A Dangerous Fortune (5 page)

Micky was not so sure about the style of architecture.

It was certainly striking. It was of red brick and white stone, with big leaded windows on the first and second floors. Above the first floor was a huge gable, its triangular shape enclosing three rows of windows—six, then four, then two at the apex: bedrooms, presumably, for innumerable relatives, guests and servants. The sides of the gable were stepped, and on the steps were perched stone animals, lions and dragons and monkeys. At the very top was a ship in full sail. Perhaps it represented the slave ship which, according to family legend, was the foundation of the Pilasters’ wealth.

“I’m sure there’s not another house like this in London,” Micky said as he and his father stood outside staring at it.

Papa replied in Spanish. “No doubt that is what the lady intended.”

Micky nodded. Papa had not met Augusta, but he had her measure already.

The house also had a big basement. A bridge crossed the basement area and led to the entrance porch. The door was open, and they went in.

Augusta was having a drum, an afternoon tea party, to show off her house. The oak-paneled hall was jammed with people and servants. Micky and his father handed their hats to a footman then pushed through the crowd to the vast drawing room at the back of the house. The French windows were open, and the party spilled out onto a flagged terrace and a long garden.

Micky had deliberately chosen to introduce his father at a crowded occasion, for Papa’s manners were not always up to London standards, and it was better that the Pilasters should get to know him gradually. Even by Cordovan standards he paid little attention to social niceties, and escorting him around London was like having a lion on a leash. He insisted on carrying his pistol beneath his coat at all times.

Papa did not need Micky to point Augusta out to him.

She stood in the center of the room, draped in a royal-blue silk dress with a low square neckline that revealed the swell of her breasts. As Papa shook her hand she gazed at him with her hypnotic dark eyes and said in a low, velvet voice: “Señor Miranda—what a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Papa was immediately entranced. He bowed low over her hand. “I can never repay your kindness to Miguel,” he said in halting English.

Micky studied her as she cast her spell over his father. She had changed very little since the day he had kissed her in the chapel at Windfield School. The extra line or two around her eyes only made them more fascinating; the touch of silver in her hair enhanced the blackness of the rest; and if she was a little heavier than she had been it made her body more voluptuous.

“Micky has often told me of your splendid ranch,” she was saying to Papa.

Papa lowered his voice. “You must come and visit us one day.”

God forbid, Micky thought. Augusta in Cordova would be as out of place as a flamingo in a coal mine.

“Perhaps I shall,” Augusta said. “How far is it?”

“With the new fast ships, only a month.”

He still had hold of her hand, Micky noticed. And his voice had gone furry. He had fallen for her already. Micky felt a stab of jealousy. If anyone was going to flirt with Augusta it should be Micky, not Papa.

“I hear Cordova is a beautiful country,” Augusta said.

Micky prayed Papa would not do anything embarrassing. However, he could be charming when it suited him, and he was now playing the role of romantic South American grandee for Augusta’s benefit. “I can promise you that we would welcome you like the queen you are,”
he said in a low voice; and now it was obvious that he was making up to her.

But Augusta was a match for him. “What an extraordinarily tempting prospect,” she said with a shameless insincerity that went right over Papa’s head. Withdrawing her hand from his without missing a beat, she looked over his shoulder and cried: “Why, Captain Tillotson, how kind of you to come!” And she turned away to greet the latest arrival.

Papa was bereft. It took him a moment to regain his composure. Then he said abruptly: “Take me to the head of the bank.”

“Certainly,” Micky said nervously. He looked around for old Seth. The entire Pilaster clan was here, including maiden aunts, nephews and nieces, in-laws and second cousins. He recognized a couple of members of Parliament and a sprinkling of lesser nobility. Most of the other guests were business connections, Micky judged—and rivals, too, he thought as he saw the thin, upright figure of Ben Greenbourne, head of Greenbournes Bank, said to be the richest man in the world. Ben was the father of Solomon, the boy Micky had always known as Fatty Greenbourne. They had lost touch since school: Fatty had not studied at a university or done a European tour, but had gone straight into his father’s business.

