“It was death by misadventure, an unfortunate development, which I suspected from the very beginning,” Kesgrave said.
“You did?” Mr. Mayhew replied in wonder.
“Nevertheless, I was compelled to make a thorough inspection of the situation out of deference to my wife,” he explained. “I am sure you know how women are, Mayhew, impetuous, irrational, histrionic and emotional. Having committed myself to one, I was obligated to allow her her lead, especially because she considers herself to be something of an expert.”
“Some men find a confident female appealing,” Mr. Mayhew murmured generously.
“It was, on the whole, a waste of time,” Kesgrave continued, “but I am a man in the first flush of marriage and can allow the indulgence. Your constraints, however, are not as fluid, and I wasted your time yesterday. That is why I am here to make amends. I will deposit fifty thousand pounds with your bank. Does that suffice?”
Did it suffice?
Did it suffice!
The expression of utter astonishment on Mr. Mayhew’s face clearly stated that the question did not need to be asked.
Of course it sufficed.
A fraction would have.
A mere tenth!
Before Mr. Mayhew could gather his wits enough to express his approval of the plan, a knock sounded on the door and a dark-haired clerk entered with a tray. Gratefully, as if requiring a distraction, the banker jumped to his feet and accepted the tray. “Very good, Herbert. Your timing is ideal. Please place it on the small table and bring me the monthly register from the safe. Thank you.”
Bea, whose appreciation for the duke’s acting skills had risen sharply as she listened to him convincingly dismiss both her and her sex in a single sweeping stroke, was further impressed by his ability to affect scorn for the perfectly benign tea Mr. Mayhew offered.
“Is this an example of how you conduct your business, Mayhew, failing to consult your client on his preference?” he asked contemptuously. “Am I to find my money invested in a joint-stock company of which I’ve never heard?”
“Of course not, your grace,” the banker said with soothing calm, as if trying to pacify a wild animal. “Your sanction is essential at Mayhew & Co. Please tell me how I may please you.”
“Arrack,” he said.
Some of Mr. Mayhew’s assuredness slipped. “Arrack.”
“Yes, I would like a glass of Batavia arrack.”
As the fermented sugarcane drink from Asia was something of an unusual request—not entirely obscure but also not commonly found in even the most well-stocked pantry of a Fleet Street bank—Mr. Mayhew wanted to suggest a more reasonable alternative such as claret or port. But he could not, for Kesgrave had boxed him in nicely.
His shoulders sagging slightly in defeat, Mr. Mayhew opened the door and called back the clerk to make the specific request. Kesgrave, however, forestalled him with his ardent disapproval of managers who do not personally attend to matters for their most important clients. “Am I depositing fifty thousand pounds in your clerk’s bank, Mayhew, or yours?” he asked with a faint sneer. “If it is the former, then allow me to be introduced to Herbert, for he and I have much to discuss.”
Laughing awkwardly, Mr. Mayhew insisted that Kesgrave had misunderstood. He had been inviting his colleague in to entertain the duke and his wife while he fetched the arrack.
“Entertain me?” Kesgrave asked with vigorous disdain. “Am I a small child in need of diversion? Will he perform a puppet show?”
“No, no, of course not,” the banker said, warding off the clerk with a frantic wave of his hand. “I was just teasing. Obviously, you will be fine on your own. I will be back in just a moment and then we may proceed with your deposit. I have a few papers for you to fill out. Or”—his features lightened as another, arrack-free option occurred him—“shall I send them directly to your steward or solicitor for perusal? In which case, you may return to Berkeley Square immediately and not linger here.”
“Am I to understand, Mayhew, that you would rather deal with my steward than me?” Kesgrave asked superciliously.
His face pinched with anxiety, the banker rushed to assure him he would like nothing less than to be deprived of the pleasure of attending to the duke’s needs. “I am determined to offer satisfaction. You only have to tell me how I may.”
“Arrack,” Kesgrave said tersely.
“Yes, your grace, directly,” Mr. Mayhew said, sweeping out of the door to locate the hard-to-find alcohol.
But Kesgrave was not done with him yet. “And ask the duchess what she would like. I do not believe she was consulted either on her preference.”
“The tea is delightful, thank you,” Bea said and noted the banker’s relief, which lasted only long enough for her to add that she had a particular craving for macarons.
Having already been tormented by the duke, Mr. Mayhew knew better than to protest. “My pleasure,” he said with a stiff smile and promised to return with the items presently. Then he walked out of the room and left them alone in his office with all his ledgers, documents and files.
As the door clicked shut, Kesgrave leaned back in his thronelike chair and smiled smugly. “Does Mrs. Erskine want to apologize for her lack of faith now or later? It is all the same to me.”
Bea, who would never be so petty-minded as to deny a wronged party the satisfaction of gloating, promptly acknowledged her miscalculation and vowed not to underestimate him again. “But,” she added as she tried to open the cabinet to the left of the table and discovered it to be locked, “I could not have known that your money makes people stupid.”
Kesgrave smiled faintly as he began to apply a small device to the cabinet’s lock. “Yes, you could.”
As she had observed the effect his wealth and title had on people on more than one occasion, she conceded the truth of the remark. Then she tried the second cabinet and found to her
