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insane.
    Yesterday’s call on Sophie had been another fiasco. He had fully intended to initiate the courtship of his future wife, and had lost his temper instead.
    As she had lost her temper with him. Not that he could blame her for that. After all, he had threatened to put her over his knee and spank her. Aunt Eleanor’s poorly timed amusement, along with her knowing jests about his rakish reputation, hadn’t helped. He loved the old termagant, but she so often reminded him of his grandfather—loud, imperious, and unfortunately blunt.
    Obviously, neither Sophie nor his aunt would make this courtship a tidy affair he could wrap up in a few days.
    “I beg your pardon, my lord. Did you say something?”
    Soames asked.
    “No. Please continue.” Simon waved a hand at his business agent, who frowned at him from across the gateleg table crowded with documents and architectural drawings. Any thoughts about Sophie, or his erratic courtship, would have to wait for another time.
    “As you wish, my lord.” Soames resumed his detailed explanation of the resources needed to establish the new mills in Leeds.
    Simon listened, all his instincts focused on the challenge. The timing was perfect. The bubble of 1814 had brought many investors to their knees, but not him. Steadily and quietly, he had been buying one mill after another. If he could establish a partnership with Russell, he would exercise control over the trade of wool throughout much of England and the Continent. And control—both in life and in business—was everything.
    Of course, it was necessary to conceal the magnitude of his commercial dealings from all but a few of his friends and family. Most of them wouldn’t understand his passion for making money, or his need to do something more than lead a life of noble indolence. His Aunt Eleanor, for one, would recoil in disgust at his crass talent for creating wealth, as would have his long-dead grandfather. Money was vulgar, and a St. James was never vulgar. That philosophy had been drummed into Simon’s head by the old earl and by most every other member of the family from the moment he had been old enough to talk. The ancient ways were best, they said, a life tied to the land, and to the traditions that had stood fast for generations.
    It set his teeth on edge just thinking about it—about the sheer, mind-numbing sameness of that aristocratic way of life. No. He needed the challenge of manipulating the numbers and playing the game. Feeling the thrill when one of his ships returned from the Orient or the Americas, loaded down with riches that would allow him to best his competitors. Without that stimulation he would go mad with boredom.
    And the old ways were dying. He was certain of that. Any man with a brain realized that England’s future lay not with the land, but with the wheels and engines of commerce.
    Soames shoved a pile of ledgers to the end of the table, unrolling the architectural drawings for the mills.
    “My lord, I’d like to draw your attention to a potential flaw in Mr. Russell’s plans. I wonder if his architect miscalculated the amount of space required for the looms.”
    Simon squinted at the drawings. Light barely seeped through the rain-spattered windows of his rented lodgings in Milsom Street.
    “What’s the time, Soames?”
    “Going on four o’clock, sir.”
    “Shouldn’t Russell be here by now?”
    “Any moment, my lord. He was riding in from Bristol this afternoon.”
    Simon retrieved a branch of candles from the polished mahogany sideboard and placed it in the center of the table. The tapers cast a soft nimbus of light over the architect’s drawings, but the rest of the handsomely appointed room faded into shadows.
    He immediately saw the problem.
    “There’s barely enough space for one man to pass between the machines—let alone thirty, moving from loom to loom.” He tapped the drawing as he calculated the costs of the mistake. “Does the architect have the slightest idea