Part of the problem was that his servants, like his money, were all new. Other men of means had inherited a household of experienced servants that had lived and worked together for years, even decades. Zachary had been forced out of necessity to hire his all at once. A few were rank newcomers to the profession, but most were servants who had been dismissed from their previous positions for various reasons. In other words, he was now the employer of the greatest accumulation of alcoholics, unwed mothers, bunglers and petty thieves in west London.
Friends had advised that the right sort of wife could do wonders with his household management problem, leaving him free to do what he did best—make money. For the first time in his life, Zachary found the idea of marriage to be sensible and even appealing. However, he had to find the right sort of woman and convince her to accept his suit, and this was hardly a simple task. He had specific requirements for any woman he would consider taking to wife.
For one thing, she must be blue-blooded, if he was ever to gain access to the high social circles he aspired to. In fact, considering his own lack of breeding and education, she had better compensate by having bloodlines that dated back to William the Conqueror. However, she must not condescend to him—he would not have a wife that looked down her aristocratic nose at him. She must also be independent, so that she would not mind his frequent absences. He was a busy man, and the last thing he needed was someone else tugging at him and trying to usurp what little spare time he still possessed.
Beauty was not required. In fact, he did not want a wife so lovely that other men would be staring and drooling and forever trying to seduce her. Moderate attractiveness would suit him perfectly. Good mental and physical health was imperative, as he wanted her to bear strong, intelligent children. Social skills were also important, as she would have to serve as his wedge into a society that was obviously reluctant to accept him.
Zachary was well aware that many aristocrats secretly mocked him for his low birth and his rapid
ly built fortune, claiming that his mind was bourgeois and mercantile, that he had no understanding of style, elegance and good breeding. They were correct in this assessment. He knew his limitations. However, he took a grim satisfaction in the fact that no one could afford to mock him openly. He had made himself into a force to be reckoned with. He had sunk his financial tentacles into banks, businesses, real estate, investment trusts…it was likely that he had some kind of monetary affiliation, whether large or small, with every man of means in England.
The nobility would not want him to marry one of their precious daughters. Marriage to an aristocrat meant the alignment of one great family with another, the mixing of blue blood with blue. One did not breed a splendidly pedigreed animal with a mongrel. Except that this particular mongrel had enough money to purchase whatever he wanted—even a highborn bride.
Toward this end, he had arranged for a meeting with Lady Holland Taylor. If his invitation proved alluring enough, she would be coming for tea. Zachary had calculated that it would take one day for the elusive widow to consider the idea, a second day for friends and family to talk her out of it, and the third for her curiosity to get the better of her. To his satisfaction, she had accepted his invitation. He would see her today.
He walked to the front window of his library, the large room set on the northeast corner of his gothic mansion. The house was designed in a style his architect had called a “cottage orné,” a term Zachary had come to believe meant pretentious and overpriced. However, it was much admired by the ton, or at least much remarked on, and it made the statement Zachary had intended—that he was a man of consequence, a man to be reckoned with. It was a massive wedding cake of a house loaded with spires, towers, arches, conservatories, and glittering French doors. The twenty-bedroom building lounged insolently on a huge sprawl of land west of London. Artificial lakes and lush groves of trees graced the landscape, not to mention gardens, parks, follies, and walks both serpentine and straight, depending on the visitors' taste.
He wondered what Lady Holly would think of the estate, if she would deem it heaven or horror. She probably had the good taste that most ladies of her station possessed, the kind of taste that he admired but could not seem to emulate. His own taste was for styles that would conspicuously display his success—he couldn't help it.
The chiming of the long-case clock in the hall alerted him to the time, and he stared through the window at the long circular drive at the front of his home. “Lady Holly,” he said softly, filled with biting anticipation, “I'm waiting for you.”
In spite of the Taylors' collective objections, Holly had decided to accept Mr. Zachary Bronson's unexpected invitation to tea. She had not been able to resist. Since the night of the Bellemont ball, life had returned to its usual serene pace, but the rituals of life in the Taylor household had somehow lost their comforting magic. She was tired of needlework and letter writing and all the genteel pursuits that had occupied her for the past three years. Ever since those stolen kisses in the Bellemonts' conservatory, she had felt terribly restless. She wanted something to happen, to alter the predictable flow of her life.
