Charlie folded his arms, leaned back in his chair, and flicked a faintly irritated glance at Martin. “None of our business, really. Not once we’re no longer part owners.”
Blackwell seized the opening. “Just so.” He fixed his pale gaze on Sophy. “Let me worry about the future. There’s plenty of time to work out the details. From all I’ve heard, Carmichael Steelworks is a nicely profitable business.”
Sophy nodded. “Indeed, it is. And of course, being a businessman, you’ll ensure it remains so.” She returned Blackwell’s gaze. “Won’t you?”
Blackwell’s previous uncertainty had faded; he was confident that he had her—and Edward’s and Charlie’s—measure. “Once the steelworks passes into my hands, if it continues to be profitable, well and good. But you must understand it will need to hold its own within my portfolio of properties.” His features shifted into what, for him, was presumably a reassuring smile. “As long as the rate of return on my invested capital is as high or higher than my other enterprises, then why would I make any dramatic changes?”
Sophy smiled back, but almost immediately, the expression faded, transforming into a puzzled frown. “Your other enterprises… What are they?”
She appeared to be genuinely interested and not at all antagonistic; with such thespian skills, she could, Martin felt, have graced any stage.
Blackwell didn’t hesitate to explain, “As I mentioned earlier, my principal interest is in building houses for workers. In my experience, rather than investing directly in manufacturing industries, there’s considerably more profit to be had through providing housing for the workers required to run such businesses.”
“As you do in London, Birmingham, Nottingham, and Manchester?” Martin pushed away from the wall and prowled to stand by Sophy’s shoulder.
Blackwell’s eyes tracked him, then Blackwell’s expression hardened. He nodded curtly. “Exactly.”
Immediately, Blackwell returned his gaze to Sophy, then he looked at Edward and, lastly, at Charlie. “Right, then. That’s enough talk of the business. Miss Carmichael, gents. If we’re to do any deal, I suggest we start talking numbers.”
Sophy held up a finger. “Just so we’re clear, Mr. Blackwell. Am I correct in thinking that you have no genuine interest in ensuring that Carmichael Steelworks has a future as a going concern? Specifically, as a steelworks?”
Her tone remained even, giving Blackwell no hint of what answer she wished to hear.
Sophy didn’t give him a chance to think. Leaning forward, in a voice devoid of judgment, positive or negative, she said, “It’s just that wiping out a business that generates a tidy profit and employs so many workers in order to build housing, which, after construction, doesn’t employ anyone and is completely nonproductive, so to speak, doesn’t make a great deal of sense to me.”
Her delivery left Blackwell having to guess whether she was asking for further enlightenment or criticizing his proposal. He glanced at Edward and Charlie, clearly hoping one or the other would come to his aid, but they remained blank-faced and silent.
Sophy waved dismissively, drawing Blackwell’s gaze back to her. “If you can’t sway me, then what they say doesn’t matter. I hold the controlling interest in Carmichael Steelworks.”
She’d made the statements sound like a challenge, and praise be, Blackwell rose to the lure. “In that case,” he said, “perhaps the profits that my supposedly ‘nonproductive’ housing will generate might overcome your resistance.”
Sophy sat back and arched a brow. “And those are?”
Eyes narrowing, Blackwell declared, “I would put up six-story buildings across the entire combined site.” He leaned forward, and his pale gaze glimmered with avaricious zeal. “At the opening rental rate, that will generate upward of a thousand pounds a month. And as the town expands and more workers stream in and the demand for housing grows, I’ll put up the rents.” He glanced at Martin. “My projection for the monthly take in five years’ time is at least ten thousand pounds.”
Sophy blinked. “Good Lord!” The exclamation was weak.
Taking that to mean he’d dazzled her with the monetary possibilities, Blackwell shifted his gaze to Martin and nodded. “I’ve heard you’re a businessman and a pretty ruthless and successful one, too.” He tipped his head toward Sophy. “You should have a word with your fiancée and ensure she sees the light. After all, once the pair of you tie the knot, what’s hers becomes yours.” He paused, then looked at Sophy and smiled intently. “And then it won’t matter what she thinks.”
Sophy stiffened.
Before she could explode, Martin spoke, reclaiming Blackwell’s attention. “In all honesty, Blackwell, I see no reason to attempt to change Miss Carmichael’s mind. Her reservations regarding your housing proposal seem entirely well-founded. Because of course”—he stepped back and, reaching out, drew open the concealed door in the paneling—“there’s more to being a part of Sheffield or, indeed, any town than simply owning land or a business, no matter how profitable.”
Through the doorway thus revealed, a procession of people filed into the boardroom. Blackwell’s eyes flared in shocked surprise. As well-dressed gentlemen and ladies continued to walk in, all leveling censorious looks at him, his features fell slack, his expression blanking.
The town’s luminaries, dignitaries, and most prominent businessmen had turned out in force. Thanks to Sophy’s grandmother, even the major hostesses were there.
Martin moved down the long table to stand at its end as the tide of influential, important, and distinguished locals continued to flood in. The police commissioner and Inspector Curtin were among the crowd, but kept to the rear. They were there to act as official witnesses and representatives of the law if required. Oliver, a non-local, hung back as well. Among the last to appear was the lord mayor, with his chain of office glinting on his chest.
Keeping unnervingly mum, the company fanned out, filling the room to either side of the long table and lining up behind it, standing along the wall. Given that all who had answered the call were determined to keep their eyes on Blackwell’s face, despite the room’s size, the assembled throng settled in densely packed ranks with their gazes trained on him.
Blackwell clenched his jaw; although beyond that, his features didn’t appreciably alter, Martin sensed he was exceedingly wary.
When the last gentleman through the connecting door closed it and the shuffle of footsteps faded, Blackwell—transparently aware that he was well and truly out of his depth—glanced at Edward. “What’s this?” For the first time, there was an edge of nervousness in his tone.
Stone-faced, Edward simply stared back.
No one else volunteered an answer.
