The Uncertain Customer
D EVON W ILCOX , the fifth son of Right Honorable Viscount Wilcox, sat in his club on Pall Mall surrounded by fellow alumni wearing demeanors of varying arrogance. The exotic smoke of expensive tobacco filled the air, hidden by the tasteful dimness of the sitting room. The other members were ignoring him, likely discouraged by the dark furrow between his brows and the grim light in his blue eyes. Relishing his current solitude, Wilcox slouched in the overstuffed chair, the slick leather upholstery abetting his elegant sprawl.
Rich men going about their rich lives—duty, honor, and above all, privilege—with unquestioning conformity being the only true cost. For all that he was counted among their number, he hated them. But not as much as he currently hated himself.
He was grateful for the stingy illumination as he stared at the half-empty glass of whisky held loosely in his hand. The drink was his fourth, the amber liquid providing him with little clarity as he pondered the strange vagaries of fate. As the son of a member of the peerage, his was a life of ease and leisure, with every benefit attendant upon a man of his wealth and position in society. And yet, he was profoundly unhappy. He, who had been promised everything he could ever want since birth, was destined never to have the one thing he truly desired. At least, not without a great deal of risk.
Introspection proved to be thirsty work, and Wilcox winced at the slow burn as he threw back the last of the excellent GlenDronach. He groaned in pain when the glass bumped against his swollen lower lip.
“Good God, man. You look awful.”
Wilcox took a moment to glance down at the scuffed material of his jacket, noticing yet another missing button along the front placket. The fine wool at the collar scratched against the back of his neck when he at last deigned to tilt his head just enough to bring the visage of his sometime best friend, Sir Wallace Church, into view. Per the usual, his blond friend regarded him with semimocking concern, the true nature of his intentions hidden beneath a joker’s mask. Church had earned his knighthood — along with a select group of businessmen whom Her Majesty considered particularly responsible for helping save the country from financial ruin after the collapse of Overend, Gurney three years before. The son of a prosperous spice trader, Sir Wallace was rich as Croesus—“new money” Wilcox’s father had disdainfully accused—and was an irredeemable scoundrel. The viscount’s vehement disapproval of his son’s association with the irreverent heir had only made Wilcox all the more determined to befriend him during their shared tenure at Oxford. But right at that precise moment, Church and his knowing smirk were the last things Wilcox wanted to see.
“Not now, Church.”
Ignoring him as usual, Church swooped down into the empty chair across from him, arranging the tail of his bottle green jacket with a practiced flick of his wrist. Church took his fashion very seriously indeed and never allowed even a wrinkle to interfere with his sartorial perfection. The seat had been kept open for him, as it was well-known among the other members that Sir Wallace was the only person Wilcox welcomed when he was deep in his cups. Church’s emerald gaze danced with mischief as he studied Wilcox carefully, the light from the inset candelabras spinning his hair into ostentatious gold. Wilcox fixed him with an irritated glare in a show of pointless resistance.
“It looks like you’ve gone at least three rounds with a gorilla, my friend. Come now, tell old Wally what happened.”
Neither the characterization nor the guess was all that far off. Shifting uneasily in his seat, Wilcox turned his attention back to his now-empty glass while he catalogued the various aches that had prompted him to seek out copious amounts of the expensive distilled painkiller. The twinge from at least two bruised ribs thwarted his
D EVON W ILCOX , the fifth son of Right Honorable Viscount Wilcox, sat in his club on Pall Mall surrounded by fellow alumni wearing demeanors of varying arrogance. The exotic smoke of expensive tobacco filled the air, hidden by the tasteful dimness of the sitting room. The other members were ignoring him, likely discouraged by the dark furrow between his brows and the grim light in his blue eyes. Relishing his current solitude, Wilcox slouched in the overstuffed chair, the slick leather upholstery abetting his elegant sprawl.
Rich men going about their rich lives—duty, honor, and above all, privilege—with unquestioning conformity being the only true cost. For all that he was counted among their number, he hated them. But not as much as he currently hated himself.
He was grateful for the stingy illumination as he stared at the half-empty glass of whisky held loosely in his hand. The drink was his fourth, the amber liquid providing him with little clarity as he pondered the strange vagaries of fate. As the son of a member of the peerage, his was a life of ease and leisure, with every benefit attendant upon a man of his wealth and position in society. And yet, he was profoundly unhappy. He, who had been promised everything he could ever want since birth, was destined never to have the one thing he truly desired. At least, not without a great deal of risk.
Introspection proved to be thirsty work, and Wilcox winced at the slow burn as he threw back the last of the excellent GlenDronach. He groaned in pain when the glass bumped against his swollen lower lip.
“Good God, man. You look awful.”
Wilcox took a moment to glance down at the scuffed material of his jacket, noticing yet another missing button along the front placket. The fine wool at the collar scratched against the back of his neck when he at last deigned to tilt his head just enough to bring the visage of his sometime best friend, Sir Wallace Church, into view. Per the usual, his blond friend regarded him with semimocking concern, the true nature of his intentions hidden beneath a joker’s mask. Church had earned his knighthood — along with a select group of businessmen whom Her Majesty considered particularly responsible for helping save the country from financial ruin after the collapse of Overend, Gurney three years before. The son of a prosperous spice trader, Sir Wallace was rich as Croesus—“new money” Wilcox’s father had disdainfully accused—and was an irredeemable scoundrel. The viscount’s vehement disapproval of his son’s association with the irreverent heir had only made Wilcox all the more determined to befriend him during their shared tenure at Oxford. But right at that precise moment, Church and his knowing smirk were the last things Wilcox wanted to see.
“Not now, Church.”
Ignoring him as usual, Church swooped down into the empty chair across from him, arranging the tail of his bottle green jacket with a practiced flick of his wrist. Church took his fashion very seriously indeed and never allowed even a wrinkle to interfere with his sartorial perfection. The seat had been kept open for him, as it was well-known among the other members that Sir Wallace was the only person Wilcox welcomed when he was deep in his cups. Church’s emerald gaze danced with mischief as he studied Wilcox carefully, the light from the inset candelabras spinning his hair into ostentatious gold. Wilcox fixed him with an irritated glare in a show of pointless resistance.
“It looks like you’ve gone at least three rounds with a gorilla, my friend. Come now, tell old Wally what happened.”
Neither the characterization nor the guess was all that far off. Shifting uneasily in his seat, Wilcox turned his attention back to his now-empty glass while he catalogued the various aches that had prompted him to seek out copious amounts of the expensive distilled painkiller. The twinge from at least two bruised ribs thwarted his
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