Page 42 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

“Have I offended you? Do you consider yourself a better man than I?”

Mr. Dubois spun around, his blue eyes flashing. “I’ve never killed anyone.”

Cedric selected a piece of meat from the plate, pinching the food between his forefinger and thumb, and held out his arm.

“Would you take food from my hand?”

Mr. Dubois must have bit his tongue in half to prevent himself from replying. The visual struggle that appeared on his face was comical.

Snorting, Cedric lifted the loaf, ripped a chunk off, and set the bread on a plate with a few strips of meat and cheese. Pushing the plate across the table, his gaze flicked to the seat across from him.

“Join me.”

“Why?”

“Because you lied to me, and before I kill you, I want to know the reason.”

“Why do you think I lied to you?” Mr. Dubois’ fingers wound themselves into knots.

“Open your trunk.”

Gulping, he dragged the chest toward him, unlatched the clasp, and flipped open the lid, his gaze sliding over the contents.

“Sit,” Cedric commanded before Mr. Dubois could touch anything.

He moved away from the trunk and crawled into the chair across from Cedric, his eyes locking on him. Selecting the bread from his plate, Mr. Dubois ripped off a piece and put the morsel in his mouth, never breaking his stare. Chewing methodically, he swallowed.

“How did you know I lied?”

“Your clothing.”

“My clothing?” Mr. Dubois glanced down at his shirt with a frown.

“Just now, when I offered you the meat,”—Cedric lifted the bottle from the table, filled a goblet, and passed the chalice to Mr. Dubois—“what was it you wanted to say to me that you struggled so admirably to withhold?”

A line scrunched itself into his forehead as he took the cup. Lifting the goblet to his mouth, he drank deeply, then set the cup back onto the table and ripped off another piece of bread.

“I don’t understand.”

“Your reaction was that of a gentleman, one whose responses have been conditioned to acceptable societal behavior, ingrained since youth.” Cedric leaned forward, sifting through the chest, and extracted the chemise. “You said you were poor, but your clothing, your speech, and your manners suggest otherwise.”

Tossing the chemise back into the trunk, Cedric pulled out a sack.

“A man can be a gentleman without wealth.” Mr. Dubois’ gaze dropped to the bag.

“Manners do not generate money, Mr. Dubois. Your education was paid for. Where are those funds?”

“With my father,” he spat, regaining some of his bravado. “And he has no intention of dying any time soon.”

“Is that why you were sailing for America?” Cedric asked, tossing the sack back and forth between his hands and squeezing the material inside. “More intimate garments?”

When Mr. Dubois nodded, Cedric pitched the unopened bag back into the chest.

“Not quite the direction you anticipated traveling?”

Mr. Dubois glanced around the dim room and shook his head. “Not quite.”

A bell tolled, clanging from somewhere above them. Cedric lifted his head, listening. The bell rang two more times in quick succession, indicating possible trouble. Pushing back from the table, he stood and walked to the large window, peering into the darkness.