He did not, much to his father’s chagrin.
He did, however, know enough to fake it. “But with the new government regulations, your profit margin must be greatly diminished.” He raised his glass of claret to his mouth. Whiskey had been served to the men when they’d retired to the drawing room after dinner. Now, reunited with the ladies of the party, only this insipid grape juice was served.
The owner of a windmill manufacturing company sighed heavily. “You have no idea. Every country we operate in always has their hand out. The only ones worse than the English are the Dutch.” The man patted his coat pocket before pulling out a pipe. He looked regretfully at the ladies in the room then put it back away.
It was a beautiful piece, carved into the shape of a sea serpent from what looked like solid mahogany. It must have cost a fine penny. The man clearly was not in need of funds. No one at this house party was. Were the thefts committed for sport?
“If you’ll excuse me,” the man said. “I see my wife requires my attention.” He wandered over to a plump woman in crimson silk who waved her handkerchief at him like she was flagging down the fire brigade.
Charles leaned against the mantle of the unlit fireplace and surveyed the room. Twenty-three people filled it. Their backgrounds varied, from gentry to men of business to a politician or two. The one thing they all had in common was money.
So why was someone from this set stealing?
An irritatingly high-pitched laugh lanced his ear drums. Lady Redgrave pressed her hand to her barely-covered bosom until her tittering stopped, then leaned close to Lord Wiltshire and whispered something in his ear.
Charles eyed the two. The lady wore a massive ruby about her neck. He couldn’t tell if Wiltshire’s gaze was drawn to it, or the impressive décolletage beneath. Being caught stealing would put an end to Lord Wiltshire’s prominence in the House of Lords, and he struck Charles as a man who valued power above all else. He would hardly throw that away for a bauble or two unless his financial straits were dire.
Charles turned his gaze elsewhere. The man’s straits weren’t dire. Full investigations into the finances of each guest had already been made. He grimaced. Unless he caught the thief in the act, discovering who the miscreant was proved nigh on impossible.
His eyes ran past a group of woman clustered together in the corner. Two matrons, a maid, one widow. He looked to another knot of guests, something tickling the back of his mind. His gaze returned to the women.
Her. The widow in dark burgundy weeds hovering near the back. She truly was unmemorable. There wasn’t one distinctive attribute that Miss Cassandra Moore possessed. She was small. Round in a way that was neither enticing nor corpulent. The style of her brown hair wasn’t severe, nor charming. The bodice of her dress not enticingly low nor primly high. Her features were pretty enough, but set in a way that made her appear bland. Tame.
Miss Moore, nay, Mrs. Alberto, raised her wine glass to her lips. While the other women gossiped eagerly, she merely wore the hint of a smile, looking just barely interested.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps she would hear something of use. Charles could well imagine secrets being revealed in front of her simply because the speaker forgot she was there.
He tilted his head. What would cause such a woman to seek employment at an investigative agency? The idea was ludicrous. And something about it seemed not quite proper. Women fell into three categories for him. Someone to tup; a potential match for marriage, though he hoped that circumstance would be quite some time in coming; and the ‘other’ category, people who he would be polite to but otherwise ignore.
Miss Moore didn’t fit into any of them. He pressed his lips flat. She also wasn’t the mystery he needed to solve. He was here to discover a thief. That was his role, and he did so like everything keeping to its proper place.
“Mr. Sargent.” Mr. Rhodes, the host of the party and the owner of a mid-size bank in London, toddled up to him. He gave what Charles could only assume was meant to be a friendly smile and lifted a decanter of claret. “A fill up?”
Charles gritted his teeth. “Yes, thank you.” He bobbed his head at the assembly. “You have quite the circle of friends, Mr. Rhodes. One could be forgiven for mistaking this as an examination of potential investment opportunities.”
Rhodes laughed, his third chin quivering. “Finding new sources of capital for my ventures is always important. Or at the very least, new customers for my bank. And who says it can’t be mixed with a bit of frivolity? Besides,” he said, leaning in close, “I find it advantageous to become acquainted with all the men influential in the business world. The line between allies and enemies isn’t as far apart as one would think.”
Charles dipped his head. “I’m flattered I received an invitation.”
“There are too many prominent men saying your name for me not to want to become acquainted.” Rhodes waved his hand through the air. “I hope we shall become great friends.”
For as long as it took Rhodes to realize Charles would offer him nothing. That those people saying his name were friends of the owners of the Bond Agency and had no actual knowledge of a Mr. Sargent. Then any pretense of friendship would be swiftly dropped. “And people like Lord Wiltshire? Hoping to become friends with those who make the laws?”
“It is useful.” Rhodes snaked his hand out and grabbed the elbow of a passing man. “Mr. Lincoln, have you met Mr. Sargent?” He turned to Charles. “Mr. Lincoln officially is the secretary to Lord Wiltshire, but he does ever so much more than that. Isn’t that right?”
Lincoln blinked behind his spectacles. He was a man of average height and appearance. His brown suit looked like it has seen a few seasons, and the creases in his forehead showed that he had seen more than a few cares. “I try to assist Lord Wiltshire in whatever manner he needs.” He nodded to Charles. “Nice to meet you Mr. Sargent.”
“And you.” Charles swirled the contents of his glass. “We were just speaking of the best ways to secure one’s investments. It truly does come down to who you know. Did you hear of that investment group in the Americas going belly up? I was told the founder has disappeared with all the investors’ money.”
Rhodes snorted. “What that swindler was offering for terms was too good to be true. Those idiots deserved to lose their money.”
Charles kept his face impassive though he was inclined to agree. He avoided investing his own savings in projects that promised a stallion for the price of a mule. “It’s getting so as one can’t even trust the bank one puts his money in, no offense to you, Mr. Rhodes. But crime is increasing so in England. There seems to be no one to trust anymore.”
If that wasn’t an invitation to discuss the thefts, he didn’t know what was. Men were as prone to gossip as women, and if either Rhodes or Lincoln had heard about the robberies, he wanted to know what they did.
Rhodes puffed out his chest. “I can assure you, any funds deposited in my bank are fully secure.”
“Are we talking about the robbery at East End Bank?” A gentleman with shaggy red hair, large chipmunk cheeks, and a Scottish accent sidled into their group. “I heard it caused a run on the bank and they had to close their doors.”
