by Stacy Reid
“He is getting desperate,” David said, coming to stand beside Nicolas. “Someone has gone around and bought up all his debts and vowels. It is delightfully diabolical of you to have the bankers and merchants call them in at the same time. He is certainly feeling the pressure. And then—”
“I do not need a blow by blow for what I have done.” Nicolas had methodically planned and executed it all. Though he quickly relayed the placket of information he had left for Viscount Humber.
David sent him a look of black admiration. “What did you trade to get the information from the broker that the duke likes to play with his own sex?”
Nicolas had obtained that with careful patience and by following the duke for months. But he did not reveal his hand to David, despite the man being his longest friend. Nicolas ignored him.
“By word, man, are you really not going to say?” David asked crossly.
“Ah, the show is about to start,” Nicolas murmured.
Viscount Humber strode into the bowel of the den, his lips curved in disdain as he glanced around the decadent halls of the gambling club. When he spied the duke, he narrowed his eyes and marched over to him. The duke glanced up, jumped to his feet, and met the man in the middle of the floor. The viscount gestured furiously, and whatever he said had the duke paling.
The viscount turned around and walked away stiffly. Farringdon stood there, his hands clenched at his sides, his expression one of unchecked rage.
“I believe the alliance between the families has been dealt a blow,” David said, gripping the railing. “Are you satisfied?”
“Not even close,” Nicolas murmured.
With each of Arianna’s violators he brought down, there was never a feeling of satisfaction. In truth, the hollowness in his gut seemed to expand, wanting to fill every crevice of his soul. The hatred did not ease, and the guilt did not, either.
She was dead…and even when they paid, she would still be so.
He watched as the duke swept his hand and sent the glasses and the decanter of whiskey on the closest table shattering to the ground, then he collected his coat and hat and strode from the club.
“I hear that Viscount Weychell is already squirming on the hook,” David said, inhaling deeply.
Viscount Weychell—the one Arianna had called Scarred Lips. Nicolas made no reply but gripped the railing until his fingers ached.
David sighed. “They have paid dearly; it feels almost frightening to know the end is near. There will be a day soon when every man who took part in her demise feels only regret and shame.”
Silence fell between them.
“Do you remember the way she used to laugh?” David asked softly. “Her entire face would light up, and her mouth would be wide open.”
No. The memory of her features had long faded and so had the sound of her voice. It was the conversations Nicolas recalled—those endless talks of dreams, hopes, and the future. “You normally teased her that she would catch flies with her laugh,” he said gruffly, an ache rising in his throat.
David chuckled. “I’ve missed her every day for the last ten years, our little faerie dove.”
The name they had given her when she had only been a girl of eight and they silly lads of ten years.
The eagle soars indifferently while the wolf betrays the dove…
“Did you know what would happen to her?” Nicolas asked softly.
David stumbled away from him, something wild and raw appearing in his dark gray eyes. “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me.”
David scrubbed a hand over his face. “I will forget that you asked me that before I plant a facer on you. I loved…I loved her and wanted her for myself. You know this…you know how much I loved Arianna.”
The older they had become, the more her gentle attentions shifted to Nicolas, even though they had both pursued her. It was one of the reasons he had turned to David when he started his pathway in seeking retribution for the awful wrongs done against a girl they had both loved. But Nicolas could never forget her joy in the games they played as children by the lake and in the glen—she was the faerie, other times the dove, he was the eagle…and David the wolf.
The eagle soars indifferently while the wolf betrays the dove…
“I am heading home,” Nicolas said with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. Unexpectedly, he felt weary. As if he would sleep for a full day and hoped nothing haunted him.
“Have you ever given thoughts to what you will do when this is all over?” David asked. “I am thinking to make myself available on the marriage mart.”
Nicolas dropped his hand and faced his friend. “You, marry?”
“I know, I can hardly believe it myself,” David said dryly, his gaze watchful upon Nicolas. “I am twenty-eight. I’ve tupped enough. Time to give the old ball and chain a go.”
Nicolas had lived so long in the pain and anguish of loss and guilt, in the need for vengeance, that he had not given a thought to the future. Not even when his mother had urged him to find a lady of quality and settle down had he been diverted from his purpose.
The dowager marchioness was aghast at his reputation, and at least every three months, sent him a letter beseeching him to mend his wild, wicked ways by selecting a fine girl of quality to marry.
Because in the ton, marriages solved everything.
Nicolas had allowed no distraction and no weaknesses since those he hunted had enough power to cause him considerable loss if they ever discovered him.
As if to mock him, a wide-eyed stare behind round spectacles swam in his thoughts. He ruthlessly suppressed her image and the arousal she had stirred to life. It was a delicate balance, but one he had maintained for years, and he would not misplace his footing now. “Whenever this is over, I am leaving England for a couple of years.”
“Leave? And go where?”
“Sailing.”
“That’s it? Sailing?”
“Yes.” That was one of the only pastimes he allowed himself. Every now and then, he would head to Dover, take out his yacht, and sail, feeling the wind behind him, the sun or rain on his face, and an inexplicable sense of freedom hovering on the horizon.
