Barbara Metzger Read Online Free PDF Page B

fix yourself up. We’re going for a ride.”
     

Chapter 4

 

Debt and Dishonor
     
    The office of 0. Randall and Associates, Financial Consultants, was located on Fleet Street in convenient view of the debtors’ prison. Randall himself was a small, stocky man a few years older than Forrest, he guessed, with carroty hair, a soft Irish brogue, and hard, calculating eyes. Those eyes shifted from his distinguished caller sitting at ease across the desk to the sorry lumpkin huddled in an uncomfortable wooden chair in the shadows. As far away from his lordship as the room would allow, Chester dabbed an already-crimson neckcloth to his broken nose. Randall’s gaze quickly left the gory sight and returned to the viscount.
    “And may I pour ye a bit of Ireland’s best, me lord?” he offered. “No? Well, ‘tis a wise man who knows his limits. That’s what I tried to tell the lad, I did. A fine boy, young Mainwaring, an’ the spit an’ image of yourself, b’gorn. ‘Twas sorry I was to see him in a mite of trouble.”
    “We were all sorry. That’s why I am here.”
    Randall poured himself a drink. “Ah, family feeling. “Its a fine thing indeed.” He shot a dark look toward Chester’s corner. “Never had a brother o’ me heart m’self. Never regretted it more than today.”
    For all his relaxed manner, Lord Mayne had no desire to discuss his family with any loan shark. He reached to his inside pocket and retrieved a leather purse. Tossing it to the desk with a satisfying thud and the jangle of heavy coins, he announced, “There’s your thousand pounds. You can count it if you wish, but the Mainwarings always pay their debts. Always.”
    Randall missed the danger in the viscount’s silky “always,” too busy scheming. His eyes on the sack, he sipped his drink and licked his thick lips. “Well now, a thousand pounds was the figure two days ago. Ye do ken the nature o’ me business, would ye now?”
    Slowly, with careful deliberation, Forrest removed his pigskin gloves while he addressed the third man in the room. “What do you think, Mr. Chester?”
    Chester clutched the stained cravat to his nose as if to hold all his remaining courage inside. Wild-eyed over the cloth, he babbled, “I fink a fousand pounds is fine.”
    Lord Mayne smiled. Randall didn’t like the smile, and the leather purse had played his favorite tune. He nodded and reached out for the gold. The viscount’s iron grip was around his wrist before Randall could say compound interest. “The chits?”
    “For sure an’ we’re all bein’ reasonable men conductin’ a little business.” Randall pulled a chain with a ring of keys out of his pocket, selected one, and opened the top drawer of his desk. Then he used another key to open a side drawer. Glancing quickly back and forth between Forrest and the pouch, he withdrew a stack of papers. He slid them across to the viscount, keeping one hand close to the open top drawer.
    Forrest checked the signatures. They were a good enough forgery to pass for Brennan’s. He nudged the leather purse toward the Irishman, who put both hands on the desk to draw it closer.
    The viscount proceeded to rip up the vouchers. When that chore was finished to his satisfaction, with small, narrow pieces, he started to move around the desk, prepared to rip up the Irishman.
    There was that smile again, and a glimmer of anticipation in Mayne’s blue eyes. The moneylender finally realized he’d been petting a panther instead of a lapcat. He pursed his lips to whistle but, instead of a breath of air, he suddenly found a fist in his mouth.
    It was hard to whistle with a mouthful of blood, so Randall went for the gun in the top drawer. That was an error. The viscount dove headfirst across the desk, reaching for the weapon. He flung Randall’s arm up at the height of his lunge, then crashed to the ground with Randall under him. The pistol discharged its one ball, wounding the ceiling grievously, sending plaster down