A Dangerous Fortune

Hugh tried to steady his nerves. It was time to drive a hard bargain. “I wouldn’t come back if you doubled my salary,” he said, burning his boats. “There’s only one thing you can offer me that would make me change my mind, and that’s a partnership.”

Joseph sighed. “You’re the very devil to negotiate with.”

Madler put in: “As every good banker should be.”

“Very well,” Joseph said at last. “I’m offering you a partnership.”

Hugh felt weak. They’ve backed down, he thought. They’ve given in. I’ve won. He could hardly believe it had really happened.

He glanced at Augusta. Her face was a rigid mask of self-control, but she said nothing: she knew she had lost.

“In that case,” he said, and he hesitated, savoring the moment. He took a deep breath. “In that case, I accept.”

Augusta finally lost her composure. She turned red and her eyes seemed to bulge. “You’re going to regret this for the rest of your lives!” she spat. Then she stalked off.

She cut a swath through the crowd in the ballroom as she headed for the door. People stared at her and looked nervous. She realized her rage was showing on her face, and she wished she could hide her feelings, but she was too distraught. All the people she loathed and despised had triumphed. The guttersnipe Maisie, the underbred Hugh and the appalling Nora had thwarted her and got what they wanted. Her stomach was twisted in knots of frustration and she felt nauseated.

At last she reached the door and passed out onto the second-floor landing, where the crowd was thinner. She buttonholed a passing footman. “Call Mrs. Pilaster’s carriage instantly!” she commanded. He went off at a run. At least she could still intimidate footmen.

She left the party without speaking to anyone else. Her husband could go home in a hansom. She fumed all the way to Kensington.

When she got to the house her butler Hastead was waiting in the hall. “Mr. Hobbes is in the drawing room, ma’am,” he said sleepily. “I told him you might not be back until dawn, but he insisted on waiting.”

“What the dickens does he want?”

“He didn’t say.”

Augusta was in no mood to see the editor of The Forum. What was he doing here in the early hours of the morning? She was tempted to ignore him and go straight to her room, but then she thought of the peerage and decided she had better talk to him.

She went into the drawing room. Hobbes was asleep by the dying fire. “Good morning!” Augusta said loudly.

He started and sprang to his feet, peering at her through his smeared spectacles. “Mrs. Pilaster! Good — ah, yes, morning.”

“What brings you here so late?”

“I thought you would like to be the first to see this,” he said, and he handed her a journal.

It was the new number of The Forum, still smelling of the printing press. She opened it to the title page and read the headline over the leading article: CAN A JEW BE A LORD?

Her spirits lifted. Tonight’s fiasco was only one defeat, she reminded herself. There were other battles to be fought.

She read the first few lines: We trust there is no truth in the rumours, currently circulating at Westminster and in the London clubs, that the Prime Minister is contemplating the grant of a peerage to a prominent banker of the Jewish race and faith.We have never favoured persecution of heathen religions. However, tolerance can go too far. To give the highest accolade to one who openly rejects Christian salvation would be perilously close to blasphemy.Of course, the Prime Minister himself is a Jew by race. But he has been converted, and took his oath of allegiance to Her Majesty on the Christian Bible. No constitutional question was therefore raised by his ennoblement. But we have to ask whether the unbaptised banker of whom rumour speaks would be prepared so far to compromise his faith as to swear on the combined Old and New Testaments. If he were to insist on the Old Testament alone, how could the bishops in the House of Lords stand by without protest?We have no doubt that the man himself is a loyal citizen and an honest man of business….

There was much more of the same. Augusta was pleased. She looked up from the page. “Well done,” she said. “That should cause a stir.”

“I hope so.” With a quick, birdlike gesture, Hobbes reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I have taken the liberty of contracting to buy the printing press I mentioned to you. The bill of sale—”

“Go to the bank in the morning,” Augusta snapped, ignoring the proffered paper. Somehow she could never bring herself to be civil to Hobbes for long, even when he had served her well. Something about his manner irritated her. She made an effort to be more pleasant. In a softer voice she said: “My husband will give you a cheque.”

Hobbes bowed. “In that case I will take my leave.” He went out.

Augusta breathed a sigh of satisfaction. This would show them all. Maisie Greenbourne thought she was the leader of London society. Well, she could dance with the Prince of Wales all night long, but she couldn’t fight the power of the press. It would take the Greenbournes a long time to recover from this onslaught. And meanwhile Joseph would have his peerage.

Feeling better, she sat down to read the article again.

3

ON THE MORNING AFTER THE BALL Hugh woke up feeling jubilant. His wife had been accepted into high society and he was going to be made a partner in Pilasters Bank. The partnership gave him the chance to make not just thousands of pounds but, over the years, hundreds of thousands. One day he would be rich.

Solly would be disappointed that Hugh would not be working for him after all. But Solly was nothing if not easygoing: he would understand.

He put on his robe. From his bedside drawer he took a gift-wrapped jeweler’s box and slipped it into his pocket. Then he went into his wife’s bedroom.

Nora’s room was large but it always felt cramped. The windows, the mirrors and the bed were all draped with patterned silk; the floor was covered with rugs two and three deep; the chairs were piled with embroidered cushions; and every shelf and tabletop was crowded with framed pictures, china dolls, miniature porcelain boxes and other knickknacks. The predominant colors were her favorite pink and blue, but just about every other color was represented somewhere, in the wallpapers, bedclothes, curtains or upholstery.

Nora was sitting up in bed, surrounded by lace pillows, sipping tea. Hugh perched on the edge of the bed and said: “You were wonderful last night.”

“I showed them all,” she said, looking pleased with herself. “I danced with the Prince of Wales.”

“He couldn’t stop looking at your bosom,” Hugh said. He reached over and caressed her breasts through the silk of her high-buttoned nightdress.

She pushed his hand aside irritably. “Hugh! Not now.”

He felt hurt. “Why not now?”

“It’s the second time this week.”

“When we were first married we used to do it constantly.”

“Exactly — when we were first married. A girl doesn’t expect to have to do it every day forever.”

Hugh frowned. He would have been perfectly happy to do it every day forever — wasn’t that what marriage was all about? But he did not know what was normal. Perhaps he was overactive. “How often do you think we should do it, then?” he said uncertainly.

She looked pleased to have been asked, as if she had been waiting for an opportunity to clear this up. “Not more than once a week,” she said firmly.

“Really?” His feeling of exultation went away and he suddenly felt very cast down. A week seemed an awfully long time. He stroked her thigh through the sheets. “Perhaps a little more than that.”

“No!” she said, moving her leg.

Hugh was upset. Once upon a time she had seemed enthusiastic about lovemaking. It had been something they enjoyed together. How had it become a chore she performed for his benefit? Had she never really liked it, but just pretended? There was something dreadfully depressing about that idea.