“You are mistaken,” said the Earl in a tone that struck a chill into Farnaby’s veins. “No man who has bungled once is of the least use to me.”
Farnaby sank down into his chair again, looking after the Earl’s tall figure with an expression of mingled venom and despair in his eyes. Worth strolled away towards the parlour door.
He had not reached it when his gaze alighted on the figure of a gentleman who had entered the tavern a few minutes earlier, and was standing at the other end of the tap-room, fixedly regarding him.
The Earl checked, gently put aside a slightly inebriated sailor who was in his way, and walked across the room to the newcomer. “Your servant, Mr. Taverner,” he said.
Mr. Taverner bowed formally. “Good evening, Lord Worth.”
The fingers of the Earl’s right hand began to play with the riband of his quizzing-glass. “Well, Mr. Taverner, what is it?” he asked.
Bernard Taverner raised his brows. “What is it?” he repeated. “What is what, my lord?”
“You seemed to me to be much interested in my movements,” said Worth. “Or am I at fault?”
“Interested ...” said Mr. Taverner. “I was not so much interested, sir, as surprised, since you ask me.”
“To find me here? I am often to be seen in Cribb’s Parlour,” replied the Earl.