The King of Threadneedle Street Read online

  Unbidden she recalled that the ferocious Gauls, Andrew’s ancestors, reportedly went to battle wearing only their swords and shields. Men in their prime with legendary physique, their bold nakedness was venerated second only to their bravery. She really should quit reading sensational novels.

  He shouted in steel-edged bass, “You are not wallowing in disease-ridden huts!”

  “As you say, my lord. I am visiting the widows in the parish, and the milliner about Lady Elizabeth’s trousseau. Now if you will excuse me…”

  His warm brown eyes turned to flint. “How long have you been performing my mother’s duties?”

  “Years, in varying degrees.”

  He scoffed, and it came out like a growl, agitating his gelding, who danced a circle and tossed his head.

  Her mare skirted back. “Andrew, please! If I am unseated, I will hold you responsible.”

  “Precisely what you need is a bruised rear. Perhaps it would knock some sense into your other end.”

  Alysia rolled her eyes and tried to nudge her horse around the gelding, but the mare was too skittish to obey. Andrew’s shocking temper had faded from her memory, but she remembered how his chivalrous veneer wore thin when he perceived even trivial injustice. Always the crusader.

  “Do you mean to detain me at the gate all day, my lord?”

  He turned his mount alongside hers. “Fine. But I am going with you. If any of them so much as sneezes, I am taking you home.”

  “I don’t think you should be seen riding with me.”

  “Why? I am visiting my future tenants with my father’s steward.”

  “Honestly, Andrew. Everyone knows Lady Remington is a guest at Ashton. How interesting for the gossip-mongers that Lord Preston rides unchaperoned with a girl of dubious character. You must enjoy being broiled in the papers.”

  A pinecone bounced off the side of her head.

  “Very mature, Lord Preston.” She scowled at him, and he returned the sour look.

  “Why do you address me formally? Ridiculous. And if I wanted to be harassed by a woman, my mother could garrote me like a master.” He insisted, “Besides, you shouldn’t go out unprotected. My reputation is my own concern — unless it’s yours you fear for?”

  “I have none to speak of.”

  “Then it’s settled. I am due to meet Marsden this afternoon at the station, anyway. Meanwhile, you have much to answer for.” He squared his shoulders and shot her the same stubborn look he had used as a spoiled adolescent.

  Alysia couldn’t help it; she grimaced and stuck her tongue out at him. Andrew rewarded her with boyish velvety laughter.

  Then he sobered. “This is a bad situation, Alysia. I want you to stop working for him.”

  “I will.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “In two weeks,” she amended.

  “After the wedding? Fair enough.” He turned to look her squarely in the eye. “And now you will explain that business of being not precisely engaged.”

  “I am not engaged, of course.”

  “But you are, not precisely… what? Don’t make me drag it out of you!”

  Alysia closed her eyes and exhaled. “Andrew, I am weary.” Heartsick, more like. “Can we discuss it another time? I would much rather hear of your adventures. And tell me your latest scheme.”

  “You assume I have adventures and schemes?”

  “You always do.”

  He chuckled then told how a recent trip to Boston inspired new investments. “I predict soon not only the largest cities will have electrical wiring, but the whole of England. The whole world.”

  She could only pretend to follow his litany on the patent race for gasoline-powered engines, imports from the Orient and Caribbean, and domestic stocks versus the world market. So long since she had listened to him talk; she loved seeing the side of him who was a dreamer. Easy to forget he was only twenty and one years old. His sense of vision she found intellectually seductive as always.

  “I plan to ask my father for the Somerset estate.”

  “So far away?” she asked.

  “It’s as far as I can go from my parents without fleeing to the continent. I am ready to settle down.”

  “Settle down? In the country, as a bachelor?”

  “I want a project. No, I need a project.”

  “Juggling world markets is a project.”

  “That is sport. A project is turning a pile of rubble into a home worthy of a lord’s family.”

  “Impressive. I suppose by the time you finish the old castle, you will have a family to put in it.” Saints, had she sounded as jealous and gloomy as she felt?

