Читать книгу Nothing But Scandal - Allegra Gray - Страница 8

Alex arrived at White’s later that night, only a little drunk, and went immediately to his regular table. Lords Stockton, Wilbourne, and Garrett, veteran gamblers all, were already seated, engaged in the pleasurable pastime of betting obscene amounts on the trivial fall of the cards.

As Alex sat, a waiter appeared with a glass of his usual brandy. He quaffed it eagerly, as the three he’d drunk before leaving home had not sufficiently dulled his memory of the tempting minx who today had rashly offered up her own ruination. Nor had they dulled the memories of that same minx’s father.

The other men dealt him into a game of five-card loo. They played several hands, but Alex’s mind wasn’t on the cards.

“Do you ever wonder,” Lord Wilbourne joked as he raked in the cards after winning a hand, “how wealthy Beaufort would be if he didn’t insist on losing such large sums to me?”

Alex grinned, the additional brandy having softened his mood. “I won twice that sum from you last week, Wilbourne.”

Wilbourne’s bushy brows lifted. “Quite right. I’d forgotten. I suppose I’ll have to hope my luck holds a while longer tonight.”

Alex knew Wilbourne didn’t care one way or the other. The man was wealthy in the extreme, as were the others at the table. Playing with such companions made the game far more civilized.

They played some more, and Alex’s mind drifted back to a pair of beautiful but desperate green eyes. A waiter appeared to replace his brandy, and he mindlessly took a swallow of the new one.

Lords Stockton and Garrett began discussing some of the more outrageous bets in the book at the front of White’s.

Stockton, the eldest at the table, had a stodgy sense of propriety. Cards were well and good, but he couldn’t understand what possessed people to bet on such foolish things as the type of jewels a certain courtesan would wear to the theater, or whether Lady X’s garden party would be rained out—the latter of which Lord Garrett had bet in favor of and was devoutly hoping would come true, as he’d promised a friend to attend that unbearably dull annual affair.

“I just don’t see how you can engage in such trivia,” Stockton averred.

Garrett grinned. “I can afford it, and it keeps me entertained. What else is a man to do during the Season? Attend Almack’s?”

“God forbid.” Wilbourne shuddered at the mention of the marriage mart. “Even betting on the weather is better than that.” He dealt the cards again.

Alex picked his up and tried to concentrate, both on the game and the conversation. His friends could afford to bet on whatever ridiculous whims they chose, but their conversation reminded him too much of those who couldn’t but did anyway. He took another swallow of brandy and leaned back in his chair, allowing himself to float peaceably in an alcohol-induced haze.

“All right then, what’s the strangest thing you’ve ever won at cards?” Wilbourne asked.

“A small estate in Scotland,” Lord Stockton offered. “Way up in the highlands. Wild place. No Englishman in their right mind would live there.”

Lord Garrett, the youngest at the table, shrugged. “Still, land is land, and is gambled upon often. That’s not so strange. I, on the other hand, recently laid claim to a prize-winning sow.”

Wilbourne laughed. “You, owner of a pig?”

“For as long as it takes my man to sell it, at any rate.”

Stockton shook his head. “A man who resorts to betting his livestock ought not be betting at all.” A longtime gambler, he dealt only in cash and land.

“Whyever did you allow the man to bet on it?” Wilbourne asked curiously.

Garrett shrugged. “I was enjoying the game. Didn’t want it to end.”

“A pig.” Wilbourne shook his head. “Beaufort? Anything you’ve won that can top that?”

“A woman,” Alex said, and almost immediately regretted it. He should have stopped drinking about three brandies ago, if he’d reached the point where his mouth functioned faster than his brain.

The other three men looked interested. Wilbourne set down his cards. “Do tell.”

“A servant?” Stockton asked.

“Someone’s mistress?” Garrett guessed.

Alex shook his head, wishing he didn’t have to explain. “Someone’s daughter.”

To their credit, the three men looked horrified.

