Breaking the Rake's Rules Page 3

  Bryn should count herself lucky. She’d seen his true colours this afternoon. She knew what he’d been doing and why he was late.

  * * *

  However, by the time the tea cart arrived and the men joined them, she liked Miss Caroline a little less than she had the hour before.

  ‘When you said another time, I didn’t think it would be so soon.’ The smooth voice at her ear made her jump. She salvaged her tea cup just barely without spilling.

  ‘I didn’t imagine this party to be your sort of venue—no trellises to climb,’ Bryn replied smoothly, keeping her gaze fixed forward on the other guests, but her body was aware of his closeness, the clean vanilla scent of his cologne and the sandalwood of his bath soap. He’d bathed after he’d left her, a thought that brought a flood of prurient images to mind. Hardly the sort of thing one should think about over evening tea.

  ‘Pity, I would have pegged you for having a rather good imagination earlier this evening.’ Laughter bubbled under the low rumble of his voice as if he had somehow followed her train of thought straight to his bath and knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘There’s plenty to climb here, just trellises of a different sort.’ She ought to be put out by his innuendo, but instead all she could do was fight back a smile. If she did smile, people would be bound to notice and wonder.

  His breath feathered her ear in a seductive tickle. ‘Your failing imagination aside, I fear you have me at a disadvantage.’

  She smiled down into her tea cup, unable to suppress it any longer. ‘Oh, I doubt that very much, Mr Sherard. I don’t think you ever find yourself at a disadvantage where women are concerned.’

  He grinned in agreement, his teeth white against the tan of his face. ‘In this case I most definitely am. Might you do me the honour of your name? You know mine, but I don’t know yours.’

  He would know soon enough. Island communities were small. ‘It’s Bryn, Bryn Rutherford.’ She felt him stiffen slightly, the pattern of his breathing hitching infinitesimally in recognition, signs that he knew her already, or perhaps knew of her. She turned to catch sight of his reaction, wanting to confirm she’d guessed right. She nearly missed it.

  He hid the reaction well. Had he not been standing so close, she wouldn’t have noticed it, but she’d not been wrong in its attribution. He recognised the name. How odd that a simple fact like a name could provoke surprise between strangers. Or perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. Bridgetown was a small society and news must travel fast. Every merchant, every businessman in town would know by now her father was coming, and why. It was intriguing to count Kitt Sherard among their number since she had so quickly dismissed him on those grounds earlier that evening. Did she proceed with the fiction that she hadn’t noticed his surprise or did she confront him?

  She opted for a bit of both. ‘Does the earl know what you do in your spare time?’ She was having difficulty reconciling this rogue of a man with a gentleman who’d have the ear of an earl. She was starting to think Dartmoor must have owed him an extraordinary favour to make this recommendation. Although, dressed as he was tonight, Captain Sherard might be mistaken for a lord, too.

  He was studying her, hot blue eyes raking the length of her evening gown. He crooked his arm. ‘Miss Rutherford, perhaps you would accompany me out to the veranda for some fresh air?’ There was going to be a price. Bryn saw the subtle negotiation immediately. He wasn’t going to talk in here where they could be overheard, but he would be pleased to trade information for the privacy of the veranda and whatever might evolve out there.

  Say yes, the adventurer in her coaxed without hesitation. If his impromptu kisses were that good on a balcony, what might they be like on a veranda with moonlight and a little premeditation behind them? The lady in her knew better and tonight the lady held sway. But only for tonight, her naughty side prompted. She wouldn’t always have to be the lady. She’d promised herself that, too, among other things.

  Bryn decided to challenge him. ‘Why? So I can risk a dagger in the back from the lovely Caroline Bryant for stealing your attentions or so that you can manoeuvre your way into my father’s good graces through me? It’ll take more than a kiss and a trellis to wring a recommendation from me, Captain.’

  The women had been trying to lobby her all night. As much as a starlit veranda stroll with Kitt Sherard appealed to the adventurer in her, she wasn’t naive enough to think romance was the captain’s sole motivation. Rutherford girls were taught early to detect an opportunist at fifty paces. With dowries like theirs, it was a necessity for surviving London ballrooms crawling with genteel fortune hunters.

