Breaking the Rake's Rules. Bronwyn Scott

to the Rutherfords’ prestige to say nothing of the butler.

      Kitt always made it a habit to study his surroundings. How a man lived offered all nature of insight. This house, the décor and its accessories were all designed to communicate one message: power and authority. Kitt approved of the intent. It was precisely the message a man charged with the crown’s banking interests in the new world should convey. But, did the message match the man? That remained to be seen.

      The door to the study was open, revealing the same luxury and wealth that dominated the hall. The butler announced him to the room in general and Kitt was surprised to see that Rutherford was not alone. James Selby, an aspiring local importer, was already present. The weasel. He must have come early. Well, Selby’s limitations would speak for themselves sooner or later. Hopefully sooner.

      The surprise didn’t end there. Selby wasn’t the only other person present. By a set of open French doors that let in the light and the breeze, her head demurely bent over an embroidery hoop, sat Bryn Rutherford. She looked up for the briefest of moments, long enough to let a coy smile slip over her lips when she met his gaze, her eyes communicating silent victory.

      The minx! She’d known all along she was sitting in on the meeting. Until tomorrow, then. He could still see the wide smile on her face, the cat’s-got-the-cream look in those grey eyes. He hadn’t quite understood at the time. He understood now. She’d been laughing at him, getting a little of her own back.

      ‘You look well settled for a man who has just arrived,’ Kitt said affably, shaking hands with The Honourable Bailey Rutherford. Today, he would finally have a chance to take the man’s measure more closely than he’d been able to do last night during their quick introduction at the Crenshaws’. The man was in his early fifties, with faded chestnut hair starting to thin, although once it must have been the rich colour of his daughter’s. His face betrayed weariness in its lines and there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. He exuded none of his daughter’s confidence.

      Bailey Rutherford waved a dismissive hand in the air, the gesture showing off a heavy gold ring on one finger, another subtle sign of wealth and power. ‘I can’t take credit for any of this. I wouldn’t know where to begin when it comes to setting up a house. My wife always handled these things. Now my daughter does.’ He smiled in Bryn’s direction. ‘Did you meet her last night? Of course you must have.’ There was pride in those last words and sorrow in the first. The sentence told Kitt volumes about Bailey Rutherford.

      He was playing catch-up in that regard. Kitt would have liked to have talked to Rutherford prior to this meeting, would have preferred getting to know the man so he could assess Rutherford’s character more thoroughly. Missing dinner had been unfortunate, but there’d been nothing for it. After leaving Bryn on her balcony, he’d taken a circuitous route home to avoid another encounter with the would-be assassins and then he’d absolutely had to bathe. By the time he was presentable, it had been too late for dinner.

      ‘You already know Mr Selby?’ Rutherford enquired, indicating that Kitt should take the empty chair. ‘We were just talking about the geography of the islands.’ They proceeded to continue that discussion, Kitt adding a bit of advice here and there, but Selby was in full glory, espousing his latest hobby; cataloguing the island’s butterflies for a book. It would be a rather difficult book to write, Kitt thought. Barbados wasn’t known for its butterflies. Beyond Rutherford’s shoulder, Bryn rolled her eyes. Good. She found Selby as ridiculous as he did.

      Thanks to Selby’s windbag tendencies, there was plenty of time to let his gaze and his thoughts drift towards Bryn, who was trying hard to look demure in her quiet day dress of baby-blue muslin and white lace, her hair done up in a braided coronet, her graceful neck arched over her hoop. She wasn’t fooling him for a minute.

      Her very presence at such a meeting was provoking. Certainly, she’d planned to be here from the start, but in what capacity? She was no mere innocent attendee sitting here for her health, no matter that she’d dressed for the part. Most men wouldn’t look beyond the dress and the sewing. They’d see her embroidery hoop for what it was—a woman’s occupation.

      Kitt saw it as much more—a ploy, a distraction even. He knew better. He had kissed her and a woman kissed her truth, always. Kitt had kissed enough women to know. He knew, too, that Bryn Rutherford’s truth was passion. One day it would slip its leash—passion usually did. Kitt shifted subtly in his seat, his body finding the prospect of a lady unleashed surprisingly arousing.

      Rutherford finally turned the conversation towards banking and Kitt had to marshal his attentions away from the point beyond his host’s shoulder. ‘I’ve been meeting with people all day. Now that the royal charter for a bank has been granted, everything is happening quickly. By this time next year, we’ll have a bank established in Barbados and branches opening up on the other islands.’ He smiled. His eyes, grey like his daughter’s but not as lively, were faraway. ‘That seems to be the way of life. We wait and wait for years, thinking we have all the time in the world and when the end comes, it comes so fast. So much time and then not nearly enough.’

      Kitt leaned forward, wanting to focus on the bank before time for the interview ran out and all they’d discussed were butterflies. ‘It’s an exciting prospect, though. A bank will change the face of business and trade here,’ he offered, hoping the opening would give Rutherford a chance to elaborate on the possibilities. At present, sugar and rum were as equally valid as the Dutch and Spanish currencies used as tender because the crown had not permitted the export of British money to its Caribbean colonies. As a result, actual money was in scarce supply. Plenty of people settled their debts in barter. Currency would make payment more portable. Casks of rum were heavy.

      When all Rutherford did was nod, Kitt went on. ‘The presence of an English bank would allow British pounds in Barbados. It would create alternatives for how we pay for goods and how we can settle bills, but it will also affect who will control access to those funds.’ Kitt was not naive enough to think the crown had established the charter out of the goodness of its royal heart. The crown and those associated with it stood to make a great deal of money as a result of this decision. Kitt wanted to be associated. The charter would give the crown a monopoly not just on banking, but over the profits of the island.

      ‘Exactly so,’ Rutherford agreed, his eyes focused on a faceted paperweight.

      It was Kitt’s understanding Mr Rutherford’s job was to make sure the charter was settled and the right players were in place. Rutherford would decide who those players would be. Although right now, Rutherford hardly seemed capable of making such weighty decisions. Then again, it might also be the effects of travel and late nights. Rutherford was not the youngest of men. Yet another interesting factor in having chosen him. Still, the bottom line was this: the interview was not going well.

      It occurred to Kitt that Rutherford’s disinterest might have something to do with him personally. Maybe the man had already decided not to include him in the first tier of investors. Perhaps his daughter had told him certain things about balconies and kisses after all.

      Kitt decided to be blunt. He had worked too hard for this invitation. He knew very well he’d only got his name on the list of potential investors because of his connections to Ren Dryden, Earl of Dartmoor. It had been Ren who’d put his name forward. ‘What kind of bank will it be?’ Kitt asked. He had his ideas, but clarification was important. There were savings banks and joint stock banks—quite a wide variety, really, since the banking reforms a few years ago—and when it came to money, not all banks were equal.

      Rutherford showed a spark of life. ‘Joint stock, of course. There are backers in London already assembled, waiting for counterpart investors to be assembled here. It will be like the provincial bank I was on the board for in England.’

      Kitt nodded his understanding. This was good. The man had some experience. He would need it. These sorts of arrangements weren’t without risk. Joint stock meant two things. First, it meant that the investors would share in the profits and in the losses. What the bank chose to invest in would be important, so would the level of risk. The less risk the better, but the less risk the fewer the profits, too. Second, it meant that shares could be traded