Betina Krahn (2 page)

“I simply cannot commit my shareholders’ money to such a risky venture. And my own personal holdings are not liquid enough to permit me to back you at the level of your needs. I’m afraid you’ll have to find your funding elsewhere.” Vassar watched the exchange of glances between Bear and his partner. “Perhaps Gephardt, over at the First Baltimore.”

“We a’ready seen th’ little bas—” Halt muttered.

“He’s … not interested.” Bear glowered at Halt, who clamped his jaw shut and lowered his scowl to his boots. “We would appreciate any other suggestions you might make … another bank … perhaps a private investor.” He stood, ran his hands back through his hair, and began to gather up the documents.

Vassar gave a contemplative “hmm” as he watched Bear’s movements and assessed his reaction. After a moment, he reached for a pen, dipped it in a silver ink pot, and wrote something down on a small vellum card. “I believe I do have a suggestion for you. You seem knowledgeable and well-spoken, a presentable enough fellow. If you won’t take this ill—” He handed Bear the card, and Bear studied his expression before glancing down and reading the names aloud.

“Martene and Savoy.” He looked up with guarded relief. “Are they bankers or investors?”

“Tailors.” Vassar got to his feet and stuck his thumbs into his vest pockets. “The best in Baltimore.”

Bear scowled, then stiffened as the sense of it struck. Tailors? He asked for financing and got clothing advice instead?

“I like you, McQuaid. You’re a forward-thinking fellow. I believe you will take that suggestion in the spirit in which it was intended. Now as to your funding …” Vassar indulged in a quirk of a smile. “I doubt you’ll find a banker in Baltimore willing to give you the kind of money you need. However, there are other avenues to acquiring such assets … other sorts of ‘alliances’ that can prove most profitable for a presentable fellow such as yourself.”

Frustration rose with a bitter taste up the back of Bear’s throat, preventing him from catching Vassar’s meaning at first.

“I take it you are an
unmarried
man?”

The suggestion so astonished Bear that it took him a moment to be able to respond. Better clothing … other “alliances” … He looked to Halt and then back at the banker with disbelief.

“I want no part of that sort of ‘funding.’ ” His voice sounded choked. “I am a railroad man, not a fortune hunter.”

Vassar sighed. “Pity. You would find Baltimore brimming with possibilities. We seem to have a surfeit of eligible females just now. However, if you are determined against—”

“I am.” Bear’s voice vibrated with conviction.

Vassar shrugged. “Well, then, I suppose your best chance in Baltimore is probably Diamond Wingate. She has been known to be accommodating in such matters. Come to think of it, my wife is giving a little party next Saturday and she will most certainly attend. I could introduce you to her there, if you’d like.”

“I repeat, I’ll have no part of romancing a female for money.”

Vassar gave a short laugh. “You mistake me, Mr. McQuaid. Miss Wingate is an investor. She has considerable assets, many of which are suitably liquid. And she is known to be generous. She supports a number of philanthropic and entrepreneurial projects, and is widely known as Baltimore’s foremost … proponent of ‘Progress.’ Of all the investors in Baltimore, I truly believe her to be your best hope for funding your railroad line.” The banker’s direct and unwavering regard caused some of the heat in Bear’s temper to drain.

“We appreciate your offer, Mr. Vassar, but by next Saturday we should have letters of credit in hand and be on a train bound for Washington.”

Vassar seemed to take the rejection in stride. He rose and extended his hand to both men, wishing them luck.

By the time they reached the street, Halt could no longer contain his outrage. “Nervy bastard. We ask for a loan an’ he gives us a
tailor
!”

But Bear was staring at the card in his hand, caught hard in the grip of something he hadn’t experienced in a very long time: embarrassment. He had a sketchy idea of what his face looked like, and that only because he had seen it in the peeling mirrors of the bathhouse he used every morning. But what he had seen was enough now to shame him.

