‘My father writes that the London investors are in place. We may go ahead and officially announce that the Provincial Bank of Truro is open for business, with you, of course, as the nominal head.’ It went unspoken between them the reasons for that choice. A viscount or his son might sit on an executive oversight board of a bank, particularly if the bank was in his own area of the country, but he would never overtly sully himself with such work as the daily running of the bank.
Danforth rubbed his hands together in delight. ‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘As am I. The sooner we can begin loaning funds to the smelting companies and the mining corporations, the sooner we can have our cartel.’
‘And the sooner we have our cartel, the sooner we control the market. Everyone will be in our pockets,’ Danforth remarked shrewdly.
‘Not just the market, but the world,’ Lucien said meaningfully. He didn’t expect Danforth to understand. The man’s financial acumen was daunting on a domestic scale, but he had yet to grasp the implications of the new British mining colonies springing up in the Bolivian and Argentine territories. That was Lucien’s gift to the venture—futuristic foresight.
His eyes strayed to the window. His foresight and exquisite planning would come to naught if he couldn’t control the Cambourne interests. The strength of his cartel and its ability to regulate tin and copper prices would be minimal if the Cambourne mines and other associated industries remained outside the cartel’s umbrella to compete against it with prices.
St Just was an unfortunate distraction, but not insurmountable. He would have to send to London for news about the returning viscount. With nine years in the diplomatic corps, there must be dirt on the man somewhere—real scandal beyond his rakish reputation with women.
Lucien had yet to meet a diplomat who couldn’t be bribed to shape foreign policy. Not that there was anything wrong with greasing palms. Lucien was man enough of the world to know it took a bit of well-placed oil to keep that world running smoothly. But Philippa was another sort altogether. She believed in ideals, like the miners’ school the late duke had let her open.
Lucien rather thought she’d take badly to the news that the dashing St Just was not only a womaniser—a fact openly known in certain London circles—but a man who’d been involved with darker dealings, selling ‘opportunities’, as it were, to become involved in the great British Empire for a price—things like rights to waterways or trade commodities. Those were things that quietly went to the highest bidders and not necessarily those who deserved them most. Such injustice would not sit well with Philippa.
However, until he could manage to tarnish St Just’s sterling image a bit, he’d follow the old adage of keeping one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer. It was time to pay a visit to the garden.
Chapter Five
Philippa didn’t see Lucien approach, but was instead alerted to his arrival by the sudden tenseness in Valerian’s pose and the feral light that lit his green eyes. She tried to slide her gloved hand discreetly from Valerian’s grasp, but the effort was nothing more than an afterthought. The stormy visage Lucien wore made it clear that he had already seen her hand in Valerian’s.
She resented the intrusion. For a short while, she and St Just had been companionable, simply Philippa and Valerian again, like they had been on the dance floor. She’d liked the soft, intimate tones between them as they discussed her marriage to the duke. She’d liked the absence of witty repartee designed to spear the other, the social politics of claiming and possession. With Lucien’s interruption, all that was back, and back in force. The moment Valerian had spied Lucien, he’d become all St Just again—the rakish diplomat who would not be cornered or made to feel guilty for his actions by any man.
‘Philippa, it’s freezing out here,’Lucien said, rubbing his hands together for good effect and trying to minimise Valerian’s presence by ignoring him. ‘What could possibly bring you outside?’
‘We’re reminiscing, catching up,’ Philippa offered smoothly. It was true. They’d been talking of the past, nothing more.
‘My dear, that is why we have a dozen sitting rooms, expressly for the purpose of talking.’ Lucien forced a laugh.
‘Is that true or is it merely an example of hyperbole?’ Valerian put in, shielding his eyes against the wind and making a great show of surveying the manor as if he could count all the sitting rooms and doubted the manor was large enough to uphold Lucien’s boast.
Philippa couldn’t decide what she wanted to do first: laugh at Lucien’s bluff being called—the manor was large by Truro standards, but there weren’t twelve sitting rooms unless one counted the small salons attached to a few of the larger bedchambers—or strangle Valerian for poking at Lucien’s pride so deliberately and with no greater purpose than to antagonise the man.
‘St Just has an interest in gardens. I thought he’d enjoy seeing yours,’ Philippa interjected quickly.
Valerian smiled beside her. ‘Yes, the family seat has extensive gardens over on the Roseland Peninsula. I am eager to get back to them.’
Lucien smiled back. ‘I hope you aren’t in such a large hurry to get back that you won’t stay on with us for a while? Perhaps I could entice you with a visit to some excellent gardens nearby?’ Lucien offered magnanimously. ‘I’ve heard rumour that the new vicar in Veryan, just a few miles from here, has been rebuilding the vicarage and has plans to expand the gardens. I could arrange for you to ride over tomorrow and talk about plants and whatever else you gardening types enjoy talking about.’
Philippa turned to Valerian. ‘Please say you’ll stay. I know the vicarage. It’s lovely and you would enjoy meeting Samuel Trist, the vicar. He’s an avid landscaper. The two of you would have much in common.’ The thought of Valerian leaving, after having only discovered he’d returned was suddenly unpalatable. But he wouldn’t stay if he thought he was beholden to Lucien in any way.
‘Who knows what other pleasant surprises might crop up if you stay long enough?’ Lucien put in, playing the expansive host to the hilt. ‘With luck, you could be one of the first to congratulate me on my good fortune. I have proposed to our dear Duchess this very morning. I thought it was best to start the year off on the right footing, beginning as I mean to go on and all that.’
Philippa felt the colour go out of her cheeks. How dare Lucien call his angry, jealous retort a proposal. She was keenly aware of Valerian’s probing stare.
‘Has our “dear Duchess” accepted?’ Valerian asked of Lucien, although his eyes didn’t leave her.
‘She has—’ Lucien began glibly.
‘She has not accepted the proposal,’ Philippa broke in angrily. Who knew what kind of fiction Lucien would fabricate? If he was willing to risk portraying their quarrel as a proposal, he might be willing to go so far as to say her storming out of the library was akin to ‘thinking it over’.
Philippa stared hard at each of them. ‘I will not stand here and be talked about as if I am invisible. That goes for both of you. However, since my presence is not intrinsic to this conversation, please feel free to stay out here and continue. I’m going in.’
She must have been momentarily mad to think she wasn’t ready for Valerian to leave. Valerian. That was another thing. Some time between his arrival two nights ago and this afternoon, she’d started thinking of him as Valerian again instead of St Just. Out in the garden, he’d been her friend, so reminiscent of the old days, and then he’d become St Just. On an instant’s notice, the mask had slid into place as assuredly as the one he’d worn to the ball last night.
Was that what it was? A mask? Why she was so certain the mask of cold, sharp wit was the facade? It could just as well be that the friend was the front instead.
Up in her room, Philippa threw her cloak onto the bed and paced in front of the window, her thoughts in turmoil. For a woman who’d thought herself well armed against