourne resumed his seat behind the desk and took up the first of the items stacked in the nearest tray.

“You’re soon to be married, I hear,” Brantford said a few minutes later. In all the world, was any soporific more effective than lawyerly prose?

Sherbourne didn’t even look up from his reading. “Miss Charlotte Windham has looked with favor upon my suit.”

“You can’t fool me, Sherbourne. You’re no more smitten with your bride than I am with the prospect of Lady Deerwood’s card party tonight.”

Sherbourne set the letter aside, shot his cuffs, and folded his hands on the blotter. “Did you just insult my fiancée?”

Oh, dear. The lower orders could be high sticklers, witness the proliferation of etiquette manuals they consulted on everything from social calls to funerals.

“I insult neither you nor your lovely bride, Sherbourne. I insult the institution of marriage. I have years of experience with holy matrimony that you have yet to acquire. Allow me my crotchets, hmm?”

Sherbourne resumed reading. “If your experience of marriage has been disappointing, then you insult yourself, for I know a gentleman would never slander his wife.”

Brantford resumed reading, mostly to hide a smile. Sherbourne was precious, in his ferocious propriety and his unrelenting focus on business. The clubs were buzzing about his upcoming nuptials, wondering how and why he’d become engaged to the formidable Charlotte Windham.

Money had doubtless played a role. As a bachelor, Brantford had observed Miss Charlotte from the safe distance of the men’s punch bowl. She had an air of discontent, and at an archery tournament her aim was notoriously unreliable.

Or rather, too accurate. Perhaps the Windhams had paid Sherbourne to spirit the lady off to Wales.

“That reminds me,” Brantford said, giving up in the middle of the paragraph about indemnifying and holding harmless. “I’ll want to inspect the works firsthand. I’m told it’s sound business to have a look oneself, rather than rely on—what is the word?—toadies?”

Sherbourne’s smile was cool. “You’d travel out to Wales to see the mine?”

Brantford would travel out to Wales to do some shooting, pay a call on His Grace of Haverford, and avoid several tedious weeks of card parties while Veronica bought out the milliners’ shops.

“Seems prudent to have a look at where my money’s going,” Brantford said. “This is your first mining venture, while I’ve seen many. I understand Haverford has tried to hamper the operation with quaint notions of lavish housing and exorbitant wages for the workers. We’ll soon enlighten His Grace about how business is done.”

Sherbourne set a silver standish on Brantford’s side of the desk. “We will do no such thing, unless you sign those contracts now. I leave for Wales immediately after my wedding, and work on the housing at the mine started last month. We’ll sink the main shaft before St. Andrew’s Day.”

Brantford chose a quill from the three in the standish. He wasn’t about to give himself a headache reading two more pages of heretofores and however-exceptings. A difference of opinion on a business matter was settled amicably or not at all. Only fools or those already afflicted with scandal resorted to the courts.

“A moment,” Sherbourne said as Brantford dipped the pen. “We need witnesses.”

Good God. “As you please, Sherbourne, but I draw the line at allowing you to count my teeth.”

A butler and clerk appended their signatures as witnesses, then departed without a word.

“Thus do we become partners,” Brantford said, extending a hand. “Shall I take my copies with me?”

Sherbourne shook hands—briefly. “Your copies will be delivered when I have a bank draft from you. When we both have signed copies, and only then, I’ll deposit your bank draft, as described on the last page of the agreement. Until the consideration has been exchanged, we have no enforceable bargain under the law.”

“You do like to belabor the details, don’t you?” Sherbourne would be a terror with subcontractors and subordinates. Papa-in-law might have a much fatter purse if he’d found somebody with Sherbourne’s blunt sensibilities to manage his affairs.

“Applicable law is never a detail.” Sherbourne held the door. “I look forward to showing you the works soon. When can I expect your bank draft?”

“My business partner is a barbarian,” Brantford marveled, as his host escorted him down the main staircase. “One doesn’t mention money directly, Sherbourne. You’ll have the mine producing before Christmas if you’re always so fixed on your objectives.”

“We’re not partners yet.” Sherbourne passed Brantford his hat and walking stick.