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.