Lord of the Rakes (24 page)

“You’re no plodder, Philip. You are a man’s man. You need action. You need to be out in the world, showing the skirts and the misses what a Montcalm’s made of! You leave the drudgery to Owen. It’s all he’s good for.”

Philip frowned. He must be misremembering that. Surely Father had not said “all he’s good for.” Had he?

Much to Philip’s surprise, that question also followed him for quite a long time.

“T
hank you for coming, Mr. Upton,” said Caroline as Mrs. Ferriday ushered the little, round man into her sitting room. “I’m sorry to have bothered you yet again. Won’t you please sit down?”

“Thank you, Lady Caroline.” Mr. Upton had the rough and ruddy complexion of a man accustomed to the out-of-doors. He was not only the landlord for the Dobbson Square properties, he was a board member of the trust Caroline’s grandfather had created. He habitually dressed in a plain black coat, plain buff trousers, and plain black hat. When he pulled off his gloves, he displayed hands mottled by calluses and ink. “And it is no bother at all. I’m delighted to find you taking an interest in your affairs. In fact, there are some new items here I am anxious to call to your attention.”

As usual, Mr. Upton carried a series of portfolios, all stuffed with documents. He undid the ribbon on the first of these and pulled out the papers.

One of the greatest surprises for Caroline regarding her new London life came from discovering how much she enjoyed her meetings with Mr. Upton. He was a straightforward man with a genuine interest in the properties he managed. Most importantly, however, he spoke as if he believed Caroline to be an adult with an adult’s intelligence.

So, while they ate the sandwiches and drank the tea that Mrs. Ferriday brought, Caroline reviewed Mr. Upton’s latest documents. Some were new leases on Dobbson Square houses being let for the season. Some were accounts for maintenance and furnishing of the properties.

Caroline found herself a little surprised that she was able to concentrate so easily on the dry lists and legal formalities, but it turned out to be quite refreshing. Her body still thrummed from the passionate hours she’d spent with Philip. Among these papers she found a firm grounding for her reason and discipline that was entirely unlike the shifting sands of passion where he led her. Passion, and more than passion.

Caroline felt her throat constrict, and she had to force her eyes to focus again on the tidy ledger page in front of her. She could not dwell on the emotions that had overtaken her while sitting with Philip at the breakfast table—not on the comfort of his company, or the way he made her laugh and think. Certainly not the way his eyes gleamed when she posed new questions about the items he read out from the paper. Definitely not the way his gaze lingered on her face and her hands. It was actually less dangerous to let her thoughts travel to the lover’s games he played so skillfully upon her body. What happened between them as they dressed and shared their morning meal—the intimate conversation, the declarations of friendship, the conviviality and accord—all this was far more hazardous to her composure and self-preservation than any physical desire.

Caroline bit her lip and realized she remembered nothing of the last page of accounts. She would have to begin again. She took a deep breath and pushed thoughts of Philip into the background, aware even as she did so that they would not stay there.

Despite this, she did eventually finish reviewing the accounts and new leases. But as she laid the last paper down, she saw her manager still clutched one unopened portfolio on his lap.

“Was there something else, Mr. Upton?”

“I’ve brought a proposal for you, Lady Caroline,” said Mr. Upton, with the air of a man preparing for an argument. “While we’re doing very nicely from the current leaseholds, I think we could do even better. London is expanding, you know, particularly toward the west. Now, this wouldn’t be a fashionable area, but . . .” He unfolded a paper that proved to be a large map detailing the western edges of London and laid his finger on a particular plot. “With some work and solid planning, it could be made ready for profitable development.”

Caroline studied the area of the map Mr. Upton indicated. “That’s a marsh.”

“Currently,” he admitted. “But marshes can be drained.”

“Which, I expect, is expensive.”

“Yes, as is buying land of any sort. Unimproved land especially can be a speculative risk. I have some estimates here, from a reputable firm . . .” He flipped open the last portfolio and pulled out a fresh set of pages. “They have been responsible for preparing the ground, as it were, for some of the newer Cheapside developments.”

Caroline looked at the lines of tiny, precise writing and tiny, precise numbers.

“Mr. Upton, why are you coming to me with this?” she asked. “I have no decision-making power. I simply collect some dividends.”

“Because, Lady Caroline, the trust’s board has proved itself reluctant to make the necessary investments to purchase this new land. They would prefer to invest more heavily in the stock market.”

Realization dawned, and brought surprise along with it. “You think
I
could convince them to go along with your plan?” Of the board members, she had so far met only Mr. Upton. She tried to picture herself seated in a bank office, facing down an entire panel of grim, bewhiskered, black-coated men. The idea was laughable.

Except, Mr. Upton did not seem to find it so. “You are the trust’s sole beneficiary, Lady Caroline. While you do not have any official power, you have the right to address meetings of the board. I think if you indicated your support for the idea, it could at least spark new discussion, especially if the board was aware that you would be engaged in more active monitoring of the trust’s progress.”

“But that would involve my staying in London!”

Mr. Upton sat back in his chair, clearly startled by the strength of her outburst. “I’m sorry, you were not planning to stay in town?”

“No. I will be leaving for the Continent in a matter of weeks. I was . . . it is possible this will be a permanent move.” Something very close to panic seized hold inside her. But it was not just panic at the thought of staying. It was at the thought that she might
want
to stay, stay in London, in this street, in this house, where she could be with Philip for as long as she, and he, might choose.

“I see.” Caroline watched Mr. Upton reordering his thoughts, and his hopes. “Well. I confess, I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“What should it matter? As you just pointed out, I have no authority.”

Mr. Upton shook his head. He tapped the edges of the nearest stack to tidy the papers, and then seemed to reach a decision. “Lady Caroline, may I speak frankly?”

