As partnerships went, Cassin brought the least to the table. But Stoker and Joseph Chance were lowborn scrappers who had risen up in the world, and they were unduly impressed with the title of earl. Stoker and Chance saw Cassin’s title as an open door to richer, more influential clients and investors.
Cassin was doubtful, to say the least, but he would be forever grateful they’d cut him in. Especially now, considering the potential of the island they had won on a lucky turn of cards. Especially if he could bag this investor.
“But why the emphasis on foreign work?” Joseph continued, studying the advertisement again. “Says it in four or five different ways.”
“Perhaps he’s grown weary of the opportunities in England.” Cassin pulled out a chair. “Perhaps he himself is of foreign birth. Perhaps, like us, he knows that the future of successful commerce is beyond this island.”
“Strong words from someone whose own future in this partnership is limited to the first windfall,” said Stoker.
“A windfall I’ve yet to see.” Cassin sighed. He leaned back in his chair and stared down at the advertisement. “I’ve no doubt that the two of you will eventually become richer than your wildest dreams, but I don’t have the leisure of sailing ’round the world indefinitely, waiting for this fortune to come to pass. I’ve responsibilities, as you well know.” He looked back and forth between his friends. “My time is already running out.”
Joseph looked up. “But could it be possible? That the money would be this simple to get?” He read from the advertisement: “ ‘A modest fortune,’ it says. How much could he mean?”
Stoker sat up again. “Not enough to print this advertisement properly. With a press. On good paper.” He ran a finger along the script. “Advertisement’s been hand-lettered on parchment.”
“So it is,” sighed Cassin. He took up the sheet. “So what?”
“Did anyone see you pull it down?” asked Joseph.
Cassin shrugged, rolling up the advert. “It’s mine now—the advertisement and the money it will bring.”
“It’sours, you mean,” said Stoker. “The money would beours.”
Cassin smiled. “So you are interested?”
“I’m the captain of the bloody ship,” Stoker said. “You deal with the investments.”
He looked back and forth between his partners. “What’s the risk in trying?”
Joseph scratched his head. “Revealing our plans for the island to a competitor. Being made fools if the advert turns out to be a trick or a fabrication, as Stoker said.”
“So nothing, effectively,” said Cassin. “Low risk—very low.”
Stoker laughed. “Aren’t you an eager lad?”
“Eager does not begin to describe what I am.” Cassin sighed. “I’ve been away from home for too many months, with too little to show for the time away. People rely on me.”
“And now you would add Mr. W. J. Hunnicut to that list?” asked Stoker. “Investors expect returns on their money, don’t they?”
“Yes, and the profits from the island are incalculable,” said Cassin. “Joseph has done the projections. All we lack is a financier.” He tucked the advertisement in his coat. “And now, it would appear we have one. If we’re lucky. If we can sell him on the idea.”
“He’s right,” said Joseph. “If it’s authentic, an offer like this is exactly what we’ve been looking for.”
“Tell me this,” said Stoker. “What is a ‘gentleman sailor’?”
“I am,” said Cassin immediately. “I am a gentleman sailor. I’m a bloody earl, and I’ve been sailing with you lot since . . . what was it? June?”
“Well, I’m no gentleman,” said Stoker.
“Nor I,” said Joseph.
“Very well,” said Cassin, “you are ‘Entrepreneurs with International Interests.’ You are ‘Professional Travelers.’ I don’t care how you refer to yourselves, nor do I care if W. J. Hunnicut thinks you are gentlemen or sailors or the bloody Spanish Armada. I only care that he gives us the money so we may mine the island before the market floods, and we’re too late.”
“Why not?” asked Joseph, leaning back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I can hardly see the harm in writing to the bloke to introduce the idea.”
Cassin shook his head. “No. No letter. There’s no time to exchange correspondence with an old man in godforsaken Surrey. And Stoker is correct: It’s reckless to put pen to paper and describe the potential of the island, only to post it to a stranger.” He kicked Stoker’s leg and gestured for him to sit up.
Leaning in, Cassin spoke low. “We’ll travel in person to Pixham, wherever the devil it is, and see for ourselves. Meet the bloke. Look him in the bloody eye. If W. J. Hunnicut is an honest man with legitimate resources, we’ll know it.”
