Chapter 3
“A nip to ward off the chill, Mr. Wentworth?” Phineas Barnstable lifted a crystal decanter from a mahogany sideboard as he made that offer. “My selection includes very fine brandies, but perhaps your tastes run to rum or,”—he paused, his smile becoming insolent—“gin.”
Gin, the drink that had ruined Quinn’s father. “I prefer not to take spirits during business hours, thank you just the same. I’d like to discuss the Thatcher sale.”
He ambled the perimeter of Barnstable’s office rather than take a seat. The paintings hanging on the walls were good quality, but nudes every one. Put those images in a Seven Dials pub, and they’d be lewd. Here, they were art.
“The Thatcher auction,” Barnstable countered, pouring himself a drink. “I am merely the mortgagor, liquidating an asset on behalf of the old man’s estate. To your health.” He lifted his glass and made a little performance of sampling the contents, holding the drink beneath his chin, then beneath his nose, then audibly swishing the first taste about in his mouth.
Quinn knew how to consume brandy. That skill was necessary for moving in gentlemanly circles, so he’d learned it. He’d learned how to dress in the first stare of fashion, even how to damned waltz.
He’d never learned how to cheat at business, but Barnstable could have taught university courses on the subject.
“Will you entertain a private sale of the property?” Quinn asked. The mantel held a thin coating of gray coal dust. As warm as Barnstable kept this room, the whole office likely needed dusting three times a day.
“My dear Mr. Wentworth, I have already advertised the auction to the commercial public. If they learned I’d instead transferred the property to you without benefit of full and open competition, how could I prove to the courts that I’d got the best price for the place? An estate must be rendered solvent if possible, and a public auction means I’ve done my part to make that happen.”
He spoke genially, as if instructing a clerk. He was also misrepresenting the law, which he did well and frequently.
“If what you seek is full and open competition, you’ll wait until after Christmas,” Quinn said. “But perhaps Barnstable’s is a bit short of coin, and must liquidate assets hastily? The banking business is such a fraught undertaking.”
Quinn turned his back on his host as if to admire the view of the street below, a deliberate rudeness in exchange for deliberate insults, plural.
Barnstable’s bay window was fogged with grime, as every London windows was in winter, but Quinn could make out the crossing sweeper at the intersection, a child shivering in ragged clothes. The boy darted out into traffic to collect horse droppings while they were still warm, and shoveled them into a barrel. The lad huddled next to the barrel, gaze riveted on passing vehicles.
Quinn knew firsthand the ache in those small knees, the focus that blotted out almost all awareness of the cold. He’d graduated from crossing sweeper to groom at a livery, and still found a stable a place of peace, warmth, and refuge.
This stuffy, ostentatious office had, by contrast, authored much undeserved hardship. Quinn’s good deed for the year—he permitted himself one charitable undertaking each Yuletide—would be to serve Barnstable a portion of justice.
Barnstable set his drink on the ornate reading table in the center of the room. “Mr. Wentworth, do you imply that my establishment is insolvent?”
“Several hypotheses come to mind to explain the undue haste with which you put the Thatcher property up for auction,” Quinn said, wandering away from the window. “First, your bank needs ready coin. Banks fail all the time, and the present economy is a tribulation to all in the financial business.”
Barnstable gestured with his glass. “One cannot take offense at platitudes, but I assure you, Barnstable’s quite sound and you imply otherwise at peril to my civility.”
Quinn did not give one frozen horse dropping for Phineas Barnstable’s civility. “Second, you have failed to take into account the nature of the parties likely to bid on the Thatcher property.”
“Now you do insult me, Wentworth. You come to my office, begging me for special consideration, insinuating—”
Quinn picked up Barnstable’s drink and held it beneath his chin, the raised it to his nose, then set it down. Not first quality. A slight hint of wet dog about the nose, a faint note of boar-in-rut below that.
