“I have my London property.”
“Which is already mortgaged.” Hart rolled his eyes. “Even a man of the meanest intelligence would understand that I’d be a fool to lend you funds on a property to which your other creditors have a prior claim.”
“The loan on the house is less than the value of the house itself.”
“That’s immaterial,” Hart said. “The value of a house which you’re forced to sell to avoid bankruptcy is substantially less than it would be had you no intention of selling.”
“Bankruptcy is a little extreme, don’t you think?”
“One of your creditors might agree with you in isolation,” Hart said, “but I must consider your debts as a whole.” He picked up a piece of paper. “This one, for instance, attracts interest of thirty percent, which falls due next month. How do you intend to service it? Have you persuaded the trustees of the Molineux estate to release funds? There’s an entailed property in Hertfordshire, is there not?”
“Yes, Molineux Manor,” Fraser said. “How do you know that?”
“I make it my business, Your Grace, to understand the full extent of the risk,” Hart said, crisply. “Are you in a position to sell Molineux Manor?”
Fraser shook his head. “The trustees would rather see it crumble into ruin than suffer the indignity of being sold at auction. I can’t even sell the silverware inside it. Once the previous duke’s debts were cleared, there was no cash left—only the two properties, Molineux Manor and Clayton House.”
“And you saw fit to sink your own funds into renovating Clayton House,” Hart said.
“Clayton House is not entailed, so I can do what I want with it.”
“You should have sold it when you had the chance,” Hart said. “A mortgaged property is just one more fixed cost for you to service.”
Hart leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Much as I’d like to invest, the risk is too great. I cannot see how you’ll service the debts you already have, let alone further debt.”
He raised his eyebrows as if expecting Fraser to challenge. But the arrogance in his air told Fraser that his mind was made up. A man like Hart was impervious to persuasion, and Fraser wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing him grovel.
“I can service the debts from my business,” he said. “I’ve received sufficient orders for whisky to cover the interest for the next two years, at which point we’ll be in a position to deliver and can repay the loans in full.”
“And if you aren’t?” Hart asked. “What if something happens to halt production? Or if you encounter unforeseen expenses?”
“Then my creditors will enjoy their thirty percent for a little longer,” Fraser said.
Hart narrowed his eyes. “I’m still not convinced the population of London will buy the stuff. Personally, I prefer brandy.”
“A banker will always have a lower appetite for risk than a businessman,” Fraser said.
“Not at all,” Hart replied. “I’m merely more capable of weighing the risks against the potential for return.”
“And you believe the potential return from my business isn’t worth the risk?”
“Not when there’s a very real chance of that return manifesting itself as a total loss of one’s investment.”
A total loss?
Had Fraser suspected Hart to be in possession of emotions, he might have taken his words as an insult and slammed his fist into his jaw to wipe that arrogant sneer off his face. But as it was, Hart was a soulless financier stating what he believed to be a fact and nothing more.
A clock chimed in the distance, and someone knocked on the office door.
“Come in!” Hart called.
A young man entered. Blonde-haired with warm brown eyes and a demeanor to match, he looked the antithesis of the man sitting opposite Fraser.
“Your next client is waiting for you, Hart,” he said. “Shall I tell him you’ll be ready presently?”
Hart glanced at his pocket watch.
“Tell him I’ll be down directly, Peyton,” he said. “I think we’re done here.”
“Very good.” The man disappeared.
“My business partner,” Hart said, rising to his feet. “A little too kind for my liking, but he has the makings of an excellent financier.”
He held out his hand, and Fraser stood and took it.
“No hard feelings,” Hart said, “but business is business. I cannot invest in your enterprise, but I wish you success with it.”
“But without your help.”
“A man should help himself, Molineux,” Hart said. “A lesson the aristocracy will need to learn if it’s to survive. But permit me to give you some advice, if I may.”
“Which is?”
“I’d minimize your acts of philanthropy until you are more—solvent.”
“Philanthropy?”
“From what my sister tells me, you’ve been using substantial sums of money to support charitable causes. I understand Mrs. Forbes and her establishment have much to thank you for, but I doubt your creditors would agree.”
“You’ve discussed me with Miss Hart?” Fraser asked.
“Naturally,” came the reply. “Did you think I’d place my sister’s wellbeing in the hands of a man about whom I know nothing? Rest assured, Your Grace, had Delilah given me cause to believe you were a scoundrel, our discussion today would have taken place at dawn, not three in the afternoon.”
Fraser’s cheeks warmed under Hart’s scrutiny as he tightened his grip on Fraser’s hand. Had Miss Hart told her brother what they had done in Scotland? They had returned over a fortnight ago, yet the memory of her cries of ecstasy still dominated his dreams. His manhood twitched at the image of her on the bed, her willing body spread out for him like an offering, and he averted his gaze lest her brother read the wicked thoughts in his mind.
Then Hart released his hand.
“I trust there are no hard feelings,” he said. “It’s a business decision. What say you join me at home tonight, and perhaps you can bring along some of that whisky of yours? I may not wish to become an investor, but that doesn’t mean I cannot become a customer.”
“I’d be delighted.” Fraser’s blood warmed at the prospect of seeing her again.
“The ladies will be dining out, so we’ll have the house to ourselves,” Hart said. “Just an informal evening with friends. You already know Sir Thomas, of course.”
Sir Thomas—dear lord! The last man Fraser wanted was to spend an evening engaging in small talk with his rival.
He caught his breath. Since when had he viewed Sir Thomas as a rival?
Chapter Twenty
Well, this was awkward…
Fraser wrinkled his nose at the sickly-sweet sherry under the watchful gaze of his host and the other guest. Were it not for the early hour, Fraser would have cut through the niceties of polite conversation and asked Hart to open the whisky flask he’d brought and be done with it.
Judging by the expression on his face, Sir Thomas was just as delighted—or not—to see Fraser. After issuing the slightest of bows, the man had crossed the parlor in his rather affected little walk—almost as if he were relieving himself in his breeches—and took the seat next to Hart as if to affirm his greater relationship with the man.