Leslie LaFoy (10 page)

His smile said,
Of course.
He tilted his head to the side and cocked a brow. “May I ask a question of you, Miss Lindsay?”

“Certainly.”

His gaze went back the flames in the hearth grate. “You said that Mr. Stennett has promised to title back those holdings remaining after he has the money he requires. And that he intends to end his involvement with the company at that point.”

Lindsay nodded. “That's my understanding of his intentions.”

“To whom does he intend to leave the control of those remaining assets?” he asked, not looking at her. “You or Henry? Or does he plan to place it into a trust for all three of you?”

“I have no idea,” she admitted. She thought, given the general nature of the questions Jackson Stennett had been asking, that it was likely he'd either leave what remained of the company under her management or in a trust. But, since she didn't know his thinking with any certainty, she kept the observation to herself.

“In my opinion,” Ben went on, “that will be the most important decision Mr. Stennett makes. It—more than anything else—will directly determine your future.”

“True enough,” Lindsay replied.
And obvious, too
, she silently added. “I'd prefer not to have my finances in Henry's hands. The prospect of being at his mercy has always frightened me. If there's a silver lining to Stennett's inheriting the estate, it's the possibility that he may save me from Henry's stupidity.”

“Silver linings,” Ben said softly, his smile rueful as he shook his head. His gaze came from the flames to meet hers again. “You have some formidable tasks ahead of you, Miss Lindsay. I don't envy you at all. I am, however, willing to assist you in any way you might require.”

“Thank you, Ben,” she replied, rising from her seat, reassured by his loyalty and commitment. “At this point, all I ask is that you guide Stennett toward the list of properties Richard asked you to prepare.”

“Consider it done,” he said, also rising. He gestured toward the back of the house. “Would you care to stay for dinner? I'd be honored.”

He'd be pilloried by the gossips. And then they'd start on her. Again. “I'm afraid I can't,” Lindsay said, hoping she looked suitably regretful, “but thank you for the invitation. Perhaps some other evening, Ben.”

“I shall look forward to it,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist and then offering her his arm as he added, “Allow me to see you to your carriage.”

She walked at his side and allowed him to hand her into the carriage that sat waiting in the circular drive. It was an oddly disconcerting experience, she decided, as the carriage started to roll and she waved good-bye to him.

She'd known Benjamin Tipton all of her adult life, but there was something about being with him outside of the office that didn't feel at all right. And, despite the sense of betrayal she felt, she couldn't keep from comparing him to Jackson Stennett.

In appearance they were both handsome men, although in very different ways. Ben was fair and finely molded, a creature of parlors and cultured events. Stennett had dark hair and eyes, his skin burnished tawny-gold by life under the sun. Where Ben was delicate, Jackson Stennett could only be described as chiseled.

And while they both were quite capable of exhibiting courtly and mannerly behavior, there was an obvious difference in the underriding tone of it. Ben's manner was tightly controlled and gave her the sense of being based on cool calculation of the advantage to be gained in playing by the expected rules. In fact, now that she thought about it, the
politeness was almost like a mask behind which Ben hid the more personal side of himself.

Jackson Stennett, on the other hand … Lindsay chewed on her lower lip. Stennett struck her as the kind of man who didn't care enough about rules to even bother learning what they were. His manner—his respectful treatment of those around him—was as natural a part of him as breathing. He wore his social station with ease and didn't seem to care what anyone thought of him or what he said or did.

He was a remarkably baronial man, Lindsay admitted. And in comparison, Benjamin Tipton seemed decidedly shallow. It was a shame that Ben's sense of duty and loyalty weren't obvious at a casual glance. They were his best qualities and so few people knew he possessed them.

S
IR?
”

Ben.
Jackson opened his eyes. Yep, it was Ben Tipton standing beside him. “What time is it?” he asked, easing up and into the back of the chair.

“It's eight o'clock, sir. In the morning. Do you take sugar or cream in your coffee?”

“No, just black and strong.” His forehead felt six inches high and a good four thick. And sweet criminey, his shoulders were stiffer than planks. “Pour yourself a cup and have a seat, Ben. We need to talk.”

