A Lady Most Lovely (6 page)

“I’m well aware of the gold in California,” Tom said drily. “It was the unsuccessful prospectors from California who first came looking for gold in Australia.”

“And they found it! See what an advantage that was to you!” Denault exclaimed, pouncing on his words with
enthusiasm. “Now you have a chance to invest it and turn your hard-earned gold into more money than you ever dreamed of. People are absolutely desperate to reach the West, and there is just no good way to get there. It takes months by wagon train, and the dangers are immense. The only other route is to go around Cape Horn, and you know how harrowing that is.”

Tom considered this. Denault was right about Cape Horn—the passage across the violent icy seas at the tip of South America was just about the worst thing Tom had ever endured. It was the only time in his life he’d actually been seasick. He knew full well why people would avoid traveling that way if they could.

Denault continued to speak excitedly. “We will be bringing more than just the railway. We will be giving employment to thousands of people, establishing towns, and enabling civilization to take root in that wild place.”

“Are there really thousands of people available to build it? Does that much labor exist in America?”

Denault shrugged. “Think of your own experience in Australia. How many people flooded into Melbourne and Ballarat when they learned there was important money to be made there?”

Denault had a point, although to Tom’s way of thinking the chaos brought by all the newcomers had not necessarily been a good thing. “How many miles are we talking about? And aren’t there mountains somewhere between Saint Louis and California?” Tom thought of the steep cliffs and box canyons of the Blue Mountains, of how they’d only just managed to build a road through there with the endless labor of convict gangs. He could not even imagine trying to build a railway through it. He
had no idea what the terrain of the Sierra Nevada was like, but a mountain was a mountain, after all.

“There is a pass through the mountains,” Denault assured him. “We have a cracking good engineer who has figured out all those technical details.”

“Are those the plans?” Tom asked, pointing to the table.

“Yes, indeed.” Denault unrolled one of the large papers. “It’s drawn to scale, one inch per one hundred miles.”

“One hundred!” Tom exclaimed. He looked at the map and tried to do a quick calculation in his head. “You are talking about thousands of miles.”

“Just under two thousand.”

“And what kind of land is it?” He knew England had many different kinds of terrain, including hills, valleys, moors, and bogs. Was America like that? Or was it more like the Bathurst Plains in Australia, which were wide and flat as far as the eye could see? He studied the map. “There are no geographical relief markings.”

Denault gave him an impressed look. “You seem to be proficient at reading maps.”

“I had to be,” Tom said. “Mining for gold will give a person experience in that kind of thing.”

“You needn’t concern yourself with those details for this project,” Denault said with a patronizing air. “We have a team of engineering and cartography experts who are overseeing the project.”

If Denault felt he had all the organizational power he needed, that meant he was coming after Tom for something else. And now they were getting to the crux of the issue. Like so many others Tom had met, Denault was only after one thing. “All you want from me is my money.”

Denault shrugged and raised his hands. “What’s so
bad about that? It makes your role that much easier. All you need to do is fund this project, and then enjoy yourself while the earnings pile up. You won’t need to do any of the work.”

“You say that as if it were a good thing,” Tom said with irritation.

“Isn’t it?”

“Everyone seems to want to get something for nothing. They think that’s what happened to me. It’s not. I worked hard for that money, and I intend to be very careful in how I spend it.”

“But it’s not
spending,
” Denault insisted. “It’s
investing.
”

Tom let out a snort of derision. These high-society people were so good at using fancy words to make anything sound better—to put a gloss on it, like shining up a worn boot. Whenever a man started talking that way, it was a signal for Tom to run in the opposite direction. Just now he was seriously considering picking up his hat and walking out without a backward glance. He owed this man nothing, after all. He’d done him a favor just by showing up.

In the end, it was thoughts of Margaret that kept him from leaving immediately. She was about to be tied to Denault by marriage, and Tom still wanted to find out everything he could about this man. Today he was speaking like many a charlatan he’d seen in Sydney and Melbourne—men who were always coming up with schemes to separate people from their hard-earned money. Was Denault such a man? If so, did Margaret have any inkling of it?

