Asher expelled a hard breath of irritation and self-loathing. He didn’t like to dole out threats—that was too much like something his father would do.
Yet if everything went to plan, he’d never need to wager or demean himself for money again.
If everything went to plan, he and his two associates were going to be as rich as Croesus. But only if he fulfilled his part of the bargain. And he was cutting it close because the ship sailed tomorrow.
Winning the wager against Berryhill had finally given him the money he required. Asher had made other wagers as well, keeping his gaming even more secret than usual. He couldn’t risk word spreading.
His father had a knack for sniffing out every last farthing in his vicinity, then spending it on any passing fancy. Shettlemane would lie, cheat and steal to satisfy his insatiable greed. Concoct elaborate stories to excuse his behavior. Destroy lives without a backward glance. And whenever he found himself facing the consequences of his maniacal spending, he’d throw Asher into the fire, forcing him to make things right again.
Not any longer, Asher thought, a kindling of hope sparking for the first time since he was a child.
Tomorrow, he was sailing away from his father and toward the grandest opportunity he’d ever encountered. This venture would gain Asher a fortune enough for ten lifetimes, and ensure that he’d never again concede to his father’s unrelenting demands.
Of course, when he’d first learned of the scheme, Asher had laughed at his friends. The Hollander twins—or One and Two, as they were known—were immature dunderpolls of the first order. Therefore, it couldn’t have been possible that they’d stumbled upon a bona fide treasure map, hidden in the walls of the hunting lodge they’d purchased.
Asher had reluctantly agreed to help research the validity of a tiny seal-shaped island on the outer reaches of the Caribbean Sea. He was ready to call it an elaborate farce. After all, only children believed in tales of buried treasure. He ought to know, since he’d been one of them.
Someday, Asher, his mother had often whispered as she tucked him in at night. Someday, the two of us are going to sail away on a treasure ship and start a whole new life, full of adventure.
Yet after months of pouring over maps and charts and letters and logs with a cynical eye, he made an uncanny discovery. The Hollanders’ new hunting lodge had once belonged to an infamous privateer, Roderick Devine. Rumor had it that Devine’s spoils on the high seas were so prodigious—and seldom shared with the crown—that his letter of marque was revoked. Then, before he could be hanged for his offenses, he’d disappeared. And that was the last anyone had heard from him until his reported death.
As much as Asher wanted to refute his findings, he couldn’t. Astonishingly enough, the existence of the treasure was entirely plausible.
At the news, the twins were full of gunpowder, ready to set off that instant and hire a crew to sail to the West Indies. They’d begged him to join the expedition.
Asher knew too well how money could destroy the closest of bonds between people. Aside from those two and Viscount Ellery, Asher didn’t have many true friends he could rely upon. While One and Two might very well possess the mental acuity of a mayfly, they had loyalty in abundance—a commodity too precious to risk losing.
Yet, thinking of how impulsive they were, imagining them trusting the wrong sort and ending up with their throats cut by an unruly crew of miscreants, Asher had agreed. But he would put up an equal share for the venture. In his mind, an equal partnership was the only way to ensure their friendship remained intact.
That decision had led him here.
Easing into the wingback chair, Asher snapped the paper wide, listening to the muted rattle of dice, the clack of billiard balls, and low murmurs of conversation. Since this would be the last day he’d spend at White’s—or on land—for some time, he felt like savoring the moment.
Skimming over the latest society gossip in black and white, his attention was snared by the words heiress and vulgar dowry. Apparently, there was to be a wedding in three days and a certain Mr. W— was about to become inordinately wealthy.
Asher had tried the occupation of the heiress-marrying noble, but it hadn’t come to fruition. The heiresses he’d met had never possessed dowries vulgar enough to rid him of the burden that would befall him upon his father’s death. The Shettlemane title was nothing more than a heap of debt and shame, growing larger by the hour.
But one day soon, he would return as a man who could hold his head high.
