"If only other men were as wise, sir," Ruan murmured as he waited to be dealt in.
The other unwise men who remained at the table were familiar to him; bankers, merchants and industrialists who had money enough to fritter away. The only man that Ruan was not acquainted with, was Lord Greene, who held an impoverished baronetcy in nearby Frome. He was legendary for having won and lost his fortune at least several times over the six decades of his life, though rumour now had it, that, since his wife's death, Lord Greene had been losing more than winning of late.
Ruan hid a smile, he intended to see Lord Greene ruined that night, for the man had something he desired very much: his daughter's hand. The defiant emerald eyes, of Miss Greene, had haunted his dreams for the past two weeks. Ruan was not a man who believed in love at first sight, though he did recognise lust when it reared its hungry head. Olive Greene had stirred him in a way that no woman had been able to for quite some time. He was a jaded, connoisseur of women, both titled ladies and some of common birth, but Miss Greene had captivated his mind - and other parts of his body - most thoroughly with her luscious beauty, and sharp tongue. He liked a woman with spirit, though they were hard to find amongst the ton, who tended to breed insipid dishcloths as daughters. Now that he had found a woman who might challenge him, Ruan intended to make her his wife, for the need to produce an heir was foremost on his mind, and the thoughts of producing one with Olive was most titillating indeed.
"What's the buy in?" he asked, as the cards were dealt.
"Ten pounds, your Grace," William Cheevers, who owned Bristol's largest shipping company, supplied helpfully through teeth which were clenching a cheroot.
"Let's see if we can't make this a bit more interesting," Ruan drawled, quirking his eyebrow sardonically. Ten pounds was a pittance in his eyes, barely worth shuffling a deck for.
The Duke of Everleigh removed his jacket, and loosened his cravat before summoning a footman to fetch him a brandy; if things went to plan, this would be a long night and he might as well get comfortable. He cut a dashing figure at the table, especially when compared to the other men. Where they were puffed and middle aged, he was young and fit. He had the body of an athlete; broad, muscular shoulders, which tapered into a narrow waist and an enviable flat stomach. His hair was jet black, and his ice blue eyes contrasted with the tan skin of his face. The Duke, unlike his pale companions, spent most of his time outdoors, and it showed.
The group played hard and fast at five card loo. The buy-in was raised several times to astronomical sums, and soon the five players had been reduced to but two: The Duke of Everleigh and Lord Greene --just as he had planned.
"I think you've been well and truly looed, my Lord," Ruan said with a satisfied smile as he revealed his own cards to be a flush. Four of the same suit and the coveted Pam, laid out on the table for all to see.
Lord Greene's face fell when he saw that he had lost again. In the last round he had staked his country pile to the pool, and as the winner of each trick, Everleigh could now add a stately home in Frome to his list of properties. Not that he would even notice it, he had that many estates dotted about the British Isles.
"Oh, God," Greene dropped his head into his hands, his face ghoulishly pale. Ruan surveyed his bald pate unsympathetically; the man had failed to win anything for the last few games, but instead of decreasing his bets, or passing all together, Greene had insisted on raising the stakes. A bad move, if one was to judge by his current expression of despair.
"I'll tell you what," Ruan said softly, his blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully, looking for all the world as though an idea had struck him, just at that moment. "How about another game, old man? I'll make it worth your while."
Lord Greene looked up, his face hopeful, whilst the gentlemen around the table shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. They had heard the Duke offer hope before, only to snatch it away cruelly; broken men with nothing to lose could be goaded into gambling even more. The only person who didn't look faintly perturbed was Mascotte, who had, until now, watched the game with a detached disinterest. Ruan could see the rotund editor wrestling with a sly smile at the thought that he might see Lord Greene humiliated even further. Humiliation sold papers aplenty.
"Do you wish to cut another deck, your Grace?" Lord Greene asked, with no little confusion. The poor sod had nothing left to gamble with, for the Duke now owned it all; he could not play for another trick.