  Over the course of half a dozen visits to the tenants, her jealousy turned into unwise longing. Lord Preston held a baby, sang drinking songs, lost a fencing duel to a six-year-old, and re-shod an old mare. He was the Andrew she remembered; dutiful, kind, and playful. His future tenants adored him like Robin Hood. Alysia should know better.

  The vicar’s wife had thought the spreading illness was influenza. They turned onto the road to the village, and Andrew said, “If the Old Man wants the drainage canal done in six weeks, I will personally see to it that it’s done in two.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  She nodded to the bend ahead on the road. “Mrs. Jennings. Too late to hide.”

  The insufferable neighborhood busybody had already spied them from her barouche. She thumped the poor driver on the head with the handle of her parasol to make him stop.

  With ruffles of lace on her bonnet bobbing like the wattles of a rooster, she shook her head at Alysia but addressed Lord Preston. “Out for a ride, my lord?” Before either could answer she went on, “I saw you coming from Mrs. Marris’ house, and Mrs. Bronston tells me Lady Remington has just arrived at Ashton?” Her cold glare added silently, Why are you out alone with a courtesan’s daughter?

  Alysia opened her mouth to explain, but Andrew interrupted, “Earlier, Miss Villier was all business, visiting my father’s tenants. Now I intend to lead her off the road and debauch her in the woods.” He wagged a brow at Alysia, who groaned aloud while Mrs. Jennings grasped the edge of the door and gulped for air.

  “Good day to you, Mrs. Jennings.” He tipped his hat. “If you will excuse me, I am off to find a nice meadow, if you catch my meaning.”

  Andrew nudged his gelding and rode past a speechless Mrs. Jennings. He turned and stretched out a hand to Alysia. “Will you come, my love?”

  Alysia nodded to Mrs. Jennings and followed after Andrew, certain he must feel a prickling of her wish for him to be smitten by lightning. The tension charged, taut like a cord stretched between them. Finally Andrew turned in the saddle and half-shouted, “What? What is it?”

  Alysia tilted her head to arch an eyebrow at him, and he shifted his weight. Her silence clearly unnerved him.

  “I can feel your wrath burning on my skin! Are going to strike me down?”

  “If only.”

  “Come now. You can’t be upset about my teasing that old hen.”

  She shook her head and closed her eyes in forbearance. “What may be a lark for you may have serious consequences for me.” He scoffed, and Alysia tried to control the frustration in her voice. “The world doesn’t fit in my pocket. Can you not understand that everyone, excepting you, must play by the rules or be punished?”

  “Perhaps I want you in my pocket, Lisa.” He used a deep, buttery voice, but she was in no mood to play.

  She looked away over the hills, communicating that she didn’t wish to discuss it further. Andrew stared a long while, and she refused to meet his gaze. The longer the silence drew on, the more she condemned his thoughtlessness. No doubt Andrew would be quoted verbatim, without the sarcasm, at the church social. Unfair, but she also resented his freedom. One wrong word from her, and—

  He steered his gelding close, lifted Alysia’s free hand and unfastened the tiny buttons at her wrist. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled off her glove
one finger at a time.

  He kissed the points of her knuckles. “Forgive me.”

  She nearly fell off her horse when he turned her palm to his mouth and kissed it with a pull of his lips, leaning into her hand as though it were her face he held. She felt the brush of his tongue and a nibble with his teeth as he moved along each of her fingers.

  Heat crawled from her core to the roots of her hair. He was being rather indecent with her fingers, and she had no idea what to do about it. Mercy, what he could suggest with his mouth!

  He sucked the tip of her little finger into his mouth, playing with it. He pulled it from his lips to make a popping sound, adding a villainous bounce of his eyebrows. Never serious for long.

  Regardless, Andrew had successfully disarmed her. She sighed, irked he could manipulate her so easily.

  At least he quit badgering her with questions. They rode in silence the remaining few miles to Mill’s Hill. Andrew left her at the milliner’s shop, where she waited twenty minutes past the time he had promised to fetch her. She sat with half a dozen parcels at her feet, contemplating riding back to Ashton alone when Andrew strode into the shop in a flurry of commotion.

