The American set down his cup and saucer and gave a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “Perhaps you have oversimplified the matter, my lord.” He turned to Elinor, his smile apologetic. “Even so, I’m afraid the earl has the right of it, Lady Trentham. English agriculture was under assault even before Waterloo. The economy is far from robust and the great landed estates of England can no longer survive decades of mismanagement as they have in the past.”
Charles blinked at the other man’s words and then frowned, as if he couldn’t possibly have heard the American correctly. He turned from the American to Elinor and continued with his argument.
“It is manufacturing we should turn our attention to now. I say let the Frenchies do the farming.”
Elinor ignored the earl’s foolish bravado and smoothed the fabric of her skirt. Beth was correct; her blue muslin was no longer fit to be seen. The seams had been turned so often they were visible even from a distance. She must seem like a ragamuffin to the wealthy, beautifully attired American.
She looked up and caught the object of her ruminations staring, his green eyes intense with something that looked like . . . fury? Elinor flinched back and he dropped his gaze to his plate, depriving her of a better look. He picked up a piece of biscuit and placed it between his shapely lips before looking up again, his expression as mild as milk.
Elinor realized she’d been holding her breath and exhaled. She must have misread his expression; what would he have to be furious about? It was Elinor who should be angry with him, particularly if he was here for the reason she suspected.
“You helped the duke break entail? Is that something bankers do in your country, Mr. Worth?”
He didn’t smile, but somehow Elinor knew he found her rather tart question amusing.
“Not in the general way, my lady, but I am also a lawyer. As such, I find antiquated property law matters diverting.” His eyes flickered across Elinor, her desk, and the rest of the shabby room, as if entails weren’t the only quaintly amusing thing England had to offer. “You could almost say the topic of entails is something of a hobby for me.”
Elinor opened her mouth to ask him what it was he enjoyed so much about destroying ancient estates but Charles cut in before she could speak.
“Mr. Worth isn’t here to talk about entails, Elinor. He believes his bank might be interested in acquiring Blackfriars.”
Elinor was not stupid. She knew the only reason Charles and his weak-chinned son—a man as devoid of all sense and decency as his father—hadn’t already sold Blackfriars was because of the dearth of eager buyers for such a property. The land was in bad enough condition, but the house itself would require a monstrous amount of money to repair and operate.
She gave the American a coolly appraising glance, hoping it hid the sick feeling that had begun in her stomach and was rapidly migrating out to the rest of her body.
“Is acquiring unprofitable estates another of your hobbies, Mr. Worth?”
He smiled at her chilly tone. “Our bank is always looking for good investments. I will need to do a great deal of research before I can assess a proper value.”
Elinor found his smooth, confident manner more than a little annoying, especially since he was talking of selling her home out from under her, although she wondered if that were legal.
“If the English agricultural model is so antiquated, why is your bank interested in acquiring an agricultural property?”
“We invest in a wide variety of interests, Lady Trentham. I did not say we had decided to offer for the property. It is far too soon to say whether Blackfriars and Siddons Bank will be a proper fit. I will have to spend some time in the area before I can make such a determination.”
His bland expression would have done a parson proud. Why, then, did Elinor suddenly feel breathless and anxious, like she was racing along the edge of a cliff on a skittish and unpredictable mount?
She looked away from his placid but disturbing gaze. “Do try a currant bun, Mr. Worth, they are quite delicious.”
◆◆◆
Stephen tossed his hat and gloves onto the rickety walnut console table and yanked on the tattered bell pull. He had only been a guest at Blackfriars a few days but already knew it was best to summon a servant long before you had need of one.
He struggled out of his close-fitting riding coat, yet again cursing the absence of Bains, his valet of six years. He’d hated to leave the man behind in Boston, but he’d had little choice in the matter. His business in England was far too sensitive to jeopardize with loose talk, and nobody knew better than Stephen how servants liked to talk.
No, the only employee he could trust on this venture was Fielding, a man so close-mouthed he might as well be mute. But Stephen had foolishly sent the taciturn man away on a fact-finding mission, so now he didn’t even have Fielding’s rather savage ministrations. It had been a bloody long time since he’d had to valet himself.
Stephen could almost hear Jeremiah, his old mentor, laughing at him. “You are a vain, comfort-loving creature, Stephen,” the old Puritan had scolded him many times.
Even though he’d been one of the wealthiest men in America at his death, Jeremiah Siddons had lived like an ascetic, viewing most luxuries as un-Godly and a sign of weakness.
Stephen did not suffer from such qualms. He’d worked hard and sacrificed much to afford the luxuries he could now command. He frowned at the dusty, yellowed drapes and threadbare carpeting around him and sighed. Well, luxuries he
