“Say, do either of you like to shoot? There’s not much worth hunting on the island, but Frederick has a decent launcher for shooting clay pigeons. We could have a match.”
Patrick had never handled a gun in his life, and neither had Liam. Shooting clay pigeons was a pricey sport of rich people, and Patrick had to decline the offer.
Edwin turned his attention to Gwen. “Still at the college?”
“Of course,” she said. “I intend to live the rest of my life there, unless Oscar gets fussy with the budget and closes us down.”
Edwin looked skeptical. “He wouldn’t do that. Poppy loves swanning around campus. So does Oscar.”
“He likes earning money more,” Gwen replied. “The college costs a lot to operate, and it isn’t turning a profit yet.”
“That seems a crying shame,” Edwin said, although he didn’t appear to be at all broken up about it. He glanced around the deck, then waved at another cousin who had just filled his plate at the banquet table. He was one of the third-generation cousins, the art student from Yale. “Joshua, have you heard anything about Oscar yanking funding for the college?”
Joshua popped a caviar-laden cracker into his mouth, then nodded. “Yup,” he answered after swallowing. “The college has been a losing proposition for decades. My guess is that the college administrators are either lazy or incompetent. Good riddance, I say.” He ate another cracker and headed toward a waiter who had just emerged from the galley with more champagne.
Edwin had the grace to look embarrassed by his cousin, and Patrick took the opportunity to advance the cause of the college.
“What are the odds of anyone here voting to keep Blackstone College alive? Maybe if enough people think it is important, they can make it happen even if Oscar disagrees.”
Edwin shook his head. “That’s a hopeless cause. Even if you get Frederick and every other Blackstone to break ranks, you’ll never be able to peel off the outside investors.”
And those non-family shareholders controlled a quarter of the bank, too much to take for granted. “What can you tell me about the outside investors?” Patrick asked.
“There are a couple of banks in France who together own six percent. Oscar has been keeping the French army afloat with a massive infusion of cash and has their undying loyalty. They’d follow him over a cliff, if need be. Then there is a Russian count who owns four percent, and a Spanish monastery that owns three percent. I think Louise Carnegie owns around seven percent.”
Patrick was stunned to learn that a woman had voting shares. “Is she related to Andrew Carnegie?”
“She’s his wife,” Edwin said. “He gave her the shares as a wedding present, and I think she still owns them. Very odd arrangement, that one.”
“How so?”
Edwin seemed pleased to relay the story of how Mrs. Carnegie was decades younger than her husband, who was one of the world’s richest men when he married her. She had signed a prenuptial agreement acknowledging his intention to donate his fortune to charity upon his death. The legal agreement set out a number of provisions to ensure she would be well provided for, and a seven-percent stake in the Blackstone Bank was part of that settlement.
Patrick was dumbfounded. “I thought women were precluded from partnership.”
“Yeah, tell that to Andrew Carnegie when he wanted to give his wife a nice wedding present,” Edwin said. “I think she is required by the operating agreement to let a male partner vote her shares.”
Patrick met Gwen’s eyes across the deck, and she seemed as surprised as he was. The palms of his hands tingled. He’d read the operating agreement but couldn’t remember seeing any such provision. Could he have overlooked it? He’d paid careful attention to the voting requirements and couldn’t remember any requirement for a partner to sign away their votes.
Which meant there was a possibility that Mrs. Carnegie and her seven-percent stake might be in play.
Gwen wandered away from the men. News that Mrs. Carnegie had somehow earned a place on the board was strangely painful. If it was possible for a woman to participate in managing the bank, why hadn’t the opportunity been offered to Natalia?
Gwen glanced around the deck but didn’t see Natalia among the people clustered at the refreshment table or at the shuffleboard game. Natalia rarely socialized with the others, and Gwen finally spotted her curled up on a bench near the stern, absently twirling a long strand of glossy dark hair while engrossed in a book.
Did Natalia know about Mrs. Carnegie? If any woman deserved a place in the boardroom, it was Natalia, who’d spent her childhood at her father’s knee, soaking up stories of foreign investments like other children sought candies or toys.
Gwen and Natalia had never been close. There was no particular reason other than a complete and total lack of common interests. Perhaps chatting about the book that had her so engrossed could be a touchstone.
“What are you reading?” Gwen asked as she drew near.
Natalia glanced up from the book. “The history of the Rothschild bank and its influence on the secondary insurance market. It gets better each time I read it.”
“Oh.” Well, that brought the conversation to a crashing halt.
A hint of amusement lit Natalia’s eyes as she clutched the book to her chest. “Did you think I was serious?”
“I did, actually.”