He looked rough, edgy. His sun-darkened skin resembled weathered stone and his hands were as hardened as a ditchdigger’s. He looked down at his callused palms and for the first time noticed how much of his arm showed below his too-tight sleeves and how much of his boot showed below his too-short pants. The sight shocked him. He must look as if he’d been melted down and poured into somebody else’s clothes.

Clearly, he’d been out West too long, where a man was judged mainly by what was inside him, his strength, skill, and character. He had forgotten the most basic tenets of Eastern society: appearance determined acceptance, and acceptance determined opportunity.

He spotted the darkened glass of a nearby shop window and made for it. His full-length reflection caused him to wince. The fellow looking back at him was tall and rangy, with hair that was too long and a suit that was too tight. His tie was knotted, his buttons were straining his coat fabric, and his worn Western boots were beyond the aid of brush and polish. Halt stood alongside him in a dusty Western hat, chambray shirt, and ancient string tie … looking done up like a sore thumb and acting every bit as touchy.

Who in his right mind would lend money to men who looked like them?

“How much traveling money do we have left?” he demanded.

“Three hundred or so.” Halt was puzzled by the way his partner glowered at the pots and pans in the dry-goods shop window. Then he realized Bear was using the glass as a mirror, and he too began to examine their reflections … making a face at himself.

“It might be enough,” Bear muttered.

“For what? What are we goin’ to do?”

“We’re going to find a barber.” Bear wheeled and struck off down the street, searching the sign boards and shop fronts for evidence of the familiar red-and-white-striped pole. “Then we’re going to find this ‘Martene and Savoy.’ And
then
we’re going to find us another blessed banker!”

Four days passed before Bear McQuaid was again shown into banker Philip Vassar’s office. This time, his
dark hair was neatly trimmed, a handsome new coat skimmed his big frame, and a pair of new shoes padded softly over the Aubusson carpets. His face, however, was drawn and his mood was nothing short of grim.

“I won’t take up your time, sir.” He came straight to the point. “I would like to know if your offer to introduce us to that investor is still open.”

Surprised, Vassar lowered the document in his hand, removed his spectacles, and leaned back in his chair. “Why, yes, it is.” He ran his gaze over Bear and nodded, clearly pleased by the improvements in his appearance. “However, the party is only four days away, and you would need evening dress.”

“By Saturday, I’ll have it,” Bear declared fiercely.

Vassar assessed his crackling determination and gave a chuckle.

“I just bet you will.”

“Well?” Halt asked when he stepped out into the street.

“It’s all set. Saturday night I’m going to Vassar’s house to meet this rich old lady. What the hell was her name? Sparkle? Twinkle?”

“Nah … Ruby or …” Halt squinted and scratched his bristled chin as if it helped him remember. “Diamond something. Yeah, that was it.” A bit more scratching and he had the rest. “Diamond … Wingate.”

“Miss Diamond Wingate.” Bear winced at the name and struck off down the street. “I never thought I’d have to sink to charming money out of women.” He realized Halt wasn’t beside him, and turned to locate him. Finnegan stood on the pavement with his fists propped on his waist.

“Yer not meanin’ to romance th’ woman?”

“If you weren’t my partner, I’d lay you out flat,” Bear growled, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him along. “Besides, she’s probably old enough to be the ‘ol’ granny’ you’re always swearing by the grave of. Come on. We’ve got four days to get me some proper evening clothes and to figure out how to make old Miss Wingate forget how to say the word ‘no.’ ”

“That awful rabble collected around the gates … Basil Wingate would never have stood for it.” Evelyn Stanhope Vassar sat glued to the carriage window the next day, as she and her family passed the Wingate estate on their way home from a day in the city. When the motley assortment of indigents and hopefuls loitering around the entrance to Gracemont were completely out of sight, she settled back into her seat and felt her daughter’s stare. “Sit up, Clarice,” she said defensively. “And don’t slouch. Gentlemen don’t like girls who slouch.”