  No, he was calm. It was Marsden, his valet, and a crowd of six or so agitated men trailing after him who caused the ruckus.

  “Oh, sorry, Lisa. Ready?” He eyed the boxes on the floor and was jostled by an elbow belonging to a twitchy, gaunt man in a plain brown suit and spectacles. He carried a book and pen, as did the others. Andrew shoved back and glared a warning at the man, who backed away while trying peer over Andrew’s shoulder.

  “Just one, ye please, guv?” said another from the crowd, his pen poised to write.

  “Fire insurance for Rome,” Andrew groused, then turned to pick up the largest of Alysia’s packages. “What is all this?”

  “Ask your sister,” Alysia answered while trying not to stare at the strange men.

  “This is ridiculous. Here.” He dropped three boxes into the arms of an unsuspecting follower, whose book and pen fell to the floor. Andrew turned to his valet. “Marsden, call a cab for these. I am not riding home with half of all the lace in Paris.”

  “Lace? Paris?” came muttering from the crowd of men. Clerks, by their appearance, and Londoners by their accents. Why were they hounding Andrew and scrutinizing his every word?

  Andrew led Alysia by the elbow out of the shop ahead of the crowd. “We are going to take tea at Hamilton’s, all right? I need a moment longer with Marsden; we want to wire the Exchange today before it closes.” He paused. “Oh. Alysia, you remember Marsden? Marsden, my dear friend Miss Villier.”

  His hurried introduction was the last she understood of his speech for the next several minutes. At first she wondered if he was speaking in a foreign language to Marsden, then noticed the two were comparing notes from small pocket ledgers. The crowd of clerks trailed close behind, eager to overhear the hushed conversation. Alysia chuckled at Andrew’s coded phrases. Even his written notes were encrypted.

  “Pickles, hemp, washboard: what were the returns?”

  Marsden flipped a page in his ledger. “Only a kneecap. Waist-high, and collarbone plus elbow.”

  “Fine. Hold only washboard, then. Sell the others.”

  “Sell! Sell washboard!” one of the clerks murmured, and they all scratched it into their books and in turn scratched their heads.

  “When?” Marsden asked seriously, unbothered.

  “Who has folded so far?”

  “Buster, Geisha, that is all.”

  Andrew rubbed his chin. “Not Achilles? No? Then wait until Coldsday.”

  “Coldsday!” The group echoed. “What trio of stocks had two poor returns and one profit?” came one of their voices. “Grain? No, not commodities. The railway? Steamers?” Another chided, “No, Preston never matches them by industry — it could be any combination.” A chorus of grumbles answered the last comment.

  During a short lull, Alysia dared whisper, “Do they have any idea what you mean?”

  “Not at all,” Andrew answered. “And we change it every week to be sure.” Then she understood; he was managing his stock market trades the only way he could in secret. So it was no exaggeration that he was a celebrity now. She looked over the clerks who had followed his valet to the country. They were probably hired by banks or competitors to hound Andrew in hopes of discovering his secrets.

  Andrew slipped inside the café with Alysia on his arm and took a table. Marsden sat opposite Andrew, who asked without lowering his voice, “What is the word on the crickets?” The clerks huddled around a neighboring table.

  “From Straw?”

  “No, Dots. Shipped by Jack Spratt’s, I remember.”

  Marsden flipped a page over and compared it with the top page. “Made port at Babylon on Hensday. Ahead of schedule.”

  “But what about Ahab?”

  “A day behind schedule, and avoided the port at Hades.”

  Andrew tapped his chin, and the others watched eagerly. “Yes, but Ahab’s clipper is fast. Remember Jack Spratt will take port at Troy.” Andrew leaned to Alysia’s ear. “Large shipments of brocade silk from China and India are racing to England, carried by competing shipping companies.”

  Several anxious clerks inclined their heads in comical synchronization, straining to hear. “Sherry, the owner of the shipping company returning from China, is ahead, and the market is favoring him. But he also carries contraband and will likely stop in Hampshire to unload it. Ahab is Grondel, sailing from India, and he will ultimately draw the highest shares.”

  The harried men with pinched expressions studied Alysia and fell to fits, realizing she had just been informed. They would probably harass her too now.

