The King of Threadneedle Street Read Online Free PDF

palm to his mouth and kissed it with a pull of his lips, leaning into her hand as though it were her face he held. She felt the brush of his tongue and a nibble with his teeth as he moved along each of her fingers.
    Heat crawled from her core to the roots of her hair. He was being rather indecent with her fingers, and she had no idea what to do about it. Mercy, what he could suggest with his mouth!
    He sucked the tip of her little finger into his mouth, playing with it. He pulled it from his lips to make a popping sound, adding a villainous bounce of his eyebrows. Never serious for long.
    Regardless, Andrew had successfully disarmed her. She sighed, irked he could manipulate her so easily.
    At least he quit badgering her with questions. They rode in silence the remaining few miles to Mill’s Hill. Andrew left her at the milliner’s shop, where she waited twenty minutes past the time he had promised to fetch her. She sat with half a dozen parcels at her feet, contemplating riding back to Ashton alone when Andrew strode into the shop in a flurry of commotion.
    No, he was calm. It was Marsden, his valet, and a crowd of six or so agitated men trailing after him who caused the ruckus.
    “Oh, sorry, Lisa. Ready?” He eyed the boxes on the floor and was jostled by an elbow belonging to a twitchy, gaunt man in a plain brown suit and spectacles. He carried a book and pen, as did the others. Andrew shoved back and glared a warning at the man, who backed away while trying peer over Andrew’s shoulder.
    “Just one, ye please, guv?” said another from the crowd, his pen poised to write.
    “Fire insurance for Rome,” Andrew groused, then turned to pick up the largest of Alysia’s packages. “What is all this?”
    “Ask your sister,” Alysia answered while trying not to stare at the strange men.
    “This is ridiculous. Here.” He dropped three boxes into the arms of an unsuspecting follower, whose book and pen fell to the floor. Andrew turned to his valet. “Marsden, call a cab for these. I am not riding home with half of all the lace in Paris.”
    “Lace? Paris?” came muttering from the crowd of men. Clerks, by their appearance, and Londoners by their accents. Why were they hounding Andrew and scrutinizing his every word?
    Andrew led Alysia by the elbow out of the shop ahead of the crowd. “We are going to take tea at Hamilton’s, all right? I need a moment longer with Marsden; we want to wire the Exchange today before it closes.” He paused. “Oh. Alysia, you remember Marsden? Marsden, my dear friend Miss Villier.”
    His hurried introduction was the last she understood of his speech for the next several minutes. At first she wondered if he was speaking in a foreign language to Marsden, then noticed the two were comparing notes from small pocket ledgers. The crowd of clerks trailed close behind, eager to overhear the hushed conversation. Alysia chuckled at Andrew’s coded phrases. Even his written notes were encrypted.
    “Pickles, hemp, washboard: what were the returns?”
    Marsden flipped a page in his ledger. “Only a kneecap. Waist-high, and collarbone plus elbow.”
    “Fine. Hold only washboard, then. Sell the others.”
    “Sell! Sell washboard!” one of the clerks murmured, and they all scratched it into their books and in turn scratched their heads.
    “When?” Marsden asked seriously, unbothered.
    “Who has folded so far?”
    “Buster, Geisha, that is all.”
    Andrew rubbed his chin. “Not Achilles? No? Then wait until Coldsday.”
    “Coldsday!” The group echoed. “What trio of stocks had two poor returns and one profit?” came one of their voices. “Grain? No, not commodities. The railway? Steamers?” Another chided, “No, Preston never matches them by industry — it could be any combination.” A chorus of grumbles answered the last comment.
    During a short lull, Alysia dared whisper, “Do they have any idea what you mean?”
    “Not at all,” Andrew answered. “And we change it every