suicides.”
“Suicides,” Bronwyn said. “Riots. I think I understand.”
As bewildered as Adam, Lord Gaynor asked, “Understand what, Bronwyn, me colleen?”
Reawakened to her surroundings, Bronwyn bit her lip. “Nothing, Da. Lord Rawson just explained something I had heard but didn’t understand.”
Her father stared at her oddly but asked Adam, “Should I be selling me South Sea stock?”
“You do own some, then?” Adam asked.
“I bought before I came,” Lord Gaynor said without elaboration.
“For how much?”
“For three hundred.”
Adam nodded, satisfied. “You’ll do well. Don’t sell yet. I’ll warn you.”
“I’ll depend on it. ’Twould be a good thing to have a bit of loose cash.” Lord Gaynor strode toward the door. “Are ye coming, me colleen?”
Bronwyn glanced at Adam, then half rose. Yet she had to confirm her suspicions; the dead Henriette’s words haunted her. Kill a man with a stock , Henriette had said; was this stock an investment in a company? She reseated herself. “Not yet, Da.”
His mouth dropped. He appeared as shocked as if she’d declared she’d visit a dragon in his cave, but he couldn’t imagine she would stay to discuss finance. Beaming at her, he said, “There’s me lass.”
Bronwyn writhed under his heavy approbation, so thick it hung in the air like a skunk’s scent. After he left, silence blanketed the room; Bronwyn looked around her with false interest. “You certainly have a large study,” she said brightly.
Adam gave no response.
“With…with the most modern of furniture.” She craned her neck to look up. “And the whole house is constructed in the Palladian style, is it not?” Still no response, and she found Adam’s gaze unblinking on her face. She gave up. She would never be clever with small talk. Clearing her throat, she pursued her topic with less tact and more interest. “Da seems quite enthralled with this stock business. Do you think you could explain it to me?”
Adam steepled his fingers. “What would you like to know?”
She asked the first question that popped into her head. “How did my da get enough money to invest in such a venture?”
“First he had to have a little capital, some money to invest.”
She thought about it. The moneylender again, no doubt. “He had it.”
“The South Sea Company is loaning money to investors so they can buy their own stock, ensuring a flow of money to their coffers from even those too poor to invest properly.”
“And stock is…?”
“A certificate of investment in a company by an individual which gives him the right to a percentage of the largess.”
Bronwyn blinked. “So my da took a little cash down to Change Alley, found someone from the South Sea Company, told him he wished to loan them money. The man took the money, gave Da some vouchers, and if the company makes a profit, Da is entitled to some?”
Adam pushed back his chair and stood. He leaned across his desk, supported by his fingers, and searched her face as if he had discovered gold where he expected only clay. “Extraordinary.” Pushing away his large chair, he dragged two smaller ones to the kneehole and commanded, “Come around here.”
She gaped, horrified by the invitation.
A flash of impatience, then he schooled himself to geniality. “Please come here.”
Cautiously she stood. The desk was massive, new, made of walnut and polished until it shone. It was a very long walk around the edge; she thought she would trip on the fringed rug if she attempted it. But Adam waited on the other side, and for some reason she didn’t want him to think her a coward. Using her mother’s mincing steps, she trod the long loop to his side. He held one of the chairs; she seated herself. He scooted himself in beside her, so close their knees touched. So close she could smell the scent of mint that clung to him like an Irish breeze.
An odd paralysis gripped her, and she held the desk’s scalloped edge until the
“Suicides,” Bronwyn said. “Riots. I think I understand.”
As bewildered as Adam, Lord Gaynor asked, “Understand what, Bronwyn, me colleen?”
Reawakened to her surroundings, Bronwyn bit her lip. “Nothing, Da. Lord Rawson just explained something I had heard but didn’t understand.”
Her father stared at her oddly but asked Adam, “Should I be selling me South Sea stock?”
“You do own some, then?” Adam asked.
“I bought before I came,” Lord Gaynor said without elaboration.
“For how much?”
“For three hundred.”
Adam nodded, satisfied. “You’ll do well. Don’t sell yet. I’ll warn you.”
“I’ll depend on it. ’Twould be a good thing to have a bit of loose cash.” Lord Gaynor strode toward the door. “Are ye coming, me colleen?”
Bronwyn glanced at Adam, then half rose. Yet she had to confirm her suspicions; the dead Henriette’s words haunted her. Kill a man with a stock , Henriette had said; was this stock an investment in a company? She reseated herself. “Not yet, Da.”
His mouth dropped. He appeared as shocked as if she’d declared she’d visit a dragon in his cave, but he couldn’t imagine she would stay to discuss finance. Beaming at her, he said, “There’s me lass.”
Bronwyn writhed under his heavy approbation, so thick it hung in the air like a skunk’s scent. After he left, silence blanketed the room; Bronwyn looked around her with false interest. “You certainly have a large study,” she said brightly.
Adam gave no response.
“With…with the most modern of furniture.” She craned her neck to look up. “And the whole house is constructed in the Palladian style, is it not?” Still no response, and she found Adam’s gaze unblinking on her face. She gave up. She would never be clever with small talk. Clearing her throat, she pursued her topic with less tact and more interest. “Da seems quite enthralled with this stock business. Do you think you could explain it to me?”
Adam steepled his fingers. “What would you like to know?”
She asked the first question that popped into her head. “How did my da get enough money to invest in such a venture?”
“First he had to have a little capital, some money to invest.”
She thought about it. The moneylender again, no doubt. “He had it.”
“The South Sea Company is loaning money to investors so they can buy their own stock, ensuring a flow of money to their coffers from even those too poor to invest properly.”
“And stock is…?”
“A certificate of investment in a company by an individual which gives him the right to a percentage of the largess.”
Bronwyn blinked. “So my da took a little cash down to Change Alley, found someone from the South Sea Company, told him he wished to loan them money. The man took the money, gave Da some vouchers, and if the company makes a profit, Da is entitled to some?”
Adam pushed back his chair and stood. He leaned across his desk, supported by his fingers, and searched her face as if he had discovered gold where he expected only clay. “Extraordinary.” Pushing away his large chair, he dragged two smaller ones to the kneehole and commanded, “Come around here.”
She gaped, horrified by the invitation.
A flash of impatience, then he schooled himself to geniality. “Please come here.”
Cautiously she stood. The desk was massive, new, made of walnut and polished until it shone. It was a very long walk around the edge; she thought she would trip on the fringed rug if she attempted it. But Adam waited on the other side, and for some reason she didn’t want him to think her a coward. Using her mother’s mincing steps, she trod the long loop to his side. He held one of the chairs; she seated herself. He scooted himself in beside her, so close their knees touched. So close she could smell the scent of mint that clung to him like an Irish breeze.
An odd paralysis gripped her, and she held the desk’s scalloped edge until the
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