That sounded reasonable enough. But her intuition still warned that there was something fishy about the situation. “How did they become acquainted?”
“About three years ago, Winterborne was nominated for membership at two different London clubs, but was rejected by both of them. Winterborne is a commoner; his father was a Welsh grocer. So after hearing the sniggering about how Winterborne had been refused, Devon arranged to have our club, Brabbler’s, offer a membership to him. And Winterborne never forgets a favor.”
“Brabbler’s?” Kathleen repeated. “What an odd name.”
“It’s the word for a fellow who tends to argue over trifles.” West looked down and rubbed at a sticky spot of sap on the heel of his hand. “Brabbler’s is a second-tier club for those who aren’t allowed into White’s or Brooks’s, but it includes some of the most successful and clever men in London.”
“Such as Mr. Winterborne.”
“Just so.”
“What is he like? What is his character?”
West shrugged. “He’s a quiet sort, but he can be as charming as the devil if it suits him.”
“Is he young or old?”
“Thirty years, or thereabouts.”
“And his appearance? Is he well-favored?”
“The ladies certainly seem to think so. Although with his fortune, Winterborne could look like a toad and they would still flock to him.”
“Is he a good man?”
“One doesn’t acquire a fortune by being a choirboy.”
Holding his gaze, Kathleen realized that was the most she was going to pry from him. “The earl and Mr. Winterborne are scheduled to arrive tomorrow afternoon, are they not?”
“Yes, I’ll go to meet them at the Alton Station. Would you like to accompany me?”
“Thank you, but my time will be better spent with Mrs. Church and Cook, making certain everything is prepared.” She sighed and cast a rueful glance at the looming tree, feeling guilty and uneasy. “I hope none of the local gentry hears about all our festivities. But I’m sure they will. I shouldn’t allow any of this. You know that.”
“But since you have,” West said, patting her shoulder, “you may as well try to enjoy it.”
Chapter 15
“Y
ou’re going to be nominated for membership at White’s,” Rhys Winterborne said as the train rattled and swayed along the route from London to Hampshire. Although their private compartment in the first-class carriage could have easily accommodated four more passengers, Winterborne had paid to keep the seats empty so they could have the space to themselves. Devon’s valet, Sutton, was traveling in one of the lower-class carriages farther back in the train.
Devon shot him a look of surprise. “How do you know that?”
Winterborne’s only reply was an oblique glance. He often knew about people’s private business before they themselves had learned of it. Since almost everyone in London had applied to his store for credit, the man knew intimate details about their finances, their purchases, and their personal habits. In addition, much of what the store employees overheard on the floors was funneled upward to Winterborne’s office.
“They needn’t bother,” Devon said, stretching his legs into the space between the seats. “I wouldn’t accept.”
“White’s is a more prestigious club than Brabbler’s.”
“Most clubs are,” Devon rejoined wryly. “But the air is a bit too thin in such elevated circles. And if White’s didn’t want me before I was an earl, there’s no reason for them to want me now. I’m unchanged in every regard except for the fact that I’m now as deeply in debt as the rest of the peerage.”
“That’s not the only change. You’ve gained social and political power.”
“Power without capital. I’d rather have money.”
Winterborne shook his head. “Always choose power. Money can be stolen or devalued, and then you’re left with nothing. With power, one can always acquire more money.”
“I hope you’re right about that.”
“I’m always right,” Winterborne said flatly.
Few men could make such a statement convincingly, but Rhys Winterborne certainly did.
He was one of those rare individuals who had been born in the perfect time and place to suit his abilities. In a staggeringly short time, he had built his father’s ramshackle shop into a mercantile empire. Winterborne had an instinct for quality and a shrewd understanding of the public appetite… somehow he could always identify what people wanted to buy before they themselves knew. As a well-known public figure, he had a vast array of friends, acquaintances, and enemies, but no one could truthfully claim to know the man.
Reaching for a decanter, which had been set on a railed shelf affixed to the teak paneling beneath the window, Winterborne poured two malt whiskeys and handed one to Devon. After a silent toast, they settled back into the plush seats and watched the ever-changing view through the window.
The luxurious compartment was one of three in the carriage, each with its own set of doors that opened to the outside. The doors had been locked by a porter, a standard railway practice to prevent unticketed passengers from sneaking aboard. For the same reasons, the windows had been barred with brass rods. To distract himself from the vague feeling of being trapped, Devon focused on the scenery.
How much smaller England had become, now that it was possible to cover a distance in a matter of hours rather than days. There was scarcely time to absorb the scenery before it had rushed by, which inspired some people to call the railway a “magician’s road.” The train crossed bridges, pastures, public thoroughfares, and ancient villages, now passing through deep chalk cuttings, now chugging by open heath. The Hampshire hills appeared, slopes of dark wintry green hunkering beneath the white afternoon sky.
The prospect of arriving home filled Devon with anticipation. He had brought presents for everyone in the family, but he had deliberated the longest about what to give to Kathleen. At one of the jeweler’s counters in Winterborne’s, he had found an unusual cameo brooch, an exquisitely carved scene of a Greek goddess riding a horse. The cream-colored cameo was set against an onyx background and framed with tiny white seed pearls.
Since the cameo was set in onyx, the saleswoman at the counter had told Devon, it was suitable for a lady in mourning. Even the pearls were acceptable, since they were said to represent tears. Devon had purchased it on the spot. It had been delivered to him that morning, and he had slipped it into his pocket before leaving for the railway station.