Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(5)

“Of course,” Rosalie murmured in a voice so docile that her reply was a parody of submissiveness. The sarcasm was completely lost on Elaine. Rosalie gathered up the thin slippers and closed the door as she left.

Cautiously she glanced up and down the passageway, assuring herself that no one was nearby before she removed her own shoes and tried on the dainty white dancing slippers. Slowly she moved across the floor, gathering the excess of her skirt in one hand as she marveled at the feel of heeiless silk shoes made especially for dancing. “No, thank you,” she mimicked with the slightest touch of disinterest in her voice. “I’ve danced so much tonight that I could not possibly subject my toes to one more waltz. And the hour is quite late, you know. The monotony of these gatherings becomes quite dreadful, does it not?” In her mind the man she spoke to did not answer, merely looked at her with a smile tinged with mockery, and eyes filled with .

. Ah, what was the word in French? Savoir-faire. Directly translated, it meant “know-how-to-do.” The question was, Rosalie pondered curiously, know-howto-do what?

“Damn them all!” the aging Earl of Berkeley said in disgust. “We’ll have another war with the French if this trade policy continues. The Berkeley affairs across the Channel are in a fine mess.” His hawkish face was pale and lined heavily, his gnarled hands tapping impatiently on the desk. Similar to most of the furniture in the country house, the desk was unfashionably old, bracketed in a Chinese style with claw-and-bal! feet. The massive furniture and the heavy-handed style in which the library was decorated suited the earl, who possessed an impressive and intimidating presence. “I assumed as much. Otherwise you wouldn’t have sent for me.”

“All of your philanderings in London can wait until you return from France,” the earl said, looking at his eldest grandson with exasperation that bordered on the extreme. For one reason or another, a conversation with Randall, as the earl was fond of saying, usually ruined one’s digestion.

It was often said that they were two of a kind. Rand’s face was a darker, smoother version of the Berkeley mold, and he seemed to have an innate callousness that was appropriate for a member of this particular family. He was certainly a legitimate Berkeley, being “a man of no mean parts, though very loose principles,” a description commonly given to the men of the family. There was much to criticize about his upbringing, however, including the fact that Randall had never been taught the value of constancy. He had the reputation of being both reckless and heartless, and the ear! had the justifiable suspicion that Randall had earned it well. “I’ll take care of everything,” Rand said lightly, ignoring the earl’s scowl.

“I have not told you the worst of our troubles yet.” “Oh?”

“It came out in the Times today. Berkeley Shipping recently delivered a cargo of cotton from New Orleans to France. A Mr. Graham at the port of Havre discovered that those blasted American merchants have been hiding stones in the cotton bales!”

Rand winced at the revelation. Practices such as concealing heavy articles in the cotton served to drive the weights and therefore the prices up, damaging the credibility of the company that delivered the shipment.

Such a discovery could mean disaster for a highly profitable business.

“How bad is it?” he inquired, and the earl’s answer came back like a shot.

“Over one thousand pounds of stones concealed in merely fifty bales!”

Suddenly Rand’s eyes lit with amusement despite his efforts to remain serious. Of the Americans he had met so far, he liked them as a general matter of course, mainly because this sort of behavior was typical of them.

“Cheeky devils,” he observed, and his grandfather glowered at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it immediately.”

“And not only will you persuade the port to let future shipments through, you will also find some way to assure that the bales are no longer fraudulent.” “If I have to pick the cotton myself,” Rand said. “A far more apt occupation for you than taking care of the family business,” the earl remarked.

“I appreciate your confidence.”

“Any other questions?”

Rand’s face faded to implacability again. “No.” “Aren’t you curious as to why I’ve entrusted this to you instead of Colin?”

Rand remained silent, but something in his expression flickered subtly at the mention of his younger brother.

“I see you are,” the earl continued, and his lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Gad, it amazes me that your mother, that flighty bit of French nonsense, managed to produce two boys before she died. I see her in both of you . . . but especially in you. You look like a Berkeley, boy, but you were minted a d’Angoux. Same aversion to bearing the weight of any responsibility on your shoulders.” He paused, and his expression sharpened. “It pains me that you are the firstborn heir. Colin is a fop, but I’d trust him with my last farthing. He understands money. Give him a penny, he’ll make it a pound before the day is through.”

“Most likely through ill-gotten means.”

“You miss my point,” the earl said sardonically. “According to common tradition, you will inherit everything save what is reserved for Colin. I must see if you are capable of handling it. If not, I will use what means I can to divide the estate between you, much as I would prefer to hand it over intact. But I am unable to picture you making weighty decisions with the proper care, and I cannot see the rest of the family looking up to you as the proper shepherd of the flock, not with that flippant attitude of yours. I must confess I do not believe you are remotely deserving of the entirety of the Berkeley holdings.”