Leslie LaFoy (32 page)

“I don't think I've ever heard that one. And just between you, me, and the fence post, MacPhaull, the road this company's been traveling is pretty well worn-out. It's time to haul the wagon out of the rut.”

Henry laughed deprecatingly. “What a quaint bit of speech. Could I get you to translate it into English for me?”

Jackson couldn't recall any other human being whom he'd ever loathed as much as he did Lindsay's brother. Or any other man who so richly deserved to be dropped a dozen pegs. Jack nodded slowly, seeing his course and committing to it. “I'll try,” he said lazily. “The MacPhaull Company is on the verge of bankruptcy and if drastic changes aren't made in both the business approach and structure, it will be forced to cease operations and liquidate all assets to pay its creditors.” He paused just long enough to let Henry blink once before he added with a smile, “Did you have any problems understanding that?”

Emile entered the dining room with a tray of salad plates and linen-lined silver bread baskets. Primrose came in his wake. Suddenly the only sound in the room was the faint
tink
of china as Emile set his tray on the sideboard.

As Primrose collected the soup bowls, Agatha met her
brother's gaze across the table and said blithely, “Did I mention that I had lunch yesterday with Winifred Templeton?”

“How is Edward doing these days?” Henry asked, reaching for his wineglass. “I've heard the bank is struggling to keep the doors open.”

Lindsay smiled her thanks as Primrose set a salad plate in front of her. Jackson nodded his. Henry and Agatha went on with their conversation as though they were the only occupants of the room.

“Winifred says the rumors are wildly inaccurate; that thanks to Edward's keen business sense, this last year has been more profitable than any previous year in the bank's history. Little Edgar is first in his class at school. And little Myrtle is the best harp student Mrs. Glasgow has ever had. Winifred invited me to join her table at the boat races this coming weekend.”

“Well, I hope you told her that you intended to wear my colors despite your seating.”

“Of course. She said she understood, appreciated my sense of loyalty, and sent you her best wishes for a safe and speedy race.”

“How very and typically kind of her. I've always liked Winifred. Edward got quite a prize when he married her.”

Both paused to pick up their forks and Jackson seized the conversational opening. “I recall seeing a boat listed in the company assets. Is that the one you're speaking of?”

“Not a boat; a
yacht,”
Henry corrected. “A three-masted racer built to my exact specifications just last year in a Providence shipyard. She's magnificent. Are you a sailing man, Stennett?”

Lindsay silently seethed. Her brother knew Jack was a cattleman and not a sailor. He was deliberately trying to make Jack look like a country bumpkin. It was mean and low and so typically, thoroughly Henry.

“Naw,” Jack said, his drawl the same slow and exaggerated one he'd affected in Mr. Gregory's office. “The first time I ever boarded a ship bigger than a riverboat was to come here. Can't say that I overly enjoyed the trip. If given my druthers, I'd much rather saddle up and ride.”

“How … provincial.”

Which was precisely what Jackson wanted him to think, she realized. Henry—while flaunting his usual sense of superiority—was being suckered into badly underestimating Jack's intelligence and breadth of business experience. She didn't have a doubt as to how the contest between the two of them would end. While Henry certainly deserved to be shown as the pompous fool he was, he was going to be exceedingly embarrassed when it became obvious that the table had been so brilliantly turned on him. As for Jack … How much satisfaction could there be in winning a battle of wits against an unarmed man? She hoped he realized that before matters got out of hand, and that once he did, he'd elect to show Henry a bit of mercy.

“The captain of the ship was a nice enough fellow,” Jack went on. “And a reasonably good card player. He told me that any boat was nothing more than a hole in the water that you poured money into.”

“Obviously he doesn't have a taste for the finer things in life or an appreciation for the expectations of social position.”

“Maybe. But he did know about making money with his vessel. Do you use yours in any commercial way?”

“Purely pleasure, Stennett.” Henry laughed and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, there's the occasional wager on the outcome of a race, but it's really nothing of significance.”

“Thankfully, since you so seldom win,” Agatha teased.

“But,” Henry countered, “you must admit that the races have been getting closer. I've wagered five hundred dollars on myself to win the round this weekend.”