The aristocracy generally thought it vulgar to talk about money, but this group had no such inhibitions, and Micky kept hearing the word “crash.” In the newspapers it was sometimes spelled “Krach” because it had started in Austria. Share prices were down and the bank rate was up, according to Edward, who had recently started work at the family bank. Some people were alarmed, but the Pilasters felt confident that London would not be pulled down with Vienna.

Micky took Papa out through the French windows onto the paved terrace, where wooden benches were placed in the shade of striped awnings. There they found
old Seth, sitting with a rug over his knees despite the warm spring weather. He was weak from some unspecified illness, and he looked as frail as an eggshell, but he had the Pilaster nose, a big curved blade that made him formidable still.

Another guest was gushing over the old man, saying: “What a shame you aren’t well enough to go to the royal levee, Mr. Pilaster!”

Micky could have told the woman this was the wrong thing to say to a Pilaster.

“On the contrary, I’m glad of the excuse,” Seth harrumphed. “I don’t see why I should bow the knee to people who have never earned a penny in their lives.”

“But the Prince of Wales—such an honor!”

Seth was in no mood to be argued with—indeed he rarely was—and he now said: “Young lady, the name of Pilaster is an accepted guarantee of honest dealing in corners of the globe where they’ve never heard of the Prince of Wales.”

“But Mr. Pilaster, you almost sound as if you disapprove of the royal family!” the woman persisted, with a strained attempt at a playful tone.

Seth had not been playful for seventy years. “I disapprove of idleness,” he said. “The Bible says, ‘If any would not work, neither should he eat.’ Saint Paul wrote that, in Second Thessalonians, chapter three, verse ten, and he conspicuously omitted to say that royalty were an exception to the rule.”

The woman retired in confusion. Suppressing a grin, Micky said: “Mr. Pilaster, may I present my father, Señor Carlos Miranda, who is over from Cordova for a visit.”

Seth shook Papa’s hand. “Cordova, eh? My bank has an office in your capital city, Palma.”

“I go to the capital very little,” Papa said. “I have a ranch in Santamaria Province.”

“So you’re in the beef business.”

“Yes.”

“Look into refrigeration.”

Papa was baffled. Micky explained: “Someone has invented a machine for keeping meat cold. If they can find a way to install it in ships, we will be able to send fresh meat all over the world without salting it.”

Papa frowned. “This could be bad for us. I have a big salting plant.”

“Knock it down,” said Seth. “Go in for refrigeration.”

Papa did not like people telling him what to do, and Micky felt a little anxious. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Edward. “Papa, I want to introduce you to my best friend,” he said. He managed to ease his father away from Seth. “Allow me to present Edward Pilaster.”

Papa examined Edward with a cold, clear-eyed gaze. Edward was not good-looking—he took after his father, not his mother—but he looked like a healthy farm boy, muscular and fair-skinned. Late nights and quantities of wine had not taken their toll—not yet, anyway. Papa shook his hand and said: “You two have been friends for many years.”

“Soul mates,” Edward said.

Papa frowned, not understanding.

Micky said: “May we talk business for a moment?”

They stepped off the terrace and onto the newly laid lawn. The borders were freshly planted, all raw earth and tiny shrubs. “Papa has been making some large purchases here, and he needs to arrange shipping and finance,” Micky went on. “It could be the first small piece of business you bring in to your family bank.”

Edward looked keen. “I’ll be glad to handle that for you,” he said to Papa. “Would you like to come into the bank tomorrow morning, so that we can make all the necessary arrangements?”

“I will,” said Papa.

Micky said: “Tell me something. What if the ship sinks? Who loses—us, or the bank?”

“Neither,” Edward said smugly. “The cargo will be insured at Lloyd’s. We would simply collect the insurance money and ship a new consignment to you. You don’t pay until you get your goods. What is the cargo, by the way?”

“Rifles.”

Edward’s face fell. “Oh. Then we can’t help you.”

Micky was mystified. “Why?”

“Because of old Seth. He’s a Methodist, you know. Well, the whole family is, but he’s rather more devout than most. Anyway, he won’t finance arms sales, and as he’s Senior Partner, that’s bank policy.”

“The devil it is,” Micky cursed. He shot a fearful look at his father. Fortunately, Papa had not understood the conversation. Micky had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Surely his scheme could not founder on something as stupid as Seth’s religion? “The damned old hypocrite is practically dead, why should he interfere?”