“You are a madman,” David said with a laugh.
Nicolas smiled. “Miss me, will you?”
David snorted. Nicolas laughed and slapped his friend on the shoulder and then made his way out from the revelry and enticement of the club. It had been an unending day and an even longer night. He wanted to go home and fall into bed. And he wanted a deep sleep, one undisturbed by memory or guilt or one of the most painful things he would ever have to do—destroy the wolf.
Chapter Seven
The rumor would have started last night and spilled into society like fire on dry kindling. It was early yet, but those who had taken their obligatory stroll to be seen in Hyde Park would have stopped to gossip, and afternoon calls would be made scandalously early in drawing rooms to spread this latest ondit.
The bedchamber Nicolas St. Ives, Marquess of Rothbury had been seen sneaking from was that of Lady Maryann, a desperate wallflower, the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Musgrove.
“I am silly—no one would be that bold,” she said to herself as she hovered in the hallway leading to the dining room. “More likely they will say St. Ives’s mysterious lady is ‘one Lady M, daughter to the earl of M.’”
Then the ton would use that affirmation along with the whispers at the ball and drawing room to condemn her.
Squaring her shoulders, lifting her chin, she entered the dining room. Her father, mother, and brother were already seated and eating. From the lack of laughing and talking, Maryann gathered they were already aware of the rumors. Her mother always took an early morning ride in Hyde Park, and many would have been only too happy to drop their sly hints and suppositions.
Her mother’
s light green eyes lit up in reserved welcome. She still retained a youthful bloom in her cheeks, and often dyed her hair to cover the smattering of gray that would otherwise appear at her temples. Her father sometimes remarked on how her mother retained her slender, elegant carriage despite having birthed two children.
Going to the side table laden with food, Maryann selected a plate and filled it with sweet buns and slices of succulent ham. Everyone watched as she took her place by the table, and to her shame she could not meet their eyes. She reached for a bun and bit into it instead, savoring the honeyed and cinnamon flavor bursting on her tongue.
Her papa cleared his throat, and she lifted her gaze to look at him.
His was more curious than angry. “It seems you are also aware of this rumor going about.”
“Yes, Papa.” I started it. She closed her eyes tightly, hating that there was an ache of tears in her throat and behind her eyes.
“Why do you appear so out of sorts?” he demanded gruffly.
“Because I brought scrutiny to our names,” she said, a hitch in her voice.
Anger flared in her father’s eyes. “I know you acted with admirable conduct. It is this blackguard, Rothbury, who had the nerve to enter your chamber and ruin your reputation! I can only imagine what he did, that bloody bas—”
“Philip,” her mother gasped, cutting off whatever improper word her husband was about to say.
“He did nothing, Papa,” Maryann hurriedly said. “This is only a rumor.”
The earl took a steady breath. “The marquess’s actions will not be allowed to go unanswered. I will visit him and demand that he comes up to scratch.”
Alarm scythed through her heart. “Papa!”
“I will not have that…that scoundrel marry my daughter!” her mother cried, staring at her husband in horror.
“Then he will meet me over dueling pistols.”
Maryann almost fainted. “He did not climb into my room, Papa! It is just a baseless rumor. There is no truth in it.”
Relief lit her father’s eyes, and with a sense of shock, she realized he was worried that she had been ravished. The marquess’s reputation was that dastardly. And of course, that was too much of a delicate conversation to have with her.
“He…Lord Rothbury was never in my chamber.” And curse it, she blushed, recalling every provocative and provoking instance of the man actually being in her room last night.
Her father’s eyes sharpened, and her mother appeared ready to swoon.
“Good heavens,” the countess breathed. “This…this man, really…he…I…”
“No, Mama, the rumors you are hearing…they are baseless. He did not steal into my chamber at Lady Peregrine’s house party. I spent most of my time with Ophelia.”
“We should never have sent you,” the countess moaned, her eyes tearing up. She cast a wrathful glance at Crispin, who seemed silenced with shock. “You were to have chaperoned your sister!”
“Even in her bedchamber, Mama?” her brother demanded in a choked whisper. “The marquess is reputed to be a crack shot, but I do not care! I will visit his club tonight and demand—”
“Stop!” Maryann cried. “There will be no duels or talks of duels because Lord Rothbury did not steal into my chamber! I…I started the rumor.”
Dear God. Her entire face flamed once again, and she wanted to slide under the table at her unguarded reaction.
The countess paled and simply stared at her. Her mama had a reputation of being very haughty and concerned with rules and propriety. Regret clutched at Maryann’s throat for the discomfort she was about to cause her family.
Her mother leaned back in her chair, her fork clattering to the table. Silence fell, and Maryann gazed at them miserably. Despite planning to mislead them, she could not hold her silence, not when they were talking of duels and marriage within the same breath. Not when she knew of her brother’s fierce protective instincts when it came to her. Maryann had thought they would have accepted her explanation that it was simply a rumor, but it wasn’t so.
