Atherton lost his amusement. “You mean Miss McKnight,” he said coldly. “Her betrothal isn’t unfortunate. Evie is marrying into an old family—I will inherit my father’s business when he retires and a pile of cash at his death. Evie will drip jewels and be the envy of every lady in London. I’m not a bounder who’ll keep his wife in rags while he frolics the night away at music halls.” He glowered, vastly indignant.
“I am certain you’d give her many gifts,” Jamie agreed. “Ensuring she was so dependent on you that she could never leave you or have any sort of life of her own.”
Atherton regarded Jamie as though he were a simpleton. “Why would she need her own life? She’ll keep house and tend the children, as wives do.”
Jamie clenched his hands on the arms of the chair. Losing his temper and striking the man would be satisfying but wouldn’t help Evie.
“Shut it, Atherton.” Jamie dropped his geniality. “You’re going to do something for me.”
“Am I? And what is that?” Atherton took a weary sip of whisky, but his hand trembled.
“You will write a letter to Evie. In this letter, you will confess all. Your false excuse for not joining us at the museum, Brigitte, your cozy house where you spend every Thursday. You will tell Evie that you intended to keep said cozy house and charming young lady—who does not deserve the likes of you, by the way—throughout your marriage, and your expectation was that Evie would understand.”
Atherton gaped, astounded. “I will, will I?”
“You will end the letter by offering to release Evie from the engagement with no shame to her. No recriminations, no begging her to keep you on, no suits for breach of agreement. She will be free of you without stain.” Jamie gave the room a glance. “I don’t see a desk in here. Let’s find a writing room, and you can begin.”
Atherton didn’t move. “And if I don’t pen this letter, then what? You thrash me?”
Jamie considered. “Oh, I might thrash you for the enjoyment of it. Or I might let my cousin Alec do it. He enjoys beating on full-of-themselves Englishmen. He’s never quite forgiven them for killing his ancestors back in the ’45. Not to mention the ’15, and all the other battles in between.”
Atherton’s face had lost color. “Assault is a crime.”
“That is true. Not that Alec—or I—would let you report said crime. I doubt you’d even be able to speak after Alec was finished. Anyway, no, my idea was not to thrash you.”
“Then what?” Atherton’s hand was definitely shaking as he took another defiant sip of the too-sharp whisky. “You did say you’d come to blackmail me. I suppose the letter is my payment to you?”
“Perhaps blackmail is the wrong word. Threaten you, is more what I mean. You write that letter or—”
“Or what?” Atherton snapped. “You’ll tell Evie yourself? Where? In your bed?”
“Careful.” Jamie’s voice went icy. “Be very, very careful what you say about Evie. In fact, do not even speak her name anymore. She is Miss McKnight to you, and I don’t want you even saying that.”
“How dare—”
“If you do not write the letter, no, I will not tell Evie.” Jamie pinned Atherton with his very-Mackenzie stare. “I will tell your father.”
Atherton made a sound that was not a word. His eyes took on terror. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. I will tell your morally exacting, austere, and uncompromising father about your infidelity and your lies. Your family is an uncomplicated one. You don’t have a tangle of titles, entails, and land eternally snarled to ensure you’ll have an income for life, or at least an estate to live on and servants to look after you, even if you’re skint. Your father can either leave you all his lovely wealth or turn you out to starve. Entirely his decision.”
From Atherton’s rigidity, he understood the situation. “My father said Scots were filth,” he snarled. “I was fool enough to argue with him. But he is right.”
“My mother is English,” Jamie said easily. “So, I am only half filth. Perhaps this half.” He gestured along the right side of his body. “You will also not tell your father of any of this or blame Evie’s departure on her. You take the blame. Tell him she grew tired of your fatuousness. He’ll believe that.”
“You bloody—”
Jamie rose. “Let us adjourn to that writing room. I will dictate the letter for you, so you won’t put in any pathetic sniveling. You own up to what you’ve done, you release her, and that is the end of it.”
Atherton sprang to his feet. “I’ll kill you for this, Mackenzie.”
“Many men have said such to me. And yet, here I stand.”
“I’ll ruin you.” Spittle flecked the corners of Atherton’s mouth. “I’ll have you blackballed from every club in Britain, including this one. You won’t be accepted anywhere.”
“Such a tragedy for me.” Jamie gestured him to the door. “Write the letter first, and then the committee can boot me out all they like.”
Atherton’s body inclined slightly toward Jamie, as though ready to launch into him on the moment. Jamie, a tall Scot in a kilt and informal shirt and coat, his hair awry, his boots muddy, only gazed back at him, unruffled. Any doorman of any club could turn Jamie away until he dressed better, but they never did.
Atherton made one more snarl of rage, then he tore out the door, Jamie following more slowly.
Jamie hoped Atherton would try to run, so he could have the fun of tackling him and dragging him bodily to the writing room, but Atherton turned the correct direction and marched to the room of his own accord.
Evie had received the note from Jamie that afternoon when they’d returned from their meal out, Iris now back at her hotel, which advised her to remain with Gavina and Belle another night.
Very important you do, Jamie had written. You do not want to be at the Atherton house this evening.
Evie had expressed skepticism when showing the message to her friends, but Gavina and Belle had been delighted. They were convinced Jamie would not tell Evie to stay with them if it wasn’t important.
They trusted him, Evie realized. Evie had already learned that Gavina was not a frail, timorous woman who obeyed orders without question, and neither was Belle. They’d not believe in Jamie if they had no reason to.
Evie admitted that dining with the ladies and Mrs. Barrow was a much pleasanter way to spend the evening than listening to Sir Hector growl, his wife agree with every word, and his son jab at Sir Hector when he could, pretending he was clever.
Evie’s blue gown had been cleaned and pressed, feeling crisp and new when she’d donned it before dining. However, she’d liked Belle’s unfussy attire and decided to emulate it when next she shopped with her mother for clothing.
They gathered in the parlor after supper for reading, or card games, or puzzles—everyone did as they liked—reminding Evie of nights at her house at Girton. She’d missed such things more than she’d realized.
Agnes, the maid, entered unannounced just as Evie was winning at a hand of rummy, and handed her a thick envelope.