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Raven's Vow. Gayle Wilson
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“A wife?” the American repeated, that amusement now touching the rich tones of his voice as it had marked the stern lips.
“Unless, of course,” the banker continued with the merest trace of sarcasm, “you have a duke hidden away somewhere in your family tree. Or an earl. Short of that, sir, I’m afraid…” The old man let the suggestion trail off. He had made his point, and he knew his client’s ready intelligence needed no more prompting.
Oliver Reynolds had been paid, extremelywell paid, to guide this American nabob through the perils of London society, and the solution he had just broached to John Raven was really the best advice he had to offer.
“Three of my grandparents fled Scotland after the ‘45, half a step ahead of Cumberland’s butchers,” John Raven confessed. The mockery lurking in those strange, crystalline blue eyes proved his very New World lack of embarrassment over the mode of his ancestors’ departure from the Old. He had been born on the edge of the American wilderness and had watched the influx of settlers move across the land, always westward toward the great river. His country was changing, the vast forest tracts gradually giving way to farms and communities, the conquest of its wildness the result of the hard work of people like his parents and his grandparents.
“In that case—” the banker began, only to be cut off by the sardonic voice.
“My paternal grandmother, however, was a princess.”
“A princess?” Oliver Reynolds repeated carefully. “Royalty, Mr. Raven? And from what dynasty did this fortuitous ancestor spring? Despite its supposed sophistication, the British nobility still finds a certain fascination in foreign royalty.”
“The Mauvilla, Mr. Reynolds.”
“Mauvilla,” the old man repeated, trying to think. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with that particular family.”
“They defied de Soto, virtually destroying themselves in the process. My grandmother was the last of the royal line.”
“De Soto?” the banker questioned. He had heard the name, of course, in conjunction with the exploration of the American continent. Surely, Mr. Reynolds thought, those who had defied him would not be mentioned in the context of royal families.
“Indian?” He spoke his sudden realization aloud, his voice rising. But even as he did, he acknowledged that the heritage John Raven had just confessed would explain so much. The American’s coloring, for example—the bronze skin that offered such a striking contrast to the clear blue eyes. And his hair, of course. “Indian,” the old man said again, an affirmation that put so many pieces of the puzzle John Raven had represented into place.
Raven’s dark head inclined slightly in agreement. The small upward tilt at the corners of his mouth increased minutely. “Indian,” he agreed softly. “Do you think they’ll be impressed?”
“I should think,” the banker began, wondering how to warn him without being too offensive, “that you should be damnably certain this noble mob never finds out about your grandmother.”
“Not royal enough for our purposes?” Raven suggested easily as he moved back to the chair he had earlier occupied.
Watching his client traverse the short distance, Oliver Reynolds inventoried his recent accomplishments. The American’s shoulders were now shown to advantage by Weston’s expert tailoring, the coat of navy superfine covering their broad width without a wrinkle. Underneath, a striped French silk waistcoat was discreetly visible. Fawn pantaloons stretched over the flat stomach and accented the firmness of long, muscular thighs. Tasseled Hessians fashioned by Hoby’s master hand completed the picture of elegance that finally matched the vast wealth the American had brought from the East into the English capital.
On his arrival in London, John Raven had sought Reynolds’s advice and had, surprisingly, followed it to the letter. Except for one thing, the banker thought with regret. The only concession he had been able to wrest from his client regarding the length of his hair was compromise satisfactory to neither. The American had agreed to secure the dark strands, their blue-black gleam rivaling the feathers of the bird whose name he bore, into a queue tied with a black silk ribbon. He had adamantly refused to cut it, and given, of course, the startling revelation he had just made, Reynolds at last understood.
“If words gets out aboutthat, Mr. Raven, you won’t need a wife. A fairy godmother, perhaps. Or a guardian angel.”
“A fairy godmother who’d wave her wand to make me acceptable? An angel to ensure that my many faults are hidden under the splendor of her wings?” the American jeered quietly, not bothering to hide his frustration.
Damn them, John Raven thought bitterly. He’d come to England to build. Instead, he had found the doors to those gracefully proportioned drawing rooms and exclusive clubs where the real power resided closed to him because he was an outsider.
The arrogant, pompous bastards. He had visited their tailors and their boot makers, and Raven knew—because he was certainly no one’s fool—that he was as well dressed as any man in London. And as wealthy. Still they refused to deal with him. Because he wasn’t a member of their bloody ton.
“I’ve told you before. You’ll never find a more closed or closed-minded circle in the world,” Reynolds said. “They’ll back the outrageous schemes of the most profligate bounder, drunkard or scoundrel of their own class, but an outsider? You had as well have stayed in India and attempted to do business from there as to try to force your way in. You can’t make them invest.”
“They won’t even meet me. Polite refusals is all I’ve gotten. If only they’d listen, they would know that what I propose is not only advantageous to Britain, but profitable for investors as well. Why the hell won’t they listen?”
“Because you don’t belong. Birth is the only membership in this society, and yours is unacceptable. You need a wife whose place within the ton is so secure that she will be able to win you a grudging entry by virtue of her own connections.”
“How do you propose that I convince this paragon to marry me? introduce her to my grandmother?” Raven countered with savage politeness.
“The usual procedure is to offer enough money that her family can’t refuse.”
“Buy her, do you mean?”
“It’s done everyday. Not in those terms, of course. However, that is the general idea. You certainly have the funds. All we need to do is find some impoverished noblewoman whose family is willing to marry her off in return for a guarantee of financial security for themselves for the rest of their lives.”
“I thought slavery in Britain disappeared with the Saxons,” Raven commented bitterly. “I damn well don’t intend to buy a wife. I wouldn’t want a woman who’d be willing to sell herself.”
“I suppose,” the banker said carefully, recognizing the truth in the American’s argument, “that most of them aren’t.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Willing,” Oliver Reynolds explained regretfully.
“Good God,” Raven said with a trace of horror. “And they would call my grandmother’s people savage. I won’t buy a wife, Mr. Reynolds, willing or unwilling. If the mines and railroads I came to Britain to build don’t become a reality, then the bastards will have only themselves to blame.”
Fighting to control his anger, John Raven descended the stairs that led from the old man’s office. If buying a wife was what it would take to succeed in England, he would damn well find somewhere else to invest his energies.
Raven moved from the narrow flight of stairs onto the street with an unconscious grace, a smooth athleticism that had already attracted attention in the capital. More than one pair of female eyes, accustomed to the sometimes delicate fragility of the gentlemen who set the mode for London society, had on occasion during the last month followed that purposeful