Page 44 of A Debt Inherited

Her laugh was small, polished. She leant in as if to adjust the fall of his cravat; the feather of the fan brushed his sleeve. Her mouth came near his ear. “Mr Roark is waiting at the Forge.” A breath’s pause. “It will not do to delay.”

She drew back with a look that might have been kindness. “You’ll take a glass before you go?”

“No, thank you, madam.”

“Another night,” she repeated, as if setting a date upon a bill. The fan closed with a soft click. “Mind the ice.”

Kerr bowed again and left at once.

In the hall the footman had his hat ready, brim turned towards him like a warning. He set it on, felt the street’s cold come up under the door, and caught the scent of bergamot upon his sleeve. He rubbed at the cloth with his glove, but the perfume remained.

He stepped out and turned for Short’s Gardens.

* * *

The Forge was full that night—pipe smoke, laughter, the low grind of a fiddle somewhere near the back. The men who drank there were not Roark’s equals; they were his warning.

Kerr paused inside the door, the heat striking his face like a bellows-blast. A man with a butcher’s shoulders stepped into his path.

“Your business?”

Kerr removed his hat. “I’ve an appointment with Mr Roark. He’ll expect me.”

The man looked him over—the cut of his coat, the clean boots, the steady eyes—then jerked his head towards a table at the far wall. “You’ll wait till he calls.”

Kerr nodded, found a chair by the post, and sat. From there he could see the whole room: the drinkers, the gaming, the door to the yard. Roark’s table sat in the far corner, where the smoke-darkened lamplight could not quite reach. He was not large, but the space around him seemed his by right. His hair was dark, faintly threaded with grey; a pale scar crossed one eyebrow and vanished into the hairline. His left eye was clouded, milky in the lamplight. The other watched Kerr with the patience of flint. He wore no rings, no cravat, only a plain waistcoat that fit as if it had learned obedience. The men nearest him laughed too loudly and drank too fast.

Presently Roark lifted his head. The noise fell half an inch lower. Their eyes met across the room. A nod; the guard stepped aside.

Kerr crossed the floor.

“Mr Kerr,” Roark said, his tone even. “Take a seat.”

Kerr did. The table smelled of gin and iron. Roark gathered the papers into one hand and spread a single sheet before him.

“These are names,” he said. “Men of standing—landowners, merchants, officers. All fond of the dice, none fond of paying when they lose. They’ve supped in my houses, drunk my wine, and borrowed against tomorrow’s luck.”

He slid the paper forward. “You’ll go to them. One by one.”

Kerr scanned the list. “You want them warned.”

“I want them reminded,” Roark said. “A gentleman’s reminder, mind you—before less civil hands ply their trade.”

Kerr folded the page. “And if they refuse?”

Roark smiled without warmth, his eye still as cooled iron. “Then they shall have the cudgel after the compliment. You will have done your part, and your conscience will remain clean enough for Sunday.”

He leant back in his chair. “Start with Hatherleigh. He thinks a title makes him untouchable. Show him it only makes him easier to find.”

Kerr rose, slipping the paper into his coat. “I understand.”

“Good,” Roark said. “Go as you are—quiet coat, steady voice. Speak as one of the company they think they keep. That frightens them more than threats ever could.”

He poured himself another measure of gin. Kerr watched it cloud.

“You’ve not asked what you’ll earn, Scotsman.”

Kerr hesitated, the familiarity catching him unawares. “I assumed it would find me.”