Page 68 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

“If I wanted to help you with your troubles now. To face off against those bankers who are keeping you from your inheritance. Would you trust me to help you?”

Not truly, she nearly said. Rowden, as he was now, a big man barely restraining his rage—she could not entirely trust that he would not begin throwing furniture about, or people, if they made him cross enough.

“I—I suppose you might go with me to my appointment at the bank. Though I do not see how Bint would listen to your reasons any more than he would mine.”

He held her gaze, and once again Sophronia had the suspicion he was asking her, without words, something she didn’t have the ability to understand.

Or he was attempting to ascertain if she held a certain quality he was looking for, only she didn’t know what that was.

“I will go,” he said brusquely. “Wait for me in the parlor. I’ll have Nate bring round the coach.”

He turned and clattered down the stairs, the soles of his boots ringing on the wooden steps, his back so large and intimidating. And there he was, moving away from her again.

He kept leaving her, Sophronia thought, because he didn’t know she might want him to stay.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Bint’s office—Henry’s old office—was as it had been at her last visit, with the black and white striped feather quill not yet broken, the portrait of Henry staring sternly at them all, the luxurious furnishings hushing the sounds of bank business taking place in the great marble hall. The small drawing of Sophronia lay facedown on the cabinet.

Sophronia was out of favor, she perceived, but the rest of her husband’s inheritance, Bint still prized.

“Sit,” she told Rowden, who was looming above her chair. He had changed his riding coat for a tailed frock coat of dark blue cloth, with a severe cut and broad lapels that made his chest look enormous. He had retained his riding breeches, only swapping out his riding crop for his walking stick with its distinctive, stylized carving.

“The chair is too low.”

That was true, but Sophronia did her best to hold herself still and composed as Bint entered the room. He was a full foot shorter than Rowden, and with his hat removed, one could see that Bint’s brown hair was thinning, though he was relatively young. He must hate that wigs were out of fashion for young men, though he could always have one made in the Titus style if he wished. Sophronia wondered if she ought to give him a hint.

She would see how the tenor of this meeting went first.

“Victor Rowden.” Bint’s eyes narrowed. “May I ask why you are present at a private meeting with my client, Mrs. Hinton?”

Rowden tapped his stick on his boot, a sure sign of irritation. He hated when anyone other than close friends used his given name. It had been the name of the previous Baron Denford, Rowden’s grandfather, and by all accounts the man had been an insufferable tyrant. His eldest son had inherited many of the same qualities.

“As a close friend of Mrs. Hinton and her family, naturally I interest myself in her welfare,” Rowden said. His voice was cool, but it held that undertone that Sophronia knew from long experience meant this was a time to let Rowden have his way.

“And I cannot see,” he added, “that Mrs. Hinton is a client of yours. She has an interest in this bank, does she not, since her husband’s funds comprise so many of its investments?”

“I cannot say that conclusion is true in either respect.” Bint flapped out the tails of his black velvet coat and took his seat. “Mrs. Hinton does not, in fact, have any ownership interest in this bank. And the state of her funds are not all that we could wish, at this moment.”

Rowden stared from his greater height, looking at Bint down the line of his nose. “Please explain. I have not seen any indication that the British economy is suffering any more than its usual perils. We have seen no downturns at the Albion.”

“Would you care to sit?” Bint gestured toward the chair.

“I thank you, no.” Rowden folded his hands over his walking stick and waited.

Sophronia pressed her lips together to suppress a smile. Were it anyone else, she would not allow them to run this meeting on her behalf, or leap to her defense when she could very well do so herself. But Rowden’s interest in her well-being—his staking her out as his territory to protect—that fed a warm, bubbling stream in her that she must take the time later to examine.

Bint laced his fingers together and lay his hands flat on his blotter. This was a tactic Henry used when he intended to stare down an opponent. He had employed it often on Sophronia.

“You understand, I am sure, that a creditable bank with a long-standing reputation is quite a different business from a gambling hell,” Bint said.

“The Albion is a private club, Bint. There are games on offer, but I wouldn’t call it a hell. I believe Mr. Withers has a membership.”

Bint scowled at his partner’s name. “A pursuit I can neither encourage nor advise, as it seems to indicate a certain lack of restraint that one would wish to see of a man in our profession. Now, as to the state of Mrs. Hinton’s claims⁠—”

“Hold a moment,” Rowden said in a voice of false pleasantry. “You were explaining why the bank’s funds seem to be in peril.”

Bint flushed, his ears turning a dull red. “That is not the term I used, Mr. Rowden. I admit that the state of our finances are not flourishing as well as we could wish, which is why I must say, in answer to Mrs. Hinton’s persistent request⁠—”