“Oh, Ainsley, it will be so wonderful when you are married, too,” Briar said, her eyes glinting like a beam of sunlight reflecting off the tip of Cupid’s arrow.
Ainsley squelched a cold shudder as she lowered down into the rose-tufted chair behind her desk.
“You could marry my son,” Mrs. Teasdale said and—sadly—not for the first time. “He’s rich enough, to be sure, and even handsomer than his father had been.”
The three sisters exchanged a glance. None of them were entirely certain that the man even existed. He’d never set foot inside the agency. Instead, Mrs. Teasdale had filled out an application for him, listing his given name as Lancelot and leaving the majority of the other answers vague.
But still . . . Lancelot Teasdale? If such a person existed, Ainsley felt sincerely sorry for him. He must have been teased mercilessly as a child.
“I’m certain he’s wonderful,” Briar interjected brightly, carefully sinking down into one of the cushioned bronze chairs. “Though if he doesn’t suit, there’s always Lord Hullworth. He’s quite handsome and with a fine income.”
“And he is also one of our few clients,” Ainsley reminded. “Therefore, he is strictly forbidden fruit.”
Why her gaze chose to drift down to the book at that moment, she didn’t know. The fringe of vellum seemed to wink at her and say, “Have another look. You know you want to . . .”
Abruptly, she straightened and cleared her throat before she continued. “Which was something the two of you conveniently forgot when finding your own husbands. If I were to marry him it would all but stitch a burial shroud over the agency. In fact”—she made sure to keep her expression impassive—“I believe it would be best if I did not marry at all.”
Her sisters scoffed simultaneously as if it was the most ludicrous jest they’d heard.
Mrs. Teasdale, however, took the news rather hard. She issued a gasp of distress, turning pale as she lowered the cup to her saucer with a clatter. “But you must!”
Ainsley shook her head in placid disagreement.
“If you do not,” Mrs. Teasdale continued, and with more vehemence than was warranted, “then you’ll only confirm the rumors in society. Why, everyone thinks you’re waiting for the next duke or earl to walk through your doors. You have to set them straight by marrying a commoner. And start having children without delay, too. Then before you know it your agency will be teeming with new clients.”
Clearly the woman had spent far too much time at the agency and had succumbed to overblown romantic ideals.
“Have a scone, Mrs. Teasdale. I believe those are honey almond, my favorite.” Ainsley gestured to the escritoire, hoping that their conversation would end there.
Unfairly, Jacinda chose that moment to chime in. “She might have a point. Though your husband shouldn’t have to be a commoner. Perhaps a younger son without a title, or an officer.”
“Oh, yes!” Briar was quick to add her exuberance. “A wealthy young man with a romantic soul, who brings you flowers. You were always so fond of those.”
Again, Ainsley’s gaze dropped to the book. Her thoughts veered to Reed Sterling and a frisson of something akin to panic scurried through her, hot and tense. Discretely, she placed an accounting ledger over the book.
But it wasn’t enough distance for her liking. So she stood and stepped away from her desk.
“That was long ago. Besides, I have my hands full of business matters, accounts, and so forth, not to mention dealing with that . . . that”—she drew in a steadying breath—“heathen across the street. If you want to blame anyone for keeping clients away from our doorstep, it’s Sterling’s gaming hell, and the rubbish that is forever littering our doorstep.”
“Perhaps you should tell him to take care of it,” Mrs. Teasdale said calmly. Apparently having recovered herself, she was busy piling jam, marmalade, and clotted cream on her saucer like a painter’s palette.
“I’ve mentioned it countless times to that oaf—yesterday morning, in fact—and he all but vowed to make certain our stairs remained forever enrobed in handbills. So, in return, I told him that I plan to run him out of business within the month.”
And if she could just figure out how, she would do it this very day. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of a single thing. What could make a man give up his business? His life’s pursuit?
The problem was, Reed Sterling wasn’t just any sort of man. He’d fought—quite literally—to earn the money to open his gaming hell, and now his establishment played host to some of the wealthiest gentlemen in London. Which made him even more of an obstacle in the path of her own goals.
