Jean-Marc Trenier, ignoring the stir he was creating, walked into the Harvard Club and paused in front of Perkins’ table. The man looked up at him, pretending to be politely curious. Trenier sighed and told himself to keep his temper. But the man was absolutely ridiculous. He was dressed as foppishly as always, brilliantly. And Trenier, who had not slept at all since watching Clara slip safely into her house, was more than usually annoyed by this.

“We have business,” he told Perkins, shortly.

Perkins smiled at his associates and shrugged, as if to say, What can you do with crazy Frenchmen?

“Now,” Trenier said, turning on his heel and walking to a secluded corner of the club.

Perkins followed behind, coming deliberately slowly, pausing to talk to everyone. Trenier watched him in idle irritation, lighting a cheroot. He had not liked Perkins before falling in love with Clara. It was very easy to think of killing the man now. This man who had placed his hands on Clara. At least Trenier took comfort in the fact that he had apparently never kissed Clara properly. There had been no mistaking the wonder in Clara’s response the night before.

“I thought you weren’t received at the Harvard Club,” said Perkins, politely, his eyes cold as steel.

“The best shot in the parish,” said Trenier, lazily, “is received mostly everywhere he chooses to go.” He knocked some ash into the ashtray. “I meant what I said about the money. You are far overdue, Perkins. Is it possible to get a drink in this place?”

Perkins smiled, tightly. “I don’t believe they serve your kind here. Not even the best shot in the parish. I have explained to you my financial circumstances.”

“Someone seems to have given you the impression that I am a reasonable man.” Trenier puffed on his cheroot, blowing a perfect smoke circle toward Perkins. “I can’t imagine who that was. I’ve been indulgent with the terms of the loan, it is true. But I have pressing need of the money for the spring plantings. And it is my money, after all.”

“You have plenty of money for the spring plantings,” Perkins told him.

“You look at my books now?”

“What is this about?”

That was more perception than Trenier would have expected. Trenier smiled without warmth. “I have it in my head to go courting. An expensive proposition, you see.”

“Courting? You need the money for courting?” Perkins looked endlessly amused. “Who are you going to court?”

Wouldn’t you like to know? thought Trenier. “Men as badly in debt as you are, Perkins,” drawled Trenier, unconcerned, “should be far more careful who you make jest of. You do have a lot of pretty friends here. Perhaps I should ask some of them if they would care to help you pay me back?”

Perkins’s wide, blank smile faltered a bit. “Look,” he said, swiftly, lowering his voice. “I am to be married soon. Surely you have heard. Once I get her dowry, I’ll pay you immediately. I’ll let you hold the deed to the plantation until I am married, and if I do not pay you back immediately, you may foreclose-”

Trenier forced his voice to be even. “I don’t want another plantation. I have my own plantation.” Trenier pulled out his pocket watch, looked at it. “It is nearly eleven o’clock. I will be back at the stroke of noon. I will need half of the money. Otherwise, I will consider myself severely dishonored. Insulted. I do believe I shall have to call you out.” Perkins had gone satisfyingly white. There were advantages, Trenier thought, to being the best shot in the parish. Trenier stubbed out his cheroot. “I’ll have my valet polish my pistols. Please call your second.”

Perkins blinked.

“Twelve o’clock,” Trenier said, with a bland smile, and a formal bow.

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