Page 48 of Restored

Bartlett was a typical idle gentleman of the ton. He liked clothes, gambling, and drinking. He disliked work. Or, more accurately, he considered work to be something that did not fall within the purview of a man of his class. Work was contemptible. But apparently, to be work-shy, to sponge off of others, and to neglect to pay his bills was the height of good taste.

And on top of all that, the man was a rapist and a bully.

Despite his father’s considerable wealth, Bartlett was nearly always strapped for money. His allowance was generous, but he gambled whatever he had away within days of receiving it, and for the next quarter would simply rack up bills and issue promissory notes, digging himself deeper and deeper into debt as he waited for his wealthy father to die.

Kit knew that one of the gambling establishments Bartlett attended was owned by none other than Jake Sharp. And so, once Clara had calmed down from her ordeal in the park, Kit went in search of Sharp.

It took Kit a little time to track him down. He tried first the club Sharp had opened near Redford’s, where he was told the man had only just left for the Knightsbridge club. When he got to Knightsbridge, he was informed that Sharp had not yet arrived, though he was expected quite soon. Kit gave his name and asked if he could wait. He expected to be turned away, but to his surprise, was invited inside and led into the office of a man who introduced himself as Mr. Tait, the manager of the Knightsbridge club.

Kit wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the fact that Tait seemed to know exactly who he was, but he accepted the offer of a glass of port wine with polite thanks, and for the next half hour made pleasant conversation with Tait as they waited for Sharp’s return.

When Sharp arrived—throwing the door to Tait’s office open without so much as a knock and marching inside—it was evident he’d been informed of Kit’s arrival already. His keen gaze went straight to Kit and he grinned wolfishly.

“Mr. Redford,” he said with satisfaction, his forceful personality seeming to suck all of the air out of the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Kit’s own smile was pleasant but careful. “I was rather hoping you might be able to help me with something.”

Sharp’s eyes gleamed, his mouth twisting into a smile that was both sardonic and attractive.

“I will certainly do my best. Come to my office and we can talk.”

He beckoned to Kit, who rose from his chair, pausing to thank Tait for his time and the wine.

“You’re entirely welcome, Mr. Redford,” Tait said. “It’s been a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

Finally?

Kit kept his expression blank, but he wondered at Tait’s words. Had Sharp spoken of him to Tait? And if so, why?

There was no time to puzzle it out. Sharp was already striding out the room, and Kit hurried after him, following him into another room further down the corridor.

Tait’s office had been comfortable and tasteful, but Sharp’s… well, it was something else entirely. Fully twice the size of Tait’s, it held a large desk, a round table with four chairs, and the largest and most luxurious chaise longue Kit had ever seen, upholstered in deep-red velvet and big enough for two grown men.

Kit raised his eyebrows at the chaise longue and Sharp laughed.

“I spend a lot of time here,” he said. “May as well have everything I need.” He gestured at the table. “Take a seat, Kitten.”

Kit tried to hide his instinctive bristle at the nickname as he pulled out a chair and sat himself down. Sharp opened up a cabinet in the corner of the room and drew out a decanter of amber liquid and two large glasses.

“Brandy,” he said decisively as he approached the table. He didn’t ask Kit if he wanted one, just set the glasses down and poured out two generous measures, then took the chair opposite Kit.

“Tell me, then. How can I help you?”

Kit sipped the brandy. It was very good, and certainly French.

“There’s a man causing trouble for one of my people. I think he may come to this club, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he owes you money. I was rather hoping to beard the lion in his den—or rather, inyourden. A public confrontation with the threat of more scandal would be, I think, enough to scare him off.”

Sharp sipped his brandy then leaned back in his chair. He looked amused. “This may surprise you, Kitten, but I generally don’t allow my punters to be harassed here. It’s not what I consider to be good business.”

Kit smiled and shrugged. “I thought you might make an exception in this case.”

“Why?” Sharp asked, his eyes gleaming with appreciation. “Will you grant me something in return?”

Kit met his gaze. “Possibly.”

Sharp’s eyebrows went up. “Who is this fellow?”

“Percival Bartlett,” Kit said. “Oldest son of Sir Algernon Bartlett.”