the difficult brother had come easy for him when he and Matson first went to Baltimore. And not from want of trying, that hadn’t changed since he’d returned to London. At the time, he and Matson didn’t know why, but their father had insisted they move to America and open Brentwood’s Sea Coast Ship Building Company for him. In England, it was unheard of for sons of a titled man to manage one of their father’s businesses, but no one gave it a second thought in America.
But Iverson and Matson were Englishmen through and through, and the new country couldn’t compete with their homeland. Their father had died, and they had gotten older. They wanted to move their business and settle in London.
At first, they had felt as if their father had placed them in exile, even though they had been given a generous allowance. It hadn’t been easy to accomplish anything in the new country. Because of continued tensions between the Americans and the British, Iverson and Matson had to hide their roots in British aristocracy. They worked twice as hard for every scrap of business they obtained. There wasn’t much time for their own pleasure, because they didn’t want to squander the opportunity to form a successful company. Over the course of time, he and his brother had developed a solution that had worked well for them—the good twin/bad twin scenario.
Growing up, Iverson had always been the daring and adventurous twin. He was the first to jump to conclusions and be ready to do battle. It just came naturally to him to be impatient, intense, and impulsive.
In business matters, Iverson would take on anyone and everyone, remaining firm on his stand, arguing his point, and sounding tough as steel when he asked for more than they wanted. He never budged an inch on the issue at hand. Matson would then come in after him, acting in a conciliatory and approachable way, willing to compromise for something less than Iverson had insisted on. Their strategy had worked to get exactly what they wanted almost every time. Now that their business was well established and flourishing, their customers happy, the antics of the earlier days were no longer necessary.
But Iverson’s demeanor hadn’t changed. He never backed down from a challenge, no matter the stakes, as when Lord Waldo had approached him in the taproom of the Harbor Lights Gentleman’s Club last autumn. The weak-kneed ninny had the gall to ask him why he looked so much like Sir Randolph Gibson.
Without thinking, Iverson had punched the man. It wasn’t that Iverson liked being a bullyrag, but sometimes that was the only thing that worked.
Iverson turned to step off the stoop, when he saw a gentleman hurrying up the walkway toward the house.
Sir Randolph Gibson.
Iverson tensed. Why was that dandy coming to Sir Phillip’s house?
Iverson had been introduced to Sir Randolph months ago at a ball. He was a tall, robust fellow with a thatch of silver hair that helped give him the appearance of a much-younger man. He was still quite dapper and dashing for a man well past his glory days.
They had seen each other at numerous parties around Town, but Iverson had never had a conversation with him. It seemed to be an unspoken truce between them that they left each other alone.
Iverson mentally started sorting through the snatches of conversations he’d heard about Sir Randolph Gibson. The old man was well respected and extremely well liked among the ton , especially with the widows. They could always count on him for a dance at the balls, afternoon rides in Hyde Park, or much-coveted invitations to sit with him in his opera box.
Iverson seldom saw the dandy without at least one of three cousins at his side: the Duke of Blakewell, the Marquis of Raceworth, or the Earl of Morgandale. Iverson and Matson had laughingly referred to them as his three puppet bodyguards. There was sensational gossip that the three had saved him from losing his wealth in such risky business ventures as a hot
But Iverson and Matson were Englishmen through and through, and the new country couldn’t compete with their homeland. Their father had died, and they had gotten older. They wanted to move their business and settle in London.
At first, they had felt as if their father had placed them in exile, even though they had been given a generous allowance. It hadn’t been easy to accomplish anything in the new country. Because of continued tensions between the Americans and the British, Iverson and Matson had to hide their roots in British aristocracy. They worked twice as hard for every scrap of business they obtained. There wasn’t much time for their own pleasure, because they didn’t want to squander the opportunity to form a successful company. Over the course of time, he and his brother had developed a solution that had worked well for them—the good twin/bad twin scenario.
Growing up, Iverson had always been the daring and adventurous twin. He was the first to jump to conclusions and be ready to do battle. It just came naturally to him to be impatient, intense, and impulsive.
In business matters, Iverson would take on anyone and everyone, remaining firm on his stand, arguing his point, and sounding tough as steel when he asked for more than they wanted. He never budged an inch on the issue at hand. Matson would then come in after him, acting in a conciliatory and approachable way, willing to compromise for something less than Iverson had insisted on. Their strategy had worked to get exactly what they wanted almost every time. Now that their business was well established and flourishing, their customers happy, the antics of the earlier days were no longer necessary.
But Iverson’s demeanor hadn’t changed. He never backed down from a challenge, no matter the stakes, as when Lord Waldo had approached him in the taproom of the Harbor Lights Gentleman’s Club last autumn. The weak-kneed ninny had the gall to ask him why he looked so much like Sir Randolph Gibson.
Without thinking, Iverson had punched the man. It wasn’t that Iverson liked being a bullyrag, but sometimes that was the only thing that worked.
Iverson turned to step off the stoop, when he saw a gentleman hurrying up the walkway toward the house.
Sir Randolph Gibson.
Iverson tensed. Why was that dandy coming to Sir Phillip’s house?
Iverson had been introduced to Sir Randolph months ago at a ball. He was a tall, robust fellow with a thatch of silver hair that helped give him the appearance of a much-younger man. He was still quite dapper and dashing for a man well past his glory days.
They had seen each other at numerous parties around Town, but Iverson had never had a conversation with him. It seemed to be an unspoken truce between them that they left each other alone.
Iverson mentally started sorting through the snatches of conversations he’d heard about Sir Randolph Gibson. The old man was well respected and extremely well liked among the ton , especially with the widows. They could always count on him for a dance at the balls, afternoon rides in Hyde Park, or much-coveted invitations to sit with him in his opera box.
Iverson seldom saw the dandy without at least one of three cousins at his side: the Duke of Blakewell, the Marquis of Raceworth, or the Earl of Morgandale. Iverson and Matson had laughingly referred to them as his three puppet bodyguards. There was sensational gossip that the three had saved him from losing his wealth in such risky business ventures as a hot
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