He was her nemesis in every way and—after their latest encounter—she was desperate to find a way to be free of him.
Mrs. Teasdale let out a bark of laughter. “You didn’t.”
“Never doubt it. Ainsley’s dealings with Mr. Sterling are always rather heated.” Jacinda snickered, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Ainsley slanted her sister a hard stare but Jacinda only grinned, adjusting her sash.
“What we should do is litter his doorstep with our handbills,” Briar said, absently nibbling on a slivered almond.
“I would consider it, if I could guarantee they wouldn’t simply end up over here again,” Ainsley said, willing to do anything at this point. Yet there was one glaring problem. “There isn’t money in the budget for printing fees. I’ve had to cut back on our advertisements as well.”
And her sign hadn’t made a bit of difference, either. There’d been no ravening hoard—either great or small—clamoring through their doors. If only the ton were as curious as Reed Sterling had been.
Jacinda’s amused countenance turned serious. “We could always help with that. Crispin’s aunt Hortense has been rather generous.”
“That isn’t fair,” Ainsley said. “We each agreed when we started this venture that the Bourne Matrimonial Agency must stand on its own merit. How else can we determine if we are doing the good we’d intended when we began?” She shook her head, vehement. “Only when the accounting ledgers have more credits than deficits can we prove that our methods are sound. If we do not earn the money ourselves, then we would be the frauds Mr. Sterling accused us of being.”
Mrs. Teasdale huffed, her mouth set in a grim line. “Did he actually say that to you?”
“Indeed, he did. He said we’re only playing at games we don’t understand.”
Jacinda set her hands on her hips. “The nerve of that overinflated, knuckle-dragging—”
“—lout!” Briar added, her soft voice rising.
“That boy needs to be taught a lesson,” Mrs. Teasdale hissed. When they murmured their agreement, she started speaking in an excited rush. “I think our Briar is onto something with the handbills. I’ve got a friend at the printer’s and he owes me a favor, a two-dozen-handbill-type favor. So, it won’t cost a farthing.”
Ainsley opened her mouth to say that the Bourne Matrimonial Agency would not take charity, but Mrs. Teasdale forestalled that with a wag of her finger and continued.
“I won’t take no for an answer. And it just so happens that I know someone on the inside of Sterling’s, too, which means we could put them right under Mr. Sterling’s nose. Neither he nor his customers will be able to escape them.”
“But will that be enough? I think we should infiltrate his establishment with one of our own,” Jacinda interjected, her eyes gleaming with determination.
Sometimes, Ainsley found her sister’s quick ideas toward subterfuge a bit alarming. “We are not sending one of our own. Uncle Ernest is really the only man among us and . . . well . . . you know how dreadful he is at cards.”
The sisters murmured their agreement. They loved their uncle, but he lost his coin about as easily as he lost his heart, which was saying quite a lot. This was just one more reason to eradicate the problem in their midst.
Sterling’s would have to close for good. Reed Sterling would have to seek his fortune somewhere else, w
hich was fine with Ainsley.
“No, no. The handbills will be just the thing.” Mrs. Teasdale absently brushed the scone crumbs from her fingertips, a smile lurking in the corner of her mouth. “The patrons of Sterling’s won’t like advertisements for matrimony at their club. None of them want reminders of their obligations to hearth and home. They’ll take one look at the owner and think he’s gone soft.”
“It could work,” Ainsley mused, a sudden stirring of expectation in her veins. “Once they stop seeing Reed Sterling as some sort of god of manliness, they’ll start seeking their entertainments at other clubs.”
“Mr. Sterling would lose business,” Briar added on a breath.
And best of all, Ainsley thought, he would be too distracted to ever think of the way she’d flinched again.
Jacinda stepped forward, excitement marked in her quick breath and the impish delight in her expression. “You’d start a war.”
Yes, indeed. A war Ainsley planned to win.
