“I do.” Brandt’s face took on the same satisfied look as a well-fed cat’s.
They entered the dining room, handsomely furnished with a rich mahogany table and chairs upholstered in tufted red velvet. Jack reached for a small bell sitting on a silver tray in the middle of the table and rang for Mrs. Wilson. Then he picked up a crystal decanter of whiskey from the same tray and poured two glasses. He slid one of the glasses across to Brandt and sat down.
“Tell me.” Jack lifted the whiskey to his lips and then paused, thinking better of it. He’d already consumed two drinks without a morsel of food in his stomach.
Brandt dropped into his chair and stretched his legs across the table. “Percival Jebkin of Jebkin and Jebkin. He’s the weak link.”
“Do you own him yet?”
“Sure do. All it took was a few glasses of brandy and a little encouragement.” Brandt reached into his pocket and withdrew a small knife. Closing one eye, he aimed at a pile of fresh fruit arranged on a silver pedestal bowl that stood on the table. Finding his target, he threw the knife. It landed in the center of an orange, splitting the flesh with a clean cut and releasing a faint burst of citrus fragrance into the air. Brandt pushed himself up and grabbed the knife’s handle, pulling the weapon and catch toward him. “Darn fool. Thirty years old and still works as a law clerk for his pa.”
“He’s not a solicitor yet? What do the two Jebkins stand for then?”
“His older brother was a partner in the firm until he broke his neck riding at his country estate four months ago.”
“Damn!” Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “Now, the pressure is on Percival, I presume.”
“That’s right.” Brandt yanked the knife from the orange and put the fruit to his lips.
“Did you ring for me, sir?” Mrs. Wilson stood in the doorway, eyeing Brandt, who drained the juice from the orange like a ravenous vampire.
“Yes, could you bring us some ale and a bit of luncheon? Nothing fancy. A couple of boiled eggs, some bacon, and a few slices of bread and butter will do.”
“Right away, sir.” She nodded and retreated with one last terrified glance at Brandt.
“You frighten her,” Jack said.
“Who? Wilson?”
“Yes, Wilson. Try to remember we’re no longer in the American West. This is Mayfair, and we have to act the part.”
Brandt wiped his dripping chin on his sleeve, and Jack winced. “Don’t worry.” He smirked. “I know how to be a gentleman when the situation calls for it. How else do you think I accomplished all I did this week?”
“Tell me more.” Jack leaned forward.
“So far, Percival’s been nothing but a disappointment to his daddy, so it’s real important for him to prove himself now. If he doesn’t, his pa will sell up when he’s ready to retire, and Percival will have to go on working as a law clerk in someone else’s firm.”
“He told you that?”
Brandt nodded and picked up his whiskey glass. “He’s hoppin’ mad, and it makes him partial to drink. Thinks his pa unfairly favored his brother.”
“Where does he do his gambling?”
“He favors Boise’s Gentlemen’s Club because it’s easy on credit. The place is full of the entitled, wayward sons and nephews of wealthy merchants and Lords. The club owner knows their families will pay up when they owe.”
“But not Mr. Jebkin?”
“That’s the impression I got. Seems his pa has warned him to lay off the gambling more than once. Percival was shakin’ in his boots, thinking how to scare up the money to pay his debt.”
“Sounds like he’s easily intimidated and will give us what we want.”
“He’s as yellow as a baby chick.”
“How much did he lose?”
“Fifteen hundred pounds.”
Jack whistled. “What’s his game of choice?”