Ben poured from the silver pot, saying, “I think you should know that Mr. Vanderhagen has sent his card announcing that he intends to call at nine.”

Wonderful way to start the day.
Jackson began working the kinks out of his neck. “Then we have an hour and we'll make the best of it.”

“Perhaps you'd like to shave while we talk,” Ben suggested while handing him a dainty cup and saucer. When it had been safely transferred, he motioned toward the far
wall. “I've seen to the dressing table. If you'd care for breakfast, I'll order whatever you'd like to be delivered.”

Coffee, a shave, and the offer of breakfast. Ben sure had the routine down pat. “Thank you. I take it that Richard often spent the night here.”

“He did, sir. Especially in the last year.”

The coffee was hot and strong. In searing a path all the way down his throat, it succeeded in clearing the cobwebs of sleep from his brain. Ben was at the washbasin, lathering the brush in the heavy shaving mug. Jack considered him. The bookkeeper was what they called a pretty boy back home. For some reason, age never made any difference for men like Ben Tipton. They were handsome and stylish and popular with the ladies—working real damn hard at it all— and about as deep as a hoofprint on rock. All the ones he'd ever run across hadn't liked working for a living and had avoided it if at all possible. Ben struck him as working not out of necessity or because society expected him to be productive, but because it amused him. Ben Tipton was—no doubt about it—good at his job, but he was still an odd kind of critter.

Jackson took another long swallow of coffee and then, leaving the saucer on the desktop, forced his body upright. “Tell me, Ben, have you ever thought about giving up bookkeeping and becoming a manservant?”

“I'm much more comfortable spending my day with books and figures than I am people, sir.”

“Why's that?” Jackson asked, setting the coffee cup down beside the washbasin and looking at himself in the mirror.
Rode hard and put away wet.

“Numbers are numbers,” Ben explained, handing him a steaming towel and setting down the shaving mug before stepping back. “They are what they appear to be. People seldom are and I always seem to be disappointed by what I find beneath the surface of them.”

Jackson considered the observation as he pressed the moist, heated towel over the lower half of his face. Tossing it aside, he picked up the shaving mug and slathered his chin with soap, saying, “Until recently, I would have
disagreed with you, Ben. Now I'm beginning to think that you may be right. I sure as hell never expected Billy to be who he turned out to be.”

He set down the mug, accepted the razor from Ben, and began to shave. “And I never in my wildest nightmares thought I'd be in New York trying to figure out how to salvage the business and personal disaster he left behind. The least he could have done was give me a hint that all this was waiting down the road. It would have been nice to have just a bit of warning instead of walking into it all blind as a bat.” He met Ben's gaze in the mirror. “And if you breathe so much as a word of my grousing about Billy to Lindsay, I'll have to cut your tongue out for it.”

“Of course not, sir,” Ben murmured. “Never.”

“I'm kidding, Ben.” Jackson rinsed his blade for the last time and laid it aside. “I really wouldn't cut your tongue out. It's just an expression.”

“Oh.”

“Look, Ben,” he said, wiping the last traces of soap from his face with the towel. “Maybe it might help you to know that I'm a simple man; what you see is all there is to me. I like a lot of things, but above all else I appreciate honesty and directness. If I ask a question, I want a straight from the hip answer. I can't stand pussyfooting or beating around the bush or excruciatingly polite attempts to avoid the issue. You can deal with me square up and not worry about losing your job or your head.”

“That's good to know. If I might ask … Do the same parameters apply if Miss Lindsay is present?”

God, he felt halfway human again. He picked up his coffee cup and quickly drank what remained. “If she can't take it, then I'm prepared to throw myself between you and her. I won't let her hurt you.”

In the mirror, he saw Ben blink and purse his lips. After a moment, he ventured, “Miss Lindsay is a very good woman, sir, and while I'm grateful for her willingness to employ me, I feel obligated to point out that she does have a temper and that she can be quite headstrong.”

“A little like a comanchero,” Jackson muttered.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Never mind,” he said, heading back toward the desk and the siren call of the coffeepot. “Just understand that I'm bigger and meaner than she is and that I can handle her.”

