Raven crossed the street and, taking the narrow stairs two at a time, retraced his path to Reynolds’s office. The old man looked up from his notations in a leatherbound ledger.
“Lady Catherine Montfort,” John Raven said, his wide shoulders filling the doorway.
“Montfort?” the banker repeated, wondering again, as he had when he’d first met the American, if he were more than merely eccentric.
“Is Lady Catherine Montfort angelic enough for our purposes?” Raven asked calmly.
The old man stared blankly for a moment, wondering how his client had come up with that name.
“Is she?” Raven prompted, knowing that the banker’s reply really didn’t matter. The die had been cast in the middle of a crowded London street, but at least Reynolds’s approval would provide an acceptable excuse.
“Catherine Montfort is bloody well the entire seraphic choir,” the old man acknowledged truthfully. He watched the smile that touched the American’s mouth again deepen the indentions at the corners. “But I’m afraid that the Montforts—”
“You said one only had to offer enough money.”
“Montfort’s one of the few men in London evenyou couldn’t buy. And I must tell you…” The banker’s voice trailed off. He really hated to offend the man, but he knew that the duke would never accept John Raven as a suitor for his daughter’s hand. His only daughter. His only surviving child and heir. Reynolds’s mind having dealt too long with the prospects of profit, he briefly allowed himself to consider those combined fortunes being handled by his bank. And why not? Was his not the oldest financial establishment in the city? The bank had financed the East India Company’s venture into the Russian market in the sixteenth century. He cleared the tempting visions from his mind and shook his head regretfully.
“He’ll never allow you to even present your suit. Forget Catherine Montfort, John. You’ll never convince her father, and I must warn you that it would be dangerous even to try. Montfort’s as proud, cold-blooded and arrogant as any of the old aristocrats. His was a generation that made its own rules—whatever they wanted, whether legal or moral, they took, consequences be damned. There’s nothing you can do to win Montfort’s daughter. You have nothing to offer the girl that she doesn’t already have.”
The blue eyes rested on the seamed face of the old man a moment, their farseeing gaze untroubled by the obstacles Reynolds had just thrown in his path.
John Raven had believed he had come to London to make money. The call had been so strong that he had left India in the middle of an incredibly successful mining venture. His intuition had directed his journey to this city as surely as it had previously drawn him to Delhi, leaving the profitable exporting business he’d founded in New York to be run by his assistants. Wherever there was money to be made, John Raven could sense it. He could feel it moving in his hands as clearly as he had felt the reality of the rubies and sapphires he’d mined in India. He thought he had been drawn to England by the growth of the mining industry and the possibilities offered by the new developments in the locomotive.
Now he knew that his arrival in London had had nothing whatsoever to do with that.What you need is a wife, Oliver Reynolds had told him, almost exactly the words his grandmother had said to him when he had last seen her more than five years ago. He wondered how many prayers had accompanied the sacred white cedar smoke directed to the AllSpirit in the intervening years. And with amusement Raven found himself wondering if, in one of her dream trances, his grandmother could possibly have envisioned anyone like Lady Catherine Montfort.
“Ididn’t come out to be pawed. I came for a breath of air that wasn’t contaminated by a hundred perspiring bodies wearing too much perfume,” Catherine Montfort said, wondering why the lovemaking of this extremely handsome and highly acceptable suitor left her so cold. She moved out of the attempted embrace of her escort, who released her with a small laugh.
The Viscount Amberton watched as Catherine leaned gracefully against the stone railing of the balcony. He knew she was as unmindful of the nearly priceless material of her gown as if she had been wearing sackcloth. Of course, none of the tedious hours of beading that had gone into its creation had been performed by her hands. She propped her chin on fingers covered in the finest kid and stared out into the darkness that hid the garden.
“Admit it, Cat. You’re bored. Too many ballrooms. Too many dinner parties attended by the same people. Too many suitors declaiming their undying love. Why don’t you name the lucky man and put them all out of their misery?” the viscount suggested.
Since Amberton was well aware that he held the inside track, with the duke, certainly, if not with the daughter, he was becoming increasingly impatient with Catherine’s refusal to accept the necessity of matrimony. Especially when he considered all the diligent toadying to the old man it had taken to acquire that inside track. The viscount was not nearly so impatient as his creditors were, however. The only reason they had held both their tongues and his bills was that they, too, were well aware of how this game was played. The faintest hint that Lord Amberton needed Montfort’s money, and he’d never see a guinea of it.
“All ofthem?” she questioned mockingly, slanting a quick smile at him over her shoulder.
“All of us, then,” he conceded. “You know my heart’s yours. It always has been. You are very well aware of that fact.”
“But the problem is inmy heart,” Catherine said softly.
“Not being in love is not generally considered to be a hindrance to marriage,” he assured her. Indeed, they both knew how rare a love match was in their circle.
“I keep thinking there must be a man who won’t bore me to tears after the first month.”
“You’re such a wonderfully spoiled chit, my dear. There are worse things than boredom,” Gerald suggested lightly, knowing she wouldn’t understand just now the truth of his statement. But she would. One day soon she most certainly would. Then she might long for boredom, Gerald thought with a touch of malicious humor.
“I doubt it,” she said, but she smiled again.
“You’re eighteen, at the end of your second season. The Duke of Montfort’s only child, and he wants a grandson. He’s not going to wait much longer.”
“I know.” She’d heard the same arguments all too often, from both Amberton and her father. She had begun to be afraid the duke would brush aside the promise he’d made two years ago to consider her wishes in the selection of her husband.
There was no need to base that decision solely on the amount of the marriage settlements. And no one unsuitable by birth would be so absurd as to offer for Montfort’s only daughter, so her father had seen no reason not to give her the assurance for which she had so charmingly begged. But now he was growing impatient. Her refusal to choose was becoming a source of discord in what had always been, despite the duke’s notoriously volatile temperament, a loving relationship.
“Give in gracefully before you’re left with no choice at all,” Gerald suggested smoothly.And before I’m clapped into Newgate, he thought bitterly.
“Give in,” she repeated, with her own touch of bitterness. “Always