Yes, indeed. It finally looked like his life was on the right—
Suddenly, a shadow fell across his shoulder, blotting out the light on the page. The flesh on his scalp tightened and a shiver snaked down his spine.
Damn it all to hell.
A long-fingered hand bearing the Marquess of Shettlemane’s signet ring smacked down on the table. “There’s my boy, the ole devil’s spawn himself.”
“Father.” The sound of bone grinding against bone filled Asher’s ears. He made a concerted effort to loosen his jaw as he continued to study the paper.
The marquess took the silence as an invitation to occupy the spot that Berryhill had vacated and made himself comfortable.
The years had been kinder to him than he deserved. Such a degenerate, compulsive liar and cheat ought to look the part, at least. But instead, he presented a fine figure—still trim and straight-backed into his sixty-third year—and with a head full of black hair liberally woven with silver. His appearance was even respectable in his starched white cravat and tailored blue coat. Yet if one peered closely, beyond the distinguished angular features, then one would see a hunched, gnarled and soulless creature with keen, greedy eyes lurking in the shadows.
“Hmm . . .” his father murmured, fingers steepled. “Chair’s still warm.”
Asher turned the page over. “Likely due to its proximity to the fireplace.”
“Or you had a visitor. A chat with a wealthy friend, perhaps? Come to think of it, I saw you wearing a sly grin when I first entered the room. A man only looks like that for two reasons—women and money. And since I haven’t heard of you strutting about with any heiresses of late, I’d say you’ve got a bit of shine in your pocket.”
“Though the concept may be unfamiliar to you, men often smile when they find something amusing. Perhaps even when reading it in the paper.”
“Do you know what I find amusing?”
“Titled nobility with money in the vault? Accounting ledgers with more credits than deficits?”
The marquess snorted in derision. “What about a black-cravat-wearing son who thinks he can fool his father?”
Knowing how much the marquess detested the garment tied around his neck, Asher made sure to lift his chin, providing him a better view.
“So, if the seat’s still warm,” Shettlemane continued like a bloodhound at a fox den, “and the only one leaving the club when I was coming in was that rich fop Berryhill, then I speculate he was the one sitting here. Had a nervous look about him, too. And considering what I heard about a race against a Cheshire stallion and one of Knightswold’s Thoroughbreds, I imagine you’ve won about a hundred pounds. Perhaps even two.”
With practiced calm, Asher met his father’s gaze. “There couldn’t have been a wager because no one is fool enough to put their coin against Knightswold’s stock.”
Except for the pigeon Berryhill, of course. It was what Asher had been counting on.
“I can smell the money on you, boy,” his father said with a bark of laughter, earning a few coughs and sideways glances from the other gentlemen in the room.
Asher lowered the paper and said sotto voce, “You’re making a spectacle.”
The marquess flashed his famous smile around. “Simply having a chat with my ne’er-do-well. A father’s duty is never done.”
But when he turned back to Asher, the smile twisted at the corners. A wild gleam pulsed in his gaze. “Come now, give it over. I’m to dine with Lord and Lady Fenquist
this evening. There’ll be cards afterward and I could use a spotter.”
Pretending he hadn’t heard, Asher laid down the paper and pointed to a notice. “It says here that Lord Englebright finds himself at Fleet. Perhaps you could pay him a visit. After all, it was your last wager that laid him flat and set the creditors on his heels.”
“Couldn’t be helped. The truth is, I’m in a bit of a bind,” he said with frank solemnity, doubtless hoping for an understanding ear. “Had to borrow a small sum—insignificant, really—from Lord Seabrooke. In return for all our years of friendship, the blighter threatened to set a couple of lads on me. Doesn’t believe I’m good for the debt.”
“Imagine that.”
“Well, I said to him, ‘I pay my debts, and if I can’t, then my boy will make it right. He always does.’ After that, Seabrooke agreed that the loan would change hands to your name if I am unable to pay him by Wednesday. And since you won’t spot me . . . Well then, it’ll be on your head, won’t it?”
