Page 18 of His Scottish Duchess

“But I?—”

“I do not extend favors, Mr. Graves. If I did, I’d have a long line of desperate men at my door, all of whom would be asking for more time and more patience. I do not operate on kindness, Graves. I operate on results. And you, unfortunately, have failed to produce them.”

Frederick Montague, the Duke of Ironvale and Sampson’s business partner, was sitting beside him, watching the entire exchange silently. Sampson was thankful that his friend knew better than to interfere in his business dealings, no matter how much he might disagree with him.

“Your Grace, please?—”

“I do not wish to repeat myself. Your time is up,” Sampson said smoothly.

He paused for a moment as his gaze swept over the faces of the other two men, Mr. Thorne and Mr. Finch.

“Gentlemen, do you have anything to add?”

Mr. Thorne, a tall, gaunt man with a sharp, calculating gaze, cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Your Grace, we understand the importance of timely delivery. However, extenuating circumstances?—”

“Extenuating circumstances,” Sampson interrupted, his voice laced with disdain, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Another special term you wish to use in a bid to get what you want. It is also a convenient excuse for incompetence.

“I have no patience for excuses. Especially not when you have a history of making good on your promises, only to one day turn around and swindle your clients out of their money. That might have been possible with other gentlemen you dealt with, but you should have known better than to try your hand with me as well.”

Excuses are for the weak,he said to himself, the echoes of a harsh childhood ringing in his ears.

Mr. Finch, a younger man with a flushed face, remained silent, his gaze fixed on the polished tabletop, the intricate grain of the wood a blur beneath his anxious stare. He knew better than to challenge Sampson’s authority, to risk the wrath of a man who held the power to make or break fortunes with a single word.

“Very well,” Sampson said, his tone decisive, the sound of a judge passing a sentence. “Since Mr. Graves has failed to fulfill his obligations, I will be forced to seek alternative suppliers. And as for the losses incurred, I will expect full compensation.”

Mr. Graves’s eyes widened with panic, the color draining from his cheeks like water from a sieve. “Your Grace, please! Give me another chance. I will make it right, I swear!”

“Your promises are as worthless as your shipments, Mr. Graves,” Sampson replied, his voice cold. The words cut through the air like a sharpened blade. “Gentlemen, I believe we have concluded our business.”

The three men rose, their expressions a mixture of fear and resentment, the weight of their impending ruin heavy on their shoulders. They bowed stiffly and exited the room, their footsteps echoing in the sudden silence, leaving Sampson alone with Frederick.

Frederick leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Sampson, his expression a mixture of disapproval and grudging respect.

“Ruthless,” he noted dryly, the word hanging in the air like a condemnation.

“Efficient,” Sampson corrected, taking a sip of his brandy, the amber liquid burning a warm path down his throat. “There is a difference.”

A difference that separated the winners from the losers, was the lesson that was etched into his very soul since he was a young boy. His father had taught him that there would never be a shortage of excuses. Greatness, however, was a dime a dozen, and therefore, compromises should never be allowed.

“But was it necessary to go that far?”

Sampson arched an eyebrow. “Do you take me for a charitable man?”

Frederick scoffed, taking a sip of his own drink. “Hardly. But it wouldn’t have cost you anything to give him two more weeks.”

“It would have cost meeverything,” Sampson countered smoothly. “If a man believes I will bend, he will test me again. And the next time, it will not be two weeks he asks for, but a month. Then, a year. The moment I give even an inch, I become weak in their eyes.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding Frederick lazily. “And you know how I feel about weakness.”

“And what of Graves’s livelihood? That man does not have other clients. If word gets out that he disappointed you, no one will wish to work with him again.” Frederick furrowed his brow, a hint of concern in his eyes.

“His livelihood is his concern,” Sampson replied dismissively, his friend’s words a mere puff of smoke in the face of his ambition. “He should have thought of that before making promises he couldn’t keep.”

The die had been cast, and the choice had been made. One of them needed to suffer the consequences, and Sampson would be damned if it was him.

Frederick didn’t argue, but his expression remained tense. Sampson had known him long enough to recognize when something was brewing behind his friend’s usually composed façade.

“Out with it,” he drawled, swirling the liquid in his glass.

Frederick didn’t hesitate. “You should have let Eleanor attend the wedding.”

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