“Well met,” another man, the one sitting nearest to the head of the table said jovially as he gestured for Adrian to take the spot that they had left vacant especially for him. “I hope the rain did not hinder your journey, Your Grace.”
Adrian stared at the man, then his gaze flicked slightly toward the empty chair. The longer he stood there, without dropping into the seat, the more the tension built.
The men cast quick glances at one another.
One man, Mr. Barker, a tradesman who specialized in selling fine linens and draperies in his shops, shrugged helplessly. The man on Barker’s left side, Fitzgerald, looked equally nonplussed, so he picked up his mug of ale and took a hearty sip.
Even though Adrian could see how their bravado wavered, he kept his silence. Keeping others uncertain about the future was a form of power and Adrian reveled in the moment. If they did not know what to expect from him, they would dare to make assumptions and that was when Adrian would ensnare them.
He always… always held the upper hand in his business negotiations.
Adrian removed his gloves slowly. He laid them in front of him on the table before finally dropping into the chair and leaning back so that he could make eye contact with every person at the table.
When he spoke, his voice was even. “Report.”
“We had high sales the last few months. We are more likely to double our profits this holiday season,” the butcher bragged, his face red with pride.
“We have had record yields, as well, Your Grace,” the miller said.
“Trade in London is at its highest in years,” the tailor said.
Everyone seemed to have something good to say about their business, each one trying to outdo the one who came before them.
Adrian didn’t reveal much about what he felt. He listened carefully to each report without giving a comment. Instead of speaking or interrupting and asking for further information, he watched the boasting tradesman and catalogued each of their accounts.
Some of the men looked pleased with themselves. Those were the novices, the gentlemen who were known as thenouveau riche. They had earned their wealth recently and therefore had only begun receiving invitations to gatherings such as these. The others, men like Barker and Fitzgerald, who knew him better looked uneasy. Barker tugged restlessly at his cravat while sweat beaded on his forehead.
Adrian snorted.
Where is Barker’s liveliness now?
The club’s inner room was often protected from the winter chill, but the space was not that warm, either.
He’s nervous.
As one rather pompous fishmonger finished giving an update on the status of his business, Adrian kept his eyes on Barker.
What is he hiding?
Adrian was drawn from his contemplation by the sound of Fitzgerald clearing his throat.
“Your Grace,” the man spoke quietly, clearly comprehending that by drawing Adrian’s attention, he was interrupting a stream of thoughts.
Slowly, Adrian turned to look at Fitzgerald. He lifted one eyebrow high on his forehead, indicating that he was listening and waiting for the man to proceed.
But Fitzgerald said no more. He merely lifted his hands, spread them wide, and shrugged.
Adrian shook his head, slightly disappointed by Fitzgerald’s lack of communication skills, then turned his eyes on the others warily. He waited for a beat.
They have missed something… something rather important. Will it be Fitzgerald who realizes the error, or will it be Barker who steps up and remedies the situation?
Adrian’s disappointment grew as all the men blinked owlishly back at him.
Not one of them had another word to say.
So Adrian drew yet another deep breath, then pointed out his deepest concerns.
“You spoke of profit,” he said solemnly, placing both his hands on the table. “Yet I did not hear about the people.”
