A Marriage Deal With The Viscount. Bronwyn Scott

or defensively—to engage or to hide. He had height and was elegantly built for fashion, a tailor’s dream without being foppish, while still maintaining a certain breadth of shoulder and an athletic trimness of waist. She noted the excellent cut of his blue morning coat and the expensive wool of his cream trousers, cut narrow in the latest fashion.

      Those were just the top notes. She’d wager the pristine white linen that peeped above the layers of his coats was fine Irish and the ankle boots that emerged from beneath his cream trousers were expensive Italian leather. No wonder he was interested in alpacas from Peru—wool from halfway around the world. The man was a walking calling card for international trade and a very handsome one at that. But his best feature was how he sounded, the most sibilant of tenor baritones, a murmuring quicksilver stream of words that matched his eyes.

      She could have listened to him all day. As it was, she didn’t need to. She’d read the report, of course. Much of what he shared wasn’t new information to her. The purpose of this walk was to learn about him. What sort of man was asking for her money, for her partnership? If this were to be done without the backing and comfortable insurance of the Prometheus Club, it was imperative he be a man of great integrity—an asset, unfortunately, not many men of her acquaintance possessed. Misjudging a man’s character wasn’t a mistake one could afford to make twice. If the Viscount fulfilled this first requirement, there would be time for discussing alpacas later.

      At the end of his exposition, Taunton’s grey eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave her a friendly smile. ‘Do I pass?’ They’d reached the end of the garden where a small, round pergola, more decorative than useful, adorned the far corner by the high fence that kept aristocrats in and street riff-raff out, a discreet reminder of power and who belonged inside its circle.

      She’d straddled that fence quite precariously since her return to England. One wrong move and she could be entirely on the other side. Her presence on this side of the fence was accepted by very few like Helena Tresham, tolerated by some—namely those who wished for Helena’s favour—and considered downright dangerous by many who worried what would happen to their womenfolk if she was allowed to run amok among them with her ideas of freedom and equality. She wondered where the Viscount would land on that scale of tolerance if he knew just how many scandals were attached to her? Or did he need her money badly enough to ignore them?

      Sofia met the Viscount’s gaze with a light laugh and a tap of her fan on his immaculate, expensive sleeve. ‘Have you passed? So soon? That would be a rather hasty decision made on limited acquaintance.’ Perhaps he was used to women making impulsive decisions where he was concerned. He was good looking and affable, easy to be with and easy on the eye. Women probably poured their hearts out to him regularly and much more. She was not foolish enough to trust a handsome man with her secrets or her heart, or the contents of her bank account without further investigation. ‘Such action would be rather impulsive, wouldn’t you agree, my lord? I don’t think you would want to do business with an impulsive investor who threw money around indiscriminately to any who asked.’

      She smiled to lessen the scold. She wanted to be sure of him, not alienate him. She needed him as much as he needed her, perhaps more. His need was simple: money. For him, money was the end goal. She, however, needed more than money. For her, money was the means to other, grander, ends. She needed the things money could buy, but only if she had a lot of it and relatively soon. Freedom and financial security were expensive commodities these days and she needed both for her own well-being and for the well-being she wanted to ensure for others.

      ‘Touché, Marchesa. You are quite shrewd. I can see why Cowden trusts you.’ He inclined his head in a nod to her reprimand, his grey eyes becoming serious, and she recognised she’d been wrong about part of her earlier assumption. Women might be imprudent around him, but he was not impulsive. This was not a game. She knew, too, in that narrowing grey gaze of his he was vetting her as much as she was vetting him. The realisation gave her a moment’s anxiety. She did not like to be scrutinised, talked about, guessed about, as if her life was a trivial game. Sofia usually tried to prevent such speculation by taking the upper hand first.

      ‘What else would you like to know?’ His voice was quiet now, sterner. The easy fluidity with which he’d spoken of his alpaca project was gone, replaced by something sharper, the tone of a man who had something to lose. Good. She didn’t want to do business with a man who could afford mistakes, or who embraced projects on a whim only to tire of them halfway through. She needed this to matter to him, as if it were life or death. For many reasons. Most obviously for the making of money. Less obviously for the distraction his worry would create. The more he worried about alpacas, the less time he’d have to be curious about her.

      ‘I want to see timelines for importation, for profit yields. How soon will there be any return on the investment? I want to see the facility where they will be kept. I want to read the sources you used for your research and draw my own conclusions.’

      ‘I am afraid that will be somewhat difficult, given that the facility and the other materials are not in London.’ His tone implied they would simply have to do without those key facts. After all this time, she was still amazed at the innate confidence of the aristocracy. The Viscount simply expected her to hand over a significant amount of money on the merits of a short conversation and one report. Then again, aristocrats had a very different sense of money from the rest of the world. Even noblemen with debt—and that was nearly all of them—seldom understood the value of a single pound versus a hundred pounds. Perhaps if they did their debt would be less? She’d not understood the reference to spending money like water until she’d married, even though her father had lived well above his means. Life with the Marchese had been illuminating in so many ways.

      The Viscount smiled, perhaps to appear less argumentative, but she didn’t miss the faintest hint of agitation in the Viscount’s quicksilver tones. He did not like the idea of waiting. A bit more desperate than he let on, was he? It was good to know he had a sense of immediacy as well, although she wasn’t sure what a handsome viscount might be desperate about. ‘Marchesa, the materials you seek are in Somerset, at my home,’ he explained as if distance eradicated the need for research.

      Somerset, in the south-west. Twenty hours’ carriage ride from London via the mail coach with fast horses, good roads and little luggage. The train would do better at four hours even with several stops along the way. She fixed him with a pleasant smile and a direct stare that brooked no rebuttal. ‘I hear Somerset is lovely in the early summer. We can go after the wedding festivities. I shall make the arrangements and send you the details.’ She held out her hand for him to shake, the masculine gesture catching him off guard.

      There was the slightest of hesitations at her bold gesture and then he smiled, taking her hand with a firm grip. ‘Somerset it is, Marchesa. I will send word to my staff to expect us.’

      She left him then, with the excuse she needed to send notes of her own and to make arrangements for their departure. In truth, now that next steps had been laid out, she did not want to spend any more time in the Viscount’s company. He would have questions about her; he would want to know what a married woman with a foreign title was doing here in England alone.

      Those were questions she preferred not to answer. The less he knew about her, the better. The sooner they were away from London, the less chance there was of him discovering her sordid past.

      Sofia let out a breath. This was not going as planned. She would have been content to stay hidden away in her Chelsea terrace home, conducting business by letter behind the façade of Barnham’s name, making money and pursuing her own dreams, her own plans. She wouldn’t have participated in the Season at all if it hadn’t been for the wedding and the lure of the alpaca deal.

      That wasn’t quite true. Those were lures that brought her out into society. But there’d been a threat, too, that even now under the warm spring sun brought a chill to her bones. Sofia pressed a surreptitious hand to the hidden pocket of her skirts, feeling the folded sheet of paper within: Il Marchese’s latest letter and least friendly to date. It had arrived on the heels of Helena’s invitation to the wedding, an invitation she’d thought to refuse. But the letter had changed that. It was a reminder that for all of