“And what would you know of paid wenches, hey, Cole? There is nothing I want that money can’t buy.”
William pulled his chair back. “Your money cannot protect you from the law. You lay so much as a finger on Miss Lockhart, and I will see to it that you are strung up by your lecherous neck!”
“You witless sap.” Foyle smiled with the patience of one who believes he has the advantage. “My father has the magistrate in his pocket, and I have carte blanche in Munro.” He flicked cigar ash onto the floor.
By now, William was shaking with rage. If he didn’t remove himself this instant, he was going to wring Foyle’s neck himself. With his last ounce of self-control, he turned to the other whist players and bowed his head. “I apologize, gentlemen. I will have to take my leave at once. The air does not agree with me.” With a final glare at Lieutenant Foyle, William strode from the room, through the foyer, and into the darkness of the street beyond. He stopped and sucked in lungsful of cool, night air until the buzzing in his brain began to subside.
“Cole, you blackguard!” came the slurring voice of Foyle from the top of the club’s steps. “It’s bad form to quit in the middle of a round! I had money on that game!”
“What are you talking about?” William called up to him. “We’d barely started. The stakes had not even been raised.”
But Richard Foyle continued down the steps toward him, taking some two at a time as his feet fumbled beneath him. He came to a clownish stop before William, arms and legs flailing to right him. “I say!” he cried, seemingly startled at the suddenness of his descent. He stood a moment, swaying, then belched unabashedly. “That’s better.” He grinned. “Be a good fellow and help me back up those damnable stairs. Then you can buy me a drink. There’s a good chap.”
“I won’t lift a finger for you until you apologize for your vile insinuations toward Miss Lockhart,” William insisted.
“I didn’t take you for a Puritan.” Foyle scoffed. He fished about near his belt and pulled out a hip flask, removed the stopper, and prepared to take a swig.
The flask flew from his hand.
“What the devil…?”
“Not another drop until you apologize!” William demanded.
“What for?” sneered Foyle. “Because I want little Miss Lockhart the same way you do? Only,I’mman enough to say it.”
“Youfilth!” cried William. He balled his hand into a fist and drew his arm back, ready to teach the cur a lesson.
“Lieutenant Cole, stand at ease, sir!” came the stern voice of Captain Larson.
Despite being in his evening dress, William obeyed instinctively.
“Let’s not do anything ill-considered that I would have to report you for,” Larson continued, though rather less gruffly.
“I’m sorry, sir. Thank you, sir.” Williamwasrelieved. Another moment and he would have struck Foyle. Hard. Not that the man didn’t deserve it, and more, but it would not have stopped his repulsive behavior in future. William, however, would have paid the price, anything from a reprimand or a flogging to his commission, even his freedom. It would all depend on how many friends Foyle’s father had to influence the outcome.
“He was going to hit me!” complained Foyle. “You saw that. He should be punished!”
Captain Larson spun around on his heel and shoved a furious finger in Foyle’s face. “No doubt you had it coming. Look at you. You’re a disgrace!
“You can’t speak to me that way! I’m not in uniform. My father shall hear of this.”
“What an excellent idea,” Captain Larson answered grimly. He lifted two fingers to his lips and whistled sharply. A young lad—his clothing a size too small for him, his eyes intelligent—materialized beside him. “Fetch Lieutenant Foyle’s horse. He wants to go home and speak to his father about an urgent matter. On your way, collect the gentleman’s hat and gloves. There’ll be a sixpence in it for you.”
“Yes, sir!” the boy answered brightly before disappearing as quickly as he had come.
Larson pinned Foyle with a look that brooked no argument. “Go home, Lieutenant Foyle. That’s an order.”
Foyle tried to focus his bloodshot eyes. “Shan’t,” he said petulantly.
Captain Larson stepped closer, his nose almost touching Foyle’s, his fury turning his face as red as the wine-seeped nose of his opponent. “I. Said. Go. Home.”
Foyle blinked a few times, as if trying to comprehend the instruction. Perhaps Captain Larson had triggered a memory of Foyle’s father, the only man the drunkard seemed to fear, for his entire body relaxed into submission. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?” He patted Larson on the shoulder. “Good man. Fetch me my horse, will you?”
“I have sent for it,” Larson replied. “And when it comes, you are to take your miserable bones directly home. Have I made myself clear?”
“Like a crystal bell.” Foyle hiccupped. “All tinkly.”
Captain Larson sighed. “Heaven help us when we go to war. Let us pray the enemy have several Richard Foyles in their battalion too.”