Asher glared at him, incredulous. This wasn’t the first time he’d been embroiled in one of his father’s outrageous cockups. Not even close.
Splaying his hands on the table, he stood and leaned in, growling beneath his breath, “I cannot come to your aid this time. There’s nothing left of mine, or my late mother’s, to sell—you’ve made sure of that.”
“There’s still Ashbrook Cottage.”
Asher’s only home. His father had been trying to manipulate the trustees to release the deed of the property, which had been part of his mother’s dowry, for as long as Asher could remember. Clearly, he wouldn’t be satisfied until every last remnant of her was gone.
“Isn’t it enough that you’ve already looted the cottage, stripped every room bare of her cherished heirlooms and furnishings? Or do you feel compelled to put her final resting place in the hands of strangers over a game of cards? At least I can be grateful that my grandfather saw fit to put the estate in trust before you married. He knew what you were. I only wish she had seen the truth as well.”
The marquess sneered. “Then you wouldn’t be here at all, my boy.”
Asher took that as an invitation. He walked away, glad he’d be leaving this nightmare in the morning.
Thankfully, his father wasn’t desperate enough to chase after him. Likely he was already moving on to someone else to charm a pound or two out of.
It felt good to step out of White’s and onto the pavement. He took a deep breath of London’s fetid night air, the rain-slicked streets clamoring with rabble-rousers and partygoers. Already his steps felt lighter as he headed in the direction of the Hollander townhouse.
Until recently, Asher had kept his own flat of rooms on Brook Street, but he’d given it up to save funds for his journey abroad. And he was looking forward to a change of scenery. To a new life.
Great opportunities came once in a man’s lifetime. He wasn’t about to squander his.
A carriage rolled up beside him and a dainty hand flitted out the window, hailing him with a wave of a lace kerchief.
Speaking of opportunity . . .
He paused his stride as they rolled to a stop, thinking that he wouldn’t mind spending a few hours of oblivion between the thighs of a comely woman. A proper send-off.
“My good sir, would you consider yourself more of a gentleman or a scoundrel?” a feminine voice asked from within the shadowed interior.
Interest piqued, he grinned and strolled closer. “Under the proper circumstances, any man can admit to being a bit of both.”
A soft laugh answered, and a different voice spoke. “I think only a scoundrel would make such a claim. And there is something in those devilishly dark eyes of his. Don’t you think so, Jane?”
Two women in the carriage, then? His night was looking better and better.
“Hush now. There’s no need for names when we only require him for our study.”
A pair of bluestockings, apparently. This could be interesting. “The last scholar who’d required me for study took me to her flat above a bookstore in order to research a private collection of erotic etchings. A fine week spent, as I recall.”
Gasps answered from within and he playfully arched his brow, taking another step closer to stand in front of the door. All he required was an invitation inside the carriage.
Then a low chuckle—decidedly not feminine—gave him pause. Proper send-off or not, even he drew the line somewhere.
“Cousin, I wish you wouldn’t laugh. This is serious. As I explained before, we need him for our book.”
Squinting to peer inside, he saw the silhouettes of two slender forms on one side and the hulking figure of a man on the other. “What’s all this about, then?”
A plain, fresh-faced young debutante peered out the lowered window. “You see, we are writing a primer—”
“On the marriage habits of the native aristocrat,” the dark-haired young woman interrupted, leaning forward.
“—and we need a scoundrel’s point of view.”
Asher jerked a nod toward the man on the bench across from them. “Why not ask him?”
“My cousin is neither gentleman nor scoundrel and, as far as I’m aware, has no intention of marrying.”
At the mention of marriage and seeing the naivety in their countenances, Asher wanted nothing more to do with them. He would find his amusements elsewhere this evening.
“Alas, I have another engagement at present. My best wishes on the future success of your book, ladies.” He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat.
“Drat! He’s truly leaving us. Jane, do something.”
“Cousin, I know you are expected by your employer, but will you not come to our aid and persuade this gentleman to linger a moment longer?”
There was no answer from within. And no warning either.
