When they finally parted from Somersby, leaving that gentleman keen to maintain a connection with Martin and Devlin as well, Devlin waited until he and Martin were out of others’ hearing, then said, “I get the impression that you’ve already got some notion of what arena of activity, for want of a better phrase, you intend to pursue in this new life of yours.”
Martin threw him a brief, sharp, sidelong glance, then looked down. They walked on, ambling around the edge of the crowd, for several moments before he tipped his head in acknowledgment and replied, “Machinery. The manufacturing of it.”
Devlin cocked his head. “Supplying which area?”
Martin smiled intently. “Whichever area needs machines.” He met Devlin’s puzzled gaze. “Take, for instance, the factories that make Britain’s railway carriages. They use machinery to make the carriages, but from where does that machinery come?”
Devlin frowned. “I’m not sure.”
“It’s mostly imported from either America or Germany, and that holds true for most of the factories that make almost anything. But”—Martin gestured—“the cost of importing such heavy machinery is significant, let alone the cost in time, and there’s really no reason we can’t make much of what we need here. Decades ago, the first steam-powered looms were made here, along with some of the first locomotives, and in many industries, the most efficient designs for any sort of machines are those that arise locally.” Martin paused, then said, “One of the truisms I learned in America is that those who make the most profit from any new product are those who provide the means to produce it. They take much less risk, but tend to walk away with a large and assured slice of the profits.”
Devlin felt as if he’d been struck by an epiphany. “I see your point.” After a moment, he said, “Rand has always been interested in automobiles, and while I can’t see the government changing its stance on that anytime soon, if I understand you correctly, you wouldn’t be interested in making the automobiles themselves but in supplying the machinery necessary to make them.”
Martin nodded. “Exactly.”
Devlin halted and faced his brother-in-law. “What sort of structure do you think such a machinery-making business might have?”
“Well…” Martin drew in a deep breath and said, “First, it would need…”
Ignoring all the encouraging looks directed their way, Devlin gave his full attention to Martin as the younger man described what was plainly his dream.
Therese had been circulating among the guests, doing her duty by paying her respects to the older ladies present as well as sharing moments with her friends and close acquaintances.
After quitting a group of fashionable matrons of much her own age, she paused by the side of the lawn to consider her options. She had, she estimated, at least twenty minutes to fill before Lady Wicklow declared it was time for the “picnic.” Given the wrought iron tables and chairs Therese had spied set up on the eastern lawn, it would be more correct to term the event an alfresco luncheon. She surveyed the guests before her, idly wondering how Devlin and Martin were faring—
“There you are.”
She swung around to find Child settling by her elbow. At the sight of the smile he directed her way, she decided to immediately take charge. “I trust, my lord, that you’ve been finding the company entertaining?”
He waved noncommittally. “I admit I’ve refreshed my knowledge of the ladies currently gracing the ton. However, none incite my interest to the level you do.”
She arched her brows. “Because I’m Alverton’s countess?”
Child blinked. He hadn’t expected her to be so direct. “Well…”
“Tell me, my lord, for how long have you known my husband?”
He wasn’t pleased by the question, but replied, “Since we were infants, so essentially all our lives.”
“But of course, over the years, you and he lost touch.” She fixed Child with an inquiring look. “How would you describe the relationship between you and Devlin now?”
Child’s expression had grown increasingly impassive. “Why do you ask?”
She smiled, allowing a hint of her own intent to show in her eyes. “Quite obviously, because I would like to know.”
When she waited, her gaze on his face, he shifted fractionally, then offered, “I suppose we would still be considered friends—friends rather than close acquaintances, certainly.”
Again, she arched her brows. “Perhaps the sort of friends who understand each other without words?”
Guardedly, he nodded. “We were very close, once upon a time—all through our formative years, as it were.”
“Indeed. And friendships forged from childhood do tend to last, don’t they?” Before he could respond, she rolled on, “As you’ve yet to speak with your parents, you might not yet have heard how devoted I am to Devlin and all his works. Consequently, I take a real and natural interest in the return of a very old friend.” Let him read into that what he might. Still smiling, she tipped her head and studied him. “You are back to stay, aren’t you?”
The sudden shift in topic made him blink again. “That is my intention.”
“Excellent! In that case”—boldly, she took his arm and turned him toward the other guests—“allow me to assist you to further reconnect with society. It’s the least I can do for such an old friend of my husband’s.”
She felt the tension leap in the arm through which she’d wound hers, but she gave him no chance to break and run as, with a bright smile, she determinedly steered him to a group of five unmarried young ladies, all of whom were in their second or later year in society and, therefore, no longer expected to remain beside their mothers.
