Page 44 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Thomas heard dismal notes in the count’s voice. West and Sons Shipping was near the Royal Naval Yard at Deptford—the King’s Yard to those who earned their coin on the docks. There’d been a day ofpomp and ceremony when the Russians had visited the King’s Yard. His majesty counted them an ally. For the moment anyway.
But Thomas recognized hunger when he saw it. The Russians wanted a naval force to rival England’s.
If Novikov wanted ships, why did he spend so much time in a brothel?
A passing footman stopped and poured more of the amber elixir into the count’s glass.
“Do you know the mysterious woman who has Ranleigh’s smalls in a knot?” Thomas asked, his gaze traveling from the Russian to Ranleigh. “Or has she knotted his heart?”
The count shook his head. “No woman can do that. No matter how alluring.”
Ranleigh’s mouth pinched a harsh line. “We’ve a game, gentlemen. Or have both of you forgotten that money is at stake?” He gave Miss Trevethan the barest nod, and she flipped over a six of diamonds.
“The house has sixteen, gentlemen. Please show your cards.”
Ranleigh’s black stare reached across the table, a challenge. He laid down a king and a queen. Frowning, Thomas flipped two nines onto the baize.
“Twenty for Lord Ranleigh. Eighteen for Mr. West. Lord Ranleigh wins,” Miss Trevethan announced.
She collected the cards and Ranleigh scooped his winnings with both hands. Thomas ground his molars. The gold sliding away was a lesson learned: power was best served evenly. Never again would he attempt to do business with a man of dubious reputation and ridiculous wealth.
He pushed back from the table.
“Thank you for the evening’s entertainment, but it’s time I seek the comforts of home.”
“So soon?” Ranleigh stopped sifting his coins. “Miss Trevethan, extend a note of credit to Mr. West. One hundred pounds should suffice. No—make it two hundred.”
Ranleigh was glib, tossing out credit like candy. The cold creep up Thomas’s spine was awareness and the threat of defeat. He’d felt the same years ago when he’d nearly drowned in the North Sea.
“I must decline your generous offer,” he said.
Ranleigh began to stack his winnings. “We could reduce the amount.”
“Which would be a debt all the same.”
“Not if you reconsider my business proposition.” The dark lord’s eyes were unreadable above all that shiny gold.
Thomas curled both hands into fists, coaxing patience.
“I thought I made myself clear at our last two meetings. West and Sons Shipping is not for sale. Not now. Not ever.”
Miss Trevethan scooted a polite inch back as though arrows were about to fly.
“Then why come here tonight?” Ranleigh asked, lethal and quiet.
“As a gesture of goodwill among gentlemen.”
Ranleigh toyed with a stack of coins. “What about the matter of insurance?”
Thomas smiled harshly and threw caution to the wind. “Your concern is touching. Truly. But I’m considering other options.”
Animosity was already swirling thicker than smoke at the once friendly table. Even the verboseRussian politely studied the baize. Ranleigh cocked his head as if he’d inquire about those plans. Thomas wouldn’t tell him. He had no doubt Ranleigh would use family name and influence to slam doors on West and Sons Shipping.
“What a fool you are, West. English whalers are a dying breed.” Ranleigh’s smile was a rapacious twist. “Haven’t you heard? The Dutch won.”
“Yet, you continue to fight so very hard to buy my ships and take my docks.” Thomas stood up. “One might think you an overeager suitor.”
Ranleigh’s jaw ticked. The odds for a friendly, gentlemanly exit were dwindling when a footman garbed in pink velvet livery approached the table, a gleaming silver tray in hand.