Agatha suddenly straightened in her chair, her eyes bright. “Is it too late for me to place my own wager? I hear Jacob Miller's fitting his yacht for a race out of Boston and won't enter this one. I have two hundred dollars I'd be willing to risk on you under the circumstances.”

“And if Jacob Miller were sailing against me?”

“Why,” Agatha said sweetly, batting her lashes, “I'd put my wager on him, of course. We both know he's the better sailor.”

Emile entered the dining room again, this time bearing a large tray on which four large silver-dome-covered plates had been placed. Again, he set the tray on the sideboard as Primrose silently set about collecting the plates from the previous course.

“How much does a boat like yours sell for?” Jack asked, shattering the silence.

Henry started, cast a meaningful glance at the servants, and then found a condescending smile. “My dear Stennett. We have a saying in this part of the world: If you have to ask how much it costs, you can't afford it.”

“Oh, I wasn't thinking of buying one,” Jack corrected, his drawl lightening with every word. “I was thinking of selling one. Yours.” He smiled at Primrose as she set a plate in front of him. “I was wondering how much I could get for it. What would be your best guess?”

“Oh, how you tease, Mr. Stennett,” Agatha exclaimed, laughing. “I've heard that Texans like their tall tales and their wild pranks. Why don't you come to the club with us this weekend? I'd simply
adore
showing you off to everyone.”

“Well, I've never been one to enjoy being paraded around on a fancy leash, so I think I'll pass on the invitation. Thanks just the same, though. And I hope you enjoy the race. It's likely to be the last in which there's a MacPhaull entry.”

Henry's brows came together in consternation. “You're serious.”

Jack smiled lazily and reached for his wineglass. “What gave me away?”

Lindsay inwardly groaned. It was the beginning of the end. She'd been right; Jack hadn't made it through dinner before abandoning the pretenses that kept life marginally sane in MacPhaull House. Primrose set a plate of food in front of her and Lindsay desperately seized the opportunity to put things back on course. “This looks delicious. Game hens cooked to perfection. Are these apricots I see in the wild rice stuffing?”

“Yes, madame,” Emile said softly from his station at the sideboard. “Bon appétit.”

“Emile is Richard's chef,” she explained in an effort to fill the silence, as Primrose finished serving the others. “I think, Henry, that you'll find the food well worth whatever wait you've had to endure.”

The door was still swinging behind Emile and Primrose when Henry snapped, “Are you planning to sell anything other than my yacht? Or is this the typically heavy-handed manner in which all Texans deal with perceived slurs?”

Lindsay gasped as Jackson's brows went up and his chin went down. In the next half second, his feet shifted and his hands went to the arms of his chair. Henry was about to die. “I've decided to sell MacPhaull House,” she blurted.

“What?” her sister screeched. “You can't do that! You can't sell the roof from over my head!”

Bless the predictability of Agatha's histrionics. “Yes, I can,” Lindsay blithely assured her, relieved to see that Jackson's attention had shifted. His eyes were slightly narrowed and one corner of his mouth was quirked in a telltale smile. It didn't matter that he knew she'd deliberately incited Agatha. “I'm the manager of the properties,” Lindsay went on, “and I can do with them as I think best.”

“This was our mother's house!”

“And our mother is gone,” Lindsay said with all the gentle calm she could muster. “I've found a lovely house north of the city and Jackson's agreed to buy it for me. You're welcome to move there with me; it's sufficiently large for—”

“Jackson's agreed to buy it for you?” Agatha repeated, her gaze darting between them.

Lindsay saw the suspicion grow in her sister's eyes. Ignoring it, she went on, “It came about as a consequence of arranging the auction of other properties and—”

“What other properties?” Henry demanded. “Are you selling me and my family out onto the street?”

Jackson smiled. “It could be arranged.”

“No, Henry,” Lindsay quickly assured him. “Your home is not being sold. As I was saying, Agatha, the new house is large enough for the both of us. However, if you don't want to move with me, I'm sure we can—”

“I'm purchasing land on Long Island,” Agatha declared,
leaning away so that she was beyond Lindsay's reach. “I'll build myself a house there.”

“No, you're not,” Jackson said, while using a knife and fork to pull his game hen apart. “And no, you won't.”