Alex raked a hand through his hair. “I was gambling with a man who got in over his head. I didn’t know it, or I’d never have played with him. Anyway, suffice it to say, when he realized he couldn’t pay off his many losses, he offered up his daughter to work them off.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Wilbourne breathed.

“The man’s deceased. I’d rather not name him and tread further on his memory.”

“Barbaric,” Stockton grunted.

“Positively medieval,” Wilbourne confirmed.

“Did you accept?” Garrett asked.

“Of course he didn’t,” Wilbourne answered for him.

A man at the table closest to theirs—a man that Alex, in his brandy-induced haze, couldn’t place—stood and brushed past, headed for the entrance. The stranger glanced at Alex a little longer than polite behavior dictated. Clearly, he’d overheard their conversation.

Garrett looked at Alex for confirmation.

“No. I didn’t,” Alex said shortly. Was his reputation truly so bad even some of his friends thought he’d stoop so low? He’d had any number of mistresses and lovers, but he’d never taken a woman who hadn’t come to him willingly. Although, if this morning’s encounter had been any indication of Elizabeth’s willingness…

He stood. “I’m sorry to dash your hopes, Wilbourne, but you’ll have to content yourself with winning these other gentlemen’s money for the rest of the night.”

“Leaving so soon?”

Alex shrugged. His fogged mind tried to come up with a decent excuse, since he usually played cards well into the wee hours of the morning, but the only thing that came to him was a vision of a red-haired temptress with hurt green eyes.

“Sorry,” he said to the men remaining at his table, and left.

Elizabeth reached the temporary sanctuary of her room, paced for a few moments, then threw open her wardrobe and trunks. She contemplated which things were most essential to bring with her. The wild anger and fear she’d felt toward Harold had receded, leaving behind a steady resolve.

“He’s a horrible man. An animal.”

Elizabeth started. “You do have a way of sneaking up on people, Sister dear.”

Charity managed to look mildly abashed, then gave herself away by grinning. “How else is a body supposed to hear anything worth listening to?” She sobered. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, not really. You heard what happened in the study?”

“Most of it.” She tugged at her blond hair, distressed.

For a moment Elizabeth felt a pang of jealousy. Charity had golden hair and wide blue eyes, and she was irrepressible and fun. She’d have been an instant success in Society—if their mother hadn’t held her back this year, embarrassed by their circumstances. If Charity had been the older sister, she’d likely have found a bevy of pleasant suitors, and their whole family would be out of this mess. Or perhaps not. As the eldest, Elizabeth had sheltered her sister for most of their lives. She’d always been the responsible one, the one to deflect their parents’ displeasure over childhood foibles, and the one to try desperately to atone for not having been born a boy. Was it any wonder they’d turned out so differently?

Yet Elizabeth loved her sister far too much to remain jealous. Gently she pried her sister’s hand from her hair. “You’ll ruin your lovely curls.”

Charity shrugged. “I don’t know why I let Emma bother with them today anyway. E., how can you stand it? He’s just too awful. Income or no, I can’t fathom why Mother and Uncle wish you to marry him. I, for one, am glad you slapped him.”

Elizabeth cringed, embarrassed when she recalled all Charity must have overheard. “It wasn’t my finest moment.”

“You’re wrong. He deserved that and more. You just can’t marry him.”

“I know.”

Charity glanced around, seeming to notice for the first time that Elizabeth was packing. “I take it you’re leaving.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“As well you should. But where will you go?”

For that, at least, she had an answer. “I’ll visit Beatrice. She’ll take me in until I can figure something out.”

Lady Beatrice Pullington had made her bow to Society the same year as Elizabeth, and they’d been fast friends ever since. Bea had married almost immediately, for her family had made prior arrangements with Lord Pullington, an older member of the peerage. That gentleman had survived only six months of his marriage before his failing heart gave up entirely, leaving Bea a wealthy young widow.

For the past two years, Bea had kept her own house in town—a privilege afforded her by her widowed status. She was certainly pretty, and wealthy, enough to attract another husband, but she had no desire to relinquish the independence she felt she’d earned during her brief but stifling marriage.