"No more loo," Ruan waved a dismissive hand at the idea. "And no other players. Just you and I, Lord Greene. Lets make it a game of hazard."
"What are the stakes?" the elderly Baron asked dumbly. "For I've nothing left to play with, unless you want the old nag I rode in on."
Macotte snorted, and even the other men at the table gave a laugh, though they were silenced by a dark look from Ruan.
"You have one thing I want," he said lightly, holding the old man's gaze. "Your daughter."
Silence filled the room, bar the laboured breathing of the Daily Star's editor, who seemed fit to explode with excitement at the turn of events.
"Olive?" Lord Greene sounded out his daughter's name slowly, as though it was unfamiliar to him. Judging by the amount of time he spent in clubs and gaming hells, Ruan reasoned that it probably was. It was a wonder the man could even remember he had a daughter, let alone her name.
"The very one," Ruan smiled. "If you win, everything you have lost will be restored to you. But If I win, then Olive's hand in marriage is mine, and mine alone."
Lord Greene raised his eyebrows appreciatively at the generous offer, though his expression remained worried.
"A daughter's hand is not something a man should gamble with," he said, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He sounded as though he were trying to remind himself of that fact, rather than believing it fully.
"Most women dream of becoming a Duchess," Ruan countered, though he could see the other's collectively thinking: Not your Duchess.
For, as the rumour went, Ruan had killed his last wife. It was half true, and because of it, he was the last man that any loving father would want his daughter to wed. Duke or no Duke.
"I don't know," Lord Greene looked wistfully at the table. He was tempted, or half tempted at least. Ruan sighed with annoyance, he would have to sweeten his offer.
"If you lose," he said evenly, drumming his fingers on the table impatiently. "I shall have Olive's hand, but I will also restore your estates to you as goodwill gesture. A marriage gift of sorts."
Each man at the table metaphorically scratched their heads at the conundrum now facing Lord Greene. If he staked his daughters hand, no matter what the outcome of the game, he would surely see his fortunes restored. But what kind of man would gamble with his own daughter as the stakes?
"And if you lose, your Grace?" Lord Greene sounded braver, though his hands trembled.
"That does not matter, my Lord, I never do."
Ruan smiled and the men surrounding him chuckled.
Buoyed by the thought of placing a bet he could only stand to gain from, Lord Greene quickly agreed to the terms, and two dice were fetched. Ruan allowed the older man to cast the first die, and it soon became apparent that Lord Greene had as much skill at Hazard as he had at five card loo.
In each of his rounds the older man rolled successive twos and threes, his face becoming paler and his hand shakier with each throw.
"Well," Mascotte said gleefully, as the Duke won four out of five of his own throw ins. "It seems I shall be the first to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials, your Grace."
"Shall we play for the best out of three games?" Lord Greene stuttered, as he realised that he had lost. His grey face showed signs of dawning comprehension at what he had done, and none of the men present seemed able to look him in the eye.
"No," Ruan shook his head firmly, ignoring the old man's nervous protests. "We shall play no more games, my Lord. I shall meet you at your home tomorrow at noon. Instruct your daughter to be ready."
"But
the banns," Lord Greene grasped at straws. "You cannot wed until the banns are read out – that takes three weeks at least. Unless you wait a day or two for a special license."
"There's no need."
Ruan reached for his coat on the back of the chair, and from its inside pocket he withdrew the papers of the special license, which the Archbishop of Canterbury had signed for him just that very morning.
"You already had it?" Lord Greene looked flabbergasted, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "So, all along...?"
"All along, I only wanted your daughter's hand," Ruan conceded, with a smile that did not reach his cold blue eyes. "And now I have it. My thanks, Lord Greene. I shall see you anon."
Ruan swept from the room, not caring to look over his shoulder, where he was sure a broken Lord Greene would be seeking comfort and solace from his friends. He would not get it.
