A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(78)
“Hunting hasn’t started here yet,” Radnor said. “The rain has made the ground too soft, though most of the crops are off. Perhaps later in the season we’ll have some sport to offer you.”
“Does Sherbourne ride to hounds?”
Sherbourne had collected a pile of papers from the longest table in the tent, and Jones was apparently explaining something to his employer.
“Sherbourne is a very competent horseman,” Radnor said. “Why do you ask?”
Because making money off of Sherbourne was all well and good, but too much socializing with him would not do.
“One doesn’t want to create awkwardness,” Brantford said. “Can’t invite the man to ride in my flight if he’s likely to tumble at the first fence.”
Veronica rode with the first flight, and the dash she cut in the saddle had drawn Brantford’s notice even before he’d realized the ambitions her family had held for her. He’d received a letter from her that very morning, and she was having a grand time in the company of her cousins at the family seat.
Without her husband.
“If you’re still in the area once the weather settles down,” Radnor said, “I’ll happily take you out shooting. At least you have the famed Haverford library to entertain you until then.”
Brantford had done more reading in the past several days than in the previous five years. Her Grace of Haverford did not believe in allowing a guest to while away an afternoon with a plump, pretty chambermaid when Sir Walter Scott was available instead.
The duke didn’t believe in allowing anybody or anything—much less a mere titled house guest—to upset his duchess. Their Graces’ mutual devotion was nauseatingly sincere.
Also slightly enviable.
“What can Sherbourne be going on about?” Brantford asked. “Tramping around in the mud has worked up my appetite, and I’d rather not linger in this wind and court another illness.”
He’d rather not have come to Wales, and had almost put that in a letter to his wife.
“Sherbourne is at these works in all kinds of weather,” Radnor said. “He’s here morning, noon, and night, and if you are to profit from his labors, then you can spare him a few minutes with his engineer.”
So the handsome marquess wasn’t all fine manners and starched linen. “I heartily agree,” Brantford said. “Sherbourne is willing to get his hands dirty, but then, that’s what the merchant class is for, isn’t it? Getting and spending, filling the pews, minding the shops while we mind the business of the nation. He doesn’t always keep to his place, but he’ll make me a decent sum before too long.”
The wind shifted, catching a flap of the tent and ripping it loose from its ties. Radnor captured the canvas and tied it back with a perfect bow.
“You cannot in one breath castigate Sherbourne for tarrying here when there’s work to be discussed, and then applaud him for having the ability to earn you substantial coin, Brantford. This mine is not a hobby for him, nor will it be for the people hoping to work here.”
Though Brantford had no idea what made a mine thrive or fail, he did perceive that Sherbourne had an ally in Radnor, and Radnor was a marquess who commanded the friendship of a duke.
“I mean Sherbourne no insult,” Brantford said. “I remark upon my own frailty. When do you expect this place will start turning a profit?”
Now Jones raised his voice, barking something about bloody damned figures. Sherbourne touched Jones on the arm, and the older man grew quiet.
“Didn’t you read Sherbourne’s financial plan?” Radnor asked. “Revenue should begin flowing by midsummer. The initial investments will earn out over five to ten years, depending on how quickly the mine repays the initial principal and at what percentage interest.”
Sherbourne tucked some papers into a satchel and left Jones to fuss with the parlor stove.
“My apologies for detaining you both,” Sherbourne said. “Brantford, any other questions?”
By rights, no commoner ought to have used such familiar address. My lord, your lordship, Lord Brantford were acceptable, but Radnor was two yards away, tying the tent flap closed, so Brantford kept his scold behind his teeth.
“I believe I’ve seen all there is to see at this point,” Brantford said. “I hope you intend to set a fine table this evening, Sherbourne, for hiking about has left me famished.”
In fact, the relentless smell of mud had all but obliterated his appetite.
“Then I’ll be happy to take you back to Sherbourne Hall. My wife is looking forward to meeting you, and I’m in need of sustenance myself.”
Radnor walked with them to Sherbourne’s waiting gig, where a boy stood holding the marquess’s horse. Brantford would cheerfully have waved good-bye to the Marquess of Meddling, but his vexatious lordship merely steered his horse to walk along beside the carriage.
“Where is your next destination, Brantford?” Sherbourne asked, giving the reins a shake. “Will you return to London, tarry here in Wales, or repair to your family seat?”
“I haven’t decided. The hospitality at Haverford Castle is outstanding, and I’m not anxious to subject myself to another week on the king’s highway so soon.”
Sherbourne drove well, and he was turned out in the first stare of casual gentlemanly fashion. The beast in the traces was sleek and muscular and the gig well sprung. Resentment welled because a small, irrational part of Brantford had been hoping to see Sherbourne fail.