His bookkeeper, despite her presentation otherwise, was part of that world.
“We agreed my day would conclude at one o’clock.”
Her response was slightly defensive. Roderick nodded. He did not want her raising any more walls than she had up already.
“You are quite right, and I should have anticipated your punctuality.” He paused to flash an easy smile. “Do you have a few moments to provide a report of your progress?”
“Yes, of course.” Some of the sharpness left her voice as her focus shifted to her work. “I have gone through the members’ financial accounts, bringing them up-to-date with the reports from Mr. Metcalf. The books pertaining to the club’s finances should be current within the next few days. I have also managed a good start on reviewing the past accounts. The method used to organize the expenses and profits is quite easy to follow, and there is nothing yet to suggest anything out of the ordinary in the calculations.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “I would like to know immediately should you find something unusual.”
“Of course.”
Several moments passed. He continued to lounge on the sofa while she sat stiffly at her desk.
They stared at each other.
There was pride in the way she held her head and squared her shoulders. Though a certain amount of anxiety was evident in the firm line of her mouth and closely linked fingers, she had faith in herself. And determination. She would not look away, no matter how awkward the situation became. Her gray gaze was deeply layered with intelligence and confidence, but it revealed so little.
And everything about her was wound through with an iron thread of restraint.
Despite her high-society background, he felt an urge to trust her.
“Is there anything else?”
The corner of his mouth twisted with humor at the irritation he heard in her query.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bentley.”
Roderick turned to see a footman standing in the doorway. He would have chastised the servant for interrupting the meeting, but the urgency in the man’s demeanor set Roderick on alert.
He rose to his feet. “What is it?”
“Mr. Marcus Lowth, sir. He busted in the front door, accusing all manner of things. I tried to reason with him and send him on his way…” The young man’s gaze flicked past Roderick’s shoulder, then he lowered his voice as he finished, “But…he’s drunk as a wheelbarrow.”
It was Tindall’s brother. Roderick had known the young man was headed for trouble.
“Where is Bishop?”
“I can’t find him nowhere, sir.”
And Snipes had taken the afternoon to visit his daughter’s family.
“Damn it,” Roderick muttered under his breath as he glanced back at Emma where she now stood beside her desk, having risen when he did. “If you will excuse me, I will be back after I speak with our young friend.”
“Of course,” she replied, not appearing the slightest bit put out by the odd interruption.
He strode from the room, following the footman down to the front drawing room, where Marcus had been led to await Roderick’s audience. The footman explained that the young gentleman had insisted vehemently that he was not leaving until he saw Roderick.
As Roderick had expected after the response he had gotten from Tindall, his former friend had not taken Roderick’s warning seriously. Marcus had been left to his own self-destructive devices. The young man had continued to dabble in high-stakes games—games that took place outside of the club and so were not monitored by Metcalf.
Roderick understood the boy’s craving to prove his mettle as a man, to take obscene risks and indulge in dangerous entertainments. And he knew just how far such youthful indiscretions could go without any guidance. Marcus had been heading down a perilous slope for a while now. It was easy enough to imagine he had finally been brought low.
After instructing the footman to continue his search for Bishop, Roderick entered the drawing room.
Marcus was pacing furiously about the room in a staggering, lunging stride. The footman had not exaggerated the young gentleman’s state. His clothing was a rumpled, stained mess. He had clearly been drinking all the previous night and through the day. He was indeed “drunk as a wheelbarrow.” And he had worked himself up into a fierce temper, if his dark muttering and the occasional swing of his fist was any indication.
Roderick rolled his eyes. This was not how he wanted to spend his afternoon.
But there was too much of the boy that reminded Roderick of himself at that age: fighting the world’s expectations, desperate to live on his own terms.
As Marcus made a sudden turn at the end of the room, his feet twisted beneath him and he nearly pitched himself into the wall, righting himself at the last moment when he threw his hand out to stop a collision.