Stroke of Genius by Emily Bryan Page B

changes I made in the thingamajig. Now I own three factories all cranking out cotton thread by the bale. We’ll branch into weaving the fabric next spring. Now, tell me, Washburn, what do you do?”
    Jasper dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. It wasn’t worth the effort to show he was affronted by the American calling him by Washburn, a name reserved only for his intimates. The man ought to call him “my lord” or Lord Washburn at the least. But haughty disdain was lost on this fellow.
    “Actually, my good sir, breeding is everything,” Jasper said. “In this country, a man is defined not by what he does, but by who he is. Suffice it to say, I am an English lord.”
    That should awe the bumpkin.
    “All right,” Makepeace said affably, “what does an English lord do?”
    How the man missed the point!
    “I have a large country estate and various business interests.” Neither of which were terrible healthy at the moment, but that was none of this American’s affair.
    “That must take some managing, I’d expect,” Makepeace said as he crammed another bite in his mouth.
    For someone who complained about the Vauxhall ham, Horace Makepeace was consuming quite a lot of it.
    “Actually, I have a staff and an agent who handles the day-to-day running of the estate and a man of business to see to my financial affairs.”
    What little there is of them.
    But that would soon change. All he need do was marry well. Jasper took a sip of the excellent vintage. Atleast the American knew how to choose a good French wine. He glanced down the table at the young Miss Makepeace. If her father was truly the captain of the cotton industry he claimed to be, the chit would come to the altar with a sizable dowry.
    “Trade is considered tawdry here,” Jasper went on to explain. “A gentleman does not work with his hands.”
    The corners of Makepeace’s mouth turned down as he digested this information. Then he turned to the far end of the table. “What about you, Hawke? What do you do?”
    “I work with my hands.” The commoner shot a cocky grin across the table and raised his goblet to Makepeace in a mock salute.
    Insufferable puppy.
    “Horace, dear,” Cousin Minerva said, patting her husband’s forearm, “I told you about Mr. Hawke, remember? He’s the famous sculptor.”
    Oh, that Mr. Hawke. This one would bear watching.
    “It appears I’m a tawdry tradesman and you work with your hands, Hawke.” Horace Makepeace’s belly jiggled with a laugh. “I guess that makes us no gentlemen.”
    “Guilty as charged,” Hawke agreed.
    “Mr. Hawke is doing a sculpture of our Grace,” Cousin Minerva said happily.
    Jasper blinked in surprise. The artist was notoriously exclusive and charged the earth for his work. He’d heard the bust done for Lord Finchley cost over 10,000 pounds and the damned thing looked just like him, hooked nose and all. Hiring Hawke was a pastime best indulged in by the truly well-heeled.
    If Horace Makepeace had engaged Crispin Hawke without even knowing it, he must really have the chinks.
    Jasper gave Cousin Grace a fresh perusal. The familial relationship was sufficiently distant not to be animpediment. And the breadth of the Atlantic would insure the family remained sufficiently distant as well once the nuptials were over.
    Grace was easy enough on the eyes, but if her seated height were anything to go by, she was a veritable giantess. She towered over his petite sister.
    Jasper was not an especially tall man. Dainty little morsels like that courtesan he’d chatted with earlier held more appeal for him.
    Pity he couldn’t afford her. But he might be able to once he married. Provided he married well.
    “I say, Makepeace.” Jasper leaned toward Cousin Horace with a friendly smile. “How would you like to bring the family out to visit my country estate?”
    It would also insure his cousin Grace was safely out of London before any other light-in-the-pockets lordlings learned a