Chapter 18
The comfort of White’s enveloped Rees like armor: leather and tobacco smoke, the subtle scent of power clinging to the mahogany paneling and deep chairs that had supported generations of influential men.
He nodded to Lord Pemberton near the entrance, exchanged pleasantries with Sir Hartley about the mild weather, and navigated the familiar dance of acknowledgment and avoidance that governed this masculine sanctuary.
His usual table awaited in the corner, positioned for privacy and a commanding view of the room, a privilege earned through years of membership and meticulous cultivation of connections.
The Times lay folded beside his chair, its financial pages already marked by an earlier reader tracking fortunes with pencil annotations.
Rees settled into the leather with a satisfied sigh, raising a finger to summon his customary brandy, his mind drifting to the shipping contracts he needed to review that evening.
Then, an unmistakable shift in the atmosphere caught his attention.
Conversations dipped to murmurs, heads turned like theatergoers sensing drama about to unfold.
Rees looked up from his paper to find the source of the disturbance hunched at the bar, nursing what appeared to be his fourth or fifth brandy of the afternoon.
Lord Sterling, disheveled and strained, stood out starkly.
His cravat was askew, waistcoat unbuttoned, and his normally gleaming hair hung limp and disordered.
The hand gripping his glass trembled slightly; whether from rage or alcohol was unclear.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes, giving his handsome face a hollow quality, a testament to sleepless nights spent calculating debts that refused to balance.
Their eyes met across the room, recognition morphing into raw hatred. Sterling abandoned his drink with enough force that liquid sloshed over the rim, his unsteady but purposeful stride cutting through clusters of members who instinctively stepped aside.
“You have destroyed me, Harcourt,” he slurred as he loomed over Rees’s table.
The smell of brandy rolled off him in waves, mingling with the sour scent of desperation poorly masked by expensive cologne.
“My engagement to Miss Hartwick is broken. My creditors are calling in debts. Every door that matters shuts in my face.”
Rees set down his paper with deliberate precision, each movement underscoring his control against Sterling’s deterioration. “Good afternoon to you too, Sterling. Though it appears your afternoon started earlier than most.”
“Do not.” Sterling’s fist slammed onto the table, making the brandy glass jump.
Nearby members shifted in their seats, torn between the impropriety of staring and the impossibility of ignoring the spectacle.
“Do not sit there with your calm when you have orchestrated my ruin. All because of your wife’s wounded feelings. ”
The slur against Victoria sent ice through Rees’s veins, but he had learned long ago that cold rage accomplished more than hot fury. He rose slowly, using his height to compel Sterling to tilt his head back, maintaining steady eye contact.
“Careful,” Rees said, his voice low enough for only Sterling and perhaps a few closest observers to hear.
“You destroyed yourself, living beyond your means for years, gambling away money you do not have, and maintaining a facade of wealth through increasingly desperate measures. The fact that your house of cards has finally collapsed is entirely your doing.”
“You turned Hartwick against me,” Sterling snarled, spittle flying with the force of his accusation. “Filled his head with lies—”
“With truth.” The interruption came sharp. “I told him about Miss Winters. About the merchant’s daughter. About Lady Richmond—Victoria—and how you deliberately damaged her reputation when she refused your advances. The truth, Sterling. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Sterling’s face flushed an alarming shade of purple, veins standing out at his temples. “She wanted it. They all wanted it. These women throw themselves at men of our station, then cry victim when things do not proceed according to their designs—”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Rees stepped closer, close enough to see the bloodshot whites of Sterling’s eyes, to witness the way his pupils contracted and dilated with barely controlled rage.
“That helps you sleep at night? This fiction that innocent women you have cornered were somehow the aggressors?”
The room had gone silent around them, every ear straining to catch the exchange while eyes politely averted. This was real drama unfolding in their sanctuary, scandal being dissected and served fresh.
“Victoria is not ruined,” Rees continued, his voice gaining strength without rising in volume.
“She is respected. Welcomed. Valued. While you—you are finally being seen for what you are. A predator who targets innocent women because you are too pathetic to win them honestly. A parasite living off inherited wealth you have squandered. A coward who destroys what he cannot possess.”
Sterling’s hand moved toward his pocket—for a moment, Rees tensed, wondering if the man carried a weapon—but he merely pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. The gesture seemed to deflate him slightly, desperation replacing rage.
“You think you have won?” His laugh held no humor, only bitter edges. “You think destroying me protects her? You do not understand what you have done, what you have started.”
“Enlighten me.”
Sterling leaned in close enough that Rees could see the broken blood vessels in his eyes, could smell the decay beneath the brandy and cologne—the scent of a man rotting from within.
“You will regret this, Harcourt. Both of you will. When everything you have built comes crashing down, when your wife’s reputation lies in ruins again, remember that you brought it upon yourselves.”
The threat hung between them, promising violence without declaring its shape. Rees felt the room’s attention sharpen, members cataloging every word for later dissection.
“Is that a threat, Sterling?” Rees kept his voice conversational.
“Because if you are threatening my wife, I should remind you that I hold forty thousand pounds of your debts. One word from me, and you will be in debtor’s prison before the week is out.
Or perhaps transported to Australia—I understand the colonies always need laborers. ”
Sterling’s face went white beneath its flush, the weight of his powerlessness crashing over him. He stood frozen for a moment, jaw working as if words fought to escape but found no purchase, then turned and strode toward the exit with the exaggerated dignity of the intoxicated.
The door slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the paintings.
For a moment, silence held the room, then conversation resumed with explosive force.
Rees sank back into his chair, accepting the fresh brandy that materialized at his elbow—the staff at White’s understood that certain scenes required fortification.
“Trouble?” Rafe’s voice came from behind, and Rees turned to find his friend had witnessed part of the confrontation.
“Sterling just declared war,” Rees replied, taking a measured sip of brandy. “Desperate and drunk, but dangerous for all that.”
“What will you do?”
Rees considered the question, his mind calculating probabilities and preparing counters to moves not yet made. Sterling would strike at Victoria—that much was certain. His pride demanded it; his desperation required it. The only questions were when and how.
“I will be ready,” he said finally, the words carrying the weight of determination. “Whatever he attempts, I will be ready.”
Desperate men made mistakes, yes. But they also made dangerous enemies, capable of unexpected violence. Rees would need to be vigilant, anticipating every possible avenue of attack. Sterling might be destroyed financially, socially, romantically—but a wounded animal was often the most vicious.
The game had entered its final phase, and Rees intended to win it, whatever the cost.