height of modern fashion, despite the obvious age of its exterior. Floral prints in a dizzying array of colors, shining brass and polished wood. He even saw a maid putting a small sweeper automaton away in its cupboard.
Jack had three of the little devils. Not because he was particularly dirty but because he thought them cute. And also, because he could.
Hmm. There was something familiar about this place, something tugging at the back... Bloody hell. He’d robbed it. Oh, this was a fine kettle, now wasn’t it? Not that Abernathy had any way of knowing who’d filched his silver and jewels that night, but the realization made Jack feel a little dirty all the same. He didn’t often have to look his marks in the eye.
This was Finley’s fault, this sudden attack of conscience. He was going to have to send that girl a bill or something. Or perhaps demand that she give him back his spine. Guilt was not a good look for him—it gave one unsightly lines.
And now he felt bad for being rude to the housekeeper, as well. Damnation. He was going to have to cheat at cards and seduce a married woman just to get his equilibrium back.
The housekeeper stopped at a closed white-washed door, knocked and, when bade, entered. Jack heard her announce him, and then he swept into the room.
Abernathy was older—perhaps in his late forties or even early fifties. He wasn’t very tall, had thinning blond hair, pale blue eyes and a nose that could only be described as...British. He was dressed in gray-striped trousers, a puce waistcoat and a dove-gray jacket. His shoes were so polished they were like mirrors—not that the viscount could see his shoes past the prodigious curve of his belly. Jack didn’t think he’d ever met anyone who made him so keenly aware of his own height and slight build.
The viscount’s expression when he saw him was terribly amusing. Either Abernathy hadn’t known of Jack’s parentage or he was a very fine actor, because all the color drained from his face, save for the blue of his eyes.
Jack waited until the housekeeper closed the door, sealing the two of them in the study alone to speak. “I’m a busy man, your lordship—fings to do and peoples to see and all that. To what ‘onor do me boots muddy-up your prett-ee rug?”
The man winced at his atrocious accent. Jack narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he’d laid it on a bit too thick. Of course it was a horrible way of speaking—he’d worked hard to perfect it. Sounding the way he did ingratiated him to the people of Whitechapel, but it also made people from other parts of the city underestimate him. For the most part, he liked being underestimated. People said and did all sorts of things in front of you when they thought you were more thug than brain.
Viscount Abernathy, however, would do well not to underestimate him. Did the older man think himself better just because he had a big house and a lofty title? The aristocracy wasn’t what it used to be, and Jack reckoned his fortune was as large, if not larger, than the viscount’s.
Bloody hell. What was wrong with him? Next thing he knew he’d suggest a pissing contest just to see which of them had the longest reach.
“Would it give less offense, my lord, if I spoke to you in a manner of conversation to which you are more accustomed?”
The older man’s eyes widened. Perhaps he noted the change in Jack’s demeanor as well as his speech, or perhaps Jack resembled his estranged pater in more ways than his good looks. “You may speak in whatever manner you choose, Mr. Dandy.”
Jack shrugged. “You, as well, my lord.” He glanced at a black leather wingback chair. “Mind if I sit?”
Abernathy gave his head a shake. “Yes, of course. Please, do. Would you like a drink?”
“Coffee, if you have it.”
The man blinked. “Coffee?”
Jack nodded as he set his hat on a small table and propped his walking stick nearby—within reach, of course. “Yes, please. I never imbibe when I’m discussing business. It’s bad...for business.”
“Yes, I see how it would be.” It was obvious, however, that he didn’t “see” it at all. Judging from the gin blossoms on the man’s beak, Jack would wager the man spent most of his time half-pickled.
The viscount pressed a switch on a little box on his desk. A second later the housekeeper’s voice came out of the box. “Yes, Lord Breckenridge?”
“Coffee, please, Mrs. Dean. And some sandwiches. And some of those little cakes you make that are so delicious.”
Good God. Was Abernathy flirting with his housekeeper?
“Of course, my lord.” And she was being all coy in return.
Jack eyed his walking stick and wondered if jabbing the blade up his nose and into his brainpan might take away the image of the two of them trying to put their parts together around their notable middles. Instead of testing the theory, he sat down in the chair—it was as comfortable as it looked.
When Abernathy was done cooing to Mrs. Dean, he came and sat down in the chair opposite Jack’s. “First of all, I want to thank you for responding to my request for a meeting so quickly.”
“You have impeccable timing. This is my only free afternoon for some time.” It wasn’t, of course. His business happened mostly at night, in the dark and shadows, but Abernathy didn’t need to know that his afternoons were open for at least the next three to four days.
“Oh, very good. I suppose you are wondering why I requested a meeting as we’ve never been introduced.”
“I rarely wonder at anything, my lord. And it’s not as though we’re totally ignorant of one another, is it?”
The viscount had to be a lousy card player. His cheeks flared red, and his left eyelid twitched.
All the ladies must find him so very attractive.
“Yes, quite right.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, crossing his right leg over his left as his hands dangled over the leather armrests. He was rather enjoying himself. “You are a friend of my father, are you not?”
If Abernathy flushed any redder, Jack could sell him to a freak show as “The Incredible Tomato Man.” “We are well acquainted, yes.”
“I wager it wasn’t he who pointed you in my direction, though, was it?”
Make that “The Incredible Lobster Man.” “Indeed not. I was given your direction by—”
“Don’t.” Jack held up his hand. “Who hardly matters. I’m more concerned with why.”
It was at that moment that Mrs. Dean arrived with refreshment. She set a silver tray laden with food and a large pot of coffee that smelled strong and rich on the table between them.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dean,” Abernathy said. “We’ll serve ourselves.”
She curtsied—ignoring Jack—and bustled out of the room like an engine with a furnace full of burning coal.
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