Coutts raised his glass in salute, then leaned back in his chair as the three men fell into a companionable silence—preferable to the inane chatter of Society any day, and certainly preferable to whatever conversation Foxton was indulging in with his friends.
“Well, well, well!” a voice said. “You’re the last man I expected to seehere.”
Charles glanced up to see Sir Heath Moss.
If ever a man epitomized the theory that beauty on the outside was matched with a black heart within, it was the man standing before him.
“Don’t trouble yourself to get up,” Sir Heath said. “I’ve no intention of joining you. I’m not a man to fraternize withtradesmen.”
Coutts curled his lips in a smile. “Is that because you’re in debt to most of them?” he said. “I flatter myself in not being among your numerous creditors. Mr. Drummond is to be pitied—you bank with him, I believe?”
“I say, old chap,” Sir Heath said, his eyes glittering with spite. “Commerce is hardly an appropriate subject for a gentlemen’sclubroom. But one can hardly expect you to engage in appropriate conversation, given the company you’re keeping. Perhaps the club secretary should hear of this. He’s a personal friend of mine.”
“And a client of mine,” Coutts said, sounding bored. “Which reminds me, the coupon on his bond is due for payment.”
Sir Heath’s expression hardened, then he glanced at John. “I suppose fraternizing with tradesmen is the lesser sin compared to fraternizing with those whose place is below stairs.”
Coutts’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on his brandy glass. “My late wife was of humble origins.”
“I meant no offense,” Sir Heath said. “At least you had the discernment to refrain from marrying a girl stained by illegitimacy. Every man has his level, but I fear had you married someone’snatural daughter, your bank would not have enjoyed the level of success is has to date. Which reminds me…”
He turned to Charles and gave him a broad smile, revealing large, white, even teeth—teeth that Charles itched to loosen with his fist.
“How is that wife of yours, Devereaux?” Sir Heath nodded to Coutts. “I happened across Lady Devereaux—Miss Whitcombe, as she was then—in an extraordinary position with Devereaux on a balcony. It was nearing the end of the Season, when unattached young women succumb to their desperation, so perhaps that accounts for it. Ingenuity in a woman is to be applauded when she devises stratagems to snare a marriage partner, and a woman of questionable birth has an even greater need for…”
His voice trailed away as Charles leaped to his feet and grasped Sir Heath’s throat, turning his body such that his actions were not visible to the other occupants in the clubroom.
Sir Heath opened his mouth, but nothing came out save a strained gasp.
Speak ill of my wife again, and I’ll ensure you never speak again.
As if he could read Charles’s mind, the arrogance in Sir Heath’seyes disappeared, replaced by the raw, base terror of the bully being bested by his victim.
“Y-your wife…” he began, and Charles tightened his grip, pressing his thumb against the other man’s throat.
Go on, you blackguard, I dare you to say it. I only need tighten my grip a little more to end your life.
Sir Heath let out a low moan and Charles lowered his gaze to the man’s breeches, where a dark stain was spreading across the fabric, moving down one leg.
Clearly Sir Heath’s valet dressed his master to the left.
“C-Coutts, aren’t you going to…” Sir Heath croaked, but the banker merely took another sip of his brandy and turned his attention to Charles’s valet.
“Mr. Richards, I trust the brandy is to your taste,” he said, “even if the company’s a little lacking. There’s little I can do about the former, of course, but much can be done to deal with the latter.”
“I believe Lord Devereaux has the matter in hand,” John said, with a smile. “You need have no concern regarding the brandy, which is particularly fine.”
“I’ll have my clerk send you a bottle, seeing as you display such discernment. Of course”—Coutts glanced at Sir Heath, whose face was turning a shade of puce—“some fellows have such little understanding of true discernment that I fear they’ll never be satisfied with their lot—neither will they understand the difference between good and evil, nor have the good grace to apologize for their transgressions.”
Sir Heath glanced toward Coutts then back at Charles.
“I-I apologize…” he sputtered.
Charles released him, and Sir Heath grasped his throat, drawing breath.
What for?
Sir Heath glanced at Charles’s hands.