“I beg for nothing, Barnstable. I felt it incumbent upon me as a fellow banker to discuss with you the folly of a precipitous sale, of which the courts would naturally take notice. The merchants eager to get their hands on that property are themselves short of cash prior to Christmas Day itself. Accounts owing are typically not paid until Boxing Day, and thus far more ready money will be in their pockets after Christmas than before. Perhaps this signal fact slipped your mind.”
Barnstable’s brows drew down, suggesting that this obvious fact had escaped his notice. “One doesn’t want to involve the courts, Wentworth. I had merely hoped to see the matter tidied up sooner rather than later. The merchants are not hard-hearted toward their own, and the Thatcher girls face the proverbial plight, you see. They will be penniless and homeless unless the sale is very successful. I’ve put that word about, and the reception has been most encouraging.”
Quinn pretended to study the painting over the mantel, a much-darkened rendering of Artemis with her loyal stag, and without much clothing.
“You are using the Thatcher sisters’ situation to play upon the sympathies of the bidders, then?”
“Why not? Nothing like a little holiday generosity to make Yuletide feel complete. The Thatcher sisters will benefit, I’ll benefit, the estate’s other creditors will benefit.”
The estate had no other creditors. Quinn had established that much several weeks ago. The Thatcher sisters had nearly beggared themselves paying off every sum due, and of course, Barnstable had ensured that those bills had been delivered almost before the old man’s funeral.
Barnstable was thus free to manipulate his accountings without any fear of oversight or interference from other creditors.
And—Quinn was certain of this—Barnstable’s institution was perilously short of cash.
“Holiday generosity does not disappear on Christmas night,” Quinn said. “We both know Boxing Day ushers in at least a week of brisk commercial activity as accounts are paid and calls are made. If you have the sale immediately after Christmas, you will see much higher bids, and you’ll still be able to play upon the sympathies of the merchants. You will also have less to fear from the courts, who take a dim view of unnecessary haste where orphaned females are concerned.”
Regardless of the timing of the sale, Barnstable would keep every ha’ penny for himself, and allow the Thatcher sisters a pittance by way of an inheritance. Their grandfather’s solicitor would be only too happy that his own outstanding invoice was settled, and the hardworking young ladies would end up on the parish or worse.
Quinn knew that tragedy line by line.
“Your reputation for shrewdness is well earned, Mr. Wentworth,” Barnstable said. “May I ask what you would have offered for the place?”
“You may ask, I’d be a fool to share that information. I might, however, be persuaded to send a representative to your little auction.”
Barnstable’s smile would have been a credit to Father Christmas. “Your Mr. Farris has been seen on the premises at least twice a week since old Thatcher’s death. You doubtless sent your loyal hound to reconnoiter, which is how I knew you were interested in the property. You are welcome to bid as high as you please at my little auction.”
“If you hold that auction before Christmas, don’t expect me to bother. I can’t have the courts meddling in the transaction, particularly not when I’ll likely end up paying a premium price for the place.”
The courts did meddle occasionally, and when they did, an estate could languish for years. Barnstable did not have years. If Quinn’s information was correct—and it was—Barnstable barely had weeks.
Barnstable sloshed more liquor into his glass. “I’ll hold that auction whenever I please, Mr. Wentworth.”
“And I,” Quinn said, “employ enough idealistic young solicitors to make you regret any precipitous behavior. The Thatcher sisters grew up in that shop, I’m told, and they know their trade well. You might have allowed them to catch up the mortgage after their grandfather’s illness, but you chose not to. The courts will be interested to know that, I’m sure, and will examine your records very closely if prompted to do so.”
Barnstable’s smile winked out like a snuffed candle. “You don’t care one whit for those girls and neither do I, Wentworth. The working classes are resilient, and if those young women know their trade so well, they can ply it in somebody else’s bookshop. Why do you need an extra week? Is Wentworth and Penrose short of funds, is that it?”
The next part was delicate, for Quinn would not lie. “Wentworth and Penrose has enemies, which is no secret. The old, established banks regard us as an upstart aberration, unworthy to transact business in their backyards. If I do purchase the Thatcher property, it will be to open a branch close to where the better families like to shop. I anticipate resistance to that endeavor, and a precipitous auction is a perfect excuse to involve the courts.”
