She sipped her wine, overly aware of her position in the dining table hierarchy tonight. She had been relegated to the lovely spot when it had become clear that her brain was odd and that her interest in banking was limited. And whenever she entered her parents’ home in St. James’s, she inevitably left the new woman, the one who had her own studio at Oxford and ran with the suffragists, at the door. A husk of her younger self would be waiting for her in the entrance hall every time, to be slipped on like a badly fitted gown. The feeling of wearing her old skin was particularly strong tonight; she felt itchy. But this was how they all knew her, and they would not see her otherwise.
“… I would go as far as calling speculation of any kind immoral,” Flossie said, “since it caused most of the panics and depression of the past decades—”
Her father put down his wineglass. “Now, Florence, be a dear, take a breath, and stop provoking your mother. Do you think your dowry consisted of charitable donations?”
Flossie sputtered. The signal for Zach to turn to Hattie with a twinkle in his brown eyes. No, she had no desire to be their light interlude tonight. She looked past her brother, at her father. “Papa,” she said. “I have been wondering about some rumors.”
Her father’s bushy brows pulled together. “Rumors? Do I look like an edition of The Tatler to you?”
“The rumors are about Mr. Blackstone.”
It had been inevitable that his name would slip out; it had been teetering on the tip of her tongue all week. A confounded silence promptly filled the dining room, and her heart drummed faster. Her father’s eyes kindled with alertness, and for a terrible second, she worried that he knew.
“Blackstone, you say,” he said. “The man of business?”
She nodded. “They say he ruins peers. I was wondering what exactly he has done.”
“Whatever made you wonder about him?”
What indeed. She should have just quietly finished her roll; now all eyes were on her.
“Well, Julien, you hardly hide your vexation every time the man ignores your lunch invites,” her mother said.
“Which happened all of twice,” her father said mildly.
“You invited him?” Flossie asked. “Was it about Spain?”
He squinted at her. “I don’t recall discussing Spain with you.”
“You sent Zachary to negotiate with Uncle Jakob on the matter,” Flossie said. “Then we have the banking reform, the railroad speculation bubble, the Pereire brothers—”
“Yes, yes, for Spain,” he said, and grabbed his glass again.
“If I may, Father,” said Zach, and he turned to Hattie. “To answer your question: Blackstone has ruined peers by calling in their debts at precisely those times when they lacked the funds to cover them. One can speculate how he knew when exactly to strike. Either way, with nary an exception they had to sell the family silver or an estate to pay up.”
Flossie looked appalled. “What gentleman in his right mind would inflict such horror?”
“Blackstone isn’t a gentleman,” Zachary said dryly.
“Is he a client with us?” Hattie asked.
“Lord, no. I suspect he is with one or two small, private banks like Hoare and Company. And they keep silent because if he were to withdraw his deposits, it would close their entire house.”
“Is he as rich as they say, then?”
“Indecently rich, from what we can see.”
The tension left her shoulders. No one seemed to suspect a thing about her excursion. “Why would he do it?” she murmured. “Humiliate those peers—it’s awfully spiteful of him.”
Flossie made a face. “More interestingly, why would gentlemen in their right mind continue to become indebted to him?”
She thought of Lucie’s fiancé, Lord Ballentine, who had taken money from Blackstone in order to purchase his half of London Print. Admittedly, he was the devious sort.
“Men are a bit silly sometimes,” Mina said. “They enjoy gambling at either the stock market or the roulette table but frequently overestimate both their luck and their prowess.”
“Mina,” said Adele. “You are not to talk like this.”
“Apologies, Mama.”
“Cynicism in a young woman is never endearing. Neither is political fervor.”
“I shan’t say it again, Mama.”
“See that you don’t. Your betrothal is not official yet, and Sir Bradleigh may well still abscond.” While admonishing Mina, she skewered Hattie with one well-aimed glare as Hattie was angling for another bread roll. Twenty-some years after the fact, Adele Greenfield was still put out that she had passed on her red hair to each of her three daughters but not her lithe frame, which she considered most elegant, and she never let any one of them forget it. With a sigh, Hattie put down the tongs for the bread basket.