Chapter 5
“For a man who claims to eschew drama,” Joshua Penrose said, “you are going to great lengths to make an entrance.”
“The shoppers have turned the streets into a filthy quagmire,” Quinn replied as the carriage rolled along. “Of course I’d take the town coach to a business appointment.”
“An auction is not an appointment.”
Perhaps not, but Quinn was determined to transact some business on the bookshop’s steps. The town coach made a statement of sober luxury, being finished in black lacquer with red trim. He’d taken this coach in payment for a debt incurred by an impecunious viscount, and regarded it as a reminder to one and all that Quinn Wentworth was no respecter of titles.
A debt was a debt.
When the coach came to a halt, Quinn waited while the liveried footman set down the steps and opened the door.
“Shall I bid for you?” Joshua asked.
“You shall not. The merchants are expecting me to participate in this farce personally, so participate, I shall.”
He climbed from the coach and let all the gawkers have a good look. He was attired no differently than most men who engaged in commerce for a living, but he was taller than most, and clad a prize fighter’s physique in Bond Street finery.
“Mr. Wentworth,” Barnstable called above the murmuring of the crowd. “So glad you could join us. The auction will start in”—he flashed his pocket watch—“five minutes.”
The merchants had turned out in quantity, which was gratifying. If the sale was well attended, that made the results harder to attack from any legal angle.
Quinn ignored Barnstable, and ignored the whispers circulating through the bidders. “Damned Wentworth,” and “rich as Old Scratch,” figured prominently, as usual. To the pair of young ladies standing off to the side with Aidan Farris, Quinn tipped his hat.
The young ladies glowered at him, which was entirely appropriate. Farris’s expression was admirably devoid of emotion.
At least the fellow had learned that much.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Joshua murmured. “All of London will see you render those young women homeless. We can put the damned branch on some other street corner.”
“I am very certain I want to do this. One must be willing to pay a cost when pursuing a worthwhile objective.”
The bells from St. Paul’s tolled the hour, and the crowd grew quiet.
Barnstable climbed the shop’s front steps and held up his hand. The usual patter ensued, about how fine the structure was, how many rooms it featured, how well respected Mr. Thatcher had been, and what a conscientious owner.
Barnstable was stalling, hoping for an even greater crowd, until somebody bellowed from the back of the group.
“Get on w’ it, man. Can’t ye see the young misses are cold?”
The younger girl looked a bit chilly. The older of the two was in a white hot fury, though she’d cloaked her rage in dignity. Quinn looked her straight in the eye, and—unlike many a man twice her age—she stared right back at him.
“Very well,” Barnstable said, holding up a wooden gavel. “Hear ye, hear ye! This is an auction without reserve for the property before which we are gathered. The bidding will now open. Who shall start us off, gentlemen?”
He smiled at the crowd, they did not smile back. Quinn had spent the past week making sure every merchant in London—and their wives—knew exactly what Barnstable was about.
“Oh, come now, friends,” Barnstable said. “Let’s not be shy. Mr. Wentworth has joined us, true, but even he isn’t made entirely of gold. What am I bid for this fine property?”
Another silence, as a cold wind blew down the street.
“One pound,” Quinn said, which caused a ripple through the crowd. One pound was an insultingly, outrageously low opening bid, and Barnstable’s smiled slipped.
“I have one pound,” he said, “and that will do for a start. Who can top one pound? Surely with the holidays upon us, somebody has more than one pound to spend on this beautiful edifice? Gentleman, you cannot allow Mr. Wentworth to steal this building for a single pound. T’wouldn’t be sporting!”
“What the hell is going on?” Joshua muttered.
“Quiet,” Quinn replied, once again giving Miss Chloe Thatcher a direct stare.
She held up a gloved hand. “Two pounds.”
“Miss Thatcher bids two pounds,” Barnstable said, “and she well knows that’s a mere pittance compared to what this building is worth. Come, gentlemen. You know old Thatcher’s heirs stand to benefit from your generosity today. A bid of two pounds, when Quinn Wentworth is in our midst, is nothing short of bad form.”
The crowd shifted restlessly. A man standing near the shop window raised a hand as if to bid. The person beside him, a printer, batted the man’s hand down.
“Do I have another bid?” Barnstable called out. “Sir, are you entering the affray? Don’t be shy, now. Some lucky bidder will end this day in possession of an enviably well placed commercial establishment. Let’s make sure it’s not Mr. Wentworth. What do you bid, my good fellow?”
“His nose itched,” the printer yelled.
Another man farther up the walk way looked as he was thinking of bidding. The man beside him whispered in his ear.
“Will nobody give me a bid?” Barnstable bellowed. “I cannot consider this an auction if there’s no bidding, my friends.”