Even Ruan, cold hearted swine that he was, would not have gambled away his daughter's life to a man with a reputation for murdering his last spouse, among other misdeeds. Lord Greene had thought he could not lose, how wrong he had been. The despicable act would surly eat at the old bugger for the rest of his years. Another life ruined – though the Duke thought it most deserved in this case. Imagine having a daughter as beautiful as the unfortunately named Miss Olive Greene, and throwing away her hand on a game of chance. It beggared belief.
He was already looking forward to the next morning, when he would make Olive his Duchess, and parts of him stirred at the thought of making her completely his. T'was a pity the young woman clearly hadn't felt the same way about him, but the Duke was sure she would learn to tolerate him after a lifetime of marriage.
Ruan smiled broadly at the doorman, as he handed him the reins to his stallion.
"Did you have a good night, your Grace?" the footman inquired, taken aback by how jovial the usually dour Duke of Everleigh appeared.
"It was," Ruan laughed, "For me at least."
Olive was in the kitchen, kneading bread into what she hoped would be an edible loaf, when her father emerged the next morning. His presence filled the room with the stale scent of cheroot smoke and the distinct odour of brandy. Olive sniffed; copious amounts of brandy, it would seem.
"What did you lose last night?" she asked bitterly, taking the misshapen lump of dough, and placing it on a tray. "The tapestries? The candlesticks? You're still wearing your shirt, so you didn't lose that at least."
"Liv," her father's voice was raspy, and she could hear the phlegm on his chest from the heavy smoking the night before. "A cup of tea would be nice, before you begin your inquisition."
"There's a pot on the table."
Liv watched from the corner of her eye as her father made his way to the wooden table, which dominated the other side of the dark, spotlessly clean kitchen. Only three years ago, before her mother's untimely demise, there would have been servants to make her father his morning brew, and it would have been served to him in the dining room. But now there were no servants, there wasn't even a table in the echoing dining room – it had been sold, along with the paintings and a heap of other furniture, to pay her father's ever accruing debts.
Irritated, Liv placed the baking tray in the wood burning oven, and slammed the door. She did not mind hard work, in fact she preferred it to the more tedious feminine arts like needle point and flower pressing. What she minded, as anyone would, was the uncertainty that all her hard work would be for nothing.
Her father had been a profligate gambler before her mother's death, but since then had become wild and reckless with his gaming. Some mornings Liv woke not knowing if the bed she had slept in would still be there that night, or if the roof above her head would have to be sold.
"Here," she snapped, ladling out two soft boiled eggs into egg cups and placing them before her father. A slice of dry, two-day old bread accompanied them, which her father looked at askance.
"I had to walk to the far field this morning, to collect the eggs, for that's where the stupid hen decided to nest," she said by way of explanation, "I had no time to make you fresh bread."
"Never mind," her father sighed, picking up a knife and generously coating the offending bread with a thick coating of butter. "I have news for you Liv, great news."
Liv stilled; the last time her father had given her great news, was after he had won thousands of pounds at the tables. Enough to send her to London, for her first season and look at what a disaster that had turned out to be. In hind-sight, Liv now wished that she had just hidden the money as a nest egg for herself, instead of allowing him to convince her to fritter it away on dresses and baubles. She had returned to Frome deflated, and just as penniless and trapped as she had left it.
"What kind of great news, Papa?" she asked cautiously, taking a seat across from her father, who looked rather green around the gills. A big win, if she could manage to wrestle some money from him, might mean they could hire a girl to help around the house. She might even be able to refurnish some of the main rooms, so that she could invite some of the few friends she had made in London to stay.
"A husband," her father said, gravely setting his cup upon the table. "I have found you a husband, my dear."
Olive, for the first time in her life, felt as though she was going to faint. A feeling she quickly dismissed; only consumptives and elderly matrons fainted, and she was neither.
"And who is this man you've gambled me away to?" she asked, her voice laden with ice, for she intuitively knew just how her father had found her a husband. "A farmer? A criminal? The captain of a pirate ship?"
Each was a distinct possibility, for her father's sense of reason and decency left him completely when he gambled.
