Page 35 of A Deal With a Notorious Devil
It would be the last such mistake he would make. Chris fisted his cane in his hand and surged to his feet, sweeping the cane across the table until the very tip lodged itself just beneath Statham’s chin. “I know,” he said, “that you did not intend to imply that my wife is anything less than respectable.” A shove of his wrist, and Statham was pinned to the back of his chair, his eyes wide with terror.
“N-no,” he squeaked. “I—I misspoke.”
A heavy silence settled over the room. There was no one particularly eager to defend Statham and risk drawing Chris’ wrath for it.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “To be clear, Mrs. Moore is, in all ways, above reproach. I shall be extremely displeased should I ever hear of a less than flattering word about her leave your mouth. Is that understood?”
To his credit, Statham had tried to speak—no doubt in prompt agreement—except that Chris had pressed his cane forward once more and practically jammed the man’s Adam’s apple against the back of his throat.
“In fact,” Chris said with deadly calm into the perfect silence, “it would be best for you if her name never crosses your lips again.Ever.”
“Chris?” Phoebe’s soft inquiry would have turned his head, had he not been so sharply-focused open teaching Statham a lesson. “There was shouting,” she said, as if to explain her sudden presence where she ought not be. “Has something happened?”
“Nothing that won’t soon be remedied,” he said lightly. “But do gather your things. We’re leaving. I find the present company—Rafe excluded—substandard.”
Rather than walk behind him toward the door, she rounded the table toward where Statham sat, pinned against his chair, uttering pathetic little whimpering noises better suited to a child in the throes of a nightmare rather than the grown man he purported himself to be. “Is this truly necessary?” she asked, placing her hands upon her hips.
“Better than he deserved,” he said. “My last cane had a sword concealed within it. He should be grateful he’s not dead.” Statham gave a yelp as Chris pushed harder, and the whole chair tipped onto its two rear legs, leaving him precariously balanced. “You see, Statham, I don’t suffer pangs of conscience when I rid the earth of men who don’t deserve to walk upon it. You should take a lesson from this. Men who insult my wife will, naturally, tend to live shorter lives than those who know how and when to hold their tongues.” Another push, and Statham crashed backward to the floor.
“Oh, dear.” Phoebe was standing close enough to Statham to offer assistance, and she bent to brush at the rumpled linen of his cravat and to help him once more to his feet. “My lord, are you well?”
“He’s fine,” Chris said, his voice clipped with annoyance. “And he owes you a damned apology.”
“Yes,” Statham squealed. “Very sorry, Miss Toogood. Won’t happen again.”
“Mrs. Moore,” Chris corrected in a snarl.
“Yes. Quite right. My congratulations on your marriage, Mrs. Moore.” Statham trembled in fright, managing little more than a jerky bow as he retreated toward the far wall as if he half-suspected he might suffer another attack.
Chris was only surprised Statham had not pissed himself. “Phoebe,” he said. “We’re leaving.”
“Oh,” she said, her brows drawing in confusion. “Yes. Ofcourse.” She had hardly made it back around the length of the table before a servant had returned with their things and ushered them toward the door.
Chris sighed as they stepped out onto the street once more, the cool night air whisking across his cheeks. Probably, he thought, he ought to make some sort of apology himself.
But Phoebe’s lips were twitching as he turned toward her, as if she were struggling to rein in a smile. “With flair?” she inquired, with an arch of her brow.
“With flair,” he said, and wondered at the relief that slid over him. “He was an arse. I couldn’t let it pass.”
“He insulted me, you said.”
“At the very least, he’s learned not to do so again.” Probably every gentleman in the room had taken the lesson, even if he’d meant only to teach it to Statham.
“Deserving of a bit of petty vengeance, do you think?” she asked.
“He got more than that—”
“I meant from me,” she said. And she lifted her hand, opening it to reveal a diamond cravat pin tucked into her palm. The very same one that had once adorned the frills of Lord Statham’s cravat. “Could I have my own box of pilfered treasures?”
And Chris threw back his head and laughed.
Chapter Eleven
With bated breath, Phoebe scratched upon Chris’ bedchamber door. “Chris?” she called, though she doubted she had lifted her voice enough to pierce the thick wood. No response. She hadn’t expected one, really, when one considered that the hour had scarcely passed ten in the morning, and most days he did not seem to rise until noon at the very earliest.
She wasn’t even certain she had got the right bed chamber. There were at least fifteen scattered throughout the house, and there was every chance she’d mistaken the instruction from one of the servants and was even now rapping at the door of a…a music room, perhaps.
But then, she had never needed to find his room before now.
