An uncomfortable pause ensued.
“I daresay that is a rather godless view of the world,” Adele said, her eyes cold.
Mr. Blackstone gave a nod. “They do say capitalism worships only itself.”
Aunty cackled. “Mr. Blackstone should meet our Florence,” she said to Adele. “They would have much to discuss.”
“First I should like to introduce Mr. Blackstone to Mr. Greenfield,” Adele said tersely, her gaze moving toward the door to the side chamber, where her husband had made an entrance. “Do excuse us.”
Hattie’s anxiety buzzed like startled bees as Mr. Blackstone approached her father.
Mrs. Hewitt-Cook snapped her ivory-plated fan open with a snick. “Good grief but he is beastly,” she murmured as she peered at Mr. Blackstone’s broad back. “Every inch as bad as they say he is.” The predatory delight in her voice grated on Hattie’s tightly wound nerves.
“Poor Lord and Lady Rutland,” Mrs. Astorp said. “I doubt they have a moment of peace.”
Rutland. The man’s face appeared before Hattie’s mind’s eye, vaguely, as seen once at a ball: the regular, impassive, long face of an older English aristocrat with cold eyes and iron-gray hair. “What is he doing to Rutland?” she asked.
“Killing him slowly,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook said, her gaze still glued to the introduction scene across the room. “Rutland is in a pecuniary pickle. Rumor has it that over the years, Mr. Blackstone here has bought up most of his debts, and Rutland currently has no solid financial leg to stand on. Mr. Blackstone is holding his debts like the sword of Damocles over his head.”
Mrs. Altorp shuddered. “Ghastly. I understand Lady Rutland is not in good health.”
Hattie wished she hadn’t asked. Such villainy on Mr. Blackstone’s part made her question her father’s ethics; worse, it felt surprisingly disappointing, quite as though she had harbored personal hopes for Mr. Blackstone’s moral character.
“Men can be so bloodthirsty,” purred Mrs. Hewitt-Cook. “Now, what is your opinion on his nose—how do you think he broke it?” At their startled silence, she raised her fan higher as if to share its protection. “Mrs. Altorp—I’m sure you have thoughts.”
A nervous giggle burst from Mrs. Altorp. “Very well.” She leaned in. “He broke his nose when . . . when he was brawling over a lady.”
“Hmm, intriguing. No doubt he won and vigorously claimed his spoils. Personally, I like to imagine it happened during a boxing match, in Elephant and Castle or some such place . . . but, Miss Greenfield, are we shocking you?” Her gaze slid over Hattie with faux concern.
Some married women had a habit of reminding the unmarried ones of their undesirable status by pretending consideration for their innocent sensibilities. It drew a line in the sand, separating the knowing from the ignorant, a subtle demonstration of power that always puzzled Hattie, for she thought of herself as perfectly unthreatening. But looking into Mrs. Hewitt-Cook’s amused face, she was for a moment tempted to say that she knew things about Mr. Blackstone. She knew his clean scent and the taste of his lips. She knew his kiss was commanding and that his chest felt solid as a wall against her breasts. A sordid corner of her mind was aglow with triumph to know these things, knowledge that lay beyond the men who wanted his money, beyond even the worldly Mrs. Hewitt-Cook. Of course, it meant Mr. Blackstone knew all these things about her, too. Color rose all the way to her hairline. Mrs. Hewitt-Cook would undoubtedly, happily, attribute this to maidenly discomfiture.
“No,” she said lamely. “I have no idea how he broke his nose.”
Mrs. Astorp gave her a kind smile. “Mr. Astorp is more interested in how he acquired his money in any case—now, that would be interesting to know.”
“Money, how dull,” Mrs. Hewitt-Cook mocked. “But I reckon by some criminal activity. Smuggling, perhaps? There is something decidedly piratical about him . . .”
Hattie decided she would rather endure her mother’s irate lecture than this. Yes, she would take a glass of pink champagne, sneak to the dessert table to scoop up some of the chocolates, and then take to her room. She would not steal another glance at Mr. Blackstone, not at how the fabric of his jacket pulled just a little across his back whenever he took a sip from his glass, nor at the way his hair curled at his nape.
Chapter 6
Greenfield’s daughter hadn’t fled the room at her first opportunity. She eventually moved out of his field of vision, but he felt her presence all throughout his first personal encounter with Julien Greenfield.
“I hear you recently nabbed a coal mine up in Fife,” the banker said as he shook Lucian’s hand in a practiced grip.
“I have. Drummuir.”
“I assume you know things about it that we don’t,” Greenfield said, “because it certainly looks like a lousy investment from where I stand.”
“I suppose we all have our pet projects,” Lucian replied. “Some in the North, some in the South.”
Greenfield’s eyes squinted when he chuckled. One of those deceptively jolly men. If one were to clothe him in plain brown tweed and remove his golden pocket watch and the heavy signet ring on his stubby little finger, nothing about him would suggest a man of both power and old money. He stood with a slight hunch and was short, rotund, and florid, as though he enjoyed wine overly much. His gaze was diffuse, though doubtlessly this could change in a quick second. He’d mastered the subtle art of having delivered the fatal blow long before the opponent realized it had been inflicted.
They kept the conversation brief—Lucian tactically mentioned his philanthropic plans for the arts and extended an invitation to a gallery tour for next Saturday, which elicited a frown from Greenfield’s wife. The banker, however, invited him to his smoking chamber in return. Usually, Lucian declined to enter smoke-filled rooms, but today he accepted. The moment the Greenfields’ attention was engaged by the next guest, he turned back to the room.
The daughter was still at the buffet, alone, pondering the sweetmeats.
He kept to her blind spot as he approached. With her champagne glass tilting at a precarious angle, she was awkwardly bending over a pastry platter to reach the farthermost chocolates. The position stretched her gown snugly across the generous flare of her hips, hips only a dead man would fail to notice. Heat filtered through Lucian. He had expected to find her changed from the urchin in his reception room, but he had still been taken by surprise when first seeing her here. Harriet Greenfield stood a little below average height, and with her gleaming red curls piled high and her luscious figure wrapped tightly in ruffles and green taffeta, a bonbon had sprung to mind, a fancy piece of French confectionary. If he were to step closer now and graze his teeth against the exposed curve of her neck, he’d probably find her tasting like cream candy.