Page 42 of Would I Lie to the Duke
Noel had been drawn into conversation with Lord Trask the moment the prior presentation had ended. She resented the marquess’s presence, as much as she required him to act as a bulwark between herself and her desire for Noel.
They had kept apart today, as if things between them were too hot, too sensitive, to be handled for very long.
Now he seemed to sense her looking at him—he had a way of finding her wherever she was, as though they were magnets forever drawn to each other—and his eyes were dark, almost as dark as they had been last night at Vauxhall.
She broke away from his gaze, busying herself with pouring a cup of tea from the refreshment table.
She had a task to complete, a reason for her dissembling that brought her to the Bazaar. Noel wasn’t that reason and it was important for her to remember that.
Guilt needled her. Over the past few days, she’d come to think of some of the guests as friends, and it did not feel right to manipulate them. If there had been a choice, some other way of salvaging her family’s business—and her family itself—she would have gladly done it.
But there was no choice. She had to do this now, and face her guilt later.
After taking a sip of tea, she approached a gathering of Bazaar guests that included Mr. Walditch, Ladies Farris and Haighe, and Baron Mentmore.
“But is it sound, to invest?” Mr. Walditch said, clearly adding to an ongoing conversation. “If a business fails once, it could again.”
“Depends on the circumstances of the failure,” Jess said. “Acts of God, and so forth.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Noel said, joining the group. “Whateveritwas.”
Jess pushed down against a rise of excitement and pleasure, but now she knew what it was like to be kissed by his lips, to feel his hands on her body. The same body that demanded more of him.
She didnotwant to include Noel in her plans for McGale & McGale, but she couldn’t deliberately exclude him from the conversation. There was no hope for it.
Lady Haighe snorted. “The vanity of today’s bucks.”
“Is but a paltry ember compared to the conflagration of the previous generation’s conceit,” he said with a smile. “Besides, I seem to recall my mother whispering an anecdote that involved you, forty years ago, having your portrait painteddénudé, andthrowing a ball with that painting prominently displayed for everyone to see.”
Though Jess didn’t speak French, she had a fair idea what that last word meant, judging by the knowing chuckles of the others—and Lady Haighe’s surprising blush.
“It was a different time,” she said gruffly, before lifting her chin. “And I wasstunning.”
“Don’t know if God was involved with that soap operation,” Baron Mentmore said, his face slightly red, “but it was rotten luck, and that’s for certain.” He turned to Jess. “My man of business looked into the people who make that honey soap, my lady. What was it called? McGill? McShale?”
“I think it was... McGale.” Knowing full well what he would say, acutely aware that she had to very carefully navigate the discussion, she asked, “And what did he learn?”
“A fire wiped out a major part of their production facilities. They’re on their last legs.” He shook his head mournfully. “Bad situation all around. One I wouldn’t involve myself in.”
As calmly as she could, she said, “True, but I’ve been thinking about what you said about Brummell. A soap manufacturer seems like a good investment.”
“Notthatmanufacturer,” Mr. Walditch countered.
“Consider, though,” she said thoughtfully, “with the McGale operation, there would be ample opportunity for expansion and modernization. Itwasbad luck that there was a fire—” She fought a wave of memories, trying to douse the flames of the past with a few measured breaths. “However, if the product’s good, then what better situation to rise up from the literal ashes?”
Seeing the looks of doubt on the listeners’ faces, she recalled the demonstration of the Graveses’ fire-suppression system. “The latest technology could be implemented to ensure that such a disaster wouldn’t happen again.” She tilted her head, as if considering something. “Many of the people presenting to us claim that their businesses are prospering. Indeed, they all assert such splendid profitability for themselves, I marvel that they even need us at all.”
“I had not considered that,” Mr. Walditch murmured thoughtfully. “But would they approach us if their enterprises struggled?”
“Or,” Lady Farris said, “theyarestruggling and choose not to inform us.”
“Surely they would have to disclose that.” Mr. Walditch removed his spectacles and polished them with a cambric square before setting them back on his nose.
Tread carefully, Jess reminded herself. “Then we would have to decide whether or not it’s sound to put capital into an operation fighting to survive. We’d need to know what made a particular business have difficulties. If it was mismanagement, then there’s no inducement to tie my financial future to theirs. But I would think differently about an enterprise that had suffered from an external obstacle, such as the McGale operation.”
She continued, “If a business had suffered some catastrophe—a poor harvest from bad weather, for example, or a storm causing a ship to sink with itscargo—I’d be more agreeable to considering them as an investment possibility. So long as they were transparent about the source of their misfortune.”
“Makes sense,” Noel said. “We’re none of us beyond the touch of misfortune. It has no rhyme nor reason. No need to punish someone for something beyond their control. If the soap interests you, Mentmore, pursue it.”