A sigh issued from behind the open newspaper beside her, and she cast an irritable look in her husband’s direction.

“If she would just choose someone and get it over with. It’s simply not fair to the rest of the girls for Diamond to keep the eligible men in Baltimore in suspense.” Upon further reflection, however, she had to admit there was plenty of blame to go around.

“Ridiculous men. Do they think they all can marry the same girl? You know, don’t you, Philip, that there hasn’t been a single engagement announced in Baltimore this season. Not one.” She raised her chin and looked balefully at her dimpled dumpling of a daughter. It was her one ambition in life to see her only offspring happily and advantageously married.

The paper lowered enough for a canny pair of eyes to become visible.

“It won’t be much longer, my dear,” Philip Vassar said.

She started and turned to him. “What makes you say such a thing?”

The paper crumpled toward his lap. “You will be ecstatic to know, dear wife, that your relentless wheedling has finally borne fruit.” He gave his daughter a covert wink and she blushed. “I have taken
steps
.”

“Steps?” Evelyn’s eyes widened and her maternal instincts rose to a full quiver. “What sort of steps?”

“I have invited a business acquaintance to your little party on Saturday.”

“A business acquaintance?” Evelyn deflated.

“A
gentleman
acquaintance,” Vassar clarified, giving her a meaning-filled glance from the corner of his eye.

“A gentleman?” She brightened and glanced at Clarice. “Is he rich?”

“About as rich as a church mouse, I believe.”

Evelyn grew annoyed with his inscrutability. “How, pray, does my entertaining this
pauper
of yours help our Clarice?”

“He needs a loan. He’s building a railroad out West and needs funds. I’ve promised to introduce him to Diamond Wingate.” He smiled with a hint of satisfaction.

“Don’t be obscure, Philip.” She grew impatient. “How can you possibly think she’ll be interested in a penniless fellow who wants to take buckets of her money out West and pour it all over the ground in some wild railroad—” She halted, remembering the nature of the young woman in question.

“Oh.” Her eyes widened further. “Ohhh.”

Vassar enjoyed watching his wife discover his genius. He started to raise his paper again, but Evelyn stopped it halfway up.

“But if he really is penniless …”

Vassar fixed her with the long-suffering look of a prophet trapped in his native land, then returned to his reading.

“I believe the fellow has … 
other
 … assets.”

The walnut-paneled boardroom was filled with the light of the afternoon sun, the scents of waxed wood and India ink, and a low, continuous drone of numbers.

More money
, Diamond Wingate realized.

“The electrical water-bath can-sealing process … one hundred thirteen thousand. The new valve-and-jet combination for using gas in cookstoves … fifty-seven thousand this quarter. That new man-made medicine, ‘aspirin’ … only seventeen thousand. But they plan to advertise in ladies’ journals, business quarterlies, family magazines, newspapers. The Remington Company investment … profit distributions amount to—”

A lot more money
.

“—a total of ninety-six thousand. Those ‘typewriting’ machines are selling hand over fist.” There was a corroborating murmur from around the room and a muted crackle of dry paper as a page turned in a ledger. “Swift’s refrigerator cars”—the voice droned on—“one hundred seventy-two thousand. Guardwell safety pins … twelve thousand … and branching out into other sewing notions.
Proceeds from the new Baltimore glassworks … twenty-nine thousand. People seem to have taken to getting their milk from glass bottles. Ives’s photoengraving process … thus far, only eight thousand. But every major newspaper and magazine up and down the coast is clamoring for the process.”

It was a blessed avalanche of profit!

The litany of incomes halted as Diamond looked up from the ledger and into the faces of the men seated around the long table.

“In short,” she said, eyeing them through the demiveil of her elegantly feathered hat, “we’ve made another pile of it.”

“I should say so, miss.” The secretary of the board, standing by her chair, lowered the ledger he held and smiled proudly at his fellow directors. “Another
whopping
pile of it, in fact.” The others around the table nodded and murmured to each other in congratulatory tones.