Rake in the Regency Ballroom. Bronwyn Scott
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of lukewarm companionship.
Philippa rose from the desk. The drizzle had stopped. She would change into a habit and take a ride between showers. When she came back she would write to Lucien and tell him of her decision. There was no sense in waiting. Bad news didn’t get better over time and the longer she waited to dispel him of his matrimonial notions, the more likely it was that he’d build up his expectation of being accepted.
Expectations being what they were, Lucien was not all that troubled by the arrival of Lady Cambourne’s letter at the manor in Truro the first week of February. In fact, he was precipitously jubilant. The New Year had got off to a perfect start.
Danforth’s bank had been well received by local men with money to invest. Cornwall was rich in many resources and not all of them came out of the ground. Industry bred invention. Plenty of men like Dabuz, Bolithio and Williams had seen the need for other industries like tin-smelting and gunpowder. Dabuz and Fox swore that smelters and gunpowder works were more profitable than the actual act of mining. From the amount of funds at their disposal, Lucien was inclined to agree with them.
It had been the simple work of a few dinner parties to corral the financial resources needed to start investing and buying. These men were as avaricious as he was. They immediately saw the merit in banding together to form a cartel that controlled the outside world’s access to tin and regulated the prices at which that outside world would have to pay for the commodity.
They’d also seen how important it was to control the mining interests in Britain’s new South American colonies. If those resources were allowed to compete against the cartel, it would diminish the profit. But if those colonies were controlled by the cartel, then the prices would be controlled as well.
Lucien had hand-picked the men who would serve on the new bank’s board of trustees and all had agreed buying up shares in the largest British mine in South America would be the first place they’d start with the building of their overseas control. Monopolies and cartels were tricky things. It wouldn’t do for there to be a large broadcast of their intended plans until they had some leverage.
So with his finances firmly in hand, Lucien had complete confidence that all else would fall into place, too. The letter from Philippa had arrived as if on cue. Just that morning at a bank meeting someone had asked about the Cambourne mines. He’d given the man an enigmatic smile and said vaguely something to the intent that he hoped to have more concrete news to share shortly. Then, like magic, the letter had arrived.
Lucien ripped open the envelope and scanned the contents, reading it twice and then again a third time to make sure he understood its contents correctly, his blood turning to ice.
Damn Valerian Inglemoore.
Lucien crumpled the note in one angry fist. The man’s name hadn’t been mentioned once in the missive, but he could read between every line. Although Philippa would deny it, St Just had turned her head. Whatever the man had once been to her, whatever claims, spoken or unspoken, had lain dormant between them during her marriage and his long absence, they had been awoken once more.
The man had kissed her at least once since his ill-timed return, making Lucien highly suspicious that St Just’s tenure away from fair Albion’s shore could be directly linked to Philippa’s marriage. Lucien didn’t like surprises. It galled him there was something of that nature he didn’t know about Philippa.
Lucien’s secretary knocked and asked for the day’s correspondence. Lucien sent him away. ‘No letters to write today. Take time to work on cataloguing the library.’ The door shut on the office.Alone again, Lucien took out a sheet of crisp paper. There was one letter to write, but it was too private to entrust to another pair of eyes.
Lucien dipped his pen into the inkwell and began to write. St Just stood in the way of his bid to build a mining empire; for that, the man must be ruined.
Something had ruined the relationship between Valerian and Philippa, Beldon mused, and not for the first time since he’d parted ways with Valerian at Roseland three weeks ago.
After seeing Philippa off in her coach bound for Cambourne, he had ridden with Valerian to Roseland, stayed a few days to see his friend settled and then turned for the Pendennys lands outside St. Mawes.
Today, as he rode home from his weekly visits with the tenants and his meeting with the vicar, the subject dominated his mind, perhaps because he had little else to think of. He was a social creature and this was a lonely time of year for him. There was small need for him to be in London and Philippa was busy with her own interests before she had to be back in town.
It wasn’t that he didn’t have options. He could go up to London anyway and Philippa would always welcome him at Cambourne. Roseland was close by and now that Valerian was home, he’d probably ride over to Roseland on occasion to ease the isolation he felt rambling around alone in the big Pendennys country house.
Certainly, he had options, but, in truth, his own estate needed his attention too. He’d worked too hard to save it from genteel poverty in the years since his father’s passing. Of course, he couldn’t take all the credit. Without the generous loan from the Duke of Cam-bourne, all the effort in the world could very well have been useless. When he’d first starting going over the ledgers, that fact had become glaringly apparent. Cam-bourne’s wealth had kept the Pendennys family afloat. He’d silently thanked the fates Philippa had married well, if precipitously, and at such a fortuitous time.
Beldon drew sharply on the reins, bringing his horse to a rather sudden and jarring halt. The answer to his riddle hit with full force. Cambourne’s money had been the ‘something’ that had come between Philippa and Valerian.
He kicked his horse into a hard gallop, covering the remaining distance home as fast as he dared. Once home, he raced into the estate office, pulling down old ledgers from the shelves. Beldon didn’t even wait to take off his coat, only taking time to strip off his gloves so as to turn the ledger pages better.
Hours later, when he’d finally removed his outer wear and his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and eaten sporadically from the tray the housekeeper had sent up after she realised the young baron would not be swayed from his task long enough to eat in the dining room, Beldon had his answer.
The office was a mess, with books open to various pages strewn across any available surface. Ledgers from nine years ago had simply been a starting place. He’d had to go back further to determine why the Pendennys barony had needed the funds so badly in the first place.
What he found had been devastating. The office had paid the price of his sleuthing and so had his memories. It was almost like learning the life he thought he’d had was only an illusion. His father had not confided in him, not really.
He’d known about the loan from Cambourne, naturally. But he’d thought very little of it beyond the exorbitant expenses of a few years. Philippa’s Season and début were costly affairs coming on the heels of supporting his time away at Cambridge with Valerian. At the time, his father had only said that the wars with Napoleon had placed the economy under undue stress.
Beldon had believed him. When he’d taken over the reins of the barony, he’d not looked back far enough in the ledgers to see that while there was truth in what his father had offered as an explanation for Cambourne’s loan, there was also much else. The Pendennys finances had been in a slow decline for years. He could trace a string of investment losses and a decline in the production rates of the mines. Too much money had gone out and too little had come in to cover the losses.
The loan had been used to shore up the failing coffers and Beldon had used part of the funds later to diversify the family holdings. In anticipation of a future where the copper and tin mines wouldn’t produce as much ore, never dreaming that future was already coming to pass, Beldon had bought a tin smelter. Later, he’d invested wisely with the Perran Industries gunpowder works. Both had paid off handsomely. A tin smelter was to the mines what a miller was to farmers. Grain needed to be ground into flour and tin—well, tin needed to be smelted. The smelter would continue to pay out long after his own mines had exhausted their resources.
Beldon