Magnus Warring, the fifth Duke of Longhurst, sat in a London warehouse office across from Phineas Snow.
The Button King was one of the wealthiest tradesmen in all of England. He was part eagle and part bull, not only in temperament but in physical attributes. Beneath a widow’s peak of iron gray hair with a shock of white at each temple, his wiry brows sat in a flat line over steely eyes as he studied the latest buttons stamped from the die.
“What military officer would allow this rubbish to sully his uniform? The surface is grainy and dull. Where is the luster? The attention to detail?” he asked his foreman who stared back at him in nervous stupefaction. “Well?”
“I dunno, sir. These were stamped and brought to you straightaway, as ordered.”
“Quality buttons, Mr. Jones, are a symbol of a person’s status. At one time, they were so valued that a man could settle all his debts by removing one from his coat. One. These are an embarrassment to that noble history.” Snow tossed the brass disc into the felt-lined casket. It dropped onto the other cast-offs with a discordant plink. “The die is clearly flawed. Start again. And bring me the very first button stamped. I want perfection. Nothing else will do.”
The worker left in haste, nearly tripping over his own feet along the way.
“That man’s a button short, if you ask me,” Snow grumbled under his breath. Then he turned to regard Magnus. “Now then, with that settled, on to the matter for which I called you here today—my daughter.”
Any other man might have been intimidated beneath such scowling scrutiny, even if only to shift in his chair. But not him. There was nothing Snow could do or say that would rattle Magnus.
Even before he had succeeded to the title, he’d spent most of his life issuing that same look to other men across the desk in his father’s study. His late father had tended to be too soft, too idealistic, too . . . irrational to attend estate matters. Ever pragmatic, even as a boy, Magnus had taken up the reins himself.
“I believe I’ve made my intentions toward Miss Snow clear,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Our union would be advantageous for all parties—your future business growth and elevated place in society, and—”
“Anna’s dowry transferred into your accounts,” Snow concluded and held up a staying hand when Magnus opened his mouth to speak. “Neither of us are foolish romantics. You and I see the world as it is. Let us not insult the other’s intelligence by pretending otherwise.”
Magnus inclined his head. It didn’t matter that he was a duke and that a union between their families would bring this middle-class man into the realm of the aristocracy, or that the dowry would ultimately secure the Longhurst estate for generations to come. Snow didn’t care about such things. He was all bluster and business and Magnus respected that about him.
Sentiment was for fools.
“I did not make my fortune on the backs of other men. I made it through delivering an exemplary product that spoke for itself. You’ll find no scandal lurking in the shadows of the Snow name either. I take particular pride in that fact, which”—he stabbed a beefy finger onto the desk blotter—“is the reason that none of Anna’s suitors have come up to snuff.”
Magnus waited a beat for Snow to add “Until you, that is” and then offer his hand across the desk to shake in a gentleman’s agreement. The contracts would be signed later, a mere formality. He was certain that this meeting was simply a preliminary welcome to the button empire.
And if there was one thing that the Duke of Longhurst demanded in all his dealings, it was certainty.
He waited another beat and then another, the interminable lull filled with the unsyncopated whump and clatter of the workers at their stamping presses. But he soon realized those words were not coming.
Instead, Snow filled his barrel chest on a lungful of office air, tinged with various aromas from the tang of metal to the bitterness of creosote and the sweetness of pipe tobacco. “This afternoon, I received word of a recent development that linked your name to a daughter of a certain Baron Conchobar Erasmus Hartley. The very same Hartley who was involved in that ruinous scandal years ago. The one regarding that business with the—”
“I know all about that scandal,” Magnus interrupted through clenched teeth, his fingers curling over the arms of the chair. The spindle-legged construction squawked in protest beneath his athletic frame. Across from him, a pair of keen gray eyes flicked down to the telltale white edges outlining his knuckles, and he forced himself to relax his grip. “There must be a mistake.”
“Mistake, you say?” The Button King pursed his lips. “I’ve never liked that word. Either you are implying that I have taken something in error, or admitting that you have done so.”
“Neither, I assure you, sir. There is no possible way I would have anything to do with any member of that family.”
“According to my information, you and Hartley’s son went to university together.”
