Chapter Twenty-Two
T hat afternoon, the Sommer Gentlemen’s Club exuded quiet authority, its gas lamps burning steadily above whispered conversations and the shifting weight of influence. The Aubusson carpets muffled the measured strides of Sommer-by-the-Sea’s and London’s most powerful and influential men. Deep burgundy velvet drapes framed the tall windows overlooking Westmore Commons. The subtle scent of cigar smoke mingled with the aroma of aged brandy, creating an atmosphere of indulgent luxury.
Hastings paused at the threshold, allowing his eyes to adjust and his senses to drink in the familiarity of privilege. The hushed conversation provided a rumbling, soothing background. In this realm, deals were struck with a handshake, and reputations could be dismantled with a whisper.
Adjusting the cuffs of his tailored jacket, Hastings allowed a faint smirk to play on his lips. Tonight, he donned his finest attire: a midnight-blue waistcoat embroidered with silver thread, a crisp white cravat secured with a sapphire pin, a recent acquisition symbolizing his rising fortunes. The reflection in the gilded mirror revealed a man of sophistication, but beneath the polished veneer simmered a cauldron of resentments.
Hastings settled into a leather armchair near the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in hand as his gaze casually swept the room. He nodded graciously to several gentlemen who amicably returned his greeting.
Fools , he mused inwardly, casting a glance toward a cluster of gentlemen engrossed in their own self-importance. They think themselves untouchable, yet they all have skeletons waiting to be unearthed. The memory of being snubbed, of whispers trailing in his wake, fueled his determination. He knew that information flowed as smoothly in these halls as the aged whisky in his glass. One by one, they saw the error of their ways. All he had to do was hint at an indiscretion, and oh, how they came around. No longer an outsider, he had clawed his way into their midst, and tonight, he would begin their undoing.
He noticed Sir Becket, a prominent banker with connections to several philanthropic endeavors, engrossed in a game of cards with a few other gentlemen. Rockford, so assured, so untouchable. Hastings had seen the flicker of tension at the mention of Captain Langley. The past still haunted him. Good. Revenge would be slow, deliberate, and oh, so sweet.
Taking up his half-finished glass of whiskey, he approached Becket’s table with an affable smile.
“Mind if I spectate for a while?” Hastings inquired, his tone amiable as he approached the card table where Sir Becket and his companions were engaged in a spirited game.
“Not at all,” Becket replied, glancing up. “Pull up a chair. We’re in need of fresh perspectives, Jackson here claims to have an unbeatable hand.”
“Bold claim.” Hastings settled into an empty seat. He surveyed the faces around the table, Lord Jackson, with his perpetual air of mischief; Mr. Cranwell, whose shrewd eyes missed little; and Sir Becket, ever the diplomat. “But then again, fortune favors the brave.”
Jackson chuckled. “Or the foolish. Care to place a wager on that, Hastings?”
“Perhaps later. I’ve just returned from a rather enlightening trip to London and thought I’d unwind first. Besides, I wouldn’t want to dampen your spirits with a string of victories.” Hastings sipped his brandy.
Jackson raised an eyebrow at the mention of London. “Enlightening, you say? Business or pleasure?”
“A bit of both.” He kept his reply vague as he leaned in slightly to invite curiosity. “Though, I must admit, the talks in the halls of Parliament were far more intriguing than any entertainment the city had to offer.”
“Then, my friend, you do not know where to go for entertainment,” the gentleman to Becket’s right jested, eliciting a chuckle from the table. “Speak to me before you venture there the next time. I can make some very intriguing suggestions.”
“Don’t listen to Jackson,” Becket interjected with a grin. “We all know that Lady Jackson would never put up with that.” The group laughed, as did Jackson, the camaraderie unmistakable.
“Politics can be a labyrinth of intrigue.” It was Cranwell’s turn to raise an eyebrow, “Anything in particular catch your interest?”
Hastings leaned back, swirling his whisky thoughtfully. “Oh, the usual murmurings. Parliament is abuzz with the latest policies, and socialites are entangled in their dramas… Though I did encounter some rather… intriguing discussions about certain financial irregularities.”
Sir Becket exchanged a glance with Cranwell. “That’s a serious matter. Embezzlement?”
Hastings offered a nonchalant shrug. “Hard to say without definite evidence. But it’s fascinating how funds intended for noble causes sometimes find themselves… misdirected. It’s all hearsay at this point, but it does make one wonder about the integrity of some philanthropic endeavors.”