Despite everything, her parents had taught them to always rely and trust in each other. It had been one of the reasons their decision to marry her off without considering her opinion had shredded her heart so much and had seen her crying for several nights before deciding to rescue herself.
“You started the rumor,” her father repeated flatly, lowering his knife and fork.
Her lips trembled, and she bit the inside of her bottom lip to gather her composure. “Yes.”
“But you are blushing. If he did not ravish—” Her mother closed her eyes as if unable to finish the very thought.
Maryann clasped her fingers together on her lap. With admitting her part in her own scandal, hopefully they might send her to their country home in Hertfordshire for the next few months. That way she would have little chance of ever encountering the earl and any courtship on his part. Maryann reminded herself the most important part of her plan was for the rumor to be out in the ton.
“What could have possessed you to conduct yourself in such an odious manner?” her mother demanded sharply.
“I was desperate, Mama.”
“So desperate you invited this man to your chamber? Have you irrevocably lost all sense of who you are and your position within society?”
She almost groaned. “The scandal sheets reported a sighting of Lord Rothbury climbing from someone else’s windows. I…deliberately said within the earshot of a few ladies that it was my chamber he escaped from. There was no ravishment, Mama. No one climbed into my chamber at Lady Peregrine’s house party. I vow it.”
The varying degree of dawning shock indicated they finally believed her.
“Maryann,” her mother cried, her color heightened. “What a dreadful scheme!”
She was painfully aware of the cold disappointment emanating from her father and Crispin’s shock.
She lifted her chin. “A scheme I had to undertake because my family dismisses my hopes. I anticipated that Lord Stamford would hear the rumors and decide I would not do for his bride. I cannot conceive of anything worse than being his wife.”
“You silly, provoking girl,” her mother said, her eyes flashing with anger. “You are three and twenty and have had no offers! In a few months you will be four and twenty!”
“I would rather be called a spinster than Countess Stamford,” she replied firmly, a lump growing in her throat.
“I see,” her father said, his tone grave.
It was hard for her to hold his stare, but she stalwartly fought and did. “Papa, I tried to tell you several times. You ignored my hopes as if I were of little consequence to you. And you taught me I should always fight for the dreams in my heart.”
Her father regarded her curiously for a moment. “So it is my fault for being over-indulgent,” he said with a chilling bite.
“Papa—”
“It is my job to see that you do not end up an old spinster.”
“This is ridiculous,” she said softly.
Her mother sent her a swift glance of rebuke. One did not question the earl, but followed his orders, for as her mother often reiterated, he knew what was best for this family.
“I beg your pardon, young lady?” he demanded quietly.
Her father had that way about him. He did not shout or get angry. In truth, she could not ever recall him displaying an excess of emotions or even the bare minimum. It had always astonished her that Mama often said their courtship had been sweet and romantic.
“Papa, I am only three and twenty. Surely I can wait a few more years for marriage.”
“And if no one offered for you in the bloom of youth, who would come up to scratch for you this season or a few years from now? I did my duty, and you will be a countess.”
“An unhappy one?”
In a rare show of temper, he lowered h
is cup with a soft clink. “I’ve ensured someone will have you, and by God that will be the end of this obstinacy from you!”
Unexpectedly, she could not seem to catch her breath or stop the tears from burning her eyes. Her throat felt cramped, as though a noose were closing around it. “So it is because you pity me, Papa, that you’ve arranged my marriage to a man whom I do not know? A man I could not possibly grow to love? A man who would not value me or my opinions? I have no wish to marry Lord Stamford.”
In a rare show of discord, her mama lifted her chin and said, “Perhaps we should allow for—”
“Our daughter will marry the man who offered for her,” he said, reaching for the pressed newspaper.
“Why?” Maryann demanded, her voice raw. When her question was ignored as if she were an irritant, she curled her fist below the table. “I have no wish to marry, so why must I do so?” she stubbornly asked again. Mama shook her head, cautioning her, but Maryann did not want to hold her tongue, even if Papa were to punish her for challenging his authority. Her hands were shaking. “Papa, if you love me as you say you do, please consider my happiness.”
He lowered the paper and sent her a frown. Of course this would all be an oddity. She had been raised with the notion that his words were absolute law, and she had never challenged him. Not even her brother dared.
“I cannot marry a man who does not care for me and has only shown he is brutish and unkind, paying little regard to my thoughts and preferences.”
The silence felt painful and unnatural.
Her father’s stare grew curious, as if he saw her for the very first time in her three and twenty years. The last instance they had walked in the apple orchard as she regaled him with stories she had read had been years ago. Since her societal debut, they hadn’t been as close as during her childhood.
It was as if she turned sixteen and was no longer a daughter but had been handed over to her mother to be altered into a wife—someone who no longer greeted her father with hugs but polite curtsies, someone who could no longer steal into the apple tree on a branch and read, but must stay indoors and practice the elegances of ladylike walking. Their long conversations by the fire in the library had stopped, and he no longer took her for morning rides and archery as he did with Crispin. So many things had changed, and her life had become how to be a proper wife to whichever gentleman accorded her the honor.