The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(17)

Exhausted, he climbed the shallow stone steps that led up to the arched entry of Pratt’s Club. The club was a favorite among titled gentlemen, especially those who thought themselves friends of the Duke of Devonshire. He had gained admission years ago through Joseph’s father, who petitioned the club for his entrance. The son of a duke held impressive power, and Henderson never forgot the gesture. The main room was nearly empty but for one table where several youngish toffs were sitting talking animatedly. Henderson recognized a few, including Mr. Thaddeus Tiddle, Belleville’s obnoxious heir, so he steered clear of the group. He didn’t know how often father and son talked, but he did know the very last thing he wanted was for Tiddle to mention Henderson’s meeting with his father.

A thin haze of cigar smoke clung to the ceiling, where heavy, rough-hewn beams divided the room into two distinct sections—one for card playing and socializing and one for quiet reading or contemplation. Gathering up a copy of the Times laid out neatly on a heavily carved side table with serpents twisting up its legs, Henderson headed toward the small sitting area and waved a footman over so he could order a brandy. The brandy and cigars, not the company, made Pratt’s his favorite club. Though he was always aware that he didn’t quite belong there, he refused to allow himself to be intimidated by the other members who held lofty titles and vast estates. He might not have a title, but his grandfather was a wealthy, well-respected man who had never made him feel less because of his birth. Still, he felt the separation between him and the other young men sitting across the room as severely as if they were first class on a ship and he in steerage. Though he was nearly the same age as the young men talking so animatedly at the table, he felt worlds older.

Settling down into a comfortable leather chair, Henderson snapped the newspaper open, trying his best to shut out the gregarious laughing of the group of men on the other side of the room. Until he heard one say, “Bad luck bride, eh? More like lucky groom, if you ask me. I say Northrup realized what he was in for and ran for the hills.”

The other men laughed, and Henderson slowly put the newspaper aside and stood up—a movement that was noticed by one of the men at the table, who shot Tiddle a warning look. Plastering a smile on his face that was by no means pleasant, Henderson walked to the table of young men and stood silently until the laughter slowly dissipated. “Do you think it is amusing that a young lady was humiliated?”

He looked from one man to the next, not bothering to hide his anger, and each had the good grace to look ashamed. Except for Tiddle. “What of you, Mr. Tiddle?”

“Everyone knows she’s made of ice, Southwell. I know you’re a friend of the family, but you have to admit it’s a bit amusing that a girl is jilted three times.” Tiddle looked over at his companions as if to make certain they were finding him amusing.

“Her first intended died moments before the ceremony. Do you find that amusing, sir?”

Tiddle had the audacity—and stupidity—to chuckle. “I suppose allowing oneself to die to escape marriage to Miss Hubbard is a bit drastic, but I must say I commend the man his determination.” Nervous laughter followed, quickly stifled. The other men sitting around the table tensed, because though Tiddle was seemingly oblivious to the blinding rage that Henderson barely had in check, they were not. One of Tiddle’s friends leaned toward him and whispered something Henderson could not hear, but he suspected it was something like “shut the hell up, you idiot.”

Tiddle gave his friend an annoyed glance, then looked up at Henderson with an ugly smirk. “I say, Mr. Southwell, I do think it’s amusing. Damn amusing.”

Hell, Henderson had just wanted to relax, read the paper, and savor a nice snifter of brandy, and now he was going to have to beat this man to a pulp.

“She might be a nice little piece, but she’s a cold bitch. I can attest—”

The rest of Tiddle’s sentence was lost as Henderson moved with frightening speed to clutch the young whelp’s lapels, heave him up, and slam him against the richly paneled mahogany wall behind him. The other four men stood, but none stepped forward to assist Tiddle; they stood silently, watching warily as Henderson pulled him back and slammed him against the wall again.

“Get your hands off me, Southwell. You don’t even belong here, you ba—”

“If you keep talking, I’m just going to have to keep driving you into the wall until you can no longer speak. Do you understand me?”

Tiddle stared at Henderson belligerently. “I could have you arrested for laying a hand on my person.”

“You are not to speak of Miss Hubbard again,” Henderson said, ignoring the threat. “If I hear one whisper, I can promise you it will be the last thing you say against anyone. And please do not make the mistake of thinking I am bluffing. I would happily go to the gallows knowing I had silenced you forever.”

Tiddle’s eyes widened, and he looked behind Henderson to his friends. “He threatened to murder me. Did you all hear that? Murder. I say, that’s a crime.”

“I didn’t hear him say any such thing.”

Henderson jerked his head around and grinned to see Oliver standing behind the group of men. “You didn’t hear anything, gentlemen, did you?” he asked. They all remained silent.

Henderson shoved Tiddle away with disgust. “Go home, Tiddle, and sober up.”