Prologue
London
January 1823
“The debt is £1,000.”
Griffin Wright-Jones, Viscount Breckenridge, closed the book of accounts slowly, running his forefinger along the spine before he neatly squared it off so it was parallel to the edge of his desk. He set himself back just a fraction in his chair, inclining his back and resting his elbows on the wide, burnished leather arms. It was only then that he deigned to look up, one dark brow lifted in an expression of such mild curiosity that it could have been mistaken for indifference. He did not expect that the man standing at attention on the other side of the desk would make that error. Alastair Cole had too much at stake—£1,000, to be strictly accurate—to misjudge the situation.
“I admit that at long last you have impressed me,” Breckenridge said.
Alastair Cole said nothing. Did nothing.
“If you schooled your features so well at the table, you would have discharged this debt handily. Mayhap you would not have amassed it.”
“I will honor it, of course.”
“Of course.” Breckenridge paused deliberately, though not overlong. Still, it was enough time to observe Mr. Cole shift his weight ever so slightly from his right foot to his left. This infinitesimal movement was accompanied by a shift in Cole’s gaze. “You are a gentleman, after all,” Breckenridge said. “I would expect nothing less.”
“I am gratified you know it.”
Breckenridge nodded slowly. “Your reputation is important to you, I imagine.” He noticed that Alastair Cole did not flinch, but he did blink. Twice. Breckenridge’s hands closed soundlessly in an attitude of prayer. He pressed the tips of his fingers together, making a steeple of them as he continued to regard Cole, considering. “You will likewise be aware that my reputation is important to me.”
“My lord?”
Breckenridge was now quite certain that Cole’s voice box was as tautly stretched as his nerves. There had been an alarming squeak as the man had uttered these last words. Judging by the scarlet color that rose above the stiff points of Cole’s collar, he had heard it as well.
“I collect what is owed,” Breckenridge said. “That ismyreputation. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you will not take offense when I ask how you plan to cover your losses.” Breckenridge permitted himself a small smile at Cole’s discomfort. Clearly the young man was offended at having the question put to him—a gentleman was taken at his word, after all—but he also seemed to sense that a toplofty tantrum was an indulgence he could ill afford. Breckenridge held up one hand, palm out, forestalling Cole’s answer just as the man’s lips parted around the lie he was about to tell. “And, pray, do not say you mean to ask for an advance on your quarterly allowance. We both know that such a request is unlikely to be granted.”
Alastair Cole brought his fist to his mouth as he cleared his throat. “Pardon me, my lord. A tickle in my throat.”
Breckenridge watched Cole’s eyes drop briefly to the tumbler of whiskey on the desk and the decanter beside it, but he did not offer libation and Cole did not ask for it.
“Unless you are in possession of facts unknown to me,” Cole said, “I have every reason to anticipate my request will be met favorably.”
Breckenridge made no response save for raising his arched eyebrow a fraction higher.
“Areyou in possession of such facts?” Alastair Cole asked.
“I don’t believe so. I know what you know. Our opposing views suggest we interpret the facts differently.”
“I’m certain that is the case.”
Breckenridge thought Cole looked relieved. “I hope for your sake that you are in the right of it.” His expression remained unchanged as he added quietly, “You would not want to be wrong.”
Cole teetered slightly. The flush that had suffused his skin vanished, leaving him pale except for the sprinkling of freckles across his nose. “No, my lord. That is, I’mnotwrong.”
The viscount nodded. He dropped his hands to the arms of his chair. “Then I can expect payment tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
The soprano note of panic had returned to Alastair Cole’s voice. It required effort of will for Breckenridge not to wince. He consulted his gold fob watch instead. “It is long after midnight already,” he said. “I did not realize. In that case I will expect payment in the morning. I am given to late risings. It is the hours I keep, I suspect. Let us say eleven, shall we? Something less than twelve hours from now. That should be sufficient.”
“Eleven? I couldn’t possibly.”
