“You will anyway. People always tell me things, even knowing they shouldn’t. I’m sure I don’t know why.”
To West’s chagrin, Severin was right. Once they were settled in one of the club rooms at Jenner’s, he found himself telling Severin far more than he’d intended. He blamed the surroundings. These rooms had been designed for comfort, with deep leather, button-back Chesterfield couches and chairs, tables laden with crystal decanters and glasses, crisply ironed newspapers and bronze cigar stands. The low, box-paneled ceilings and the thick Persian carpeting served to muffle noise and encourage private conversation. The main hall and the hazard room were more obviously extravagant, almost theatrical, with enough gold ornamentation to make a baroque church blush. They were places to socialize, gamble, and amuse oneself. In these rooms, however, powerful men conducted business and politics, sometimes altering the course of the Empire in ways the public would never know.
As they talked, West reflected privately that he knew exactly why people confided in Tom Severin, who never muddled an issue with moralizing or judgments, and never tried to change your opinions or talk you out of wanting something. Severin was never shocked by anything. And although he could be frequently disloyal or dishonorable, he was never dishonest.
“I’ll tell you what your problem is,” Severin eventually said. “It’s feelings.”
West paused with a crystal glass of brandy close to his lips. “Do you mean that unlike you, I have them?”
“I have feelings too, but I never let them turn into obstacles. If I were in your situation, for example, I would marry the woman I wanted and not worry about what was best for her. And if the children you raise turn out badly, that’s their business, isn’t it? They’ll decide for themselves whether or not they want to be good. Personally, I’ve always seen more advantage in being bad. Everyone knows the meek won’t really inherit the earth. That’s why I don’t hire meek people.”
“I hope you’re never going to be a father,” West said sincerely.
“Oh, I will,” Severin said. “I have to leave my fortune to someone, after all. I’d rather it be my own offspring—it’s the next best thing to leaving it to myself.”
As Severin spoke, West noticed out of the periphery of his vision that someone walking through the club rooms had paused to stare in his direction. The man approached the table slowly. Setting down his glass, West gave him a cool, appraising glance.
A stranger. Young, well-dressed, pale and visibly sweaty, as if he’d endured some great shock and needed a drink. West would have been tempted to pour him one, if not for the fact that he’d just pulled a small revolver from his pocket and was pointing it in his direction. The nose of the short barrel was shaking.
Commotion erupted all around them as patrons became aware of the drawn pistol. Tables and chairs were vacated, and shouts could be heard among the growing uproar.
“You self-serving bastard,” the stranger said unsteadily.
“That could be either of us,” Severin remarked with a slight frown, setting down his drink. “Which one of us do you want to shoot?”
The man didn’t seem to hear the question, his attention focused only on West. “You turned her against me, you lying, manipulative snake.”
“It’s you, apparently,” Severin said to West. “Who is he? Did you sleep with his wife?”
“I don’t know,” West said sullenly, knowing he should be frightened of an unhinged man aiming a pistol at him. But it took too much energy to care. “You forgot to cock the hammer,” he told the man, who immediately pulled it back.
“Don’t encourage him, Ravenel,” Severin said. “We don’t know how good a shot he is. He might hit me by mistake.” He left his chair and began to approach the man, who stood a few feet away. “Who are you?” he asked. When there was no reply, he persisted, “Pardon? Your name, please?”
“Edward Larson,” the young man snapped. “Stay back. If I’m to be hanged for shooting one of you, I’ll have nothing to lose by shooting both of you.”
West stared at him intently. The devil knew how Larson had found him there, but clearly he was in a state. Probably in worse condition than anyone in the club except for West. He was clean-cut, boyishly handsome, and looked like he was probably very nice when he wasn’t half-crazed. There could be no doubt as to what had made him so wretched—he knew his wrongdoings had been exposed, and that he’d lost any hope of a future with Phoebe. Poor bastard.
Picking up his glass, West muttered, “Go on and shoot.”
Severin continued speaking to the distraught man. “My good fellow, no one could blame you for wanting to shoot Ravenel. Even I, his best friend, have been tempted to put an end to him on a multitude of occasions.”
“You’re not my best friend,” West said, after taking a swallow of brandy. “You’re not even my third best friend.”
“However,” Severin continued, his gaze trained on Larson’s gleaming face, “the momentary satisfaction of killing a Ravenel—although considerable—wouldn’t be worth prison and public hanging. It’s far better to let him live and watch him suffer. Look how miserable he is right now. Doesn’t that make you feel better about your own circumstances? I know it does me.”
“Stop talking,” Larson snapped.
As Severin had intended, Larson was distracted long enough for another man to come up behind him unnoticed. In a deft and well-practiced move, the man smoothly hooked an arm around Larson’s neck, grasped his wrist, and pushed the hand with the gun toward the floor.
Even before West had a good look at the newcomer’s face, he recognized the smooth, dry voice with its cut-crystal tones, so elegantly commanding it could have belonged to the devil himself. “Finger off the trigger, Larson. Now.”
It was Sebastian, the Duke of Kingston . . . Phoebe’s father.
West lowered his forehead to the table and rested it there, while his inner demons all hastened to inform him they really would have preferred the bullet.
Chapter 33