Every word of that recitation was the truth, and Barnstable appeared to accept it as such.
“Why not wait a month, then?”
A month during which Barnstable would tack more principle, interest, fees, and penalties onto what the Thatchers supposedly owed him.
“Because by tradition, commercial accounts are settled in the next week or so, Barnstable. How many times must I remind you? Even the courts have to acknowledge a custom that’s been centuries in the making. Longer than that, I do not care to wait. If the sisters close up shop and leave Town, there’s no telling what condition the property will be in after London’s vagrants have made free with it.”
Barnstable studied the rug, a plush Axminster that stretched from wall to wall. Somebody swept this carpet regularly, for the red, green, and cream pattern of leaves and blossoms was brightly visible.
“Very well,” Barnstable said, “I’ll hold the auction after Christmas, and regardless of who the successful bidder is, I will anticipate no interference from the courts. You are reputed to be shrewd to a fault, but honest, so I will look forward to seeing one of your idealistic solicitors at the sale. Do we have an agreement, Mr. Wentworth?”
“We have had a productive discussion,” Quinn said, declining to offer a handshake. He did not rely on the word of cheats or liars. Barnstable cared not who ended up with the property, he simply wanted Quinn’s bid to drive up the final price.
Which it would do, if all went according to plan.
“Then I’ll wish you good day, Mr. Wentworth.”’
Quinn strode for the door, the discussion having gone as well as could be expected. Not everything he’d hoped for, but—
“There is one other consideration,” Barnstable said.
Quinn turned slowly, lest his anticipation show in his eyes. “Do enlighten me.”
“If I’m to wait another week for the sale, then I’ll want to ensure the bidding is as brisk as possible. I’ll hold the sale without reserve, Mr. Wentworth. You will have competition for that property, and I will have a good price for it. A very good price.”
A sale without reserve attracted the widest possible array of bidders, because the terms of the auction guaranteed that somebody would end the day in possession of the property. The bidding began where it began and ended who knew where, but the property was guaranteed to change hands.
“Barnstable, is that wise? You’ll attract every cit and nabob from one end of London to the other.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it? To show the courts that I’m acting in good faith, doing my bit for a pair of orphaned females?”
“Your notice does not specify that this is a sale without reserve.” Quinn had read the notice word for word, several times.
“I’ll put up new notices specifying the later date, and clarifying that the auction will be without reserve. Then neither you, the merchants, nor the courts can complain.” He held the door open, and Quinn sent him a scowl that would have intimidated even the stalwart Mr. Farris.
Only when Quinn was once again out in the brisk winter air tossing a half-sovereign to the crossing sweeper did he permit himself the smallest, pleased smile.
“I don’t understand,” Chloe said. “You work for Mr. Wenthworth’s bank, but it’s Mr. Barnstable who holds Grandpapa’s mortgage.”
The afternoon lull had started, the hour after luncheon when people paid social calls. A stop by the bookshop might follow such a call, but rarely preceded it.
“I work for Wentworth and Penrose,” Mr. Farris said, pacing the shop’s worn carpets. “I am a solicitor and banks have much need of legal services. Mr. Wentworth has long admonished me that a man of business pays attention to his community. I’m to notice when the farmers bringing produce to Covent Garden begin to complain of drought, for example, or the modistes start experimenting with new fabrics.”
He circled the shop as he made this explanation, his boots thumping against the floorboards. His steps were measured, his tone even, but Chloe had the sense he was upset.
She was upset. Barnstable’s damned notice had been tacked to Grandfather’s very building, right by the front door where all must see it. The morning’s sales had been ominously light, though many people had stopped to read the auction notice.
“What has this to do with an auction six days from now, Mr. Farris?”
He paused by the biographies. “My employer, Mr. Wentworth, wants to buy this shop.”
“I expect half of London wants to buy this shop. Great-grandfather chose the location well.” And yet, Chloe was certain that no matter how handsome the sale price, she and Faith would nonetheless be paupers by New Year’s.
