Page 42 of King's Man

“Is that so?” His gaze didn’t waiver. “A friend of Farris, are you?”

Sam hesitated. “An acquaintance.”

“What did you say your name — ?” A thud against the door and the muffled sound of an argument interrupted him. “The devil?”

Another thump, rather like a body falling against the door, made the handle rattle. Alarmed, Sam braced himself for trouble. Had Nate had been recognized?

Before he had time to worry, the door fell open and a panicked footman stumbled in, struggling to keep the very drunk man in his arms from collapsing. “My Lord,” he was imploring, “you can’t go in —”

“What the devil is this?” MacLeod roared.

The footman flinched, trying to turn and wrestle the other man out. “My deepest apologies, Lord Marlborough, I was attempting to —”

But MacLeod was already on his feet, storming around his desk. “I don’t give a damn what you were attempting —” He stopped abruptly. “Rowsley.”

The drunk pulled himself upright, hanging onto the doorframe with a nonchalant elegance that should have been impossible for someone so deep in his cups. But even foxed, the man was unspeakably elegant. Beautiful, in fact. Sam couldn’t stop staring.

“Marlborough,” Rowsley drawled, shaking back loose hair that fell in dark curls around his exquisite features. “What the bloody hell are you doing? We’re still at cards.”

MacLeod shoved the footman aside so hard he stumbled and fell, catching his chin on a sideboard as he went down and dislodging a vase of silk flowers that tumbled to the floor. Sam winced, but MacLeod didn’t seem to notice, all his attention — suddenly obsequious — fixed on the newcomer.

“I’ve some small matters of business to attend to, my Lord.” He took Rowsley’s arm. “But you —”

“Business? Dear God, leave it to Cavendish. That’s what I do.”

“Very wise, my Lord.” MacLeod’s mouth twisted into what was probably meant to be a smile. “Perhaps you should — ?”

“And who’s this?” Rowsley’s gaze landed on Sam, flicking over him with an interest Sam might have found exciting in another man at another time. Here, it made him extremely uneasy.

“One of Farris’s men, come down from London on some damned fool errand.”

“He looks very obliging,” Rowsley said, his gaze lingering. It appeared rather too frank to be wise, but Sam supposed that men like Rowsley could do as they pleased. “Areyou obliging?”

“My obligation today, my Lord, takes me to Liverpool.” He glanced at MacLeod. “If my business with Lord Marlborough is concluded?”

“Yes, yes.” MacLeod was too occupied with Rowsley to give Sam a second look. “Tell Farris to call on me in London, Thursday next. We’ll finish the business then.”

“How sordid,” Rowsley complained, yawning elegantly. Sam got the impression there was nothing the young man could do that would not be elegant.

MacLeod didn’t seem interested in that, however, landing a meaty hand on Rowsley’s shoulder. “Allow me to escort you back to the card room, my Lord. Cavendish will be —”

“You know, perhaps it’s time for bed.” Rowsley laughed, a brittle sound like the breaking of fragile glass. “Cavendish has taken enough from me for one night.”

Onenight? It was the middle of the morning.

“Oh, come now,” MacLeod said, guiding him out of the room, “your luck is sure to turn, my Lord. It must! Nobody plays whist as well as you…”

Sam, forgotten, stayed silent as MacLeod and Rowsley turned to leave, but the footman climbed to his feet with a murderous look in his eye. A gash had opened on his chin, bleeding profusely, and the poor man had cupped a hand beneath it to keep the blood from dripping onto the carpet. His expression was bleak, all humiliation and fury.

For a panicked moment, Sam thought he might go after Marlborough and God knew that wouldn’t end well. “Here,” he said, intercepting before the man could move and holding out his handkerchief. The footman stared at it as if a gentleman offering assistance was about as likely as pigs growing wings. Maybe it was, in this country. “It’s alright,” Sam said. “Take it before you ruin the carpet.”

Still breathing heavily, clearly enraged, the footman took the handkerchief and pressed it to his chin. After a pause, he said, “I’m sorry for —”

“Don’t you dare,” Sam snapped. “MacLeod’s the one who should damn well apologize. He’s got no right to abuse you like that.”

After a considered pause, the footman said, “Only an American would think like that. In this country, he don't need the right because he's got all the power.”

“Even Lord Marlborough is subject to the law.”

---