Compton’s expression turned stony. He was no coward. It took guts to walk the reputational tightrope he’d been traversing these many years. But, audacious as he was, he knew his limits. He would do as Gabriel wished in the end. The result was inevitable. It was only the speed at getting to that result that appeared at issue.

Unfortunately for Compton, Gabriel’s patience was wearing thin.

“Is it not enough that I keep the law away from your dealings in the Rookery?” Compton asked in a last attempt at reason. “That I protect your interests from those who would drive you out of St. Giles?” He set his hands on the edge of the desk. “You and I had an agreement.”

Gabriel stood to his full and not inconsiderable height. “Yet still you insult me.”

Compton straightened. He took a step backward. It was less out of fear than it was a refusal to submit to Gabriel’s physical dominance. The viscount would let no man loom over him, least of all one he considered so far beneath him.

“It’s not an insult to insist you and I keep to our proper spheres,” he said. “My guests this evening are a different breed from what you’re accustomed to. They’re gentlemen of influence—”

“Just as I am.” Gabriel strolled out from behind the desk. “Which is why you’re going to introduce me to them.” He smiled again. “I have a sick fancy to become respectable.”

Compton’s lips flattened. He shot a glance at the closed doors of the library. The music filtered through, an audible reminder of his duties to his guests, and to his position in society. “Your jests are ill-timed, sir.”

“It’s no jest. I’m formulating a plan for changes in the Rookery. When the time comes, I’ll need the freehanded support of wealthy benefactors.”

Compton exhaled a contemptuous gust of breath. “Is that what this is about?” Stalking past Gabriel, he jerked open a drawer in his desk and withdrew his checkbook. “If it’s money for the poor you’re after, your request need go no further than me.” He picked up his steel-nibbed pen, poised to dash off an order on his bank. “I’m not opposed to investing in a new workhouse.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened on a reflexive surge of anger. Workhouses were the last thing the poor of St. Giles needed. Workhouses that separated mothers from children. That broke up families. Workhouses were where good, decent folk went to sicken and die. As sure a sentence as the hangman’s noose, but lacking the dignity of the rope. Unlike a walk to the scaffold, admittance to a workhouse required no judge or jury. It recognized no defense.

After all, what defense was there to the crime of being poor?