Martin grimaced. “I see.” After a moment, in a much more cynical tone, he said, “I’d forgotten how much money counts for in the ton.”
“Money and name, be it familial or an acquired reputation.” Devlin considered, then added, “And believe it or not, these days, talent and achievement.” He glanced at Martin measuringly. “Unless I’m reading you quite wrongly, while you unquestionably possess at least one of the first two requirements, you also have at least one of the latter two.”
Martin’s lips quirked, but while he didn’t deny the accuracy of Devlin’s assessment, he also didn’t rush to admit to anything, nudging Devlin’s respect for him a notch higher.
Looking ahead, Devlin continued, “Unless you want to find yourself beating off the matchmakers, I would strongly advise you to keep your financial doings under your hat—or at least hidden from those involved in the Marriage Mart—for as long as humanly possible.”
Martin nodded rather grimly. “I intend to.”
Devlin inclined his head, then indicated a group of gentlemen gathered by the side of the lawn. “The gentleman over there, in the blue coat, is Lord Randolph Cavanaugh. He manages a very large group of investors and is the sort of gentleman I suspect you should know. As it happens, he’s also a connection of yours.”
Martin frowned as if dredging his memory. “Via Mary’s husband?”
Devlin nodded. “Yes, Raventhorne. Rand is Ryder’s half brother. Come, I’ll introduce you.”
With Martin in tow, Devlin joined the group. As, over the years, he’d become known as a successful investor in railways and in industrial manufactories, he was welcomed with interest. In introducing Martin, Devlin merely described him as having recently returned from America, adding that the younger man was seeking to learn the local ropes, leaving it to Martin to decide how much to reveal.
In that respect, Devlin was unsurprised when Martin used his youth to say very little while listening intently. When, however, after agreeing to meet with Rand later in the week to discuss several firms in which they shared an interest, Devlin made his and Martin’s excuses and moved on, Martin was quick to pose a range of insightful and pertinent questions regarding the companies and funds the circle had discussed.
Devlin replied as well as he could and made mental notes to follow up several of the points Martin raised.
Intrigued, Devlin repeated the exercise, introducing Martin to another select group of gentlemen investors, with much the same result. Martin listened and observed, then once he and Devlin quit the group, posed questions and made comments that confirmed that Therese’s younger brother was as observant and as intelligent as she was and also had a good and, in some ways, experienced head for business. He was also transparently genuinely intent on building his understanding of ton connections as pertained to investing; Devlin could almost see Martin compiling a list of who had what fingers in which pies.
Eventually, Devlin introduced Martin to Somersby, who was one of the secretaries at the Board of Trade. On learning that Martin had recently returned from America and had been involved in the import-export business there, Somersby grew quite animated, outlining the department’s current views on trade with America and endeavoring to solicit Martin’s opinions. Devlin stood back, watched, and listened and, once again, was impressed by Martin’s acumen in offering just enough of his own thoughts to keep Somersby engaged and willing to reveal more.
When they finally parted from Somersby, leaving that gentleman keen to maintain a connection with Martin and Devlin as well, Devlin waited until he and Martin were out of others’ hearing, then said, “I get the impression that you’ve already got some notion of what arena of activity, for want of a better phrase, you intend to pursue in this new life of yours.”
Martin threw him a brief, sharp, sidelong glance, then looked down. They walked on, ambling around the edge of the crowd, for several moments before he tipped his head in acknowledgment and replied, “Machinery. The manufacturing of it.”
Devlin cocked his head. “Supplying which area?”
Martin smiled intently. “Whichever area needs machines.” He met Devlin’s puzzled gaze. “Take, for instance, the factories that make Britain’s railway carriages. They use machinery to make the carriages, but from where does that machinery come?”
Devlin frowned. “I’m not sure.”
“It’s mostly imported from either America or Germany, and that holds true for most of the factories that make almost anything. But”—Martin gestured—“the cost of importing such heavy machinery is significant, let alone the cost in time, and there’s really no reason we can’t make much of what we need here. Decades ago, the first steam-powered looms were made here, along with some of the first locomotives, and in many industries, the most efficient designs for any sort of machines are those that arise locally.” Martin paused, then said, “One of the truisms I learned in America is that those who make the most profit from any new product are those who provide the means to produce it. They take much less risk, but tend to walk away with a large and assured slice of the profits.”
Devlin felt as if he’d been struck by an epiphany. “I see your point.” After a moment, he said, “Rand has always been interested in automobiles, and while I can’t see the government changing its stance on that anytime soon, if I understand you correctly, you wouldn’t be interested in making the automobiles themselves but in supplying the machinery necessary to make them.”
Martin nodded. “Exactly.”
Devlin halted and faced his brother-in-law. “What sort of structure do you think such a machinery-making business might have?”
“Well…” Martin drew in a deep breath and said, “First, it would need…”
Ignoring all the encouraging looks directed their way, Devlin gave his full attention to Martin as the younger man described what was plainly his dream.
Therese had been circulating among the guests, doing her duty by paying her respects to the older ladies present as well as sharing moments with her friends and close acquaintances.
After quitting a group of fashionable matrons of much her own age, she paused by the side of the lawn to consider her options. She had, she estimated, at least twenty minutes to fill before Lady Wicklow declared it was time for the “picnic.” Given the wrought iron tables and chairs Therese had spied set up on the eastern lawn, it would be more correct to term the event an alfresco luncheon. She surveyed the guests before her, idly wondering how Devlin and Martin were faring—
“There you are.”
She swung around to find Child settling by her elbow. At the sight of the smile he directed her way, she decided to immediately take charge. “I trust, my lord, that you’ve been finding the company entertaining?”
He waved noncommittally. “I admit I’ve refreshed my knowledge of the ladies currently gracing the ton. However, none incite my interest to the level you do.”
She arched her brows. “Because I’m Alverton’s countess?”
Child blinked. He hadn’t expected her to be so direct. “Well…”
“Tell me, my lord, for how long have you known my husband?”