The carriage door opened before Asher could move out of the way and he was knocked aside, as if a ham-sized fist had connected with his jaw.
Then everything went dark.
Chapter 3
The instant Winnifred’s hackney arrived at the mysterious Southwark address, she felt an ominous shiver. In the chary glimmer of a single streetlamp, the narrow house seemed to lurch toward the street. Windows listed to the side in slanted frames, the wooden exterior buckling in the places where it hadn’t yet rotted, and the whole of it was the unsettling color of creosote.
Surely this couldn’t be correct.
But then a familiar face emerged through the opened door. Holding on to the hood of her cloak, Ellie looked left and then right before waving her hand impatiently. “Come quick, Winnie.”
Both alarmed and curious by all the subterfuge, she did just that. Hopping down to the pavement without the step, she bade the driver to wait.
Entering the dim interior of the house behind Ellie, she saw Jane in the small musty foyer, holding a lit taper in a tarnished brass chamberstick. “I wasn’t certain you’d come. It was, after all, your parents’ dinner party.”
“Of course I came. You wrote that it was a matter of great urgency. I stole away after whispering to Father that I had a headache. And I’m certain Mother was glad that I excused myself before the syllabub was served. But tell me why the two of you never arrived, and why we’re all standing inside this ruin, of all places?”
Winnifred took in her surroundings. The meager light flickered over the rubble of fallen horsehair plaster on the floor, great fissures in the wall exposing the lath, and tilted doorways that seemed an instant away from collapsing like a fan snapping shut in dismissal. The vision did nothing to ease her disquiet.
“We were on our way, if that makes a difference,” Ellie said with a nervous glance back toward a darkened doorway.
Jane cleared her throat. “Before I explain, allow me to preface it by telling you that I never intended for this to happen.”
“You said that the time you attempted to make your own gunpowder,” Winnifred added, feeling the continuous wave of dread that had been rolling th
rough her since she’d first received the missive. As they started to walk toward the next room, she carefully studied the flame wavering over Jane’s countenance. “Well, I’m grateful that your eyebrows are still intact this time.”
“I didn’t incinerate anything.”
“It’s much worse,” Ellie lamented, shaking her head. “A small explosion would be lovely compared to this.”
“What could possibly be worse than—”
Winnifred stopped short on a gasp as they entered the dingy parlor, her gaze alighting on a solitary figure. Tied to a chair!
“Tell me you found him that way and are in the process of a grand rescue.”
A trio of thick ropes bound his lean torso to the spindleback. With his arms behind him, his gray herringbone coat parted to reveal a tailored silver satin waistcoat that drew into tight horizontal furrows each time he took a breath. He sat with his trouser-clad legs sprawled scandalously wide, though it was likely to accommodate their length as they were long, tautly muscled, and bound at the ankle. And though he didn’t utter a sound, he emanated a keen alertness—and likely fury—in the rigid set of his broad shoulders.
“In my own defense, I only wanted to speak with him,” Jane said in a rush, nearly guttering the candle.
Ellie nodded in agreement and wrung her hands. “The rest was simply an accident.”
“Oh? He just happened to fall backward onto a chair and a pile of rope that tangled his hands behind his back? And, let me guess, the wind blew that sack over his head and neck?”
“Well, that took a bit of doing actually,” Jane offered, then proceeded to gesture from the chair to the door as if she intended to explain it all in detail. “You see . . .”
Winnifred stopped her before she could. “Who is he?”
“Haven’t a clue.” Ellie shrugged.
“It was dark,” Jane said. “Besides, we weren’t interested in his name, only his information. One minute we were speaking with this man and the next—”
“Flat on the pavement.” Ellie added a single clap of her gloved hands for effect.
“When he started to walk away, I only asked my cousin to intervene. I never imagined a carriage door, opened without even a modicum of malicious intent, could cause such calamity. Of course, I blame the lamppost that struck him the second time. But when I saw him lying there, and with our book still turning in my thoughts—”
Lord Holt Takes a Bride Page 3