“Who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do?” Agatha demanded imperiously.

“I'm the owner of the MacPhaull Company. I thought you said you'd read the paper.”

“Indeed we have,” Henry declared, settling into his chair and looking smug. “And since you and our sister made yourselves so deliberately unavailable today, we took it upon ourselves to visit the law office of Mr. Otis Vanderhagen in an effort to clarify our understanding of the circumstances.”

Jackson took a bite of his dinner, chewed, and swallowed. “It's very good, Lindsay.” He shifted his attention to Henry. “And did ol' Otis tell you that you're up the creek without a paddle?”

“Mr. Vanderhagen pointed out the legal ramifications and suggested several courses of possible action. I'm a reasonable man, Stennett. I'm willing to compromise for the sake of family harmony.

“Now,” he continued with a deep breath and a smile that suggested he was feeling in control of the situation, “I am of the philosophy that owning something doesn't necessarily require one to actually do something with it in direct manner. Richard Patterson was my father's manager and I've long been prepared to take over his responsibilities. Might I suggest that you would be infinitely happier in returning to your quiet little corner of Texas and allowing me to send you a payment once a year?”

Oh God
, Lindsay silently groaned. “It's four times a year, Henry,” she corrected quietly. “Disbursements of owner equity are made quarterly.”

“A minor detail,” he declared with a wave of his hand. “One has bookkeepers to handle such petty affairs. So what do you think, Stennett? Does it sound as reasonable to you as it does to me?”

Lindsay took a bite of her food. Henry had absolutely no idea of the kind of man with whom he was trying to
strike a deal. Jackson was the last man on earth who would even consider being fobbed off with such an offer. Henry would be the first to accept it. And therein lay the central difference in the two.

“I own the company and I'm going to put it to rights,” Jackson said with certainty. “Once I do, I'll walk away and what's left will be yours free and clear.”

“What's left?” Agatha repeated, her voice tight and her eyes wide.

“Your daddy willed me the MacPhaull Company assets intending that I use them to clear the title on the land he left me in Texas. I'm selling off just enough of the properties to get the money I need to do that and then I'm going to divide what's left between the three of you and you can do whatever you damn well please with it.”

“Equally?” Henry asked, blinking furiously. “You're going to divide the properties equally between the three of us?”

“That's my initial thinking. It's subject to change, though.”

“The MacPhaull Company is mine,” he snarled, slamming his fist on the table. “I'm the rightful male heir and I'll be damned if I settle for a third of what's been promised to me all my life. I can tie up your claim to the property by challenging the Will, Stennett. You won't be able to so much as sell the garden vegetables from a cart on the corner!”

“Then by all means,” Jackson drawled, “trot yourself down to the courthouse and file the papers. But you need to know that if you hire an attorney for all this, you're not submitting the bill to me or Lindsay for payment. It comes out of your own pocket.”

Henry sagged back in his chair. The idea was clearly one that hadn't occurred to him. It was so very typical of the way Henry went at life. He brought himself so much grief and aggravation that Lindsay couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

In the lull of his shock, she said gently, “Henry, you can challenge the Will if you like, but you should know that the effort is absolutely futile. Richard may have suffered a stroke, but he's still alive. And according to the stipulations of Father's first Will, as long as Richard breathes, you don't
have any say in how the company is managed or any control over the assets.

“There were no such restrictions made in his second Will. Jackson owned the MacPhaull Company the very second our father died. And Jackson has elected to leave the management structure intact and functioning as usual for the immediate future. This—”

“Do you have a point?” Henry snapped, pouring himself more wine with a shaking hand. “Or are you trying to bore me into a stupor?”

Ire shot through her. Lindsay clenched her teeth as she struggled to tamp it down. Simple words for simple minds, she reminded herself. “You can't contest Jackson's control until Richard dies. By the time you do have the right to file with the courts, the reorganization of the company will be done. It will be too late, Henry.”

“I'll have Richard declared legally incompetent.”

“It won't make any difference,” she countered crisply. “Papers were filed years ago giving me the power to act as Richard's proxy on matters relating to company business. In a legal sense, my signature isn't mine, it's Richard's.”