Page 14 of A Figure of Love

His eyelids had the loose, stretched look of a man who was burnt to the socket. His skin had an unhealthy yellow tinge and his hand trembled when he set it on the arm of his chair and heavily lowered himself into the seat in front of Gareth’s desk.

It vexed Gareth to realize he had missed these signs of dissipation. That was what came of being such an unobservant dolt. He could only imagine the chiding he would have to endure from Declan about this.

Featherstone’s eyes darted from Gareth to the neatly stacked documents he was preparing for his journey north. “Leaving for Yorkshire today?”

“Tomorrow morning.” Gareth turned to the two men filling boxes with ledgers and papers Declan had asked him to bring. “Will you please come back in one half hour?”

The men nodded, got to their feet, and left without another word, closing the door quietly behind them, accustomed to Gareth’s odd ways.

Gareth took the two-page report Mr. Steele had prepared and handed it to Featherstone, watching his face as he read. His face turned red and splotchy. Guilt and, surprisingly, fury vied for control of his narrow features. His mouth twisted as he read, until his face resembled an angry prune. He did not bother to read the second page.

He glanced up, his blood-shot eyes flashing. “So, she set you to snooping, did she?”

It was not what Gareth had expected him to say and it took him a moment to discern who “she” was. Ah. He thought the Lombard woman had exposed him. Gareth briefly wondered whether she had known of the man’s duplicity and then decided it did not matter. Nor did he feel disposed to contradict the other man or explain how or why he had decided to investigate Mr. Featherstone’s background and criminal behavior.

Gareth drummed his fingers on his desk, the staccato one, two, three, four soothing. He did not care for such emotional encounters and could see the other man wished to draw out this ordeal and make it more unpleasant than it had any need to be.

“What you have done is legally actionable, sir. It is lucky for you the amount is too insignificant for me to be bothered with. I have decided I will not have you brought before a magistrate.” One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. “I’ve sent word to Rushton Park and your possessions are already on their way to London.” He ceased his drumming only long enough to push a cheque across the uncluttered surface of his desk. “Here is your pay for the last quarter.” One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. “You will take this money and the possessions from your chambers here—which have been boxed and are waiting in the foyer—and you will leave my house immediately.” One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.

Featherstone’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, but he had not moved, his eyes flickering wildly from the cheque to Gareth and back again and again. For a moment Gareth thought he might leave without a struggle or fuss and his fingers paused their drumming.

But then Featherstone sprang to his feet faster than Gareth thought possible for a man in his diminished condition. He flung Steele’s report onto the desk and leaned across it, his face an ugly mask. Gareth could smell his sour breath and stale body odor and felt revulsion.

“You ignorant, upstart mushroom, you pushing cit, you. . . you—”

A speck of spittle flew out of his mouth and landed on Gareth’s clean, smooth desk. Neither of them learned whether Featherstone would come up with yet another epithet. Gareth’s left hand, his dominant one, shot out and grabbed the other man’s wilted cravat. He stood at the same time, pulling Featherstone’s body across the desk while he struggled.

Gareth twisted his fist and the motion tightened the cravat like a tourniquet until the other man choked, his hands clawing at Gareth’s, but gaining no purchase.

“You will take the cheque and leave immediately. I will have your possessions delivered to your lodgings. If you speak even one more word to me, I will be forced to take action. You may nod your head if you understand and agree.”

Featherstone nodded, at least as best as he could with his toes barely touching the ground and his throat in a viselike grip.

Gareth released him and he slumped almost to his knees, catching himself on the edge of the desk to hold himself up. Gareth watched to make sure he did nothing foolish. He found it upsetting to touch the other man but would touch him with considerably more violence if he did not keep his word.

But Featherstone scrabbled for the cheque and thrust himself to his feet. He made his way to the door unsteadily and turned, his hand resting on the knob. His jaw worked as his eyes locked with Gareth’s. For one moment Gareth thought he might be compelled to live up to his own threat and deliver a thrashing. But Featherstone only sneered and flung open the door hard enough that it bounced against the wall before striding out, his gait lurching.

Gareth watched until he turned the corner toward the stairs and then looked at his watch: it was one twenty-three, he had seven minutes until the men would return for the books. He resumed his seat and rested his left hand on the smooth wooden expanse of his desk.

Methodically, he purged his mind of the events of the last twenty-three minutes.

One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.

Chapter Four

That night, after Serena returned to London, she sat with Lady Winifred Sedgwick, her housemate and closest friend, and Lord Miles Ingram, in the cozy parlor on Albermarle Street to have what Miles called a Counsel of War.

“We will discuss this in detail and assess the objective and potential strategies,” Miles said, a grin spoiling his serious words. He was so beautiful he made even Mr. Lockheart appear plain. His golden curls, sleepy blue eyes, and patrician features made him resemble a playful god who’d come to frolic among mortals.

Winifred, or Freddie—a cool, winter blonde to Miles’s sunshine and warmth—shook her head. “This is not a military campaign, Miles. Serena is merely considering whether or not to accept a position.”

“A position with one of the richest men in Britain. More importantly: a bachelor in pursuit of a wife.”

“Serena is not marrying the man, she is considering a position as his landscape gardener.” Freddie gave the beautiful, but impoverished, lord a look of fond frustration as she chided him. The two behaved toward each other with the casual ease of a long-married couple. Not for the first time did Serena wonder if her two friends carried more in their hearts for each other than friendship. Not that she had ever seen any sign they were lovers.

Serena turned to Freddie, the more serious—and knowledgeable—of her two friends. “Come, Freddie, you know everything about everyone, what do you know about Lockheart?”

Freddie earned her living launching the daughters of wealthy industrialists into society, an activity she loathed, but was perfectly suited for. Her lineage went back to the Conqueror and she was related to every aristocratic house in Great Britain. She somehow managed to maintain a reputation as a paragon of society even though she had worked at a girl’s school and took money from cits.