Chapter Six
The brothers hadcalled on Mr. Wintergreen the day after they arrived in London, only to be told that he was not at home, and neither were the Wintergreen sisters. They next called on Lady Marple, but they were unsuccessful there, too. Her ladyship had gone out, and was not—in any case—receiving today.
For the next three days, the message was the same.
That wasn’t all they did, of course. After two weeks out of London, they had catching up to do—meetings to attend, letters to answer, reports to read. Their solicitor had drawn up a contract following their written instructions, and one of their earliest meetings was to sign it so it could be sent to the Pentworths in Sheffield. Then there was a meeting with their bank, who didn’t have a co-operative agreement with a Sheffield bank, which meant another meeting with another bank whodidhave such an agreement and could act as an intermediary.
As soon as Pentworth had signed and returned the contract, their bank would transfer the required sum to the partner bank, who would notify the Sheffield bank, so the inventor could draw down the money. It had been a busy few days.
“Sometimes, I think I’d like to be one of the idle rich,” said Drake.
“You’d be bored witless in less than a week,” Bane assured him.
On the fourth day, an invitation was delivered to them at their lodgings. “Drake,” Bane said, “this is from Lady Marple. We have been invited to her ball, which is three Thursdays from now.”
Drake held out his hand and inspected the card. “Excellent!” he said.
Bane was reading the note that came with the card. It was a brief message to tell them they would find the ladies at home if they called on Thursday after three in the afternoon. Two more days. He showed it to Drake. “Is she encouraging us, do you think?”
“We’ll find out when we visit, I expect.” Bane was very familiar with how the landed gentry and aristocracy froze out those they considered beneath them.
Drake had something else on his mind. “If we are going to attend balls, we will need made-to-measure evening clothes,” he said. He had a good point. They didn’t want to stand out for the wrong reasons, and tailor-made clothes would help them to fit in. On the other hand, Bane had heard that a Bond Street tailor charged like a wounded bull. “What do you suggest?”
Drake grimaced. “I don’t suggest we go to a fashionable tailor and then fail to pay him, like an aristocrat. Or waste our capital on clothing. But there’s a man I’ve heard of in Spitalfields—a German tailor called Swartz. He’s very good, apparently.”
“We can take a look,” Bane agreed.
They could afford it. They had more than enough to dress like dukes if they chose. But they both agreed. Capital was for investing, not dissipating. To pay Bond Street rates to outfit them with fashionable clothing—at ten guineas for a single evening jacket each and perhaps a guinea and half for each shirt—would mean either cutting back on eating or digging into their capital.
“In a way, fine clothes are also an investment,” Drake pointed out. “We’ll be mixing with people we might want as investors in our own ventures, and meeting possible brides.”
“By which you mean the Wintergreen sisters,” Bane offered. “I agree to fine clothes, but not to Bond Street prices.”
It was true, though. If they wished to pursue an acquaintance with the sisters, they needed to be part of the social scene. Bane didn’t much like the idea of facing the ton, but even less did he like the idea of other people courting Miss Wintergreen, and possibly winning her, while he stayed away. “I’m in favor of buying whatever we need at the best price we can manage,” he said. “Though if we are going out into Society, I’m wearing my hood.”
He told Mr. Swartz the same thing when they visited him to decide whether to employ his services. The man’s eyes widened, but all he said was, “Perhaps a black silk one, sir. For evening.” That and his prices, which were half those of Bond Street, made up Bane’s mind, and Drake agreed.
Indeed, the order they placed was larger than they had originally intended. They would be able to turn themselves out creditably during the day, as well as for evening events.
“After all,” Drake said, as they left, “what is the point of being wealthy if we never spend anything?”
“If you are thinking of marrying, you might need to be able to convince the girl’s father that you can support a wife,” Bane pointed out.
“What about you?” Drake asked. “Do you look at Miss Olivia Wintergreen and hear wedding bells?”
Bane wouldn’t go quite that far. “I hear the possibility of wedding bells, I suppose.” From his side of the equation. He doubted that the lady would consider him.
Drake nodded. “Exactly. We need to spend time with them and see if this attraction survives and maybe grows into something more.”
“I expect their father would prefer a title for them,” Bane warned. “I’m sure he’d prefer a husband who wasn’t born a scandal.”
“The scandal was Father’s, Bane,” Drake pointed out, as he always did. But Society didn’t think that way.
No point in arguing with Drake. They’d covered this ground before. “We have an hour before the meeting with our broker,” he said. “Three Crowns for a bite?”
The cook at the Three Crowns inn had a light hand with pastry and a deft touch with spices. Besides, the innkeeper was as good a brewer as his wife was a cook, and kept a good cellar besides.
They were soon seated at a table in the corner, enjoying a meat pie with mashed potato and mushy peas, and a mug of the host’s best brown ale. “Isn’t that our broker?” Drake asked, pointing with his chin, to a man who was just walking in the door.