He could not simply walk away, knowing Margaret was about to place her life in the power of a man who might be disreputable in his business dealings. Of course,
he owed nothing to her, and she certainly was not looking for anything from him. This was a solid fact, and yet to Tom it weighed nothing when placed in the balance. He dropped his hat on the table and sat down. “All right, suppose we go over your plans. In detail.”

Denault grinned and took the other chair. “I thought you’d never ask.”

*

Margaret breezed into her study. Hawthorne was standing near the window, observing the traffic below and not looking at all perturbed that she’d kept him waiting for more than a quarter of an hour. She was surprised to see that he was joined by Mr. Clarke, one of the partners in the firm.

“I apologize for the delay,” Margaret said. “The seamstress had me ridiculously pinned up and I was only just able to free myself. I hope you were able to take some refreshment while you were waiting.”

“Indeed, Miss Vaughn, that was most kind,” Hawthorne replied.

But a quick glance showed Margaret that the tea tray was untouched. The two men wore solemn expressions that were unusual even for them, given that an overly grave aspect was a solicitor’s stock in trade. “Is this visit really so serious that it requires two of you?” She spoke lightly, but the expressions on the men’s faces did not waver. Something was definitely amiss. “What’s happened?” she asked warily. “Are Paul’s lawyers still giving you trouble?”

The two men looked at each other. Mr. Clarke went over to a table and picked up a portfolio filled with papers. Mr. Hawthorne said, “If you would be so kind
as to sit down, Miss Vaughn, we have some information we’d like to go over with you.”

Margaret walked to a large desk and moved aside the correspondence that littered it. She sat down and motioned to two chairs on the opposite side of the desk for the men. “Will this do?” she asked.

Hawthorne nodded, and Mr. Clarke pulled the papers from the portfolio and set them down in front of her.

A quick perusal of the first page showed her this was not the marriage settlement. “What is this?”

Mr. Hawthorne sat down in one of the chairs, facing Margaret. “This is all the information that we have been able to glean about the Saint Louis and Western Railroad.”

“The project that Mr. Denault is spearheading in America?” Margaret said in surprise. “I thought you had been over all that already.”

“Something about the financial statements appeared not quite right.” With a gesture toward Mr. Clarke, who was standing deferentially off to one side, he added, “Clarke suggested we have our own men look into the matter.”

“And?”

“The Saint Louis and Western is not in the robust health that Mr. Denault has led everyone to believe. In fact, it is in dire need of a large influx of cash in order to keep it afloat.”

“Are you quite sure? The company’s prospectus—”

“It was, I’m afraid, rather too optimistic.”

Hawthorne’s solemn pronouncement set Margaret’s heart pounding in alarm. “Surely you are mistaken,” she insisted. “Paul has more offers of backing than he can even handle. The current shareholders are practically
insisting that he not sell any more, to keep their own profits high. He told me so himself.”

“I have no doubt that he presented it to you in such a way,” Hawthorne said, ever the diplomat. He did not need to point out that just because Paul said it, it wasn’t necessarily true.

Margaret thought back to her conversations with Paul on this subject, and she had to admit that he had not been very forthcoming with concrete details. He also had an annoying habit of trying to change the subject whenever she pressed him on it. “What exactly have you found out? Who are your sources?”

“There is a man newly arrived in London—a Mr. Seton,” Hawthorne said. “He is in the country to transact some business for the First Bank of New York. Mr. Clarke was fortunate enough to make his acquaintance.”

Hawthorne said this last part with a tiny smile of approval, and Margaret was sure that meeting Mr. Seton had not been mere coincidence. Hawthorne’s network of contacts in the city was extensive. Another legacy of his days as a spy.

“The Bank of New York has organized funding for a number of railway projects in America,” Mr. Clarke explained. “Mr. Seton is quite knowledgeable in this area. His bank has been investigating complaints that the Saint Louis and Western is not being honest with its shareholders. There is a possibility that money taken from new investors is merely used to pay ‘dividends’ to the prior investors, giving them a false sense that the company is prospering.”