  Bryn let her eyes lock with his over her tea cup as she raised it to her lips. ‘I never mix business with pleasure. It would be best if we said goodnight, Captain, before one of us makes any faulty assumptions about the other.’ Goodness knew what he must think of her after the balcony. If it was anything akin to what she thought of him, there’d been plenty of assumptions made already. Hardly the first impression either of them would have chosen to make.

  His eyes glittered with humour, giving her the impression that while she had got the last word, he still had the upper hand. He gave her a small bow like the one he’d given her on the balcony, elegant and exaggerated in a subtly mocking manner. ‘I have a meeting with your father in the afternoon. Afterwards, we could walk in the garden. You can decide then if it’s business or pleasure.’

  A meeting with her father? She knew what he thought. It would be a meeting where she was relegated to some far part of the house while men did business. Who was she to correct his assumptions? Bryn smiled, hoping the wideness of her grin didn’t give her away. ‘Until tomorrow, then, Captain Sherard.’ The arrogant man might think he had the upper hand and the last word, but she had a few surprises of her own.

  Chapter Three

  Damn and double damn! Of all the balconies in Bridgetown, he’d climbed up Bryn Rutherford’s, the daughter of the man who’d come to induct the crown’s currency into the Caribbean and the man on whom Kitt’s future business interests depended. Kitt couldn’t believe his luck. What he couldn’t decide was if that luck was good or bad. He was still debating the issue the next afternoon when he set out for his meeting with her father.

  A certain male part of him had concluded it was very good luck indeed. Bryn Rutherford was a spitfire of a goddess. She had the lips to prove it, and the tongue, and the body, and everything else, including an insightful amount of intelligence. She’d immediately seen the ramifications of going out on the veranda with him.

  Her refusal made her something of a cynic, too. For all the spirit she’d shown on the balcony, she was wary of consequences or maybe it was the other way around: consequences had made her wary. Perhaps it simply made her a lady, a woman of discernment and responsible caution. Not everyone had a past chequered with regrets just because he did. Then again, this was the Caribbean, a far-flung, remote outpost of the British empire. In his experience, which was extensive, ladies didn’t sail halfway around the world without good reason. Did Bryn Rutherford have something to hide, after all?

  It was an intriguing thought, one that had Kitt thinking past the interview with her father and to the walk in the garden that would follow. How did a girl with a well-bred, and very likely a sheltered, upbringing end up with the ability to kiss like seduction itself?

  No, not a girl, a woman. There was no girlishness about Bryn Rutherford. She was past the first blush of debutante innocence. The green silk she’d worn last night communicated that message with clarity, even if he hadn’t already seen her in that sinfully clingy satin dressing robe, felt her uncorseted curves, or tasted her unabridged tongue in his mouth giving as good as it got. Thoughts like that had him thinking he was a very lucky man. Thoughts like that also had kept him up half the night.

  The other half of the night belonged to another set of less pleasant thoughts—who wante
d him dead this time? The candidates for that dubious honour were usually different, but the motives were always the same. Was this latest attacker simply one of his less savoury business associates who felt cheated or was it more complicated than that? Had someone from his past found him at last and bothered to cross the Atlantic for revenge? He’d been so careful in that regard. Discovery risked not only him, but his family. He’d cast aside all he owned including his name to keep them safe. Of course, discovery was always possible, although not probable. But he was alive today because he planned for the former. It wasn’t enough to just play the odds. Not when the people he loved and who loved him were on the line.

  His mind had been a veritable hive of activity last night. He supposed he should feel fortunate he’d got any sleep, all things considered. There’d been critical business thoughts claiming his attention, too: would Bryn Rutherford hold the balcony interlude against him? If she did, how would that skew the business opportunities a bank in Barbados would provide? Those questions were still plaguing him when he knocked on the Rutherfords’ front door.

  He was taken down a long hall by a stately butler who must have come with them from England. The butler, Sneed, fit the surroundings perfectly with his air of formality. In the short time they’d been in residence, the Rutherfords had already left their aristocratic mark on the house. They’d come loaded with luxuries; carpets and paintings adorned the floors and walls in testimony 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 on the exchange. They’d operate essentially like a business. This was not just a mere savings bank, it was a venture capital bank.