Kit knew that one of the gambling establishments Bartlett attended was owned by none other than Jake Sharp. And so, once Clara had calmed down from her ordeal in the park, Kit went in search of Sharp.
It took Kit a little time to track him down. He tried first the club Sharp had opened near Redford’s, where he was told the man had only just left for the Knightsbridge club. When he got to Knightsbridge, he was informed that Sharp had not yet arrived, though he was expected quite soon. Kit gave his name and asked if he could wait. He expected to be turned away, but to his surprise, was invited inside and led into the office of a man who introduced himself as Mr. Tait, the manager of the Knightsbridge club.
Kit wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the fact that Tait seemed to know exactly who he was, but he accepted the offer of a glass of port wine with polite thanks, and for the next half hour made pleasant conversation with Tait as they waited for Sharp’s return.
When Sharp arrived—throwing the door to Tait’s office open without so much as a knock and marching inside—it was evident he’d been informed of Kit’s arrival already. His keen gaze went straight to Kit and he grinned wolfishly.
“Mr. Redford,” he said with satisfaction, his forceful personality seeming to suck all of the air out of the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Kit’s own smile was pleasant but careful. “I was rather hoping you might be able to help me with something.”
Sharp’s eyes gleamed, his mouth twisting into a smile that was both sardonic and attractive.
“I will certainly do my best. Come to my office and we can talk.”
He beckoned to Kit, who rose from his chair, pausing to thank Tait for his time and the wine.
“You’re entirely welcome, Mr. Redford,” Tait said. “It’s been a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
Finally?
Kit kept his expression blank, but he wondered at Tait’s words. Had Sharp spoken of him to Tait? And if so, why?
There was no time to puzzle it out. Sharp was already striding out the room, and Kit hurried after him, following him into another room further down the corridor.
Tait’s office had been comfortable and tasteful, but Sharp’s… well, it was something else entirely. Fully twice the size of Tait’s, it held a large desk, a round table with four chairs, and the largest and most luxurious chaise longue Kit had ever seen, upholstered in deep-red velvet and big enough for two grown men.
Kit raised his eyebrows at the chaise longue and Sharp laughed.
“I spend a lot of time here,” he said. “May as well have everything I need.” He gestured at the table. “Take a seat, Kitten.”
Kit tried to hide his instinctive bristle at the nickname as he pulled out a chair and sat himself down. Sharp opened up a cabinet in the corner of the room and drew out a decanter of amber liquid and two large glasses.
“Brandy,” he said decisively as he approached the table. He didn’t ask Kit if he wanted one, just set the glasses down and poured out two generous measures, then took the chair opposite Kit.
“Tell me, then. How can I help you?”
Kit sipped the brandy. It was very good, and certainly French.
“There’s a man causing trouble for one of my people. I think he may come to this club, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he owes you money. I was rather hoping to beard the lion in his den—or rather, in your den. A public confrontation with the threat of more scandal would be, I think, enough to scare him off.”
Sharp sipped his brandy then leaned back in his chair. He looked amused. “This may surprise you, Kitten, but I generally don’t allow my punters to be harassed here. It’s not what I consider to be good business.”
Kit smiled and shrugged. “I thought you might make an exception in this case.”
“Why?” Sharp asked, his eyes gleaming with appreciation. “Will you grant me something in return?”
Kit met his gaze. “Possibly.”
Sharp’s eyebrows went up. “Who is this fellow?”
“Percival Bartlett,” Kit said. “Oldest son of Sir Algernon Bartlett.”
Even as he spoke, he saw the interest in Sharp’s gaze.
“I know of him,” Sharp admitted. “And yes, he does come here. His credit’s just about up, in fact. I was expecting to have a quiet word with him in the near future.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Kit said. “He’s an inveterate gambler and entirely lacking in self-control.”
“Well, he’s not alone in that,” Sharp replied cheerfully. “Which is just as well for me, or I’d have no punters. So, you want me to let you cause a scene here, do you? Embarrass the man in front of his friends?”
“That’s about the size of it,” Kit agreed.
“And what will you give me in return?” Sharp leaned over the table and laid his hand on Kit’s forearm. His hand was square with blunt fingers. He had a long scar across three of his knuckles. It was a strong hand. A fighter’s hand. He met Kit’s gaze with eyes the same tawny-gold as a bird of prey. “I’d give a great deal to have you under me for a night. I think I could show you a thing or two.”
Sharp was a compelling man, very attractive in his way, but he could not have said anything less appealing. Kit had no interest in a man who thought he could teach him anything between the bedsheets, thank you very much. Besides, he'd sworn a long time ago never to trade his body again. And he had a feeling there were other ways to gain Sharp’s agreement.
“I’m afraid that’s not something I’m prepared to bargain with,” Kit said smoothly. He paused then, aware of the enormity of what he was about to do. “But I’ll owe you a favour.”
He knew it was rash to make so broad an offer to a man like Sharp. But his own request was not small. And since he was refusing what Sharp had asked in return, he had to offer something worthwhile.
A favour—anything—that could be called on at any time.
Sharp’s tawny gaze sharpened with interest and he smiled. A slow, dangerous smile.
“Very well, Kitten,” he said. “We have a bargain.”
It was after six o’clock by the time Kit left Sharp’s club and not worth going back home for dinner. He decided to go straight to Redford’s and eat there. He’d take the opportunity to do a little work in his office before heading downstairs to mingle with his patrons.
He wondered if Henry would come to Redford’s tonight.
By now the man had had plenty of time to think better of his impulse. He’d been overcome by guilt earlier—and perhaps not a little lust. Once his common sense had reasserted itself, he’d have realised it was terrible idea.
He won’t come, Kit told himself firmly. But the idea that he might kept teasing at the edges of Kit’s mind, preventing him from concentrating on anything, and as the hours ticked by, he was unable to control the mounting, squirming excitement in his belly.
It had been an eventful day. As well as Henry’s visit, there had been Clara’s ordeal and his interview with Jake Sharp. The latter two events were far more significant in terms of Kit’s day-to-day life than a visit from the man who had left him destitute two decades earlier. But as he sat in his office reviewing the latest invoices and delivery notes for the club, all he could think of was his encounter with Henry. And as he dined in his small private parlour before going downstairs to socialise with his patrons, he could barely manage a bite of the delicious meal the kitchens had sent up for the nervous excitement fermenting his gut.