it was, Hart was a soulless financier stating what he believed to be a fact and nothing more.
A clock chimed in the distance, and someone knocked on the office door.
“Come in!” Hart called.
A young man entered. Blonde-haired with warm brown eyes and a demeanor to match, he looked the antithesis of the man sitting opposite Fraser.
“Your next client is waiting for you, Hart,” he said. “Shall I tell him you’ll be ready presently?”
Hart glanced at his pocket watch.
“Tell him I’ll be down directly, Peyton,” he said. “I think we’re done here.”
“Very good.” The man disappeared.
“My business partner,” Hart said, rising to his feet. “A little too kind for my liking, but he has the makings of an excellent financier.”
He held out his hand, and Fraser stood and took it.
“No hard feelings,” Hart said, “but business is business. I cannot invest in your enterprise, but I wish you success with it.”
“But without your help.”
“A man should help himself, Molineux,” Hart said. “A lesson the aristocracy will need to learn if it’s to survive. But permit me to give you some advice, if I may.”
“Which is?”
“I’d minimize your acts of philanthropy until you are more—solvent.”
“Philanthropy?”
“From what my sister tells me, you’ve been using substantial sums of money to support charitable causes. I understand Mrs. Forbes and her establishment have much to thank you for, but I doubt your creditors would agree.”
“You’ve discussed me with Miss Hart?” Fraser asked.
“Naturally,” came the reply. “Did you think I’d place my sister’s wellbeing in the hands of a man about whom I know nothing? Rest assured, Your Grace, had Delilah given me cause to believe you were a scoundrel, our discussion today would have taken place at dawn, not three in the afternoon.”
Fraser’s cheeks warmed under Hart’s scrutiny as he tightened his grip on Fraser’s hand. Had Miss Hart told her brother what they had done in Scotland? They had returned over a fortnight ago, yet the memory of her cries of ecstasy still dominated his dreams. His manhood twitched at the image of her on the bed, her willing body spread out for him like an offering, and he averted his gaze lest her brother read the wicked thoughts in his mind.
Then Hart released his hand.
“I trust there are no hard feelings,” he said. “It’s a business decision. What say you join me at home tonight, and perhaps you can bring along some of that whisky of yours? I may not wish to become an investor, but that doesn’t mean I cannot become a customer.”
“I’d be delighted.” Fraser’s blood warmed at the prospect of seeing her again.
“The ladies will be dining out, so we’ll have the house to ourselves,” Hart said. “Just an informal evening with friends. You already know Sir Thomas, of course.”
Sir Thomas—dear lord! The last man Fraser wanted was to spend an evening engaging in small talk with his rival.
He caught his breath. Since when had he viewed Sir Thomas as a rival?
Chapter Twenty
Well, this was awkward…
Fraser wrinkled his nose at the sickly-sweet sherry under the watchful gaze of his host and the other guest. Were it not for the early hour, Fraser would have cut through the niceties of polite conversation and asked Hart to open the whisky flask he’d brought and be done with it.
Judging by the expression on his face, Sir Thomas was just as delighted—or not—to see Fraser. After issuing the slightest of bows, the man had crossed the parlor in his rather affected little walk—almost as if he were relieving himself in his breeches—and took the seat next to Hart as if to affirm his greater relationship with the man.
Sir Thomas was beginning to reveal himself as something of a shadow of their host, obviously trying to ingratiate Hart by mirroring him in all aspects. Each time Hart crossed and uncrossed his legs, the baronet repeated the gesture. When Sir Thomas scratched his left nostril, almost immediately after Hart had done so, Fraser had to cough to suppress the snort of laughter.
“Is something the matter?” Sir Thomas asked.
“Not at all,” Fraser replied. “I’m finding our conversation most insightful. It’s a wonder more business isn’t conducted in private homes rather than in clubs. A man in his home is less likely to conceal the truth.”
“Are you accusing Hart of being deceitful when conducting business?” Sir Thomas asked, nodding toward their host. But other than casting the baronet a sharp glance, Hart said nothing.
“No, you misunderstand me,” Fraser laughed. “I’m just saying I’d prefer to discuss business in the