Page 62 of Snowy and the Seven Doves
Yes, of course. It was the only way. He would have to kill the false Snowden himself.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Margaret looked tired,as if she had slept as poorly as Snowy, although Snowy doubted her problem was unrequited lust. Having her one door away was excruciating torture, mitigated only by Rahat’s insistence on being moved to a bed in the adjoining dressing room. Much as Snowy would have liked to visit Margaret, he would not risk witnesses, even those he trusted. He would not dishonor Margaret in any way.
Snowy had not been to church services since he graduated from Oxford, but he quite enjoyed St. Martin-in-the-Fields. A visiting vicar gave a sermon on Christianity being about what people did, rather than what they said, which Snowy appreciated, and sharing a hymn book with Margaret gave him the opportunity to stand close to her, their arms touching.
Afterward, it took them some time to make their way to Margaret’s carriage, because so many people stopped to wish them well. The Archdeacon nearly let the cat out of the bag when he said cheerfully that he looked forward to seeing them on Wednesday, but fortunately no one seemed to think anything of it.
In the carriage, Pauline announced she was going to visit Arial, who was back in town. “I will leave the pair of you to your marriage settlements and other papers. You will not require an audience for that. After all, you are both adults and will be wed in three days. You have Mrs. O’Brian in the unlikely event you need a chaperone.” Mrs. O’Brian had replaced Miss Trent as guard of the day in time to accompany them to church, and her eyes twinkled at Pauline’s declaration.
Pauline would not think a chaperone an unlikely requirement if she could read Snowy’s thoughts. Or perhaps she could, and that was why she sounded so amused when she bid them farewell.
“We will take our breakfast on trays in the study,” Margaret told Bowen, and it was delivered a short time later.
“You will not need me, so I will find a comfortable chair and take out my sewing,” said Mrs. O’Brian. I will be keeping watch for any villains who get past the men outside. Never you mind.”
Silence fell after Mrs. O’Brian closed the door on her way out. Snowy was reminding himself of the proper behavior of a gentleman. He didn’t know for certain what Margaret was thinking, but she was looking at him from under her lashes, a slight crease between her brows.
Best to ask. “You look worried, Margaret,” he said. “Is it something I can help with? Something I can answer?”
She lifted her head and colored, then swallowed, hard. “Shall I serve the tea?” she asked.
They were not going to get far if she would not talk to him. Apparently, she was only gathering her thoughts, for as she handed him his cup, she said, “My wealth comes mainly from the estates and other landholdings. I own rows of houses in both London and Brighton. I also have some industrial investments, but I divested myself of the Jamaican plantations when I inherited.”
She blushed still brighter. “I freed the slaves and sold the plantation to them, loaning those who wished to stay the money for the purchase. They pay me back from a percentage of the crop.”
She elevated her chin higher and glared at him. “My advisers said I charged too little in the purchase price, and that I should be charging a higher interest rate on the loan. They say I could have made far more money keeping the plantation or selling itwiththe slaves. But that was not the point.”
“The point being, you do not want to make money from human misery,” Snowy said, approvingly. He had heard of a number of men who had sold their plantations so that they no longer owned slaves. He’d always felt that change of ownership, while salving the conscience of the former owner, made no difference to the slaves. He much preferred Margaret’s solution.
“That is correct,” Margaret agreed. “For the same reason, I will not invest in mills that pay less than a living wage, or that employ children under the age of ten.”
He nodded again. “I agree. My friend Drew is part of a mill-owning consortium. He insists on shortened hours for those aged between eleven and fourteen and provides schools at the mill for any children of mill workers, whether the children are also employed there or not.”
Her face had softened. “Do you invest in any mills?” she asked.
Snowy shook his head. “Not mills, no. Houses, yes. Mostly I buy them, do them up, and sell them again, but I do have a row of rental terraces in Manchester and another in Birmingham. I also have part ownership of a ship, and I am an investor in several canal projects.” He grinned. “Drew is trying to talk me into funding the development of a steam engine to pull railway carriages, but I am not convinced.”
“What of…” she avoided his eyes, looking up at the top of the curtains as if they were of profound interest. “Do you own the House of Blossoms, Hal?” Her eyes met his. This was the real question, and one he was about to pass with flying colors. He hoped.
“I do not now, nor have I ever owned the House of Blossoms or any other brothel,” he said. “Lily and my other foster mothers founded the House and still own it, and the farm, too.”
He had been right. Her face cleared and the strain left her. The story was a bit more complicated than that, though. Perhaps she didn’t need to know? Or perhaps she would find out on her own, and better by far it came from him.
Besides, she had shown the way, courageously questioning the source of his wealth.
“I am glad. I do not mean to criticize your foster mothers, Hal. I am sure they have their reasons.”
“They do. They each had their own reasons for being in the trade, the one common factor being that other choices were worse. Working in a house that they jointly owned offered my foster mothers much greater safety and security than working alone or in a house belonging to others. When the opportunity arose, they took it. They do their best to look after those who work for them, more so than others in the trade. But I do not invest in it. I do not judge others for what they choose to do, but I do not, myself, benefit.”
He hesitated, wondering where to begin.
“I am glad,” she said again. “I suppose you have heard and seen many sad stories.”
“I have been one of those sad stories,” he told her, then spoke quickly to counter her dawning horror. “As an adult, and by my choice, and in truth, I was not much harmed.” Not entirely true, but how to explain the aching void in his self-esteem, largely scabbed over but still painful?
After that, he had to tell her. “I was at university when my friend Gary and I were offered an opportunity to invest; one of our other friends was a son of a man who was trying to raise money for a canal. He was selling shares for fifty guineas each, a sum Gary and I could only dream about.”