“And whatever acquaintance we might have had was severed years ago with his father’s involvement in that swindle and the subsequent loss of my father’s fortune. There are certain misdeeds that one cannot forgive.” And the very fact that Truman “Hawk” Hartley had neglected to warn him of his father’s part in the scheme proved him to be a most dishonorable cad.
Snow pushed his chair back, the legs screeching sharply against the hardwood floor.
“You and I are of like mind,” Snow said with a nod. He had a habit of standing with his thumbs tucked into the open sleeves of his tightly fitted waistcoat, his arms bent at the elbow like a pair of wings at rest. “Deficiency of character is unacceptable. Faults in one’s actions—or perceived actions, as it were—must be eradicated with utmost expedience. As far as I can tell, your character does not lean toward ruinous behavior. In fact, considering the shambles of your estate earnings at the time you succeeded to the title, you might have made any number of those imprudent decisions your class is known for, such as gambling, borrowing against your estate, selling off parcels for a pittance only to find yourself worse off the following year. Instead, you rolled up your sleeves and worked your land with your tenants, producing profitable crops for the first time in decades. Frankly, I’m rather impressed,” he said. “But not too impressed.”
Knowing that resolving this misunderstanding would be his only chance to secure permission to marry Miss Snow, Magnus stood as well. “I will travel to Addlewick straightaway and correct the”—he paused—“confusion.”
Then he turned sharply on his heel and left before the Button King decided to give him a definition of that word as well.
Magnus seethed all the way to his town house. He did not know what Hartley was up to, but he was damned sure going to put a stop to it.
For the past seven years, he had worked hard to fill the deficit in his family coffers. Through the sweat off his own brow and calluses on his hands, he had done all he could to work the land, install an irrigation system for times of drought and help his tenants grow more lucrative crops. But last winter had been a hard one and spring had brought flooding. Whatever ground he’d gained would be washed away soon enough.
Therefore, he was going to do what any duke in his position would—marry an heiress.
But this ridiculous rumor that he was betrothed to the daughter of a liar, cheat and swindler could ruin everything.
Crossing the threshold, he gave orders to his manservant to pack a satchel, then broke the news to his mother.
As expected, Geraldine Warring, the Dowager Duchess of Longhurst, didn’t take it well. Beneath a tight chignon of grizzled dark hair, her forehead furrowed with disbelief. But then, as the name of Hartley lingered in the room, stirring the coals of a hatred that would never be extinguished, her lips compressed into a thin line. “You must quiet the matter with utmost haste.”
“I plan to, Mother.”
“Everything depends upon it. Not only for the sake of the Longhurst estate, but for your brother.”
As he attempted to stretch a pair of black gloves over the hands that had thickened over these years of laboring out of doors, he heard a faint tremor in her voice. With an alert glance, he saw the lower rims of her eyes turn red.
When their gazes met, she turned away quickly and began to fuss with a flower arrangement on the hall table.
She was such a hard woman on the outside, stern and remote in the way that circumstance had forced her to become. Women who married tenderhearted dreamers often had to be. However, when it came to her sons, the softer uncertain aspect of her nature slipped through the cracks of the sturdy walls that held her together.
Tossing the gloves aside, he laid a hand on her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her cheek in a show of compassion. Compassion which did not necessarily extend to his wayward younger brother, whose devil-may-care ways had been indulged more often than not by their father.
Rowan had been away these many years and had only written recently with a promise to come home . . . if the life that their father had once promised him was still obtainable.
For years, Magnus hadn’t had word from him and assumed the worst. But then, a month ago, Mother received the letter. And now, in addition to needing Miss Snow’s dowry to replenish the Longhurst coffers, he needed it in order to bring his intrepid brother home again and settled with a respectable living.
And yet, once again, Hartley’s name crept out of the shadows and threatened to ruin it all.
“I will do everything within my power to resolve this unforeseen complication,” Magnus assured her. “I promise.”
She sniffed, blinking rapidly before she turned to nod up at him. “It’s just that I haven’t seen Rowan in so long and I want him—I want both of you—to have every chance at the life you are entitled to. I didn’t marry your father for nothing.”
Magnus knew little about entitlement. But he knew about duty. And he knew enough about his brother that he doubted Rowan was after stability or security. He was likely running away from something far more dangerous. As usual.
But before Magnus could continue on the course of securing a future for the longevity of the Warring family, he needed to discover what the deuce Hartley was up to this time.