“I don’t believe I could have heard you correctly.”
Cole swallowed hard. The flush was back in his cheeks. “I require more time, my lord.”
“Do not keep it a secret, Mr. Cole. Out with it.”
“A day,” Cole said quickly. “A few days at the most.”
“A day? A few days? Which is it?”
“A few days.”
“Three? Four? Be specific, man.”
“Four.”
“Four days to secure an advance on your allowance seems excessive.”
“There are arrangements that must be made.”
Breckenridge considered this. “Travel arrangements, no doubt. In four days you could be in Liverpool. You could be in France.”
“No.” Alastair Cole shook his head vehemently. A lock of red-blond hair fell across his brow, making him look even younger than his twenty-one years. “That is not my intention. I swear to you, you shall have your money.”
“You would have me believe you are in earnest.”
“Iamin earnest.”
Breckenridge did not respond immediately. He allowed silence to fill the space until it became as thick and cold as day-old porridge. It was an underrated tool, silence. At least Breckenridge had always found it so. People were often discomfited by it. Society sought to fill the void with chatter and tattle, tongues wagging as they were wont to do. Alastair Cole struggled to remain upright under the weight of it. Breckenridge could see that he was worrying his lower lip, probably drawing blood. God’s truth, there should be blood, Breckenridge thought, when gentlemen made wagers beyond their means to pay. No exception could be made for youth or inexperience, both of which afflicted Alastair Cole.
“Very well,” said Breckenridge. “You shall have your four days. Mark it well in your mind that I mean to have my money by this hour on Thursday.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Alastair bobbed his head. “Thank you.”
“And what do you propose to exchange for the four days?”
“What?”
“Quid pro quo. You know the phrase, do you not? Recently come down from Cambridge as you have.”
“Something for something. Yes, I know it.” Alastair Cole pushed the wayward lock of hair back into place. “But I thought I explained myself. I don’t have the money now.”
“That has been made clear to me, but I don’t have four days to surrender to you without something in return.”
“You want interest? Is that it?”
“I’m not a bloody moneylender, Cole. This is business.” Breckenridge knew the impact his dark, remote gaze had on gentlemen of Alastair Cole’s ilk. He used it now, not at all disappointed with the result. Small beads of perspiration formed on Cole’s upper lip, glistening in the firelight when the young man turned his head. Breckenridge allowed his glance to drop to the ring Cole was wearing on his right hand. “Tell me about that bauble.”
Cole jerked as if pulled from a trance. “Bauble?” He followed Breckenridge’s line of sight to stare at his own hand. “The ring?” he asked weakly.
“Yes, of course, the ring.”
“It was my father’s.”
Breckenridge waved that response aside and bid Cole come closer. “An emerald. Very nice. Solidly square cut. Unimaginative but suggesting strength. I make it to be set in a bed of—what?—twenty diamond chips?”
“Twenty-one,” Alastair said on a thread of sound.
“I see. Not at all the usual thing. Meant to mark an anniversary?”