“Please do,” she said, despite the knot of worry forming in the pit of her stomach.

“I do appreciate that there are some who do not care for the participation of women in business spheres—especially where money is involved. But you have much more to lose in an unwise stock venture than any of the men currently controlling your income.”

“Or an unwise purchase of marshland.”

Mr. Upton chuckled. “A touch, madam. I admit it. The men who control your trust . . . they are good men. Sound businessmen. But for them, the health of this trust is but one concern among many. To you, however, that concern is vital.”

Caroline’s hands had gone very cold and she tucked them under the table so Mr. Upton would not see if they began to shake.

“If you look here . . .” Mr. Upton unearthed another sheaf of pages. “You can see the relative return rates from leasing land in the vicinity of London versus that of owning stock in a corporation.” He pointed to a tidy graph. “Stocks may be subject to rapid decline as well as rapid gain. Income from land leases is much, much more reliable.”

“If it was anyone else, Mr. Upton, I would suspect you of trying to overwhelm me with figures.”

Her jibe failed to ruffle Mr. Upton. “If you’ll allow me to say so, Lady Caroline, you have a fine, incisive mind. I have known many women who are far more intelligent about investment than many titled, landed men I could name.” He leaned forward. “Think of it this way. If you had an estate, you would need to know your tenants and your stewards well. You would track rents and expenditures, see to the maintenance of the houses and a thousand other matters. It is the same with a trust of money, Lady Caroline. If it is not well managed by the person who has the greatest interest in it, it eventually falls apart.”

“That is something I had not considered.” In Caroline’s mind, the trust had become a fixed point. All that had concerned her was whether Jarrett would be able to devise any legal contortion to take it away.

“Did your mother never talk to you about what your responsibilities would be once the trust passed to you?” asked Mr. Upton.

Caroline set the paper in her hand down and smoothed it across the top of the stack.
Answer him,
she ordered herself. But the words were slow to form. This was not a thing she ever talked about. It was something she barely ever let herself think about.

“No,” she made herself say. “She did not even tell me there was a trust.”

“I see,” said Mr. Upton. “I expect she thought she would surprise you with it on the occasion of your marriage, or the birth of your first child.”

“Yes, probably.” Except Mother had never meant her to get married, let alone have children. She had meant for her to be free. And yet she hadn’t told Caroline about the one thing that would make her free—the money. Not until she was too weak to fully explain it. Whenever Caroline’s thoughts strayed to this point, she felt nothing but lost. Why didn’t her mother tell her there was money? What else had been kept from her?

“Many people consider speaking to their children about money improper,” said Mr. Upton gently. “Our understanding of wealth begins and ends with estates. But the world is changing, Lady Caroline. Our outlook must change as well.”

Of course, that was probably it. Or something like it anyway. Caroline took a deep breath, and changed the subject. “Mr. Upton . . . I know I have asked you this question before, but I want to be absolutely sure. My claim to the income is irrevocable, is it not? No one at all can override my right to the dividends, no matter what the circumstances.”

“As I have told you before, Lady Caroline. Your grandfather was admirably clear when he laid out the terms of the trust. Your mother had absolute right to dispose of the income as she chose. The will she left was very simple. It bequeathed you all the trust dividends under the same conditions those dividends were left to her.” He paused. “The only possible exception would be if you were declared unfit.”

“Unfit?”

“Mentally incompetent. Insane, if you will. But that’s hardly likely. I’ve seldom met such a stable, sensible woman.” He busied himself for a moment with closing the portfolios. “Are there any other questions I can answer?”

“No. That is . . . No. Thank you, Mr. Upton. I will read these documents over, and consider what you’ve said.”

“That’s all I ask, Lady Caroline. Good day to you.”

Caroline rang the bell and the parlormaid appeared to show Mr. Upton out. Left alone, she sank slowly into her chair and stared at the well-ordered stacks of papers. The accounts she was confident she could decipher in time. She had been involved in the household management for some years, both before and after Mother died. But the rest of it . . .

It had not once occurred to her that the trust was at all like an estate and might require her input. Despite Mr. Upton’s efforts, she was still not used to the idea that a man might accept her opinion on anything with regard to money, even if it was her own money. The thought of facing down a row of dour bankers and voicing an opinion terrified and thrilled her at the same time.

It was also impossible. She was not staying in London. She could not stay.

Caroline pulled out the map, and the thick sheaf of papers that detailed the scheme—and the costs—for draining dozens of acres of marshland out beyond London’s western boundaries.

What if Mr. Upton was right? What if the trust fell apart because of unsound speculation in the stock market or lack of active management? Her income was the only support to her independence. If she lost that, she would have to go back to Keenesford Hall.

Caroline closed her eyes and swallowed. She wished desperately for someone to talk to. Someone who could understand the complexities she faced. She needed someone who would listen to her and not judge her to be weak simply because she was afraid.

She found herself longing for Philip. Philip would listen. He would hold her until this mountain of paper ceased to look so menacing.

Caroline glanced at the clock. What if she wrote him a letter? The afternoon post hadn’t gone yet. She could ask him to come to her. But did she dare? It was outside the established bounds of their affair. To her, their tacit understanding was that they would only meet for passionate encounters, and otherwise remain discreet and separate. It would look odd to ask him back, especially so soon after their intimate morning. It might look as if she was coming to depend on him, or falling in love with him.

That thought brought her up short. Where had it come from? She was not in love with Philip Montcalm. She was not going to love any man, ever. Love brought with it marriage, and houses and children. To be trapped in a house with children and a husband whose affection one could not help but lose was to pine away and die. She had seen it, all too clearly.