“But what is the point of that?” Margaret asked, confused. “How can such a company continue to operate?”

“It can go on like that indefinitely,” Mr. Clarke told her. “That is, until the influx of money runs dry. Mr. Seton is of the opinion that Mr. Denault has stolen or spent most of the capital and needs immediate cash to stave off the threat of being discovered. Mind you, we are making no accusations at this point.”

“Could there possibly be a mistake?” Margaret asked. “Could Mr. Seton’s information be incorrect?”

Clarke spread his hands in the universal gesture of uncertainty. “We are leaving open that possibility, for now.”

“However, I feel I should tell you,” Hawthorne added, “that Mr. Denault’s solicitors have been asking very particular questions about the state of ready cash in your estate.”

“But that’s absurd!” Margaret burst out. “We can’t
both
be marrying each other for money!” The idea sent terror through her.

“I’m afraid we must consider the possibility,” Hawthorne said solemnly.

Margaret sat back in her chair and rubbed her eyes, pushing back the tears that threatened to come. Her finely laid plans were unraveling, and it took every ounce of will to fight the panic. But now was not the time to show weakness. She would find a way out of this. How appropriate that Mr. Hawthorne had once been a spy, she thought. This meeting was beginning to feel exactly like a council of war. She took a deep breath, straightened in her chair, and met the gaze of the two men who were now studying her with concern. “All right, gentlemen, I assume you have already considered our options. What do you propose we should do?”

Thirty minutes later, the two men took their leave.
Margaret sat down at her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. She stabbed, rather than dipped, her pen into the inkstand. Her initial shock had been completely overtaken by cold fury. How dare he lead her on, giving her such fine stories and acting as though he were in love—or at least, in lust—when all he wanted, like every other potential suitor in London, was her
money?
It was maddening. And, if she dared admit it, embarrassing. She’d been taken in like a fool. This had been the most galling blow to her pride.

She looked down at the paper.

Dear Paul…

Dear?
How laughable the term seemed to her now. She threw the paper into the fire, allowing her emotions to seethe and crackle like the parchment. Paul would be coming over this evening, and there was no point in asking him to come earlier. She would take the afternoon to compose herself. For as long as she could remember, she had faced obstacles with calm and control. Today would be no different. She would confront him face-to-face, and she would wrangle the truth out of him.

She looked over at the papers she had set aside earlier. Most of them involved plans for the wedding, but would it even take place? If her lawyers were correct and Paul had no ready cash—or worse, had been stealing money from others—what would she do? Her creditors were pressing in on her, becoming more insistent, threatening exposure. Even if she were able to disengage herself from Paul without a scandal, how was she to come up with the money she needed? She could not find another rich man to marry in so short a space of time. The idea was ludicrous.

She rose and began to pace the room, clenching her
hands so tightly that her fingernails began to dig into her palms. She welcomed the pain—anything to clear her head, to keep her wits about her.

Perhaps there really
was
a mistake, she thought desperately. Even her excellent lawyers were not infallible. They had thought this Mr. Seton was credible, but who could be sure? Paul might be able to prove that his financial status was exactly as he had led her to believe. Tonight she would tell him exactly where she stood. If he was as rich as he claimed to be, surely he would not balk at marrying her anyway. In the meantime, she could not—would not—allow herself to dwell on the possibility of anything else.

Margaret threw open the study door and strode briskly toward the stairs. As she passed the footman, she said, “Send word to the groom to saddle my horse. I’m going riding.”

The footman left to discharge his errand, and Margaret took the stairs to her room. There she found her maid Bessie straightening the wardrobe. “My riding costume, if you please,” Margaret ordered. Bessie was surprised by this request, but she quickly helped Margaret change.

As Bessie buttoned up the back of the comfortable blue riding habit, Margaret began to feel a certain sense of calm returning to her. She had been nearly a week without riding, too caught up in all the details of wedding planning and the multitude of other business pressing down on her. She needed open space and fresh air.