Page 7 of A Duke Reformed (Icy Dukes #3)

CHAPTER FOUR

T he moment Solomon stepped into the ballroom of Walford House, the room seemed to shift.

Conversations faltered, heads turned, and then.

.. almost imperceptibly, the crowd parted.

It wasn't a welcoming gesture. It was avoidance, subtle but deliberate.

Lords who had been laughing moments ago now found sudden interest in their glasses of brandy.

Merchants who had been huddled in discussion turned their backs, their voices dropping to whispers.

Even the servants seemed to skirt around him, as though his very presence were a disruption.

It was as if everyone had the same opinion of him.

As if they thought he was a man to be feared, and avoided at all costs.

Solomon emitted a soft sigh and lifted his head. He didn't flinch. He had expected this. After all, he wasn't one of them... not really. To them, he was an outsider. A curiosity. A threat.

"Good, you're right on time."

Solomon turned to his side and relief washed over him when he saw Andrew. He greeted him with a slight nod, and Andrew did the same.

"Do they never get tired of doing that?" Solomon asked, his voice low as he scanned the faces in the room. The other lords were still avoiding his gaze, their conversations carefully angled away from him.

"Doing what?" Andrew asked.

"This," Solomon said, gesturing subtly to the crowd. "The whispering, the sideways glances, the way they act like I am after their lives. It's exhausting."

Andrew chuckled. "Ah, that. Well, you must admit, you don't exactly make it easy for them, Duke."

Solomon frowned. "What do you mean?"

Andrew gave him a knowing look before leaning in slightly "You are not a polite man, Solomon.

You know this. I've told you before. You don't try to sound polite, you're blunt, direct, and you don't bother with the flattery and false niceties that these men thrive on.

It makes them uncomfortable. And when people are uncomfortable, they avoid the source of their discomfort. "

Solomon scoffed. "Name one time I have done anything to make them uncomfortable?"

Andrew raised an eyebrow, amused. "One time? Very well. Let's start with White's. Last month, when Lord Barrington was holding court in the smoking room, boasting about his brilliant investment in that failing shipping company, what did you do, Your Grace?"

Solomon paused to think back. "He was throwing money into a sinking ship. That's not a smart investment. In addition, that company had been under investigation for fraud for months. It didn't speak well of him that he didn't do his due diligence before making such investments."

"Exactly," Andrew said. "The problem wasn't that you were wrong, Solomon. The problem was that you said it out loud. In front of everyone. I recall Lord Barrington turned redder than the upholstery on those chairs."

"Hewasbeing swindled," Solomon said defensively. "I saved him from losing a fortune."

"But you also humiliated him in front of his peers," Andrew said to him. "And that is just one example. You had a reputation long before you even came to London to do business and one thing about London is that gossip spreads."

Solomon's jaw tightened as he absorbed Andrew's words.

He knew his friend was right, but that didn't make it any easier to hear.

Even though he was raised without a title, he had worked to ensure his success.

He had started from the bottom, clawing his way up through sheer determination.

By the time he was in his twenties, he had built a reputation as a shrewd and ruthless businessman outside of London, one who could turn failing ventures into profitable enterprises with a few well-placed investments and a lot of hard work.

Even lords had come to him for advice, though they rarely admitted it publicly.

But now that he was a titled man, his reputation had shifted. The same qualities that had earned him respect in the world of business were seen as flaws in the eyes of the ton .

"Well, I am working on that. I have a plan," Solomon revealed.

"Good," Andrew said.

The room was filled with the ton's most ambitious men.

Merchants, industrialists, and aristocrats alike all vying for the opportunity of a lifetime.

They were chattering amongst themselves, laughing and engaging each other in heated conversations.

But Solomon wasn't here to mingle. He was here to win.

At the front of the room, a long table had been set up, its surface covered with stacks of papers and ledgers.

Behind it sat a stern-looking man in his fifties, his spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose as he reviewed the documents in front of him.

Solomon knew the man as Mr. Neeson, the Duke of Walford's solicitor and the man who had been tasked to oversee the night's auction.

The Duke of Walford himself was notably absent.