Elizabeth knew she could find a temporary haven there. She had too much pride to prevail upon Bea’s generosity forever, but she could at least hide there while she formulated a new plan. Bea knew how to be discreet.

Charity nodded, her eyes wide. “Shall I compose a message to her while you pack?”

“No. It would have to be delivered, and it’s better if fewer people know my whereabouts. I can trust Bea not to leave me standing on her doorstep, unexpected though I may be. And I know I can trust you not to speak of it to anyone.”

“Of course. See, you can do this on your own. You didn’t need Beaufort to ruin you at all.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me. Whatever was I thinking?” Elizabeth pressed her hand to her forehead. The fight with Harold had one benefit: it had made her temporarily forget her humiliating and short-lived foray into wickedness.

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. Perhaps you just wanted a bit of fun before consigning yourself to a life of drudgery. The duke is rather, um, red-blooded, isn’t he?”

“Charity!” Elizabeth giggled in spite of herself.

Her sister grinned back. “When will you leave?”

“This evening, after Mother has gone out or retired for the night.”

“Perfect. I’ll simply say you sneaked out while I was sleeping. And I shall act hurt, as though I’m disappointed you didn’t confide in me.” Mischief lit Charity’s eyes as she warmed to the falsehood.

“Thank you.” Her sister’s love for drama had gotten them into more than one awkward scrape, but Elizabeth was grateful for it now. She gave Charity a quick hug, then snapped her valise shut. There was no point in packing more, since she had no idea what her next step in life would be. If she needed additional items later, she could always have Charity sneak them to her.

The two sisters moved aimlessly about the house for the next several hours, pretending all was normal whenever the servants were near, and making plans in whispered exchanges when they weren’t.

The darkness of night now lurked at the windows, but neither girl showed any inclination toward sleep. Charity was staring out Elizabeth’s window, unconsciously gripping the curtains until her knuckles turned white. Elizabeth, oddly calm, sat near her dressing table.

“I heard Mother say she was attending a gathering at the Jameson residence this evening,” Charity said. “As soon as she goes, you can be on your way. There. That new man is preparing the coach.”

Elizabeth nodded. Their old driver, Fuston, had disappeared shortly after her father’s death. He’d been driving the night of the accident. Presumably he’d been too guilt-stricken to remain in the Medfords’ employ, though from what Elizabeth understood, there was little he could have done.

“There. Mother’s climbing in. He just closed the door.”

Elizabeth stood.

“They’re gone. The coach just turned the corner. You can leave now and not be seen. I’ll find a hired hack and tell them to pull around back, if you want. That way no one else will see you leave either.”

Elizabeth looked at the golden-haired little sister she loved with all her heart. “Charity, are you absolutely sure you’ll be all right after I go?”

Her sister grinned. “Of course. Oh, I know they won’t be happy with me, but I can stand it, E. You don’t have to protect me anymore.”

Elizabeth gave her a quick hug, then quickly composed herself. “I’ll miss you more than anything. Go ahead and hire a carriage. I’ll finish here and be ready by the time it arrives.”

She gathered a few last things as Charity left the room. She debated leaving a note, then decided against it. Better to simply let them wonder.

Her mother would be furious, especially when Harold cried off, but Elizabeth was long past the point of caring. She was strong enough to make it on her own, and Charity was wily enough to withstand their mother’s interrogations. That was all that mattered.

Elizabeth took one last glance at the lovely green-and-gold bedroom she’d known for years, then shut the door on that former life.

The Derringworth stables, located just outside London, catered only to discerning customers—mostly the nobility. The firm raised everything from racehorses to ladies’ mounts, with only one stipulation: any horse the Derringworths signed off on was of highest quality. The operation represented the epitome of what Harold Wetherby aspired to be. Which was exactly why he was on his way there to purchase a new mount, preferably one that would draw attention to him.

He even had an appointment. The morning held considerable promise.

