The grip lessened. A little.
“Of what?”
“Somerset.”
“Somer…” Frowning, Miles cocked his head. “The meadow in this painting has a flower that as far as I’m aware is only found in a vale of that county. The Vale of Taunton. That is all I know of Somerset…Sir.”
The devil stared into his eyes as though he could read each lie and truth that Miles had ever told. It was a proficient ploy, cowing a foe in such a manner, and even Miles felt a vague shudder down his spine.
In his own good time, however, the Prince stepped back, his criss-cross scarred hand lowering to his side. “Brandy or whisky?”
As an apology, it was downright poor, but Miles withdrew the knife and with a flick of wrist returned it to the band of his breeches. “Whisky.”
The Prince strode to the decanters, scarlet jacket a-swish, swordstick nudging his thigh. That hand motioned to the chair across the desk and as Miles seated himself, the whisky was placed before him.
Sipping, he appreciated the superior and obviously smuggled liquor. The Prince sat opposite, his posture nonchalant but Miles sensed a permanent tenseness to the fellow, as though awaiting the drum beat for arms.
Miles shifted. Best be blunt. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Who would that be?” the Prince rasped without ado.
“A soldier named Jacob Dempster who’s in one of the London hospitals. I thought you might be able to discover which.”
Silence.
This was like pulling teeth. Which Miles had been required to do on occasion whilst on campaign. “How much?”
A flicker of a smile. “I’ve no need of money.”
“That’s very gener–”
“But a favour.”
“What favour?”
Scarlet-clothed shoulders shrugged. “A future one. To be added to your existing debt.”
Miles breathed deep. “Agreed. Upon your word its repayment will not land me in hell at your behest.”
“Hell?” The Prince raised a dark brow. “‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’”
Perusing this Machiavellian rogue opposite, Miles was curious as to a fellow who spoke like a gentleman, acted the ruffian, haggled like a merchant and quoted Shakespeare. He’d made inquiries, of course, but people were either too fearful or too admiring to say much, aside the oft-repeated talk of his murky reputation. “You’ve not answered.”
Further silence. But Miles had never been troubled by silence. It was cannon and musket fire that brought trouble.
“Agreed,” the Prince said at last. “If you trust my word?”
Miles rose to his feet. “I do.” And curiously enough he did, so he held a hand across the desk, intuitively knowing this sinister rogue was a man of his word – whether as a foe or as a friend.
The Prince uncoiled from his chair and their palms met in a firm shake. “I’ll have–”
A knock on the door and it swung open to reveal the black-garbed fellow who’d accompanied the Prince that night in the alleyway.
“M’apologies, Guv, but you wanted to deal with the Marquess of Bythorn personally, if the sassenach turned up again?”
Miles had thought this hell owner’s mug couldn’t darken further but he’d been in error, for the scarred cheek tugged taut and wrath seeped from him like black tar from a leaking barrel.
The Prince gave a single nod before he strode from behind his desk, directed a brusque “I’ll send word” towards Miles, and in a whirl of scarlet was gone.
