“What interesting company you keep, sir,” Emerson murmured.
The captain quickly dropped back into his chair and took up his whiskey.
Emerson turned his attention to Ben’s former companion.
Stockton’s cravat was loosened, and his waistcoat askew. He attempted to rise but managed only a half sneer. “Well, if it isn’t the Honorable Mr. Massey. And”—his bleary gaze slid past Ben to Emerson—“the bastard Whitmore. How very…unexpected.”
Beside him, Shufflebottom rose with unhurried grace, his smile far more dangerous than Stockton’s drunken smirk. “Ah, Mr. Whitmore.” He inclined his head, mock courtesy dripping from every syllable, belying the ruffles adorning his wrists and cravat. “I believe I recognize you from the depths of my office.”
Emerson felt Ben’s curious gaze, but Emerson didn’t take his own from the worst of the peerage Emerson could recall. And that was saying something, given his feelings regarding all of nobility.
“I now realize the jewel you held in your arms was the delectable Lady Stanford. All that glorious hair…”
Emerson’s fists tightened so fiercely, his knuckles cracked. He took a step forward, but Ben’s hand gripped his upper arm. “Not here,” he murmured.
But crossing boundaries appeared to be the marquis’s method of aggravation. “Boodle’s grows quite the colorful company of late,” the marquis said.
Taking heed of Ben’s subtle warning—of which Emerson promised to revisit at a later time—he loosened his shoulders and flexed his fingers. He glanced at Stockton, so tempted to offer his own knowledge in the disaster befalling the idiotic upstart. But to do so would put Rose in more danger than she was already in and would force a cold stop in locating his blackmailer.
Clearly, the fact that Stockton was in Shufflebottom’s orbit explained the rumors of debts more clearly than any scrap of paper ever could. Stockton might be drowning, but Shufflebottom was the man pressing his head beneath the water.
Ben inclined his head coolly. “My lord. Stockton.”
Stockton gave a short, sharp laugh, spilling wine down his sleeve. “Come to gloat, Massey? Or to offer advice on how one should run a hand at hazard? By all means, sit. Shufflebottom and I were just debating the worth of a man’s word.”
“Was just curious why you didn’t appear at Harlowe’s soiree with Gorman, Lambert, and Collier,” Ben said lightly.
Stockton waved his glass, sloshing wine onto the carpet. “Didn’t feel the need for company tonight. And, certainly not forsome charity subscription. Besides, those idiots chatter like old women when there are cards to be played.”
Ben frowned and shot a sly glance at Shufflebottom then back. “There was a card room, old boy.”
Shufflebottom’s chuckle was soft, but it curled the edges of the room. “Another might be that certain gentlemen choose their company more carefully these days. Nothing so tedious as loyalty when a man finds himself…pressed.”
Stockton’s head lolled back against the chair. “Pressed? Pah. I’m as free as the wind.” He belched into his cravat, to the disgust of the older peers nearby.
Emerson’s gaze narrowed. Free? Hardly. He could see it now—Shufflebottom had Stockton by the bollocks and showed no remorse in tightening the vice. Each squeeze was a pressure forged of paper and ink and lack of blunt. A considerable lack of blunt. The reason Stockton had not followed his cronies to the benefit was seated right here. Shufflebottom kept him close, bleeding him of coin and God knows what.
The marquis’s eyes flicked back to Emerson. “Of course, the freedom of some gentlemen is more…delicate than others. Reputations are so easily ruined. A lady’s, especially.”
Emerson ground his teeth.Rose. Every word was deliberate. Every insinuation calculated. He longed to drive his fist into that smug smile, to hear the crack of bone and wipe the sneer away. Did this fop truly think to threatenhim? Had Shufflebottom somehow learn that Emerson had rifled through his safe? Was he the nob blackmailing him? He took a step forward, but again Ben manacled his arm.
He glared at his brother as suspicion gnawed at Emerson, but his eyes fell on Stockton, the pathetic sop.
One enemy at a time, he told himself.
Ben inclined his head with chilly composure. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen. Emerson?”
Shufflebottom lifted his glass in mock salute. “Do give Lady Stanford my warmest… felicitations.”
Emerson strode forward and yanked Stockton by the collar from his seat where he was nearly passed out, so far in his cups he was.
“W-what!” The word emerged slurred and nearly indiscernible.
“What do you think you’re doing, Whitmore?” Shufflebottom demanded.
“You’ve taken advantage of this pup enough for one night. But it hasn’t been just one night, has it, my lord?”
“You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with.” Shufflebottom’s voice was hard as marble.