Harold left his unimpressive rig—another item that would have to be upgraded, now that he was marrying nobility—out of sight when he neared the stables.

He tugged down his straining waistcoat, then entered the posh facility. It smelled of leather and fresh hay—so unlike the manure and sweat of the farmers’ stables where he’d grown up.

A young man sat in a small office to the left of the entrance. He stood as Harold entered.

Harold thrust out his chest. “Harold Wetherby,” he announced. “Here to see about that stallion I’ve heard is for sale.”

“Mr. Wetherby,” the young man said. “Yes, I see your appointment in our book. Tim Kemble here, Mr. Derringworth’s assistant manager. So, it’s the stallion you’re interested in?”

An assistant. His appointment hadn’t merited the owner. Harold cleared his throat, irritated. “Yes, the stallion, of course.”

“Of course. If you’ll follow me, we’ll have a look at him.”

They passed an empty stall, then several that housed beautiful geldings and mares, before Kemble paused. “The stallion, he’s quite a beast. Descended from Warrior Prince. Now, if it’s a gentleman’s horse you’re after, you may wish to have a look at Marty here.” He gestured inside a stall. “Fine gelding.”

Harold flicked the animal an impatient glance. The horse was fine, but he suspected Kemble had mentally deemed him, Harold, unworthy of the finest animal the stables currently had to offer.

“Anyone there?” A deep male voice sounded toward the entrance.

“One moment, Mr. Wetherby.” Kemble rushed off to greet the new visitor.

Harold ground his teeth.

“Your Grace! This is a surprise.” Kemble’s voice carried through the stable. “And an honor, may I add. If we’d known you were coming, I’m sure Mr. Derringworth would have arranged to greet you personally.”

Harold peered toward the entrance as Kemble returned at the side of a man Harold immediately recognized. The Duke of Beaufort. Powerful and respected, the man could have anything in the world just for the asking. Harold hated him. Or would have, if he hadn’t wanted so badly to be him.

“What can I do for you?” Kemble was asking.

“My brother-in-law tells me you may have a stallion worth looking at.”

Harold felt his chest swell. The duke was interested in the very same horse as he was. Yes, he, Harold Wetherby, former nobody, was a man on the rise.

“Indeed. Fine creature.” As they drew close to Harold, Kemble started, having seemingly forgotten his presence. “Right. In fact, Mr. Wellesley and I were just headed back that way. Mr. Wellesley, what did you think of Marty here?”

“Wetherby,” Harold corrected stiffly. “And I’d prefer to see the stallion.”

“Certainly. Only…Your Grace, do you mind?”

Harold bristled—he’d been here first, with an appointment. But the duke gave a nonchalant shrug.

“Then come with me, gentlemen.”

At the end of the hall was a stall twice the size of the others. The stallion inside was massive, its coat a gleaming chestnut tone.

In truth, Harold had never been comfortable around large animals, but when he saw the duke glance at the horse and give the manager an approving nod, he quelled the urge to cringe.

He nodded at the stallion as well, then stoutly declared, “Now that’s more like it. I want something that’ll impress my fiancée.”

“You’re to be married?” the assistant asked, finally looking away from the duke long enough to spare Harold a glance. “Congratulations.”

The stallion tossed his head and snorted. Harold took a nervous step backward before catching himself—he did not wish to lose face in front of Beaufort.

“Storm Runner, he’s called,” Kemble told them. “He needs a firm hand.”

The duke nodded. “A firm hand, perhaps, but the animal has clearly been kept in beautiful condition.”

Harold forced a loud laugh. “Needs a firm hand, eh? So will my fiancée. A beauty, but headstrong. I’ll train them both together.”

The assistant manager opened his mouth as though to say something, but promptly closed it.

“Yes, indeed.” Harold cracked his knuckles, already anticipating the moment he could relay this afternoon’s events to his friend Cutter at their club. Here he was, sharing horse talk and manly jokes with the Duke of Beaufort.