"None of those," Lord Greene said, waving a dismissive hand, as though Liv's concerns were irrelevant. "I have promised you to England's most eligible bachelor: The Duke of Everleigh."
Oh goodness, no.
Liv felt the acrid taste of bile, rising in her throat; anyone but him. The Duke of Everleigh had haunted her dreams since their meeting at Lady Jersey's. Olive, under the guise of paying a social call, had extracted from her neighbour, the elderly Lady Engleman, who lived in nearby Blatchbridge, exactly what had happened with the Duke's previous wife.
Her name had been Catherine Keyford, the daughter of the Cornish Lord Keyford and she had been two and twenty years of age when Everleigh had married her and made her a Duchess.
"She'd never even had a season," Lady Engleman had whispered, sharing the scandal as she poured Liv a cup of tea. "Is it any wonder the girl behaved as she did?"
"Oh?" Liv had sipped her tea innocently, hoping that Lady Engleman would continue with her tale.
"She took a lover," the old matron whispered, though because of her hearing the whisper was delivered at the same level as a shout. The young maid who hovered by the door, began to giggle, but quickly stopped at Liv's glare. Not that she blamed the girl from laughing, but she did not want Lady Engleman's attention diverted by scolding a servant.
"She told Everleigh that she was leaving him for this chap, and the Duke called the young man out," Lady Engleman had continued, oblivious to the fact that both Olive and the maid were hanging on her every word. "He shot him dead, with one bullet between the eyes, or so the story goes. And then he returned to his estate in Cornwall, and the next thing we heard the poor Duchess was dead."
"How?" Liv gasped, wondering how the callow Everleigh had disposed of his wife. Was it in a fit of passionate rage? Or did he plan it coolly and meticulously?
"The official word was that she fell down the stairs," the older woman coughed discreetly, to indicate that she hadn't bought into that story. "But everyone knew it was him. His own mother ran off on her marriage to his father, when he was but a boy. To have his wife attempt to do the same must have driven him insane with rage."
Liv sipped her tea again, as she digested this tit-bit of gossip. She couldn't picture the Duke as a young boy, and felt no sympathy for him whatsoever.
Plenty of people's mothers abandoned them, it didn't give them carte blanche to murder their wives! She had left Lady Engleman's feeling faintly perturbed that she had exchanged any words with the villainous Duke, and now,this very morning she found she was betrothed to him!
"Oh goodness, Papa," she groaned, allowing her head to fall into her hands in despair. "What have you done? Do you not know what they said he did to his last wife?"
"All balderdash," Lord Greene waved her concerns away with his hand, as though brushing away a bothersome fly, though he did look rather uncomfortable that she had brought up the alleged murder. "He seemed most keen to make you his wife – he even had a special license written up in anticipation that I would consent."
"Consent?"
A laugh so bitter it shocked the pair of them, ripped from Liv's throat.
"You consented to nothing," she whispered, her hands gripping the edge of the table so hard that her knuckles turned white. "You gambled me away as surely as you gambled away the paintings, the horses, and the furniture-- and I can never forgive you for that."
She pushed her chair away from the table, and stood up, running an agitated hand through her thick red curls.
"W-where are you going?" her father stuttered nervously, "He'll be here before noon."
"I am going to pay my last respects to my Mother," Liv replied, not looking him in the eye. "For when I leave this house today, you may rest assured that I will never return."
With that, Liv left the room, slamming the door behind her, so hard that it nearly came off its hinges.
A dirt path, surrounded on either side by wild hedgerows laden with summer blooms led to the small, squat church where her mother lay buried, not five minutes away. Liv passed by the headstones of many more deceased Greenes as she picked her way through the cemetery, for her father's family had been seated in Frome for centuries and her ancestors had all lived and died here.
"Oh mother," Liv sighed, as she reached the small, granite headstone which bore her mother's name. "I wish you were here."
The Duke of Ruin: Reluctant Regency Brides Page 2