News of the South American Stock Swindle spread like wildfire through London late Friday. Fortunes were lost, without any hope of recovery.
Juliet knew precisely how it felt to have no hope. She’d felt this way since Max had walked away from her last night. Worse than that, he’d ignored every missive she’d sent today, returning them unopened. She didn’t know what to do.
“A panic has ensued,” Zinnia said, as if reading her mind rather than the newspaper. “Many have rushed to their banks to remove all their funds, only to find the institution locked and a notice of bankruptcy on the door. Rumors are even spreading that smaller banks have borrowed money from other banks.”
“In such a crisis, those notes will be in excess of the amount that can be ensured,” Juliet remarked absently, the business portion of her brain filling in while the rest of it was distracted on thoughts of Max.
This entire ordeal was all Bram’s fault. He simply refused to take no for an answer and did not care one fig about listening to her either.
After Bram called the other day, Zinnia had told her of Marjorie’s concerns about his estate falling into ruin. Ever since, Juliet suspected that his fascination with her was mainly financial. True to form, however, while appearing to court Juliet, he’d also been wooing a slew of debutantes, keeping the ton wondering whom he favored. Not surprisingly, he switched his attentions between several who were the prettiest but who also had large dowries.
Juliet wished he would abandon his pursuit of her and go after one of them.
“Lord Pembroke fled the country in the dead of night,” Zinnia continued, having moved on from the Post to the Standard. “Rumor has it that he’d been part of the scheme all along.”
“He used people for their money.”
Zinnia issued a hum of disapproval. “He should have relied on the standard practice among our set—to marry well.”
Juliet scoffed, despondency making her bitter. “For some men, one fortune is not enough. Take Bram, for example. Not only did he gain his wife’s dowry but also the inheritance her aunt left her. Now he is looking for more. In my opinion, he is no better than Pembroke. And it pains me to think that I once cherished him above all others. I was such a fool back then. If I had only seen . . . ”
“That Lord Thayne loved you?”
“Yes, I—” Juliet stopped. “How did you know?”
After all, her cousin had not been in the room last night to hear his confession. She hadn’t even been in London five years ago but in mourning for Lord Cosgrove. In fact, she hadn’t returned to town until Lilah’s first Season.
“Marjorie told me.” Zinnia lowered both papers, her expression soft. “When Lord Thayne inherited and was intent on finding a wife, I’d asked her why he hadn’t married before.”
Juliet swallowed down a lump of guilt. “Because of me?”
Zinnia didn’t respond, her silence like a cog in the wheel of Juliet’s thoughts.
“I feel so powerless,” Juliet said after a moment, propping her elbows on the table and burying her face in her hands. “I cannot give him what he wants.”
“Then perhaps you should offer something else until you don’t feel so . . . ” Zinnia paused and then cut directly to the heart of the issue with one word, “afraid.”
Juliet growled to herself in frustration. A woman could be madly in love but still not ready to marry, couldn’t she? The terrified strumming of her heart told her that it was possible. After all, hadn’t Max warned her that he would want everything she could give?
And what she could give him now was reassurance that she cared nothing for Bram, but Max had refused to read the letters she’d sent. So what was she to do? Storm over to Harwick House and tell Bram once more that she did not intend to marry him? He likely wouldn’t believe her and would only be encouraged by the gesture.
In fact, she imagined that the only way to be rid of him was if she suddenly lost her fortune.
Juliet lowered her hands, inspiration dawning through the gloom. “I think I have an idea that just might do the trick.”
Leaving Hanover Street, Juliet’s carriage lumbered toward one of her banking institutions. Standing on the pavement outside his bank, his head bowed and his cravat askew, was none other than Mr. Woldsley. He was staring at the notice of bankruptcy hanging on the door as he withdrew the key from the lock.
Juliet tapped on the hood and asked the driver to stop. “Mr. Woldsley,” she said from the window. “Surely, you are not closing your institution.”
He turned, his eyes bloodshot, his nose red. “Oh, it’s you. If you’ve come for a withdrawal, then read the sign.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder to the notice fixed to the other side of the glass.
“I have not come for a withdrawal,” she assured him, feeling more confident in her plan by the moment.
He sneered at her, but there was more exhaustion than vehemence behind it. “Then to gloat?”
“Not at all. In fact, I believe I can help.”
“Help. Ha! The likes of you have caused this to happen—people demanding all their money at once, not understanding how lending institutions work.”
“Mr. Woldsley,” she said patiently. He, more than most anyone, knew that she had never once demanded all of her money but only the interest accrued. “How much does your bank need in order to remove the sign from that door and open on Monday?”
Knowing a bit about business and seeing the catastrophic nature of this occurrence, she felt certain that the Bank of England would step in by then to lend funds to many of the smaller banks to prevent a complete collapse.
He straightened his shoulders and pulled sharply on the lapels of his coat. “Amusement at another’s misfortune is petty indeed. I don’t think you understand the scope of this disaster—”
“I am prepared to lend your bank fifty thousand pounds.”
Thankfully, her statement closed his mouth with a snap. Otherwise, she would have driven onward.
He went white, his bottom lip working against his teeth as he stuttered, “F-fifty th-thousand pounds? But how could you . . . manage to procure such an amount?”
“I manage my money quite well, Mr. Woldsley,” she said. “Now, if you would care to remove that sign, I believe we may have a business arrangement to discuss.”
“And what do you want in return?”
“My money returned to me eventually, of course. In addition, I would ask for two favors. The first being that no one knows of my involvement in saving your bank, to which I am certain you are already amenable. And the second, I would like a statement of my account, listing the amount of two pence and no more.” Yes. That should do the trick indeed.
He stared dubiously at her, his eyes crossed as if a horn were protruding from the center of her forehead. “And whyever would you want such a document?”
“Those are my reasons alone,” she said succinctly. “Oh, and I would add one more thing to the list. I never want to hear you say the words ‘I don’t think you understand’ ever again.”
Mr. Woldsley swallowed, looking sheepish—quite possibly for the first time in his life—and then he nodded.