  Andrew turned to Marsden. “Wait until Jack Spratt has a two-day lead, then transfer the shares to Ahab. But first—” He paused, the clerks held their breath, then Andrew smiled as he put his lips to Alysia’s ear again. “Lisa, what is something completely absurd to invest in? An unusual or embarrassing product?”

  She answered, “Female sanitation.”

  He blinked once, twice, then burst into laughter. The waiter placed tea and sandwiches on the table, regarding Andrew with a puzzled expression. The other women in the parlor whispered behind opened fans or tilted hat brims.

  “Perfect.” Andrew wore a devilish smile and shook his head, then said to Marsden as he dragged a finger down a list of encoded items and corresponding numbers, “Move heart plus elbow to, ah…” He looked at Alysia again. “I don’t believe I have a code for that,”

  Alysia took his pen and wrote in the margin, Madam Bree’s.

  Laughing and shielding the print from prying eyes, he showed Marsden, who recorded it, pursing his lips and blushing. Andrew didn’t seem embarrassed. “Move double that amount onto hog pen, within the same hour.”

  Marsden’s eyes twinkled at this, as he apparently understood something.

  Andrew paused again to explain with his lips at her ear, “I have just invested twenty-five thousand pounds in Madam Bree’s, then fifty in Hartford’s railway shipping. It will make the others believe I have given up on the silk in favor of a more lucrative deal that hasn’t been announced yet. It will drive up the shares on Madam Bree’s as well as Hartford’s while Sherry and Grondel’s go down. I will sell the first two while they are high, then buy the latter two while they are low.”

  Marsden clucked. “Miles will loathe you, Lord Preston.”

  “Miles!” the clerks echoed. “Stanley Miles of Hartford, or Miles Jones?” asked one clerk, and another groaned, “Or is it the American?” Then they all groaned in complaint.

  “Stanley,” Andrew announced. They went berserk. Andrew breathed to Alysia, “Miles owns Hartford.” Then to Marsden, “Send him a lifetime supply of M.B., with my regards.” He chortled and smiled at his boots, thoroughly pleased with himself.

  “When?”

  Andrew studied his list, compared one page with another, then declared, “Friday, at noon
.”

  It was the only discernible thing he said, and the herd of nervous clerks scrawled Friday at noon, along with Stanley Miles in their books. What would they do when they learned it was a prank Andrew planned to play on a competitor? Undoubtedly it would then be no secret that Stanley Miles received a gift of hundreds of boxes of Madam Bree’s from Lord Preston, after he inflated his shares then abandoned them after taking a profit.

  Alysia gasped, stricken by his ruthless tactics. “Is this legal?”

  He laughed again and exchanged smug glances with Marsden. “Absolutely. Only a bit of well-deserved payback.” He held out his hands in defense and gestured to the clerks, “I am not responsible for the actions of others.” Clearly he meant other investors who followed his misleading tips, which only played them to his own benefit.

  It was dastardly. It was clever. It was certainly typical of Andrew.

  “Heaven help anyone who stands in your way,” she said, shaking her head. She glanced at the opposite table. The clerks looked like a nest of rooks. Or more like vultures, picking at each other, watching for scraps.

  “There are none who stand in my way,” was his cocksure answer, which he delivered in absolute seriousness. He may well have declared himself King of the World. Ah, but now she remembered; they called him King of Threadneedle Street. She remembered he had said before, something about how gold for coins, not steel for swords, ruled the world. Andrew believed money was power, and he wielded it with the skill of an artist. Or more like a pirate?

  She should have paid closer attention to the papers so she would have seen this coming. He had changed, or had been changed by his newfound power. Did anyone realize what it meant to have an arrogant, brilliant young lord with such a command of the stock market unleashed and unchecked? Was he so charming and clever that everyone admired him and indulged him? Alysia could not help admiring him as well.

  As though he heard her thoughts, Andrew took her hand in his, causing commotion among the ladies in the shop, who were not minding their own business. He kissed her hand again, which was mortifying enough with the way he looked at her, but then he moved his lips to brush her wrist as he laced his fingers between hers.