“Mrs. Teasdale, how quickly can we make this happen?”
Chapter 4
“A piece of paper was found on the table this morning—(dropt, we suppose, by a fairy)—containing a very pretty charade . . .”
Jane Austen, Emma
Late the following afternoon, Reed returned to Sterling’s after visiting his mum.
His ears were still ringing from her harping on him to “Stop dillydallying. Take a wife and give me grandchildren before I’m cold in the grave.” Otherwise, he would have noticed the strange silence that greeted him inside the main cardroom straightaway.
Though soon enough, he caught sight of the nine men in black-and-silver livery shifting to stand at attention, and several attempts to conceal smirks.
Something was clearly amiss.
A dozen carriages waited outside for the knocker to be hung on the door. These first patrons who arrived before dusk were typically his most loyal—the greeks who were well schooled in the arts of gaming and the pigeons they brought in the hopes of plucking a few golden feathers to plump their own purses.
His men should be at their stations, polishing brass fixtures or readying trays with whisky and port. Not standing around as if their livelihood didn’t depend on Sterling’s continued success.
Reed was creating a legacy that would live beyond him—the prizefighter who’d come from nothing to establish London’s most elite gambling club. He hoped that there would be a time when a young boy, coming from nothing, would hear this story and know that he could achieve anything he wanted, and that no obstacle was too great. But that wouldn’t happen unless everyone beneath this roof put in effort, every single day.
Reed’s gaze raked over his men, stopping on the large, barrel-chested Teddy. The former pickpocket had a round boyish face and sandy blond curls, but had never developed the ability to look innocent when he wasn’t. That had been the only reason Reed hadn’t called the guard to arrest him when he’d chosen the wrong man’s pocket to filch.
“Well?” Reed asked, knowing he wouldn’t have to say more before Teddy spilled the contents of his soul.
Before Reed had his answer though, Finch strode into the room, agitation marked in every step. “Your cat is about to lose another one of her lives.”
Pushing his query to the side for the moment, Reed felt a quick grin tug at his mouth. “What did she do this time?”
Scowling, Finch furiously patted his pockets. He only grew more cross when his finger slipped into a narrow slit, cut into the lining of his coat. “She stole the ribbon I bought for Trudie.”
“Seems like that’s not the only thing stolen around here,” one of the men muttered. A few snickers followed.
Reed’s attention veered back to Teddy and then to the lean, ebony-haired man beside him, who couldn’t hide the laughter glinting across his piercing, ice-gray eyes.
“What’s this about, Raven?”
Like Teddy, Raven claimed only one name. According to the story, the headmaster of the foundling home where Raven was raised had given him the name for the odd bird-shaped birthmark he bore on his shoulder. Though, as far as Reed was concerned, it suited him because he was as quick-witted and as sly as his namesake.
He’d met Raven three years ago, finding him bloodied and broken near the docks and left for dead. Other than that, his origins were a mystery. Raven didn’t talk about his past, but the matter had never given Reed cause for concern. He’d proven his loyalty time and again, working diligently and honestly. Those qualities mattered more than anyone’s class or birthright.
Beneath high cheekbones and a Roman nose, a smirk bracketed one corner of Raven’s mouth. “There’s a bit of thievery afoot. As far as the gents and I can figure, a matchmaker must’ve stolen your heart.”
All at once, the room exploded with laughter. A raucous wave rolled through the room, starting low and then ending with loud knee-slapping guffaws.
Reed kept his own expression unreadable. As far as he knew, Finch was the only one aware of his most recent encounter with Ainsley Bourne. So to the man standing beside him, he muttered through his teeth, “Is there something you would like to tell me, old friend?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Finch answered. “I’ve been dealing with your miscreant cat since I arrived.”
Reed looked back to his men. “Very well, I’ll bite.”
From behind his back, Raven produced a pair of handbills, displaying them like a winning hand of vingt-et-un.
Lacking his usual degree of patience, Reed strode forward and snatched them out of his grasp.
