Page 91 of The Scarred Duchess
His brother-in-law looked up, fury in his eyes. “The three viscounts. Two of the three barons. Gillett is not a client. We have not the same options with him as we do the others.”
“I hear your baron likes the odd fight,” Reeves put in. “He finds reasons to duel.”
Bennet thought for a moment. “Who of Gillett’s close associates is on your list?”
Gardiner consulted a journal. “A knight. Sir Montgomery Price. He was introduced to Roark by Gillet. We had planned to cull him at month’s end.”
“Will forgiving his debt impact you?” Bennet asked.
“Do not concern yourself.”
Bennet kept his eyes fixed on Gardiner. “Do you require additional time?”
Gardiner shook his head. “You should know that Marquess Beauford is deep in our books.”
“I see you wants the marquess, Colonel,” Reeves said. “But that won’t take.”
“Why is that?” Bennet asked, his curiosity engaged. Reeves’s instincts were not to be ignored.
“The baron is a swordsman. Not of your calibre, but he won’t know that.”
“And?” Bennet asked.
“The marquess will be in town sleeping off his drink,” Roark said. “You can choose ambush or duel.”
Bennet nodded. “Then it is settled,” he said. He had no reservations killing a man in a fair fight; he drew the line at outright murder. Reeves did not. The thought did not disturb him a jot.
“What’re the boundaries, Colonel?” asked Reeves.
Bennet looked from man to man. None displayed reservations.
“Dismantle them all.”
That evening, at Fanny Murray’s Bawd House, the dealer was kept busy.
“Vingt-et-un. House wins,” he announced.
Sir Montgomery Price groaned as he tossed his head backwards. He looked back to the baize to see a gloved hand over his cards.
“Settle him,” ordered Roark.
“Wait, I have yet to finish!” demanded Price.
Grimacing, the dealer lifted a hand. A man dressed in black approached and after a whispered conference, the dealer rose and left the table. The man slid into the vacant seat, folded his hands on the table, and leant forward. “Your client owes the house, Mr Roark.”
Roark leant over the table. “He’ll return afterourbusiness is completed.”
“We shall require the consent of a guarantor. I am sure you understand.”
“I can send for the Hammer.”
The manager’s eyes opened wide. “There is no need to resort to unpleasantness.” He tugged at his cravat. “I believe we have an agreement.”
Roark’s office was deep inside a Seven Dials gaming hell. The dimly lit room smelled of stale cigars and whiskey. The faint sound of a ticking clock created an atmosphere of tension. The walls were faded, with peeling wallpapers that may have been fashionable decades ago. The floor was covered in a threadbare rug, stained with years of spilled drinks and what looked like dried blood.
Sir Montgomery Price was wide-eyed as he stood in frontof the desk and fidgeted. Gardiner sat in the chair behind the desk; Roark held Price’s elbow in his grip.
“Price.”
