Chapter Thirty-One #2
“I meant no offense,” Sir Heath said. “At least you had the discernment to refrain from marrying a girl stained by illegitimacy. Every man has his level, but I fear had you married someone’s natural daughter, your bank would not have enjoyed the level of success is has to date. Which reminds me…”
He turned to Charles and gave him a broad smile, revealing large, white, even teeth—teeth that Charles itched to loosen with his fist.
“How is that wife of yours, Devereaux?” Sir Heath nodded to Coutts.
“I happened across Lady Devereaux—Miss Whitcombe, as she was then—in an extraordinary position with Devereaux on a balcony. It was nearing the end of the Season, when unattached young women succumb to their desperation, so perhaps that accounts for it. Ingenuity in a woman is to be applauded when she devises stratagems to snare a marriage partner, and a woman of questionable birth has an even greater need for…”
His voice trailed away as Charles leaped to his feet and grasped Sir Heath’s throat, turning his body such that his actions were not visible to the other occupants in the clubroom.
Sir Heath opened his mouth, but nothing came out save a strained gasp.
Speak ill of my wife again, and I’ll ensure you never speak again.
As if he could read Charles’s mind, the arrogance in Sir Heath’s eyes disappeared, replaced by the raw, base terror of the bully being bested by his victim.
“Y-your wife…” he began, and Charles tightened his grip, pressing his thumb against the other man’s throat.
Go on, you blackguard, I dare you to say it. I only need tighten my grip a little more to end your life.
Sir Heath let out a low moan and Charles lowered his gaze to the man’s breeches, where a dark stain was spreading across the fabric, moving down one leg.
Clearly Sir Heath’s valet dressed his master to the left.
“C-Coutts, aren’t you going to…” Sir Heath croaked, but the banker merely took another sip of his brandy and turned his attention to Charles’s valet.
“Mr. Richards, I trust the brandy is to your taste,” he said, “even if the company’s a little lacking. There’s little I can do about the former, of course, but much can be done to deal with the latter.”
“I believe Lord Devereaux has the matter in hand,” John said, with a smile. “You need have no concern regarding the brandy, which is particularly fine.”
“I’ll have my clerk send you a bottle, seeing as you display such discernment.
Of course”—Coutts glanced at Sir Heath, whose face was turning a shade of puce—“some fellows have such little understanding of true discernment that I fear they’ll never be satisfied with their lot—neither will they understand the difference between good and evil, nor have the good grace to apologize for their transgressions. ”
Sir Heath glanced toward Coutts then back at Charles.
“I-I apologize…” he sputtered.
Charles released him, and Sir Heath grasped his throat, drawing breath.
What for?
Sir Heath glanced at Charles’s hands.
“Lord Devereaux wishes to understand the nature of the transgression you’re apologizing for,” John said.
“A reasonable question to ask,” Coutts added.
“When a man breaches the rules of decency and kindness at least a hundred times each day, he must make certain to clarify which transgression he’s seeking absolution for.
Sir Heath, if you wish to apologize for all your faults, I fear you’ll be here all day. ”
“I-I apologize for insulting Lady Devereaux,” Sir Heath said, gritting his teeth as if the words pained him.
“Unreservedly?” Coutts said.
Sir Heath nodded, massaging the base of his throat. “Bloody hell, Devereaux, that hurt,” he said, his voice carrying a note of petulance.
“Go whine about it to your friends,” Coutts said. “Better still, your banker. He must be a very sympathetic character, given the size of your loans with him.” He raised his hand. “I say, Drummond! Care to join us? Sir Heath and I were just discussing you.”
The fear in Sir Heath’s eyes intensified—the fear of a man who valued his cashflow more than his life.
A neatly dressed man with a thick head of black hair peppered with gray approached.
“Coutts!” he said. “And Sir Heath Moss. A pleasure as always.”
“Drummond,” Sir Heath muttered, then he slipped away, ignoring the raucous greetings from Foxton and his set, and scuttled toward the exit.
“Something I said?” Drummond asked, settling into a button-backed chair.
“No, something he did,” Coutts said, with a grin. “In his breeches.”
“That explains the odor,” Drummond said. He nodded to Charles. “Lord Devereaux, a pleasure. I didn’t know you were in London, or I’d have arranged a meeting.”
What for? I don’t bank with you.
“To discuss your wife’s arrangements,” Drummond said after John conveyed Charles’s question.
“The sale of her annuity—at least, part of it. Forgive me, I thought it was undertaken at your direction, seeing as your steward—Mr. Carlton, isn’t it?
—issued the instructions. I can arrange a meeting tomorrow to discuss the particulars, though the sale was finalized almost a month ago. ”
Almost a month? Which meant that she must have made the arrangement shortly after he’d left for London.
For how much?
The banker raised his eyebrows in inquiry, and Charles placed his hands together then drew them apart slowly.
“You’re inquiring as to the amount? One thousand, if I recall.”
One thousand? Devil’s breeches, what was she thinking?
“I say, Drummond, ought you to be discussing this here?” Coutts said. “After all, a client’s confidentiality is—”
“There are no secrets between a man and his wife,” Drummond said.
“If I recall, Mr. Carlton said in his letter that Lord Devereaux approved the withdrawal. Lady Devereaux is unlikely to be capable of concealing the matter from her husband—after all, the release of such a substantial sum is bound to attract a man’s attention, unless his wife is… ”
Charles leaned forward. Unless my wife is what? Purchasing trinkets for a lover?
Drummond shook his head. “Forgive me, I don’t understand you.”
Charles gestured to John. Tell him.
John frowned and signed back, I’m not asking such a question. Would you have me insult your wife in the manner of Sir Heath?
I want to know what she’s done, Charles signed.
Then ask her rather than listen to gossip. She may have a valid reason.
For spending a thousand pounds under false pretenses? Charles shook his head. A wife’s extravagance can only mean one thing when it is undertaken without her husband’s knowledge behind my back. My father…
John pushed Charles’s hands away. “Your wife is not your father, sir.”
“Ahem.”
Bugger. John had spoken aloud.
Coutts cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should discuss the matter your valet in private. Better still, your wife.” He glanced at Drummond.
“My friend here oughtn’t have broken his client’s confidence.
I’m sure there’s nothing untoward taking place.
The Whitcombe family have banked with Coutts for generations—since our establishment, in fact—and we pride ourselves on discretion. ”
Discretion—ugh. Charles’s father had used that word to justify his numerous affairs. Provided nobody knew of his infidelity, it mattered not whether it drove the Penham estate into near bankruptcy, or Charles’s own mother into such despair that she sought comfort in the arms of other men.
Is that what my Olivia has been driven to, on account of my own neglect?
But whatever his actions had been, there was no justification for deception.
Perhaps it was Fate’s way of repaying him for the sins his father had committed against his mother—a cruel twist of fate where the female sex redressed the balance against the male.
Coutts patted the seat of the chair next to him. “Come, Devereaux, sit, and I’ll stand you another brandy.”
But Charles didn’t need brandy. He needed to know what his wife had been up to in his absence. And in two days he’d have the answer.
Whether he liked it or not.