“He is about to retire,” Edward pointed out. “But I think Uncle Samuel will take over, and he’s the same, you know.”

Worse and worse. Samuel was Seth’s bachelor son, fifty-three years old and in perfect health. “We’ll just have to go to another merchant bank,” Micky said.

Edward said: “That should be straightforward, provided you can give a couple of sound business references.”

“References? Why?”

“Well, a bank always takes the risk that the buyer will renege on the deal, leaving them with a cargo of unwanted merchandise on the far side of the globe. They just need some assurance that they’re dealing with a respectable businessman.”

What Edward did not realize was that the concept of a respectable businessman did not yet exist in South America. Papa was a caudillo, a provincial landowner with a hundred thousand acres of pampas and a work force of cowboys that doubled as his private army. He
wielded power in a way the British had not known since the Middle Ages. It was like asking William the Conqueror for references.

Micky pretended to be unperturbed. “No doubt we can provide something,” he said. In fact he was stumped. But if he was going to stay in London he had to bring this deal off.

They turned and strolled back toward the crowded terrace, Micky hiding his anxiety. Papa did not yet understand that they had encountered a serious difficulty, but Micky would have to explain it later—and then there would be trouble. Papa had no patience with failure, and his anger was terrifying.

Augusta appeared on the terrace and spoke to Edward. “Find Hastead for me, Teddy darling,” she said. Hastead was her obsequious Welsh butler. “There’s no cordial left and the wretched man has disappeared.” Edward went off. She favored Papa with a warm, intimate smile. “Are you enjoying our little gathering, Señor Miranda?”

“Very well, thank you,” said Papa.

“You must have some tea, or a glass of cordial.”

Papa would have preferred tequila, Micky knew, but hard alcohol was not served at Methodist tea parties.

Augusta looked at Micky. Always quick to sense other people’s moods, she said: “I can see that you’re not enjoying the party. What’s the matter?”

He did not hesitate to confide in her. “I was hoping Papa could help Edward by bringing new business to the bank, but it involves guns and ammunition, and Edward has just explained that Uncle Seth won’t finance weapons.”

“Seth won’t be Senior Partner much longer,” Augusta said.

“Apparently Samuel feels the same as his father.”

“Does he?” Augusta said, and her tone was arch.
“And who says that Samuel is to be the next Senior Partner?”

2

HUGH PILASTER WAS WEARING
a new sky-blue ascot-style cravat, slightly puffed at the neckline and held in place with a pin. He really should have been wearing a new coat, but he earned only 68 pounds a year, so he had to brighten up his old clothes with a new tie. The ascot was the latest fashion, and sky-blue was a daring color choice; but when he spied his reflection in the huge mirror over the mantelpiece in Aunt Augusta’s drawing room he saw that the blue tie and black suit looked rather fetching with his blue eyes and black hair, and he hoped the ascot gave him an attractively rakish air. Perhaps Florence Stalworthy would think so, anyway. He had started to take an interest in clothes since he met her.

It was a bit embarrassing, living with Augusta and being so poor; but there was a tradition at Pilasters Bank that men were paid what they were worth, regardless of whether they were family members. Another tradition was that everyone started at the bottom. Hugh had been a star pupil at school, and would have been head boy if he had not got into trouble so much; but his education counted for little at the bank, and he was doing the work of an apprentice clerk—and was paid accordingly. His aunt and uncle never offered to help him out financially, so they had to put up with his looking a little shabby.

He did not much care what they thought about his appearance, of course. It was Florence Stalworthy he was worried about. She was a pale, pretty girl, the daughter of the earl of Stalworthy; but the most important thing about her was that she was interested in Hugh Pilaster. The truth was that Hugh could be fascinated by any girl who would talk to him. This bothered him, because it
surely meant that his feelings were shallow; but he could not help it. If a girl touched him accidentally it was enough to make his mouth go dry. He was tormented by curiosity about what their legs looked like under all those layers of skirt and petticoat. There were times when his desire hurt like a wound. He was twenty years old, he had felt like this since he was fifteen, and in those five years he had never kissed anyone except his mother.