“Mr. Wentworth only learned of your grandfather’s illness through me,” Mr. Farris said, turning his hat in his hands. “I report what I find, like an intelligence officer, whether it’s an altercation between dandies in the park, a new hotel opening up, or a play closing after less than a fortnight.”
“So you gossip with your co-workers. How is that related to Mr. Barnstable’s infernal sale?”
He circled on the braided rug near the storybooks, where Chloe had arranged a few small nursery chairs not too far from—and not too near—the parlor stove.
“I alerted Mr. Wentworth to your grandfather’s passing, and Barnstable well knows who my employer is. He’s doubtless seen me here on many occasions.”
Tuesdays and Fridays, most weeks. Chloe looked forward to those days, and Aidan Farris was the reason. Why must she only now grasp that connection?
“You are a loyal customer and an avid reader, Mr. Farris. That you frequent our shop is not unusual.”
Faith had hung a cluster of red and green silk bows from the chandelier, and red bunting adorned the mantel. The store was as festive as last year’s decorations could make it, but standing amid the children’s tales, Mr. Farris looked miserable.
“I am also loyal to my employer. Years ago, Mr. Wentworth found me searching the Covent Garden middens for scraps of food, and gave me a job as a bank messenger. The other lads at the bank and I ran all over London on bank business and reported back what we’d seen. We had food, a place to sleep, and work that didn’t keep us cooped up in some mill or foundry—or worse.”
A fine, handsome boy loose on London’s streets could come to a very bad pass. Mr. Farris was grateful to his employer, in other words. Was his employer appreciative in return?
“Mr. Wentworth is daily confronted with urchins beyond number,” Chloe said. “That is simply the nature of London. If he offered you a job, he saw something worthy in you.”
“I hope so, for like you, I was raised by my grandparents. They succumbed to influenza, and overnight, I was cast out to make my way as best I could. I cannot bear—” He looked around the shop, a humble space, but Chloe’s home and the focus of all of her dreams. “I cannot bear that Quinn Wentworth’s ambitions, and my support of them, are why you will lose this legacy.”
Aidan Farris was such a decent man. “This Wentworth fellow apparently had designs on the shop before he knew of your fondness for books. You need not torment yourself on our account.”
Mr. Farris wandered to the cookery books, which had sold so briskly the day before thanks to him.
“I am more than fond of books. Books became my family, my comfort. The junior clerks at the bank were expected to teach the messengers to read and cipher. I did well at that, and I can manage accounts competently, but the words, the magical, mysterious words… My grandmother had given me a start, and when I got to the bank I read everything I could find. Labels on patent remedies, pamphlets, contracts, discarded newspapers. Mr. Wentworth noticed, and eventually sent me off to read law.”
“Now you read Mrs. More.”
His gaze swiveled from the books to Chloe. “What’s-his-name in search of a wife?”
Why must he ask that question while standing beneath the mistletoe?
“One of many fine tales.” Chloe smiled, despite the impending sale, despite the now-empty shop, despite all, because Mr. Farris was smiling at her. She’d not seen that exact expression from him before, had not known how breathtakingly attractive he could be with that light of masculine devilment in his eyes.
He was really quite handsome, which was just too bad considering that in a week—
“He’s back,” Mr. Farris said, marching to the window. “What could Barnstable possibly want now, and why is he…?”
Chloe stood side by side with Mr. Farris while Barnstable ripped down the notice he’d put up the evening before. In its place, he tacked another paper of the same size. He tipped his hat to Chloe and sauntered on his way, while Chloe’s dread sank to new depths.
“He’s likely moved the sale to this week,” she said. “He cannot turn Faith and me out fast enough, and we’ve yet to hear from our great-uncle in Northumberland that we even have leave to visit him.”
“Let’s read the notice,” Mr. Farris said, taking Chloe by the hand. “Barnstable will not have as many bidders if he moves the auction up, and that would mean a lower price for the property.”
Chloe let herself be towed into the bright winter sunshine, for she did not want to read the notice at all, much less alone.
“Tell me what it says.”