On the page a cartoon depicted a brutish man holding a bulging bag of coins and leering at a frightened bride and groom. Underneath the tableau it read:
Do not be swindled at cards and table games. Take the best gamble and win the prize of your life at the Bourne Matrimonial Agency.
Reed felt his jaw fall slack. Was he supposed to be this villain, then?
He gritted his teeth, knowing there was only one person who would dare such a trick—Miss Ainsley Bourne.
That privileged little minx! How dare she sneak in through his doors to plant her propaganda and insinuate that he was a crook.
I have every intention of running you out of business.
Apparently, that hadn’t been an idle threat.
He was incredulous. Incensed. And . . . strangely enough, a bit awed by her audacity. So, Miss Prim and Proper had let a bit of her warrior out, hmm? He wished he could have seen it for himself.
“How’s your neck, Sterling?” Raven quipped, egging on the merriment in the room. “Feeling the tug of the marriage noose?”
Reed grinned, but in a way that made Raven’s smile falter. “And why would you think that?”
“It’s just that it seems to favor the agency across the street, and not so much Sterling’s. You wouldn’t allow it unless you were . . . um . . . smitten, so to speak.”
Reed growled. The last thing he needed was to have anyone associate his gaming hell with the Bourne Matrimonial Agency. Men did not come to Sterling’s to be reminded of marriage; they came here to escape it. They wanted plenty of sport and high-stakes gambling in the hazard room. And they would quickly find their amusements elsewhere if the thrill of those pleasures were dampened by feminine nonsense.
Proof of that was in the low turnout Sterling’s had experienced when the agency had first opened.
To overcome it, Reed had held a raffle—a lottery, as it were—putting up a thousand pounds of his own money. Thankfully, business had recovered in short order, and all had gone smoothly ever since. But now this.
Reed didn’t know how Miss Bourne managed to get past the door, but damned if he wasn’t going to find out.
He scrutinized each one of his men, looking for signs that they had been part of this scheme. Had they been charmed by her soft brown eyes? Under the spell of the throaty rasp in her voice? Done in by the tantalizing curves in schoolmistress wrapping?
Yet not one appeared to be glazed eyed with lust
. All the better for them.
“A clever trick, to be sure.” Finch laughed, gaining Reed’s attention as he moved around the room. After gathering the rest of the handbills, he handed the small stack to Reed, his brows inching higher with significance. “Obviously someone is trying to get a rise out of you. I only wonder who it might be. An old opponent, perhaps? Someone you once bested in a match?”
Suddenly, Reed understood what Finch was trying to do—remove the Bourne Matrimonial Agency and Miss Bourne from this entire episode.
Not only was it bad for business, but it would do neither of them any good to have their names linked. The truth was, there wasn’t just his reputation to consider, but also hers. Ainsley Bourne might never think it of him, but Reed did have a code of honor—one that would never allow a woman’s name to be dragged through the mire.
“Whoever he is, he’s trying to insult your manhood,” Teddy said, eyes as round as sovereigns. “Do you think he’ll challenge you to fight as well?”
The room went quiet, everyone’s attention snared. Teddy likely didn’t know how brilliant he was.
Reed dragged his knuckles along his jaw as if in deep contemplation. “It could be. And if I ever find out who this man is, I might have to settle the score.”
Whispered speculations were already running rampant, listing Reed’s former opponents. Especially the last, Lord Savage, who’d been very vocal since his defeat, always challenging Reed to a rematch, calling him a coward.
Soon enough, every one of his men was convinced that Lord Savage was responsible.
Good. The handbills were all but forgotten. Though, should any rumor about the incident leak by accident—Reed slid another glance to Teddy—the patrons would only wonder if Reed planned to enter the ring again as a fighter instead of an instructor.
For years, many men had tried to bribe him and goad him—even at gunpoint—but Reed had always kept a cool head and worked every situation to increase the interest in Sterling’s. It was a lesson he’d learned from his father, who’d run a busy tavern.
The Rogue to Ruin EPB Page 5