Ben beat him to the silver service. Refilling Jackson's cup and fighting a smile, he said quietly, “I've never seen anyone ‘handle’ Miss Lindsay.”

“I'm selling tickets. Want one?”

Ben smiled. “It should be a spectacular show, sir. I do believe I'll take one—since you offered. How much are they?”

“The price is honesty. And a slight shift in allegiance.”

Instantly, Ben sobered. He took a step back and met Jackson's gaze for a long moment as the thoughts and choices paraded through the clear depths of his eyes. Jack noted that they darkened as the decision was made.

“You may well be my employer now, Mr. Stennett,” he began, slowly, deliberately, “but Miss Lindsay has been my employer a good many years. There will be some matters that I will never feel comfortable discussing with you and you'll have to accept that.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “I also understand the reality of Miss Lindsay's business situation and I feel honor bound to do whatever I can to ensure that she emerges from the situation with as much of her world intact as possible. What I share with you regarding the business will be offered in that spirit. Is that acceptable to you?”

“And on the assumption that I'm a fair and decent man who will do right by her,” Jackson added.

“Yes, sir.”

“I failed to mention how much I value loyalty, Ben. Your terms are admirable as well as acceptable.”

Benjamin Tipton sighed in apparent relief and smiled. “Yesterday you asked about the wheel coming off the wagon. I think the slippage began about fifteen years ago. I see certain patterns in the books that have always intrigued me.”

“You have my attention, Ben. Keep going.”

As Jackson leaned back against the desk, Ben continued, choosing each word carefully, “If you go back through the records for the last fifteen years, you'll see that
a considerable number of businesses and properties have been purchased and sold over that time. This, in itself, is commonplace. But what I see in the numbers is that some properties do very well for a time and then show sudden and precipitous drops in revenues.”

“Let me guess. At which point they're sold for a net loss.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It happens in business.” Jackson sipped his coffee. “What makes you look twice at it?”

“There are roughly thirty-seven such sales.”

Thirty-seven? I'd've looked more than twice.
“That's too many; a little over two a year,” Jackson mused aloud. “The law of averages doesn't usually work that hard and long against a good manager.”

“And all thirty-seven sales have been fairly evenly divided between only four purchasers.”

Just four? As patterns went, they didn't get much easier to see. “So are they turkey buzzards waiting to swoop down on an easy meal or are they gallant white knights responding to the cries of a sweet damsel in distress?”

“Miss Lindsay sees them as knights.”

“She contacts them, offering the property for sale?”

Ben nodded. “That's been my observation, sir. Mr. Patterson developed the strategy years ago and Miss Lindsay adopted it when she became responsible for conducting the company affairs.”

“And these good-hearted fellows come into the office with pennies on a plate and take the dying critter off their hands.”

“Actually, the transaction is done by correspondence,” Ben clarified. “I don't recall ever seeing or hearing of a face-to-face meeting.”

The hairs on the back of Jackson's neck prickled. Never in all his life had he bought or sold anything without looking the other man in the eye. It had never occurred to him that any other way was acceptable. Trust was a good thing, but it only went so far and it was best to back it up with a sure and certain knowledge of who you were dealing with. Conducting business blindly could—and usually did—lead to costly
mistakes in judgment. Surely Richard Patterson knew that, had passed the lesson on to Lindsay. “Do you get the impression that Lindsay knows these gentlemen personally?”

“No, sir. I do believe, though, that Mr. Patterson knew them many years ago. However, all of his day-to-day relationships ended with his injury in the accident. He rarely goes anywhere but here and his home.”

Jackson saw the seed of reassurance in the answer, but didn't find any sense of ease in it. “Three questions, Ben. Answer them in any order that you'd prefer. Are these businessmen here in New York? Have you tracked down what happens to the businesses they've bought? And are there any transactions currently pending?”

“In the order in which you asked, sir: no, no, and yes.”

Ben had picked one helluva time to try a bit of humor. Jackson smiled wryly. “I'd appreciate it if you'd back up your pony and take it through the gate again.”