“You cannot be intimidated, can you?” Devon tossed the rest of the scalding beverage down his throat in one smooth movement. Only a bit splashed on his shirt and cravat. Impressive.
“Yes, I can,” Mr. Clarke said, “but rarely. And never by you. Especially not in your current state. The ability to intimidate me is one you must earn, and you’re headed in the wrong direction for that, son.”
“Not your son. Have a father. Orhada father.”
“That’s likely your problem.”
Devon poured himself another cup of tea and scowled at his hands fumbling among the implements. He sipped the steaming liquid more slowly this time. “My brother replaced him. If my brother dies, I replace him. I’m a replacement man.”
Mr. Clarke’s fist banged on the table. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Devon jumped, sloshing his tea over the side of his cup. He settled back against the bench and rested the cup on the table. “You know, the heir and the spare. I’m the spare. I must be whoever my brother is because I’m only on this earth to replace him if he should find himself suddenly deceased.” He shivered. “Don’t want King Art to die.”
“You are whoever you say you are.” Mr. Clarke’s fingers drummed on the table, and his gaze felt like scalpels on Devon’s skin, cutting, so he could peer deeper within. “You don’t have to be a spare if you don’t want to.”
Devon’s head hit the table again. “Ow.” His neck muscles seemed to be broken. He rubbed his forehead. “Been trying to do that. But I’m not so good as you at being a self-made man. Had to gamble to win, didn’t I? That led to…” He lifted his head, peeked at his father-in-law. “You’ve heard, haven’t you?”
“That you pummeled a man in a ballroom last night? Yes. I do live in London, after all. I also heard the brawl was in defense of my little Lilly. So, I’m not going to drain the blood from your body and dump you in the river just yet. But for”—he waved his hands toward Devon—“this little performance, I may do just that.”
Devon groaned, forehead hitting the table once more. He was going to be bruised. He jerked back up, rubbing it. “Ow.” He slumped backward on the workbench. A better position to save his forehead from utter ruination. “I tried to work to earn the money. I couldn’t get what I needed fast enough.”
“You have the money. All you need from what the solicitors say.”
“Won’t use it. Want to earn my place in the world on my own. Like you.”
Mr. Clarke sat upright slowly, deliberately, then he rose to his feet with the same thoughtful consideration. “Drink,” he commanded.
Devon drank.
“Stay there.” He left the room.
“Happily,” Devon grumbled, leaning forward and smooshing his face against the table once more. Well, not precisely happily.
Mr. Clarke returned with a loaf of bread andthunkedit on the table in front of Devon. “Eat. And listen.”
Devon grabbed the bread and tore a chunk off. He chewed while Mr. Clarke paced.
The man pacing before him now clearly wished to talk of things Devon did not particularly wish to discuss. He’d gotten drunk specifically to forget those things.
“Ruining it,” Devon muttered.
“I said listen, not talk,” Mr. Clarke barked.
“You do not speak. Nothing to listen to, is there?”
Mr. Clarke leaned over the table, slamming his palms on the top and leaning so close to Devon that he could feel the other man’s breath on his skin.
“I am the youngest son of a large gentry family.”
“I know it.” Of course, he knew all about the family he’d married into. Why wouldn’t he?
Mr. Clarke sat, leaned back, and crossed one booted foot over his knee. He lounged in a manner reminiscent of a predatory cat lazing in the sun, confident in his violent prowess. “What I’ve accumulated is over three decades of work. I was promised to the church, but it did not fit, so I tried my hand at law, but my temperament was wrong for that, too. In both vocations, I spent more time reading science and philosophy and corresponding with like-minded fellows than attending to my duties.
“My luck came when I met my wife. Her father owns a factory in Manchester, and I had signed on as a bookkeeper for him. I was really there to investigate his machines, mind you, and I made a mess of his books. Along the way, I caught Mariah’s eye, andthat’sbeen the making of me. She’s an heiress. Her father’s a veritable Midas. Turns everything he touches to gold. Wanted his daughter to marry higher, but I have an earl somewhere in my family tree, so I did well enough, especially since Mariah wanted me.Choseme, she did, out of an army of suitors.”
Devon’s brain had stopped working some time ago, probably around his third whisky, but the slow gears of his soused brain had completely dissolved upon hearing Mr. Clarke’s tale.
“Shall I pick your jaw up off the floor for you, boy? Then once your power of speech returns, you’ll tell me what so shocked you.”
