The Revenge of Lord Eberlin by Julia London Page B

later.”
    At the Grousefeather Tavern, Tobin surmised. “Thank you,” he said and heard Carlson go out.
    Carlson was another product of the piece of Denmark now owned by Tobin. Carlson never called Tobin lord. Tobin wasn’t certain if it was a misunderstanding of the English language—although Carlson spoke it fluently—or if the man refused to do so on principle. Carlson had made it quite plain that he did not approve of how Tobin had obtained his Danish title, but Tobin hardly cared about Carlson’s principles. It was his impeccable service Tobin wanted, and he’d paid Carlson handsomely to put aside any scruples and come to England and serve him as any man of importance ought to be served.
    Tobin straightened his neckcloth. As it was wet outside, he’d planned billiards for his acquaintances before supper. He supposed Bolge and MacKenzie were the closest he had to friends, but in his years of high-stakes trading, one merely had acquaintances whom one could trust better than others.
    Bolge had graduated from ship galleys and now was a wealthy man in his own right, having made a career of helping men like Tobin get what they wanted. As large as he’d ever been, Bolge was standing in the middle of the study wearing a superfine coat of navy wool and gray trousers, his hair combed in the latest style. That was new—Bolge had never been one to court fashion.
    “Good to see you, Bolge,” Tobin said, extending his hand.
    “Always a pleasure, Scotty. Aye, but you look grander each time I see you.”
    Tobin smiled. “Whiskey?”
    “You know me well.”
    Tobin gestured to a footman.
    “I must thank you for your considerable help in this little matter,” Tobin said. Bolge was the one who had made the “offer” to the magistrate. Tobin removed a small vellum from his coat pocket; folded within it was a very generous banknote.
    “It was my pleasure,” Bolge said, slipping the vellum into his pocket before accepting the whiskey from the footman.
    That was what Tobin admired most about Bolge. He never questioned. He just did. He clapped his hand onto Bolge’s thick shoulder. “Still unsettled on horseback?”
    “Ach, I am a seaman—not a horseman,” Bolge said, then began to complain about his last mount as they made their way to the gaming room.
    They walked down a carpeted corridor, past consoles with fine porcelain, hand-painted Oriental vases Tobin had stumbled across in a Marrakech souk, filled with flowers from the recently refurbished hothouse. They walked past wainscoting that had been gilded, silk wall coverings woven in India, and paintings bought from failing estates around the world.
    In the gaming room, where rich leather met deep red velvet trimmings, Sibley and Horncastle were playing billiards and drinking the Scotch whiskeyMacKenzie had shipped here. Tobin had known MacKenzie for quite some time now. They’d met on the high seas, naturally—MacKenzie was a Scotsman with a hazy past who defied God and pure luck to sail any ship in any weather and through any blockade. Tobin considered him a kindred spirit, a fine captain, and as fine a gambler as they came.
    The gentlemen greeted one another. Horncastle, who hailed from Hadley Green, held out a tot of whiskey to Tobin. “You arrived just in time for a toast.”
    Horncastle was a brash young man with no ambitions that Tobin could see other than to drink, gamble, and whore. He was several years younger than Tobin and had grown into an effeminate, aimless man.
    “To a day of good luck and better fortune,” Horncastle said.
    “To luck and fortune!” the men all avowed.
    The four men talked about the prospects for hunting on the morrow in the vast forests around Tiber Park. A footman—Rupert, Richard, Tobin could scarcely remember them all—brought in a platter and set it on a sideboard. He removed the dome to reveal small cuts of ham and cheeses.
    The men were helping themselves to the repast when Carlson appeared and bowed. “Pardon, sir,