The air around the table grew noticeably thicker. Sir Becket’s gaze sharpened. “If you have concerns about specific parties, Hastings, it’s only right to bring them forward. Whispers can be as damaging as outright accusations.” Becket studied Hastings carefully. “In our circles, such matters are taken seriously. Do you have concerns about any organization in particular?”
Hastings met his gaze evenly. “I wouldn’t dream of casting unfounded aspersions. Merely advising caution. After all, with the gala for the clinic approaching, transparency is of utmost importance.”
Cranwell narrowed his eyes. “The clinic? You refer to Dr. Manning’s expansion endeavor?”
“Indeed,” Hastings acknowledged, taking a deliberate sip of his drink. “A commendable initiative. It would be a shame if any shadows were cast upon it due to mismanagement.”
An uncomfortable silence settled. The men shifted subtly, unspoken questions hanging in the space between them.
“Well,” Jackson interjected, attempting to lighten the mood, “perhaps we should focus on the game. Are you certain you won’t join, Hastings?”
He smiled coolly. “Another time, perhaps. I find observing offers its own rewards.”
As the game resumed, Hastings watched the interplay among the men. A bead of sweat formed at Mr. Cranwell’s temple—a telltale sign of discomfort. Good, Hastings thought, let the doubts take root. He reveled in the small victories, the flicker of uncertainty in Sir Becket’s eyes, the way Jackson’s joviality seemed forced.
Influence was a blade, one that cut deeper when wielded with precision. A well-placed pause, a half-truth whispered in confidence, and even the most steadfast men began to doubt their footing. They pride themselves on discernment, yet they’re blind to the currents beneath the surface.
As the evening progressed, Hastings caught sight of a young man lingering at the room’s edge, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, eyes alight with the naive hope of someone eager to belong. Hastings smirked. The young ones were always the easiest to mold. He lifted his glass in a lazy gesture, beckoning the lad forward.
“Mr. Hastings, it’s an honor,” the man began a hint of awe in his voice. “Thomas Greene, at your service.”
“Greene,” Hastings repeated thoughtfully. “I’ve heard your family name. Traders, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. My father has dealings in textiles. I’ve been hoping to expand our connections within the city.”
Hastings offered a patronizing smile. “Ambition is commendable. What brings you to the club this evening?”
Greene hesitated. “Seeking guidance, to be frank. Navigating these circles can be… daunting.”
“Indeed it can,” Hastings agreed, resting a hand on Greene’s shoulder. “And one must be cautious. Not all alliances are beneficial.”
“I appreciate any advice you could offer,” Greene said earnestly.
Hastings feigned contemplation. “Well, for starters, align yourself with those with a proven integrity record. Some look presentable but might lead you astray.”
“I see.” Greene hung onto his every word.
“Take, for instance, certain philanthropic endeavors that aren’t as pristine as they appear.”
Greene leaned in. “Are you referring to anyone in particular?”
Hastings gave a subtle nod. “Discretion is key, my boy. But be wary of organizations or causes that have sprung up rapidly, drawing in significant funds without transparent accounting.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hastings. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Do,” Hastings encouraged. “And remember, in this world, knowledge is power.”
As Greene departed, Hastings allowed himself a satisfied smile. The eager are so easily led. Another pawn set in motion.
Finding the air inside stifling, Hastings stepped onto the balcony overlooking the moonlit street. The distant sounds of carriage wheels and faint laughter drifted upward. He reached into his waistcoat pocket, fingers brushing against a worn pocket watch—a relic from another time.
Clicking it open, he gazed at the faded inscription: “To my dearest friend, Edward.” A shadow passed over his features. Hastings nodded to passing gentlemen, his outward charm masking a deeper purpose. He had waited years for this—the chance to right a grievous wrong. The moment Rockford stiffened at the mention of Captain Langley, Hastings had known. The past was not forgotten. The reckoning was coming.
“Justice,” Hastings whispered into the night. “It’s long overdue.”
He closed the watch with a snap, determination hardening. As Hastings re-entered the club, a rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. The first droplets of rain tapped against the windows, unnoticed by the engrossed patrons. Casting one final glance around the room, he felt a surge of grim satisfaction. The pieces were moving into place.
He thought of Rockford, oblivious to the web tightening around him. Enjoy your comforts while you can, Your Grace. The storm is coming, and none will be spared. Tomorrow evening’s art auction will be most interesting to watch and listen to. A slow smirk curled at his lips. Let Rockford bask in his illusion of security—for now. The storm was coming, and no one would be spared.
With that, Hastings stepped into the rain and vanished into the night.