like to be kissed by his lips, to feel his hands on her body. The same body that demanded more of him.
She did not want to include Noel in her plans for McGale & McGale, but she couldn’t deliberately exclude him from the conversation. There was no hope for it.
Lady Haighe snorted. “The vanity of today’s bucks.”
“Is but a paltry ember compared to the conflagration of the previous generation’s conceit,” he said with a smile. “Besides, I seem to recall my mother whispering an anecdote that involved you, forty years ago, having your portrait painted dénudé, and throwing a ball with that painting prominently displayed for everyone to see.”
Though Jess didn’t speak French, she had a fair idea what that last word meant, judging by the knowing chuckles of the others—and Lady Haighe’s surprising blush.
“It was a different time,” she said gruffly, before lifting her chin. “And I was stunning.”
“Don’t know if God was involved with that soap operation,” Baron Mentmore said, his face slightly red, “but it was rotten luck, and that’s for certain.” He turned to Jess. “My man of business looked into the people who make that honey soap, my lady. What was it called? McGill? McShale?”
“I think it was . . . McGale.” Knowing full well what he would say, acutely aware that she had to very carefully navigate the discussion, she asked, “And what did he learn?”
“A fire wiped out a major part of their production facilities. They’re on their last legs.” He shook his head mournfully. “Bad situation all around. One I wouldn’t involve myself in.”
As calmly as she could, she said, “True, but I’ve been thinking about what you said about Brummell. A soap manufacturer seems like a good investment.”
“Not that manufacturer,” Mr. Walditch countered.
“Consider, though,” she said thoughtfully, “with the McGale operation, there would be ample opportunity for expansion and modernization. It was bad luck that there was a fire—” She fought a wave of memories, trying to douse the flames of the past with a few measured breaths. “However, if the product’s good, then what better situation to rise up from the literal ashes?”
Seeing the looks of doubt on the listeners’ faces, she recalled the demonstration of the Graveses’ fire-suppression system. “The latest technology could be implemented to ensure that such a disaster wouldn’t happen again.” She tilted her head, as if considering something. “Many of the people presenting to us claim that their businesses are prospering. Indeed, they all assert such splendid profitability for themselves, I marvel that they even need us at all.”
“I had not considered that,” Mr. Walditch murmured thoughtfully. “But would they approach us if their enterprises struggled?”
“Or,” Lady Farris said, “they are struggling and choose not to inform us.”
“Surely they would have to disclose that.” Mr. Walditch removed his spectacles and polished them with a cambric square before setting them back on his nose.
Tread carefully, Jess reminded herself. “Then we would have to decide whether or not it’s sound to put capital into an operation fighting to survive. We’d need to know what made a particular business have difficulties. If it was mismanagement, then there’s no inducement to tie my financial future to theirs. But I would think differently about an enterprise that had suffered from an external obstacle, such as the McGale operation.”
She continued, “If a business had suffered some catastrophe—a poor harvest from bad weather, for example, or a storm causing a ship to sink with its cargo—I’d be more agreeable to considering them as an investment possibility. So long as they were transparent about the source of their misfortune.”
“Makes sense,” Noel said. “We’re none of us beyond the touch of misfortune. It has no rhyme nor reason. No need to punish someone for something beyond their control. If the soap interests you, Mentmore, pursue it.”
“I am sending one of my servants to Wiltshire today on an errand, and they are to change horses and return immediately,” Jess said. “I could write to the soap makers and ask for more information from them directly, rather than rely on hearsay. It might be worth a closer look—and we’d have answers before the end of the Bazaar tomorrow.”
“A lot of trouble for you, isn’t it?” Baron Mentmore asked.
“It’s the work of but a moment,” she answered. “And, who knows, perhaps we’ll discover something worthwhile.”
She mentally exhaled when the others nodded their heads in agreement. Perhaps this mad venture could work, after all.
“Walditch,” Lady Haighe said, “what do you think of the proposal for the canal expansion?”