“The sale has been moved back until after Christmas. An auction without reserve will be held December 27 at this location, the property to change hands January 2. All interested parties are to apply to P. Barnstable’s Bank for details.”
“Why is he doing this?” And why did holding Mr. Farris’s hand bring such unaccountable comfort?
“Because Mr. Wentworth had a private discussion with him. We have a little time, Miss Thatcher, to gather up a sum for you to bid on this property or to take with you when you leave.” He held the door for her and Chloe hurried back into the shop’s warmth.
“Your employer had the sale set back until after Christmas? For what reason?”
Mr. Farris resumed his pacing by the cook books. “I told him to, though Wentworth never does anything contrary to his own interests. I used to admire that about him.”
Chloe positioned herself between Mr. Farris and the books. “Why did you tell him to, Mr. Farris? A few days one way or another can’t make much difference. Faith and I are reconciled to enduring some difficulties. We’ve put our names in with the agencies, we’ve contacted every bookshop in Bloomsbury, and we’re prepared—”
He toucher her lips with a single finger. “I feel responsible, but that’s not the whole of it.”
She had one moment to read the intent in his eyes, one moment to smile at him in response, and then he kissed her.
“Where have you been?” Joshua asked.
Quinn laid his hat on the sideboard, and hung his greatcoat on the hook by the conference room door. “Shopping for holiday tokens.”
Joshua set aside the ledger he’d been reading. “It’s not like you to spend part of the work day wandering from shop to shop, Quinn. Also not like you to lie.”
“I called upon a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker, and my intent was commercial.” Quinn hadn’t wandered, he pursued a well planned itinerary, chosen for how inclined to gossip each shop’s proprietor was—and how successful. “Why are my comings goings any of your business?”
Joshua rose. He’d affixed a sprig of holly to his lapel, which ought to have looked ridiculous. “Because you have embarked upon some convoluted scheme. We are partners, and occasionally, your machinations benefit from thoughtful discussion.”
“I truly was out visiting the shops.”
“On reconnaissance, then. Farris hasn’t been much in evidence lately either.”
This apparently bothered Joshua, who took a particular interest in the bank’s stable of messenger boys and how they progressed in life.
“Farris is growing restless,” Quinn said. “He needs to be kept busy.”
“If you want to set up that branch location so he can manage it, you might tell him that.”
Quinn peered at the figures Joshua had been studying. “Is that what I want?”
“You and I both know Farris will never go to work for a competitor, never establish his own practice as a solicitor. He feels beholden to the bank, and he would never betray our best interests. He’s a perfect candidate to open our first branch office, but right now, he’s not very happy with you.”
Few people were happy with Quinn. He preferred it that way. “Has Farris grumbled to you?”
Joshua drew out his watch, shiny gold affectation that every banker was supposed to carry. Quinn did as well, but like every poor child in London, he still told time by the bells of St. Paul’s.
“Farris would never grumble to me, but he practically grew up at this bank. He’s not happy with you, and if he understood that he’s to manage the new branch, he’d be less discontent.”
“Counting chickens before they’ve hatched, Joshua? I haven’t mentioned a possible promotion for Farris to anybody, and I’d certainly discuss it with you before I broached it with him.”
Joshua sauntered toward the door. “No, you’d patiently allow me to air my opinions, then do as you originally intended to anyway. I wish you had been out holiday shopping, Quinn. There is more to life than this damned bank.”
A popular sentiment lately. “Where are you off to?”
“None of your business, but in the spirit of respect for holiday traditions, I’ll refrain from rendering any orphans homeless. I’ll try to catch Mrs. Hatfield beneath the mistletoe instead, and provide entertainment for the clerks.”
Mrs. Hatfield was the bank’s auditor. Quinn gave her a wide berth and a generous paycheck. Nobody would catch her within ten feet of the mistletoe unless she wanted to be caught there.
“If you’re planning to flirt with our Mrs. Hatfield, I hope your affairs are in order, Penrose.”
Joshua paused by the door, and looked like he wanted to say more. He merely shook his head and left Quinn alone with the ledger.