“You said it yourself,” the printer retorted. “An auction without reserve. Mr. Wentworth put in his bid, and Miss Thatcher topped him.”
“That’s an auction, Barnstable,” a burly young fellow called. “For once you don’t get to cheat anybody.”
Barnstable was losing control of the crowd, and Quinn wasn’t quite ready for that to happen. He lifted his walking stick as if to examine the handle.
“Ah, Mr. Wentworth!” Barnstable cried. “I see you’re ready to resume bidding. You’ve had your little moment, but now let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Well, yes. The young ladies—and Mr. Farris—must not be made to stand about in the frigid air any longer than necessary.
Quinn took off his hat and bowed very correctly to the Misses Thatcher. “Ladies, congratulations on placing the winning bid. I wish you Happy Christmas. Mr. Barnstable, conclude your auction.”
A beat of silence went by before Joshua spoke over the crowd. “You heard him, Barnstable. Conclude the auction.”
Barnstable held his little wooden hammer, while the merchants murmured and shuffled.
“Say it, man,” the printer called, “or we’ll make you wish you had.”
The silence stretched while the crowd shifted restlessly. Quinn merely waited, for this group knew what it was to work hard, knew the fury of having been cheated by a crooked banker. For once, that banker was not going to win.
“You heard Mr. Wentworth,” a prominent butcher called. “Conclude the auction, Barnstable.”
“Conclude the auction now,” another voice added, “or you’ll get worse than a lump of coal for your reward, Barnstable.”
Barnstable looked about, his gaze the fearful disbelief of cornered prey.
“Now, Barnstable,” Joshua said again. “Or there will be consequences.”
Three more heartbeats went by, during which Mr. Farris, in a shocking lapse of decorum that pleased Quinn no end, slipped his hand around Miss Thatcher’s.
“Going once,” Barnstable croaked. “Going twice. Sold to Miss Thatcher for two pounds.”
A loud cheer went up as Quinn returned to the coach and gave his driver leave to trot off. On the steps of the bookshop, Mr. Farris was looking ordinately pleased for a man who’d turned his back on a lucrative career in finance, but then, Miss Thatcher was in his arms, laughing, crying, and kissing Farris’s cheek.
While Barnstable looked to be entirely, absolutely ruined.
“Happy Christmas?” Joshua asked, as the horses trotted on.
“One might say so,” Quinn replied. “Alas for all my scheming, we won’t be opening up our branch at the corner of Willoughby and St. Jean’s.”
Joshua peered out the window. “But?”
“But the printer across the way is ready to retire. He tells me bookstores generate a tremendous amount of foot traffic, and that benefits the entire neighborhood. I’d be a fool to close down a thriving bookshop when I’m thinking of opening up a branch in the area. Particularly when I can keep that shop open and in the right hands without spending sixpence.”
Joshua’s smile was patient. “And banks generate a lot of foot traffic, making it more likely the bookshop will thrive.”
“Particularly if a highly trained man of business is assisting with the bookshop’s management.” A nice thought, though Quinn still had no idea why anybody would want to spend their entire day around a lot of dull old books.
No idea at all.
Joshua sat back, his expression amused. “You are a good man, Quinn Wentworth, though your secret is safe with me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I am competent at commerce and fair in my dealings. That is all I shall ever aspire to be.” He was also proud of Aidan Farris, who’d demonstrated a sound sense of honor when honor was needed. No need to go bleating to Joshua about that.
Joshua’s smile became a grin as the coach pulled up at the corner nearest the bank. “Perhaps your sisters might have some idea what sort of gift to send along when Mr. Farris and Miss Thatcher’s nuptials are announced.”
Quinn climbed down from the coach. “I have no skill choosing gifts. I’ll leave that task to those better suited to it.”
Joshua joined him on the walkway. “Oh, I agree. You are not skilled at choosing gifts, you have no patience with sentiment, and drama has no place in commerce. Right.”
“Stop trying to annoy me. We have a full day of bank business to tend to. Let’s be about it.” Quinn jaunted off in the direction of the bank, pausing only long enough to flip an entire crown in the crossing sweeper’s direction.
“Happy Christmas, Mr. Wentwort,” the boy called back, slipping the coin in to his pocket.
“Go on,” Joshua muttered. “Say the words, Quinn. You’ve earned them.”
Quinn turned and tipped his hat to the boy, also to every generous-hearted merchant in London, and to every person who’d ever patronized the Thatcher’s bookshop. “Happy Christmas, indeed!” he called, a bit too loudly.
Then he jaunted up the bank’s steps and settled in for a full day of work minding the bank’s business.
The End