Free Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) by Sandra Dengler Page B

Butts was studying a hand-written sheet of heavy paper.
    As she topped off Mr. Butts’s cup her eyes dropped almost involuntarily to the paper. The script was Mr. Sloan’s hand, very largely written, no doubt to be read quickly and easily by an older man without his spectacles. The sheet mentioned the amount of a loan—a very large loan—and in a few telling words and phrases, none of them a coherent sentence, listed terms of repayment should the tea crop fail again. And if she interpreted the hieroglyphics rightly, it blatantly transferred ownership of the land to Mr. Sloan.
    She feigned disinterest and cut two more slices of coffee cake. She could hardly wait to hear how Mr. Butts would tell her employer where to discard this ridiculous offer.
    Mr. Sloan spoke first. “There are limits to my generosity; the title transfer there would be insurance for me. I’m happy to advance you the loan. Your tea plantation is nearly as important to me as it is to you, as we were just discussing. But should you ultimately go under, heaven forbid, I need some means to recoup at least part of my money. Once your land reverted to the bank I’d be left out completely. You understand.”
    “Absolutely. You’re quite wise to ask for title assurances. Were I to go bankrupt, my land would be tied up who knows how long. And you’d have to share the debt burden with the bank and my other creditors. You’d be lucky to come away with a few stray shillings on the pound. No, I agree. I want you covered.”
    “But you’re not going bankrupt. I have every confidence that your run of bad luck will end soon, if it hasn’t already.” Mr. Sloan extended his hand. “John, this is the beginning of your success; I feel it.”
    Mr. Butts positively glowed. He reached over, shook hands warmly with Mr. Sloan, and returned to his second piece of coffee cake. He waved his fork. “My accountant is going to howl, you know. He’ll say I’m giving away the farm.”
    “Does he realize how close to insolvency you are?”
    “Oh, yes. He advises selling out while I can.” Mr. Butts snorted. “And why shouldn’t he? It’s not his blood, sweat and tears that went into it. Draws his pay and goes home. If I were to sell out, he’d simply hire on with the next bloke. I’m foolish to struggle, I suppose, but my tea plantation means so much more to me than simply a business enterprise.”
    “I understand what you’re saying. I didn’t build up this cane patch and mill because I like a little sugar in my tea.”
    Mr. Butts laughed, and the fear and worry had fled his face. His shoulders were squared again, his head high. He was not the same man who had stood in the shadows under the porch a half hour before.
    After fifteen minutes more of happy small talk he left. Samantha saw him to the door and returned to the office, then started gathering up the dishes.
    “Sit down, Sam. You look tired.”
    She obeyed and within moments, found herself relaxing, melting back into a chair still warm from Mr. Butts’s presence.
    Mr. Sloan was studying her with a wry, bemused look on his face. “Butts didn’t notice you, but I did. You gave more than passing interest to that little offer I made him. So tell me: what do you think of it?”
    “None of me affair, sir.”
    “I know, I know. You’ve a quick mind, Sam; you’re capable. More than capable. Just for curiosity, I’d like to know what you think. So forget indentures and master-servant and such for a moment here. Tell me what you see.”
    Should she be a quiet, perfect little know-nothing servant, or should she answer truly, since he asked? One of the reasons she could never keep a position long was her honest mouth. It opened now almost against her wishes. “If the final agreement includes the terms on that draft, I cannae believe he’d sign it. In essence it hands his whole property over to ye.”
    “Have some tea and pour me another. You put Queen Victoria in the flowered pot and Fortnum in the blue