Once they were on their way, he watched Freddy’s shadowy profile. Freddy had to be aware of his scrutiny, but he said nothing, his jaw tight, lips pressed together.
At last, unable to bear the silence any longer, Henry said, “Skelton is scoundrel. You do see that?”
“Yes,” Freddy muttered.
“Good,” Henry said, “because your friend, Bartlett, doesn’t seem to have cottoned on.”
“He’s just foxed,” Freddy shortly. “I’ll put him right on it tomorrow. There was no talking to him tonight.”
“If he’s the sort of man who won’t listen to reason, perhaps you should consider whether you want to have him as a friend,” Henry said.
Freddy turned and glared at him them, the angry gleam in his eyes unmistakable.
“Who would you rather I spend my time with, Father? Edgar, perhaps?”
Edgar Maitland, Freddy’s best friend at school, was an exceedingly likeable young man. He and Freddy had got along famously, since they were both energetic and adventurous, though their escapades had given Henry more than a few grey hairs over the years.
“Freddy—” Henry began wearily, knowing what was coming.
“I could have,” Freddy said, bitterly, “If you’d agreed to buy my colours.”
Henry made a sound of frustration. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to join the army—”
“Cavalry,” Freddy interrupted.
“Army, cavalry, navy—it’s all the same,” Henry said flatly. “You’d be signing your life away.”
“It’s a good career!” Freddy exclaimed. “Most fathers would be proud at the idea of their son taking a position as a cavalry officer.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“Just because Uncle Arthur died, doesn’t mean—”
“Frederick—”
Freddy fell silent, just as the carriage began to slow. They were home.
“I’ll let you get to your engagement then,” Freddy said stiffly, opening the door.
And then he was gone, and the carriage door slammed shut.
Henry sighed.
He checked his watch—nearly midnight. He wondered if Christopher would be annoyed by his late appearance. If he would even admit Henry now.
He stuck his head out of the window again.
“Take me to Palfrey Terrace.”
13
Kit
Kit had made it his business some time ago to find out as much as he could about Peter’s natural father, Mr. Percival Bartlett.
Bartlett was a typical idle gentleman of the ton. He liked clothes, gambling, and drinking. He disliked work. Or, more accurately, he considered work to be something that did not fall within the purview of a man of his class. Work was contemptible. But apparently, to be work-shy, to sponge off of others, and to neglect to pay his bills was the height of good taste.
And on top of all that, the man was a rapist and a bully.
Despite his father’s considerable wealth, Bartlett was nearly always strapped for money. His allowance was generous, but he gambled whatever he had away within days of receiving it, and for the next quarter would simply rack up bills and issue promissory notes, digging himself deeper and deeper into debt as he waited for his wealthy father to die.
Kit knew that one of the gambling establishments Bartlett attended was owned by none other than Jake Sharp. And so, once Clara had calmed down from her ordeal in the park, Kit went in search of Sharp.
It took Kit a little time to track him down. He tried first the club Sharp had opened near Redford’s, where he was told the man had only just left for the Knightsbridge club. When he got to Knightsbridge, he was informed that Sharp had not yet arrived, though he was expected quite soon. Kit gave his name and asked if he could wait. He expected to be turned away, but to his surprise, was invited inside and led into the office of a man who introduced himself as Mr. Tait, the manager of the Knightsbridge club.
Kit wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the fact that Tait seemed to know exactly who he was, but he accepted the offer of a glass of port wine with polite thanks, and for the next half hour made pleasant conversation with Tait as they waited for Sharp’s return.
When Sharp arrived—throwing the door to Tait’s office open without so much as a knock and marching inside—it was evident he’d been informed of Kit’s arrival already. His keen gaze went straight to Kit and he grinned wolfishly.
“Mr. Redford,” he said with satisfaction, his forceful personality seeming to suck all of the air out of the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Kit’s own smile was pleasant but careful. “I was rather hoping you might be able to help me with something.”
Sharp’s eyes gleamed, his mouth twisting into a smile that was