Known for being a recluse, he rarely attended such events, preferring to leave the details to his trusted advisors.

But his influence was felt nonetheless. The opportunity to work with him in Northern England, a region ripe for industrial development was a prize worth fighting for. A price Solomon intended to claim.

Solomon and Andrew stood in a quiet corner of the ballroom. Andrew leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed, while Solomon stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp gaze fixed on the front of the room where Mr. Neeson was preparing to begin the auction.

"So, do you have a good feeling about the auction?" Andrew asked. "I know you have done business with men like Walford before. Does that give you an edge, or are you just hoping it goes well?"

"Hoping it goes well is for gamblers, Andrew.

I don't leave things to chance. Walford's lands in Northern England are a unique opportunity, but they also present a challenge.

The soil is rich, yes, but the infrastructure is outdated, and the local economy has been stagnant for decades.

Most of these men..." he paused and gestured subtly toward the crowd.

"... they see only the potential for profit.

They don't understand the complexities of revitalizing a region like this.

But it is promising, I'll tell you that.

The possibility of success is high and if all goes well. .."

"The winner of this auction would become an even richer man," Andrew said, completing his statement. "But are you confident about the region? Are you certain that it is ripe for development?"

Solomon glanced at him then turned his attention back to Neeson.

"I have spent the last three months analyzing every aspect of Walford's assets.

I have studied the crop yields, the trade routes, even the demographics of the local population.

The key isn't just to extract wealth from the land, it's to create a sustainable system that benefits everyone.

Investors and the local people. Improved roads to facilitate trade, investments in new farming techniques, and incentives for local artisans to expand their reach.

That's how you turn a promising region into a thriving market. "

Andrew studied him for a moment, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Solomon noticed this and he paused, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.

"What?"

"You sound like a man who's already won."

Solomon kept a straight face. "Oh, but I will. I don't play losing games, Andrew."

Andrew couldn't help but chuckle. "Is this why you have succeeded where others have failed? How you built a thriving business for yourself despite your upbringing?"

Solomon clenched his jaw and mellowed a bit as memories from his past crossed his mind.

"When you start with nothing, you learn to see opportunities where others see obstacles.

You learn to plan ten steps ahead because you can't afford to lose.

Every decision, every risk, every move, it's all calculated. There's no room for error."

Andrew's smile waned and he shook his head. "You make it sound so simple."

"Oh, well." Solomon sighed. "It's far from that."

As the auctioneer called for the next contender to present their proposal, Solomon straightened his shoulders, his concentration narrowing to a razor's edge.He waited his turn and as soon as he turned in his proposal, he said goodbye to Andrew and made his way back to his estate.

Once Solomon stepped into the grand foyer of his estate,he began unbuttoning his coat, ready to call it a day. The faint scent of beeswax and polished wood greeted him as he handed his hat and gloves to the butler, who stood waiting.

"Welcome home, Your Grace," the butler said, bowing. "A letter arrived for you earlier this afternoon. I took the liberty of placing it on the hall table."

"A letter?" Solomon frowned. "From whom?"

"It was addressed to you from Lockhart," he answered.

Lockhart...

"Ah," Solomon gasped. "That would be the Viscount's residence... The Lockhart residence?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

Solomon nodded, his gaze flicking to the small silver tray where the letter lay. He had not expected a letter from Emma, but he was pleased that she had taken initiative.

"Thank you, Jeffries," he said, picking up the letter as he began to climb the staircase toward his study.

He broke the seal as he walked, unfolding the letter. The first thing he noted was how elegant Emma's handwriting was. He could almost hear her voice as he read.

"His Grace, the Duke of Montclaire,

I trust this letter finds you in good health and spirits.

As per our previous discussion, I have taken the liberty of arranging our first lesson in etiquette for tomorrow evening at your residence. Shall we say five o'clock? I trust your staff will ensure the drawing room is prepared for our purposes.

I look forward to our discourse and trust it will prove enlightening.

Yours sincerely,

Miss Emma Lockhart."

Solomon scoffed. "So direct," he mumbled, folding the letter back and tucking it gently into his pocket.