Perhaps that was what Mrs. Brougham meant when she’d said Charles was a different man to his father—that he had the chance to bring light and happiness to Penham…
Now that Charles had married his own little misfit.
He thrust his hands into his pockets and followed the path towardthe park gates. Not long now and he’d be on his way back to her.
“I say! Devereaux!”
He glanced along the street to see his banker striding toward him.
“Ithoughtit was you. What are you doing in London still? Now the papers have been signed, I assumed you’d be anxious to return to the country.”
“Lord Devereaux leaves tomorrow, Mr. Coutts,” John said. “He’s just taking the air today.”
“Quite right, given that this has been the only fine day all week.” Coutts gestured along the road. “Care to join me? My club’s not far. I was going that way for a brandy with Mr. Drummond.”
Charles shook his head.
“I’ll stand your drinks if that’s your concern. I can afford to be generous.”
Since when has a banker exhibited generosity?
John let out a snort, and the banker stared at Charles’s hands.
“I take it you harbor a degree of cynicism when it comes to recognizing the generosity of men in my profession,” he said, “but a banker can afford to be generous toward a client who has just deposited ten thousand in his account. Your man would, of course, also be welcome as my guest. The other members are hardly likely to object, given that my bank’s issued loans to most of them, including the chair of the membership committee.”
Charles raised his eyebrows and glanced at John.
“Come, come, Devereaux,” Coutts said. “Your man is eager for you to accept on his behalf. Stranger things have happened at White’s. Did you know that Viscount de Blanchard brought a doxy into the clubroom in a gentleman’s garb claiming that she was his nephew? Most members would have called out a gentleman for having the audacity to bring a woman through the front door of White’s. But I’m not an advocate of dueling, and I came to the conclusion that the poor woman deserved a little reward for having to endure De Blanchard’scompany.”
“Does de Blanchard bank with you, Mr. Coutts?” John asked.
The banker shook his head. “While it’s my business to make a profit from issuing loans, and the greater the risk of repayment, the higher the premium”—he glanced at Charles—“I’m an astute enough businessman to understand that some risks are simply not worth taking when the probability of repayment is slightly less than the probability of Sir Heath Moss joining a monastery. Forgive me, I trust neither gentleman is a friend of yours.”
Quite the opposite.
John conveyed Charles’s response, and Coutts chuckled. “That settles it. You must join me for a brandy to wish you a safe journey back to your wife.”
White’s was only a short walk from the entrance to Hyde Park, as was Foxton’s London residence. Unsurprisingly, Foxton himself was settled in a corner of the clubroom, glass in hand, surrounded by sycophantic young men eager to ingratiate themselves with a duke. Doubtless he was rarely required to pay for a round of drinks in the clubroom.
The duke glanced up as Charles entered, raised his glass in salute, then resumed his conversation. Coutts led Charles and John to a quiet corner away from the rest of the members.
“Myvery superiorusual please, Samuel,” he said to an approaching footman, “and the same for my two friends.”
The footman raised his eyebrows, gave a conspiratorial wink, then bowed and slipped away.
“I have a special bottle of Hennessy set aside here,” Mr. Coutts said. “Very Superior Old Pale—some newfangled style. The name’s something of an affectation, but it’s smoother on the palate, so in that respect it lives up to its overly grand description. It was produced at the request of the regent himself, though I daresay he’d have me incarcerated in the Tower if he knew I’d got my hands on a bottle. Itrust it will make your entering White’s with me worth your while.”
Not if it’s like all other brandy in that it tastes like horse’s piss.
John quirked his mouth into a smile and the banker laughed.
“I may not understand your gestures, Devereaux, but I take it your cynicism is coming to the fore again? If the brandy’s not to your taste, I’m sure your man will drink yours for you.”
The footman returned with three glasses on a salver. He bowed with reverence, as if he carried the regent’s jewels, then watched as the three men took up their glasses and took sips.
The liquid burst with flavor on Charles’s tongue, giving none of the harshness of strong liquor. He closed his eyes to savor the taste, then swallowed, letting it slip down his throat, radiating warmth through his body.
Devil’s breeches, that was good.