On a roll, Harold continued, “An animal just has to be shown who its master is before he—or she—will mind him. Then it’s a smooth ride. Heh. I do enjoy a good ride.” He winked and reached over the door of the stable to stroke the stallion, but the animal tossed its head and backed away.

He waived a hand toward the horse. “’Course, I’d be willing to bet Storm Runner here will come around before Elizabeth does.”

“Elizabeth?” the duke asked quickly.

“Oh, yes,” Wetherby went on, his chest swelling further, “Elizabeth Medford. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? A baron’s daughter. Fine old family. Pretty chit, too, though, as I said, a bit headstrong. Nothing, of course, a man like myself can’t handle.”

The duke’s expression was unreadable. Could he possibly be jealous? Unreasonable though she could be, there was no denying Elizabeth was attractive. In their recent argument, Elizabeth had all but admitted an interest in Beaufort. But no bloody way Harold would let her out of his clutches now. He resolved to press her uncle to make the announcement soon.

There was just one thing left to seal this as the perfect afternoon. Harold bobbed his head toward the stallion. “What do you want for him?”

The assistant manager fidgeted. “Mr. Wetherby, if it’s a good, er, ride, you’re looking for, perhaps a racehorse isn’t your ideal fit.”

The duke glanced between them, expression still blank. Harold recalled Beaufort had a reputation for ruthlessness, and complete lack of emotion, at the card table.

Harold folded his arms. “What do you want for the horse?”

Kemble squared his shoulders and gestured toward the stallion. “Well, Mr. Wetherby, a horse with a breeding record like Storm Runner…” his voice trailed off meaningfully.

Harold’s neck heated. Damn it, this assistant was not going to make him look bad in front of the duke. “What do you want for him?”

The young man glanced anxiously at the duke, then back to Harold. “Perhaps, if you are interested, you could make an appointment—”

“I’m prepared to talk now,” Harold said with clenched fists.

“The asking price,” Kemble told them, “is twelve hundred pounds.”

The duke, a man known for extravagance in all facets of life, didn’t flinch. Harold, on the other hand, had to swallow, hard. The nincompoop of an assistant was trying to rob him.

“That is a handsome amount. I say”—Harold forced himself to breathe normally—“perhaps if you were to put the animal through its paces, show me what it’s capable of…” He needed to buy some time.

Perhaps he could spot some flaw, force the assistant to lower the price. Because if a stallion from the Derringworth stables truly went for twelve hundred pounds, Harold was way out of his league.

“Of course, I am happy to take Storm Runner out,” Kemble replied. “I assure you, when you see him in action, you’ll see his price is fully justified. I’ll just get him ready.”

Before he could do so, the duke held up a hand.

“Sold.”

“Pardon?” Kemble asked.

“What?” The question exploded from Harold before he could consider the wisdom of asking it.

The duke spoke to the assistant, ignoring Harold completely now. “I’ve done business with Derringworth’s long enough to know you stand behind your animals. Storm Runner’s worth at least that much. I’ll send my solicitor with a bank draft for the full amount first thing tomorrow. Is that sufficient?”

“Now wait a minute—” Wetherby sputtered.

But neither man paid him any attention.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Kemble said. “Absolutely.”

Anger bloomed in Harold as he realized that all along, his presence at the stable, and in front of the duke, had been merely tolerated. Come to think of it, the duke hadn’t actually laughed at his jokes. And when it came time to transact business, apparently he was invisible—at best.

“Unbelievable,” Harold muttered, and stormed out.

The two remaining men watched him go.

“Your Grace,” the assistant manager said, “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am…”

“Not to worry,” Alex told him. “He was no one of significance.”

Kemble nodded. “Exactly. Please, let me assure you that Derringworth’s does not cater to such clientele. I only pity the woman to whom he’s betrothed.”

“Indeed.” Impossible to believe that boob was marrying the fiery redhead. The arrogant ass couldn’t even handle purchasing a horse. There was no way he’d get his hands on Elizabeth Medford.