Page 23 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
“I’ll see what I can do,” answered the earl.
A slow, seductive smile eased across Hamilton’s face in the direction of their host. At the same time, a look of annoyance spread across Kit’s as jealousy ripped through him, like the slice of a paper cut. He hadn’t anticipated competition for the earl’s affections.
“I must say, this is frightfully cloak and dagger, Rossingley old chap,” huffed Gartside. “I do wish you’d get on with it.”
“D-did w-we all at-t-tend Eton?” hazarded Sir Richard, then cringed as four sets of eyes turned to him.
Some of these nobles, thought Kit irritably, really had no idea an entire world of misery existed beyond Mayfair.
“’Fraid not, old chap,” replied Mr Hamilton in a remarkable imitation of Lord Cobham. “It’s a dreadful thing to admit, but I’m an old Harrovian through and through.”
Kit nearly guffawed, astounded the American strumpet had even heard of that revered educational establishment, let alone the nerve to claim to be a former pupil. Sprawled across the chaise, his every move and every gesture were designed to better display his wares to the earl. The man was an utter enigma, one Kit had already decided much earlier in the evening that he didn’t care for. If anyone was going to tup the earl tonight, it would be him, and him alone.
“I can’t imagine Mr Hamilton and I have anything in common whatsoever,” stated Gartside with an air of finality. “He’s done nothing but agitate. Why he’s here defeats me.”
“To improve the scenery,” quipped Hamilton. “Which is distinctly lacking. My lordship excepted, of course.” He gave the earl one of those smiles, again, of the type setting Kit’s teeth on edge.
The earl returned it with a mildly disapproving look, suggesting now was not the time. As far as Kit was concerned, the time would be never. “Mr Hamilton is here at my behest,” the earl said. “For reasons which will soon become clear.”
Cobham dabbed at his damp forehead. “Well, do get on with it, Rossingley. I have my mistress to call upon within the hour.”
“That lady is truly blessed,” murmured Mr Hamilton.
Inevitably feeling the warmth, Rossingley moved away from the fire and perched his neat, small behind on his solid desk. He’d deliberately intended to keep them all waiting, Kit was sure of it. Though it was entirely feasible, given his sweet tooth, Rossingley had become distracted by the Bakewell pudding.
“Some of you may be aware that, a year ago, I acquired a large cotton mill in the small northern town of Runcorn, situated on the outskirts of Manchester. Like others who have gone before me, and as Sir Richard can no doubt attest, it is proving to be an extraordinarily decent investment. I have purchased the most sophisticated carding and spinning machines available, meaning that instead of piecemeal cotton cloth production, all the stages of assembly now take place under one roof. Added to the recent installation of powered looms, my factory is the most highly productive mill in the north of England.”
Whereas Sir Richard showed a very keen interest, Gartside’s eyes glazed over. He sighed heavily.
“I was hoping we were here to play a few hands of piquet, Rossingley. Not receive a potted history of cotton manufacture.” According to Rossingley, Gartside’s enthusiasm for business matters extended to calculating race odds and no more, much to the vexation of his deceased father.
“Have some patience, my good fellow,” countered Rossingley briskly. “I’m just coming to the interesting part. What you may not be aware of is that I also acquired a parcel of land adjacent to my mill. This extends it to eight hectares and plenty large enough for the construction of four more profitable mills. And they can all share the same power supply, thus making my process even more economical.”
“Runcorn is l-l-linked to t-the Bridgewater C-C-Canal,” observed Sir Richard knowledgeably.
“Indeed.” Rossingley shot him a grateful smile. “Which brings me around to Mr Hamilton and Mr Angel. Mr Hamilton’s family owns a large cotton plantation in South Carolina; his raw cotton is transported to England via Liverpool and provides for my mill.” He inclined his head towards Mr Hamilton, who beamed back. “May I take this opportunity to point out that Mr Hamilton’s family does not use enslaved labour?”
Kit had the impression neither Cobham nor Gartside cared one way or another how the Hamiltons procured their raw cotton, but the observation won an approving nod from the more enlightened Sir Richard. The earl continued.
“The construction of four more mills will establish me as the Hamilton plantation’s most important overseas business partner. Indeed, I will become the biggest single buyer of raw cotton in England.”
“My word, you have been busy,” spluttered Cobham. “And there was thetonbelieving you had intractable gout or an exhausting young filly keeping you chained to the bedchamber.”
“’Fraid to disappoint,” answered Lando with a tiny smile. “I have simply been ensuring that when I throw in my dinner pail, my eldest son inherits a healthy earldom.”
At this, he gave a pointed look in Gartside’s direction, not that the man picked up on it.
“Now, if I may.” The earl gestured with his glass. “The time has come to properly introduce Mr Angel here. Or, if I may be so bold as to use his full title—Master Collector of Customs at the Northern Board of Customs and Chief Inspector of the River. As the most senior government officer at Liverpool Docks, Mr Angel oversees His Majesty’s customs in the region in their entirety. He reports to, and has the ear of, the foreign secretary himself.”
For a second, Kit wondered if he was still in possession of his own ears, never mind someone else’s. He…hewhat?…he was who? Four sets of eyes swivelled in his direction.
Rooted to the spot, it took all of his poker skills honed from two years fleecing his fellow man at the card tables not to gasp out loud. He waswhat? A Master something…something Collector of theRiver? The most senior government official? Buggeration. Kit didn’t have the first clue about the cotton industry, let alone the shipping one. What the blazes was the earl up to?
While all present sized him up, Kit became acutely aware of two things. One, he was now the centre of attention and not entirely happy about it, and two, he understood why the earl had ensured he was clothed in his tailor’s finery. Very snug, very hot finery.Trust me, he’d said. And Kit had until he’d pulled this rabbit from the hat. The lord was as bold as brass!
“Monthly meetings with Castlereagh, I understand?” reiterated the earl, his steely pale gaze boring into Kit’s.
Trust me. At that moment, Kit felt more of an urge to kill him. “Absolutely,” he agreed with a lot more swagger than he felt. “We dine together the third Wednesday of every month.”
