A Marriage Deal With The Viscount. Bronwyn Scott
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He’d come to the club first and last. There was nowhere else to go. Banks had turned him down. Did Cowden know that? No lender had been willing to loan him money on the risky venture of shipping alpacas from Peru to England for fear the cargo would die on the voyage or wouldn’t acclimate to England as well as Conall proposed, especially with the cloud of debt hanging over the Viscountcy already. He had no collateral should the venture fail. He had no other avenues to pursue besides banks and the Prometheus Club. No other investment club had ties with him that obligated them to hear him out on his father’s behalf.
And yet, up until this moment, Conall had been so certain it wouldn’t matter. He’d been sure the Prometheus Club, named for the Titan god of foresight, would see the opportunity behind this, if not the genius. Now, by a majority vote, his one hope had been cut, his one grand plan for resurrecting the failing coffers of the Taunton Viscountcy.
His mind tripped back to that one word and what it meant. Majority. The vote had not been unanimous. There had not been consensus. Hope surged, once more. Maybe surged was too optimistic. It flickered, a last ember among the ashes.
‘I do wish I had better news for you.’ The Duke was a shrewd man, sharp-minded and blunt when needed, but he was not an unkind man. Conall had known Cowden most of his life, had grown up with his sons, and he knew the Duke believed the moment of crisis had passed, the bad news delivered, the rejection accepted, the dirty work of refusing the son of an old friend done. Conall smiled. That was the Duke’s mistake. This wasn’t over, not yet. This was where he’d take his advantage. He waited patiently for the expression of sympathy sure to follow.
‘I understand your father’s passing revealed some difficult circumstances. I am sorry for it. If I had known there was such distress...’ He spread his hands in an expansive but helpless gesture as if the words ‘difficult circumstances’ or ‘distress’ adequately encompassed the amount of debt Conall had discovered after his father’s death. Indeed, none of them had known. Conall’s father had kept the shocking financial reality of their lives well-hidden from even those closest to him.
‘I appreciate the sentiment, your Grace. Perhaps there is something you could do? You mentioned the decision was not unanimous. Might I ask for the names of those who are interested in investing? I would like to contact them on my own. Perhaps they would like to invest privately, outside the club.’ If there were three or even four men who’d expressed an interest it would be enough. His blood started to thrum with possibility, his mind already running the numbers. ‘And yourself, of course. I would entertain a private partnership with you.’ It was a bold move to put the question directly to Cowden, to call out his vote explicitly with the assumption that Cowden had voted affirmatively.
Cowden steepled his hands, his hazel eyes soft with something akin to pity, and Conall felt his stomach plummet. ‘I am too old for such adventure, Taunton. I want to bask in my profits and let the club work for me after all the years I’ve worked for it. I want to enjoy my grandchildren and my sons while I have the vigour left to do it.’
Conall supplied the requisite chuckle, masking his own disappointment. One did need a certain amount of vigour to keep up with Cowden’s family. The Duke had managed three sons, his eldest had married seven years ago and seen to it that his wife, Helena, promptly produced four sons, one every two years like clockwork. Now, Cowden’s second son was set to marry and there was no doubt in society’s mind the Cowden cradle would be full this time next year and the year after that. The Cowden males knew how to do their duty. Except for Fortis, the third, the one closest to Conall’s own age. But despite his wildness, Fortis had still managed a brilliant military career, as youngest sons should, and an acceptable society marriage, even if he hadn’t seen his bride since the honeymoon six years ago.
Conall cleared his throat. ‘I certainly understand, your Grace. But the other members, perhaps?’ He knew he was pressing, but he could not let the opportunity go.
‘There was only one, Taunton.’ Ah. The Duke had meant to spare his feelings with the rather liberal use of the term majority. A minority of one was not much to go on. The Duke blew out a breath, debating with himself. ‘I’m not sure I do you any favours by revealing the name to you. The investor is not a “usual” member. I originally had misgivings about allowing them to join, but they have proven reliable thus far even if they are a bit of a phantom.’ The Duke speared him with a sharp hazel gaze. ‘I want the very best of investors for you. I would not want to set you up for failure.’
Dear Lord, the Duke had withheld a drink and now he was withholding a name. Today was definitely not his day. ‘I am already set up for failure. In fact, failure is a surety if I maintain my present course,’ Conall said bluntly. The Viscountcy could not last more than a few years at the given rate before it gave into genteel poverty. There was his sister, Cecilia’s, Season to manage next year and hopefully her dowry the following, his brother, Freddie’s, schooling and an endless list of repairs for the estate. He could not leave this room without a name, without hope that he might be able to meet those obligations. ‘Give me the name and let me assess the quality of the investor myself.’
Nothing persuaded like a direct order. Usually people didn’t refuse if not given the option. Although the Duke’s warning was making him uneasy—an investor who never attended meetings, who voted by correspondence, who only had the quality of their name and the depth of their bank account to recommend them. It was not like the Prometheus Club to be so lax in their standards. This member must be a paragon of investment intuition to have his eccentricities tolerated.
The Duke’s hazel eyes showed another debate. ‘It’s not only for you that I hesitate.’ He took a small piece of notepaper from his desk, reached for a fountain pen and wrote four words. He pushed the paper across the desk. Conall read the name: La Marchesa di Cremona. ‘A woman?’ And a foreigner at that. No wonder the Duke was hesitant to reveal the potential investor. ‘I thought the Prometheus Club was only open to titled men?’
‘Yes.’ The Duke gave an elegant shrug. ‘She does business under the name of Phillip Barnham.’
‘And you keep her secret?’ Conall probed, understanding the depth of trust the Duke displayed in telling him. It was the kind of confidence entrusted to family.
‘She is a woman who has led a gilded but unfortunate life. Society has not judged her kindly for it. If I do not keep her secret, if you do not keep her secret, she would have no honourable recourse for supporting herself.’ In other words, the board didn’t know.
‘The Great Exhibition owes its success to the efforts of many, not the least of which were her contributions, under her alias, in bringing certain key inventions from the Continent to be displayed here,’ the Duke explained, perhaps to build her credibility with him. Conall knew Cowden had been heavily involved in the Great Exhibition. No doubt he’d been impressed. La Marchesa’s connections and business acumen had been recommendation enough to take her on as a secret partner to the club. ‘I would not want her exposed, Taunton, nor would I want you misled. You see why I hesitate on both your behalves?’
And yet, Conall could not do the same. He did not have the luxury of hesitation, not with seventy-five head of alpaca and his people waiting on him. If Cowden trusted La Marchesa, that would have to be good enough for him. He had no choice but to go forward. ‘How shall I contact her?’
Cowden smiled broadly. ‘You’re in luck. She is here for tea today. She’s in the drawing room with my wife and daughter-in-law.’ Conall wondered how much luck had to do with it. The Duke cleared his throat, perhaps sensing the question of coincidence. ‘She’s here for Ferris’s wedding, nothing more, as a favour to my daughter-in-law.’ The daughter-in-law with four sons, Conall reminded himself.
The Duke dropped his voice. ‘There’s something else you should know. La Marchesa has something of a reputation. But the two of them go way back to finishing-school days.’ He splayed his hands in a gesture of happy surrender that Conall surmised to mean daughters-in-law who’d birthed four grandsons and ensured the succession deserved to be indulged, especially when it came to their friends who made the Duke money.
Well, the woman’s reputation