Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels 2)

“Naturally,” Severin continued, “I did my damnedest to get the mineral rights before Trenear realized what he had. But he’s a stubborn bastard. I finally had to concede near the end of the lease negotiations.”

Rhys glanced at him alertly. “You knew about the hematite deposit and didn’t tell him?”

“I needed it. There’s a shortage.”

“Trenear needed it more. He’s inherited an estate near bankruptcy. You should have told him!”

Severin shrugged. “If he wasn’t smart enough to discover it before I did, he didn’t deserve to have it.”

“Iesu Mawr.” Rhys lifted his ale mug and downed half of its contents in a few swallows. “A fine pair of fellows, we are. You tried to swindle him, and I propositioned the woman he loves.” He felt distinctly uncomfortable. Devon was no saint, but he had always been a solid friend, and he merited better treatment than this.

Severin seemed fascinated and entertained by the information. He was dark haired and fair skinned, with lean, sharp-cut features, and the kind of gaze that tended to make people feel targeted. His eyes were unusual, blue with uneven swaths of green around the pupils. The green was so much more pronounced on the right side that in certain light it appeared as if he had two entirely different-colored eyes.

“What woman?” Severin asked. “And why did you make a play for her?”

“It doesn’t matter who she is,” Rhys muttered. “I did it because I was in the devil’s own mood.” Kathleen, Lady Trenear, had told him—without malice—that he would never be able to make Helen happy, that he wasn’t worthy of her. It had touched that raw nerve in himself that he had never fully understood, and his reaction had been mean. Ugly.

Thereby proving her right.

Bloody hell, he wouldn’t blame Devon for thrashing him to a fare-thee-well.

“Was this around the time Trenear’s little cousin ended her betrothal with you?” Severin asked.

“We’re still betrothed,” Rhys replied curtly.

“Is that so?” Severin looked even more interested. “What happened?”

“Damned if I’ll tell you—the devil knows when you might use it against me.”

Severin laughed. “As if you hadn’t fleeced more than a few unlucky souls in your business dealings.”

“Not friends.”

“Ah. So you would sacrifice your own interests for those of a friend—is that what you’re saying?”

Rhys took another deep drink of ale, trying to drown a sudden grin. “I haven’t yet,” he admitted. “But it’s possible.”

Severin snorted. “I’m sure it is,” he said, in a tone that conveyed exactly the opposite, and gestured for a barmaid to bring more ale.

The conversation soon turned to business matters, especially the recent flurry of speculative building to address the housing needs of the middle class and working poor. It seemed that Severin was interested in helping an acquaintance who had fallen into debt after investing too heavily with a low rate of return. Some of his property had been given to a firm of auctioneers, and Severin had offered to take over the rest of his mortgaged properties, to keep him from becoming sold up altogether.

“Out of the goodness of your heart?” Rhys asked.

“Naturally,” came Severin’s arid response. “That, and the fact that he and three other large property owners in the Hammersmith district are part of a provisional committee for a proposed suburban railway scheme I want to take over. If I pull my friend out of the mess he’s made for himself, he’ll convince the others to support my plans.” His tone turned offhand as he added, “You might be interested in one of the properties he’s selling. It’s a block of tenements that are being torn down as we speak, to be replaced with model dwellings for three hundred middle-class families.”

Rhys gave him a sardonic glance. “How would I make a profit from that?”

“Rack-renting.”

He shook his head with scorn. “As a boy living on High Street, I saw too many workingmen and their families crushed when their rents doubled with no warning.”

“All the more reason to buy the property,” Severin said without pause. “You can save three hundred families from rack-renting, whereas some other greedy bastard—me, for example—wouldn’t.”

It occurred to Rhys that if the residential buildings were of good quality, well plumbed and ventilated, the project actually might be worth buying. He employed approximately a thousand people. Although they were well paid, most had difficulty finding good quality housing in town. He could think of several advantages to acquiring the property as a residence for his employees.

Settling back in his chair, Rhys asked with deceptive indolence, “Who’s the builder?”

“Holland and Hannen. A reputable firm. We could walk to the construction site after lunch, if you’d care to see it for yourself.”

Rhys shrugged casually. “It won’t hurt to take a look.”

After the meal concluded, they walked north toward King’s Cross, their breaths ghosting in the raw air. Handsome building facades, with their ornamental brickwork and terracotta panels, gave way to soot-colored tenements separated by narrow alleys and gutters filled with muck. Windows were covered with paper instead of glass, and cluttered with laundry hung out on broken oars and poles. Some of the lodgings were doorless, imparting a sense that the buildings were gaping at their own decaying condition.

“Let’s cross to the main thoroughfare,” Severin suggested, wrinkling his nose at the sulfurous taint of the air. “It’s not worth a shortcut to breathe in this stench.”