Then had come Mr. Zachary Bronson's letter, with an opening sentence that had instantly fascinated her:
Although I have never had the honor of making your acquaintance, I find that I have need of your assistance in a matter that concerns my household….
How could a man like the notorious Mr. Bronson possibly need her help?
All of the Taylors considered it an ill-advised decision to meet him. They had pointed out that many ladies of consequence did not condescend to accept introductions to him. Even an innocuous tea might cause a scandal.
“A scandal? From a simple afternoon tea?” Holly had responded skeptically, and George's eldest brother, William, had explained.
“Mr. Bronson is not an ordinary man, my dear. He is a social climber—nouveau—he is vulgar in breeding and manner. There are rumors about him that have shocked and appalled me, and as you know, I am a worldly man. No good could come of your association with him. Please, Holly, don't expose yourself to harm or insult. Send a refusal to Bronson at once.”
In the face of William's certainty, Holly had considered rejecting Mr. Bronson's invitation. However, her curiosity was overwhelming. And the thought of remaining enshrouded in safety while one of England's most powerful men had asked to meet her…well, she just had to find out why. “I believe I shall be able to withstand his corruptive influence for at least an hour or two,” she said lightly. “And if I find his behavior objectionable, I will simply leave.”
William's blue eyes—the same shape and color her husband's had been—flashed with disapproval. “George would never have wanted you to be exposed to such a nefarious character.”
The simple statement devastated her. Holly lowered her head, while emotion tugged at the tiny muscles of her face. She had sworn to live the rest of her life as her husband had wished. George had protected her from everything that wasn't seemly and good, and she had trusted his judgment in all things. “But George is gone,” she whispered, and glanced up at William's set face with tear-filled eyes. “I must learn to rely on my own judgment now.”
“And if your judgement proves to be faulty,” he retorted, “I am obligated by the memory of my brother to intercede.”
Holly smiled faintly, reflecting that ever since the day she had been born, there had been someone to protect and guide her. First her loving parents, then George…and now George's family. “Allow me to make a few mistakes, William,” she said. “I must learn to make decisions now, for Rose's sake as well as my own.”
“Holly…” His tone was threaded with mild exasperation. “What could you possibly gain from visiting a man like Zachary Bronson?”
Anticipation curled inside her, making her realize how badly she needed to escape the blanketing security of the Taylor household. “Well,” she said, “I expect to find out soon.”
The information that the Taylors had managed to glean about Mr. Bronson had clearly not eased their minds as to the lack of wisdom Holly displayed in agreeing to meet him. Friends and acquaintances had been eager to share what little knowledge they had about the elusive newcomer to London society. Zachary Bronson was called a merchant prince in many circles, and this term was not intended as flattery. He was outrageously, incomprehensibly rich, and he displayed nearly as much vulgarity as wealth.
Eccentric, interested not in money but in the power it brought, Bronson happily outwitted and destroyed competitors in the manner of a lion set among the Christians. He did not conduct business as a gentleman, accepting all the usual unspoken understandings and limitations. If one did not spell out every letter of an agreement, it was reported, Bronson would take ruthless advantage. Gentlemen were reluctant to enter into business with him, and yet they were compelled to by the hopes that they might receive a mere fraction of the tremendous profits that flowed his way.
Bronson had started as a pugilist, someone said. A common street fighter. And then he had eventually gotten himself hired as the captain of a steamship and acquired increasing numbers of routes. His toughness and shrewd manipulations had either bankrupted his competitors or caused them to merge with him.
Bronson's budding fortune had exploded when he began selling stock to the public at inflated prices, and he had turned to real estate. Since there had been little available land to purchase in England, he had bought thousands of acres of farmland in America and India. The size of his farms dwarfed the acreage that had been in British aristocrats' possession for centuries, and the massive quantity of goods he produced and imported had multiplied his fortune yet again. Now Bronson had invested in the development of a locomotive railroad in Durham, upon which a steam carriage was reputedly able to pull loaded wagons at the rate of twelve miles an hour. Although everyone knew that steam power would never replace horses for general transportation purposes, the experiment was eagerly followed because of Mr. Bronson's patronage.
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