Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(92)

“Because I have to try again. I have to make it right—”

“Wrong answer.” Ned turned away. “‘Because I want to make her happy’ might have worked.”

“That, too.”

“If you really cared for her,” Ned scoffed, “you’d have dealt with that louse at her bank instead of gallivanting off who knows where.”

And those words didn’t make any sense at all. Maybe Gareth was entirely befuddled because he could sense Jenny slipping through his fingers. Still, he tried. “Louse? Bank? What are you talking about?”

Ned eyed him carefully. “I’ll tell you,” he finally said, “but don’t think it will change a thing. I’m still not letting you make her unhappy. Not again.”

THE BANK NED POINTED HIM TO was smaller than the institutions Gareth typically did business with. It was also shabbier. The rosewood furniture was nicked and in dire need of a good polish. The green draperies were sun-faded, and Gareth was willing to wager that if he beat them, they would exhale huge clouds of dust.

As he and Ned entered, the clerks and managers snapped to attention. It was not just the sleek air of wealth Ned radiated. They were accompanied by the wily white-haired solicitor who helped manage the many Carhart interests. Even if the men occupying this place of business didn’t recognize the Marquess of Blakely on sight, they recognized his solicitor, Martin Scorvil. The elderly gentleman was considered something of a genius in the administration of trusts and, as such, his clients typically held tremendous wealth.

Gareth found the response amusing. The bank manager hurried over to Ned almost on the instant, and shook his hand excessively. He was babbling almost incoherently. The rotund man bowed and bowed until he was out of breath. And as soon as he realized he had a marquess in the room—a marquess he’d ignored, because Gareth had not yet changed out of his traveling clothes or donned a cravat—he whipped out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. But Gareth was not here to open an account for himself. He made the appropriate noises, and soon Ned and the solicitor had engaged in conversation over one of the trusts Ned planned to set up for his wife.

Gareth wandered about the room, exchanging a few words with one of the cashiers. Seeking information. The clerk pointed back across the room at another man, huddled in conversation with Ned. The fellow was busily taking notes next to the bank manager. He had a sharp nose, like a weasel, dressing a too-handsome patrician profile. Gareth’s lip curled. He had not come here to serve as mere window-dressing, a noble ornament designed to lend the financial proceedings appropriate gravitas. He had other responsibilities.

And, at this moment, the responsibility that weighed most heavily on his soul was the need to make things right with Jenny. He vibrated with frustration, knowing she was leaving. Gareth was more than willing to wreak his vengeance on any useful object.

Jenny and vengeance. Two words that were rarely coupled. And yet that was why he’d come here.

Ned caught Gareth’s eye, and jerked his head in prearranged signal. Gareth walked back. The bank manager was handing Ned a pen, so that he could sign the first of many sheaves in an agreement.

Gareth covered the page with his hand. “I believe there is one condition we must discuss first.”

“Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord.” The manager wrung his hands attentively.

The cashier, next to him, echoed these officious sentiments with an unctuous wriggle.

Gareth pointed a finger at the man. “Is this individual Mr. Sevin?”

Mr. Sevin started and dropped his pen. Ink spattered over his shoes. “My lord? Have we been introduced?” He bent awkwardly and fumbled for the utensil. “I am most apologetic. Most apologetic. I do not recall—that is to say, perhaps I am remembering now. If perhaps your lordship would be so kind as to—was it at some sort of gathering? In June of last year? I did once attend—”

Gareth stemmed this unwelcome deluge with a raised hand. “It was a yes or no question, Mr. Sevin. Not an invitation to gabble away at me like a flock of outraged geese.”

Mr. Sevin swallowed. “My lord?”

“Answer the question. Are you Mr. Sevin?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Excellent.” Gareth turned to the bank manager. “Give him the sack. He’s going to New South Wales on the next available ship.”

“What?” Mr. Sevin squawked, his cheeks turning white. “Me? Why? My lord, please! I have a wife and a child. I cannot take them with me to that savage land.”

“No,” Gareth agreed. “you’ll have to travel on your own. In your absence, you’ll have to establish a trust for their support.”

“A trust? I am a mere bank clerk. Trusts—such things are for the wealthy. I—”

“Ah,” Gareth said. “But you are not a mere bank clerk. You have recently come into some four hundred pounds.”

Mr. Sevin slowly straightened from his grovel, comprehension dawning across his face.

Gareth continued. “I will see you sent to New South Wales, one way or the other. You can leave your wife and child in comfort and travel in a cozy berth, or you can be dragged away in shackles for larceny. I leave the choice to you.”

Ned met Gareth’s eyes over Mr. Sevin’s cringing, and grinned in vicious pleasure. Sharing this moment of victory with his cousin…He’d never imagined such a thing.