He’d spent the afternoon and evening holding the hand of a reluctant investor who could not see the benefit of sinking his fortune into a passenger railway system. Hauling coal and iron he could understand—inanimate objects could not complain over rough terrain and belching smoke. No civilized persons would consent to being loaded aboard a train like cattle, and so he had said. Over and over. Simon had plied the man with drink and a rich dinner, but had failed to part him with his money. Add to that this morning’s fight with Lucy and the worrisome news MacTavish gave him as he crossed the threshold, and Simon was in sore need of comfort. And not apt to receive any from his mistress, who was still, apparently, carrying on with Lord Percival Ferguson. Faugh. What had Lucy ever seen in the earl? The answer was distressingly obvious. Even though Ferguson had lost the money he had lured Lucy with, she still had feelings for him. According to MacTavish, she’d embraced him in the garden and let him wipe her tears away—tears of misery that she was forced to be with Simon now, no doubt.
