His smile faded. "Have you not brought it with you?"

I glanced meaningfully at the valet, and Summerville took the hint. "Leave us, Waters." The valet bowed and departed.

"What are you playing at, Lacey? Where did you find it?"

I ignored his questions, letting my temper rise. "I toyed with the idea of returning it to you-end-first with you bent over, but I decided that would not be practical."

Summerville flushed. "I do not find that amusing, Lacey."

"It was not meant to be. Instead, I decided to ask you to make out a draft for one hundred pounds."

"One hundred-" Summerville gaped. "You are joking. Why the devil do you want a hundred pounds?"

"Fifty of it I will give to Nellie, because she has need of it. The other fifty I will give to Mrs. Chambers for putting up with you. The three hundred you owe to The Nines is between you and Mr. Bates."

A muscle moved in his jaw. "Very well. I suppose you've put yourself out for me today. I will give you your one hundred pounds. A fee, shall we say? For locating the walking stick."

He insulted me. A gentleman did not fetch and carry for money. I did not react to his suggestion, and Summerville gave up and strode to his writing table. Candlelight shone on his immaculate white neckcloth as he sat down, sharpened a pen, and dipped it into his ink pot. He wrote hastily, the scratching of the pen loud in the stillness.

"There." He snatched up the paper and nearly threw it at me.

I took the bank draft, examined it, and tucked it into my pocket.

"Thank you. Next month, I will return, and you will write another draft, for the same purpose. And the next month after that."

"The devil I will. My income is not substantial, Lacey."

"Better marry your Miss Wright quickly then."

Summerville slammed himself up from the chair. "You go too far, Lacey. How dare you?"