Page 120 of A Gentleman's Wager

“I’m here to dispose of a debt, not to obtain one.”

Denning fought and failed to keep his crushing disappointment from his response, snipping, “I never accept payments other than from the debtor himself.”

“Of course not,” Pennerley agreed amiably. “Why would you? However, I wish to purchase this particular debt, not depreciate its value.”

“Buy it? What for?” He was having to rapidly reassess his opinion of the marquis.

Pennerley, refusing to give a thing away, yawned theatrically.

“Which debt?” Denning demanded. This had the whiff ofvindictaabout it.

“Captain Frederick Wakefield.”

“A friend of yours?”

“No.”

Denning pulled his accounting book from beneath his pillow, pleased to know he’d maintained enough wits about himself the previous night to keep his business matters properly secured. It took a moment to locate the man’s name within the ledger. “His debts amount to a sum of one thousand and seventy-four pounds, six shillings and threepence.”

Pennerley’s left eyebrow quirked. “So little. I’m surprised. You’ll have it within the hour.”

“I haven’t agreed to sell.”

“Shall we make it a round eleven hundred pounds?”

The man was either devious beyond measure, flush as an empire, or soft in the head. It would take him a while longer to ruminate as to which was correct. Meanwhile, Denning was not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. The truth was that he would never fully recover the money from Captain Wakefield because the blessed fool didn’t have any blunt, and no one got rich on a captain’s salary.

It was an offer Denning couldn’t refuse.

He briefly contemplated pushing for more money, but Pennerley didn’t strike him as a haggler. “I’ll fetch the bonds for you now, and you can have them the moment the bank note is mine.”

-65-

Pryce

Garret Pryce hunched over the single fat candle on his desk. It was well past supper, but old man Pryce oft lost track of the passage of time when absorbed in his ledgers. Balancing columns of figures had been an obsession since he’d first learned his numbers in the village Sunday school. An obsession his late partner William Watson had cultivated, but never shared. The door groaned open, and his aged tabby cat slunk in and leapt on the desk.

“What is it Milo, puss?” he asked brushing the yowling cat away from his freshly scratched ink. Milo mewed again. A shadow hit the desk, prompting Pryce to raise his gaze over the top of his spectacles. It was long past the hours of business. A masked gentleman stood facing him, an expensive pistol clasped within a gloved hand. “What…what do you want? I’ve no money on the premises.”

An elegantly arched eyebrow appeared over the top of the leather guise. “A small service, no more.”

A young fool might have called for help, but this gentleman of the night looked rather agile and not afraid to shoot, while Pryce, who was pushing seventy, had a few too many creaky joints to be fleeing down the stairs two at a time. Besides, this was clearly no ordinary thief. That was a costly lawn shirt, and a heavy wool coat, and that was before one even got to the boots and the pistol.

He sat back, pragmatism overcoming his fear, and offered his guest a seat. “If you’d care to explain what it is you require, I’ll do my best to meet your demands.”

“That is most obliging of you. All I require of you is that you transcribe a letter to Miss Louisa Stanley.”

“Miss Stanley, late of Crow Hall?”

The fellow nodded.

Pryce squinted at the man, his innards churning uneasily. The Stanleys had long been his clients—favoured clients. He oversaw all of Miss Stanley’s accounts, as he had done for her brother and their parents and grandparents afore.

“Tell her that she is ruined. That the seemingly safe investments you made have unfortunately proved otherwise. Arson in one instance, a worker’s revolt in another… The war with France… Make it plausible.”

“Why? I don’t understand. Miss Stanley’s finances have never been better.”

The man drummed his fingers against the blotter. “The reason is unimportant. I simply need you to comply.” He cocked the pistol, prompting Pryce to pick up his quill. Still, he hesitated before putting it to paper. “I do not like this, sir. It will cause undue and unnecessary stress to a very pleasant lady.”