Archer had flashed a rare grin then. “But quite effective.”
Winston glanced up at the man who’d done his best to annoy him, and Archer’s song played in his head. Surprisingly it did help. Enough to allow the corners of his eyes to crinkle with evil glee. “I didn’t.”
The man blinked, actually shocked to be addressed by Winston. “Didn’t what?”
“I did not give my profession, Mr…?” The man was a new arrival, and Win wondered offhand what the bastard would have made of the nude swim party.
“Lord Butherwell,” the man corrected with a sniff.
At the word “profession”, Butherwell’s long nose had wrinkled in disgust. Win returned his look with one of bland disinterest. He made it his business to know the names and station of London’s ton. Butherwell was a second generation baron with little money and even less influence. Exactly the sort insecure enough to throw stones at glass houses. “However, Butherwell, I am happy to assuage your rampant curiosity.”
He did not have a chance to, for Poppy suddenly leaned forward, her brown eyes promising bedlam beneath those slanted brows of hers. “He is an Inspector First Class with the Criminal Investigation Division of Scotland Yard. It is men like my husband who keep your soft hide protected from London’s criminal element.”
A pinch of pain took him in the gut upon hearing his old title. He was finished as an inspector. But damned if he was going to rectify Poppy’s error here and now. Not that it mattered. Butherwell’s disgust grew into a sneer.
“A tradesman, in our midst,” he said to the populace of the table, most of whom were looking on in avid interest. It wasn’t every day a squabble broke out over dinner. “This is what so called ‘progress’ has brought us, being forced to share a meal with a man who—” he gave Poppy a condescending look—“consorts with London’s criminal element.” He turned to Winston and raised his voice as if he feared Winston had trouble hearing. “I say, oughtn’t you be slumming in some back alley down in London?”
Winston neatly sliced his roast. “Do I give the impression of being lost, sir?”
Butherwell’s grey mustache quivered with a snort. “You give the impression of a man who does not know his place.”
“Come now, my lord,” tittered Mrs. Noble. “We are all friends here, are we not?”
God, but Oz’s gaze was a palpable weight on Win’s neck. They shared the same blood, bluer than any person sitting at the table, or in the district, for that matter. Even if he could admit the truth of his birth, Win would rather be hung by his balls than admit it to this lot. Tossing out pedigree was not the way he wanted to earn respect, nor did he need theirs.
“My dear Mrs. Noble,” said Butherwell, “I merely fear for your reputation. There are curiosities, and there are riffraff. It is best you know the difference.”
Win’s hand clenched his knife. He did not look up. Should he do so, he’d be planting Butherwell a facer. Past the buzzing in his ears came Oz’s deep voice. “I do not believe our hostess needs assistance in discerning the difference, Butherwell.”
Poppy’s voice followed shortly after Oz’s. “A true gentleman does not feel the need to make his station known.”
“And a true lady does not voice her opinion in the presence of a man,” snapped Butherwell. “However, as you are not a lady, I shall forgive your blunder.”
A tremor went through Winston’s arm. “Enough.” The entire table hushed as Winston set his silver down and let his gaze lift to Butherwell. “I remind you that there are ladies present. Including my wife.”
Butherwell’s complexion ran to florid. It became magenta now and again his overlong mustache moved as he snapped, “I do not believe I understand your point, man.”
Winston held his gaze and spoke in measured tones so as not to further confuse the buffoon. “It is simple. I shall strive to keep that fact in mind in order to refrain from exercising my brute, working class strength upon your flaccid, gentleman’s face.” He let his lip curl enough to highlight the sneer of his scar. “But it shall be a very near thing. Pray you remember likewise before you utter another word.”
There was a gasp, and Butherwell went pale. His nostrils flared, his hand holding the knife clenching. Winston stared back, waiting. It would take two seconds to disarm the man, one more to shove his face into the pudding. Beneath the table,