The Beleaguered Earl

by Allison Lane

  Quit while you’re ahead, whispered his conscience.

  Lady Luck is with you tonight, answered Temptation. Six months isn’t much of a reprieve.

  It’s better than nothing, countered his conscience. By then you can convince someone to give you a chance.

  “One more game,” he murmured in compromise.

  He regretted his words almost immediately. Brandy was turning his thoughts to gibberish. The room brightened and dimmed, making it difficult to see. His ears roared, drowning most conversation.

  “I’m for bed,” announced Timmons, scribbling a vowel.

  His voice pierced the fog shrouding Max’s senses. He groped for consciousness, then wished he had not. At least an hour had passed. His winnings had dwindled to a single vowel for twenty guineas.

  “I must cut my losses,” said Peterson morosely. “Lady Luck has obviously deserted me tonight.”

  “A game of piquet, Merimont?” asked Ashburton.

  “It’s growing late,” he murmured. Later than ever, he silently acknowledged, cursing himself. He’d just thrown away his reprieve.

  “One hand,” Ashburton insisted, nodding at the heap of vowels at his elbow. “I’ll stake my winnings and Redrock House. No points. Winner take all.”

  Max stared.

  Ashburton shrugged. “Don’t you want a chance to recoup?”

  “I’ve nothing to bet.”

  “I’ll take a vowel.”

  “You know my father won’t advance me a shilling.”

  Ashburton’s gaze sharpened. “You could bring him round if you wanted to. I offered you a game, Merimont. Are you a man or a mealy-mouthed stripling?”

  Don’t do it!

  What difference does it make? There must be a thousand guineas in that pile, and he’s added an estate. If you walk out, you’ll have to crawl home to Widicomb. Will groveling be any worse because of a debt? You might as well make Montcalm suffer for putting you in this position.

  “Well?” demanded Ashburton.

  Max glanced around the gaming room. Only a few men remained, and none was watching. Letting out a long breath, he scribbled a vowel for ten thousand guineas. “One game.”

  Dizziness attacked the moment he saw his hand. It would take a miracle to win with these cards. The image of facing his father with a ten-thousand-guinea debt churned his stomach until he feared he would cast up his accounts on the table.

  Hope rekindled as they began the declarations. He scored, lost, scored again, won one trick, then two, lost the next…

  Dizziness blurred his senses. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, couldn’t think…

  His head smacked onto the tabletop.

  Ashburton laughed. “Damn! Worse hand I’ve had in my life.”

  Max pushed himself upright. Ashburton was shuffling cards.

  “Who won?” asked Brummell as he and Alvanley sauntered over.

  “Merimont.” Ashburton shoved the vowels across the table and rose. “Well, I’m for home. Enjoy Redrock, Merimont. She has great amenities.” Laughing, he strolled toward the door.

  Max stared at the vowels, hardly aware that Brummell and Alvanley remained behind him.

  “Must have drained an extra bottle,” murmured Brummell. “Not like him to laugh at defeat.”

  “It’s even less like him to wager Redrock. You know how he feels about—”

  Max ignored them, shakily counting markers. Ten thousand guineas above his own reckless note. An estate named Redrock. Peterson’s team of matched bays. So Ashburton had been playing for high stakes all evening. No wonder Peterson had looked green when he quit; half of society coveted those horses.

  Awareness filtered slowly through the haze still clouding his mind. He had no idea how, but he’d won.

  He was free.

  Chapter Two

  Max was still reeling when he left Ashburton’s solicitor. Redrock House was his. Twice the size of Dearborn, it included four tenant farms. Excitement nearly overwhelmed him. The harvest had just concluded, making it the ideal time to institute changes. He could study his new property at leisure before making decisions.

  Study would be necessary, he admitted as he headed for a celebration at White’s. Conditions varied from one part of the country to another. Having never been to Devonshire, he did not know how it compared to Dearborn. Was the soil as fertile? What about wind, rain, and temperature? Perhaps the sheep that flourished there were a different breed than he knew.

  But nothing could dull today’s euphoria. Never again would he be at his father’s mercy. Never again must he pinch pennies to maintain the image expected of a marquess’s heir. Never again would he lie awake long after dawn, fearing that his father would break him.

  Ten thousand guineas.

  A productive estate.

  He was free.

  “Congratulations, Max.”

  He grinned at his closest friend, Blake Townsend, Earl of Rockhurst. “You heard?”

  “With Brummell as witness, everyone in town has heard. You have the devil’s own luck.”

  “Hardly. Devil’s luck would have given me a reasonable father.” Blake was the only one who knew the details of his battles.

  “I must admit that I was surprised.” Blake signaled a waiter for more wine. “Deep gaming is not like you, Max.”

  “No.” He exhaled in a long sigh as shock again rolled down his back. “I can only plead insanity. I should have quit after winning that five hundred guineas.”

  Blake raised his brow.

  “I stayed in the game and lost nearly everything, then accepted an insane wager for another hand. I am not sure what happened, even now.” He shrugged.

  “Not sure?”

  “Too much wine,” he explained. “I all but passed out. Ashburton could have claimed victory and I wouldn’t have known the difference,” he added, seeing Blake’s surprise.

  “Living down to Montcalm’s expectations?”

  Max would have called out anyone else who made that insinuation, but this was Blake. And he remembered scrawling that vowel, so he nodded. “Not my greatest idea. My cards were marginal at best.”

  “The devil’s own luck,” repeated Blake.

  “Hail the conquering hero,” sang out Terrence Sanders, joining them. “Quite a change.”

  Max nodded. He had sat in this very room with these two only yesterday, lamenting the choice he faced – fleeing the country or surrendering his independence to his father’s demands.

  Other friends joined them. Wine flowed as they toasted his good fortune and laughed about other times when he had not been so lucky. But he ignored the jibes over embarrassing moments. Today was for celebration.

  “So when will you inspect your new property?” asked Terrence.

  “Soon.” He stretched his legs toward the fireplace, basking in his newfound freedom. “The roads will be bad before much longer.”

  “Maybe we should come along,” slurred Dornbras. “See what sort of place it is.”

  “Why not?” Max said, draining another glass as voices hummed around him.

  “Rather a long jaunt.”

  “—least we can do is see if you won a pig in a poke.”

  “—warm my bed—”

  “A little wine is hardly a celebration. Ought to do more.”

  “Capital suggestion, old boy. I’ve just the filly.”

  “You still keeping Annette?”

  “I leave tomorrow for Leicestershire, so must regretfully decline.”

  “Say hello to your mother.” Laughter followed Tuckleigh from the room.

  Before Max realized what had happened, the plans were complete. Blake, Terrence, Dornbras, and Sir Reginald Dabney would join him at Redrock. Somehow, his mistress and four others had been included – he wasn’t sure who was arranging that, though London was thin enough of company this time of year that plenty of courtesans would welcome a trip to the country.

  His conscience poked him one last time, but he ignored it. He was starting a new life
. Why not celebrate? He had never attended a bawdy house party, but this occasion required something special.

  “I suppose you’ll need a week or two to prepare and staff the house,” said Dornbras.

  “It shouldn’t take that long. Ashburton’s solicitor claims all is in readiness. I’ll leave tomorrow. You can follow in a couple of days.”

  * * * *

  A week later, Max turned his curricle through Redrock’s gates. The estate was nestled against a line of hills just north of Dartmoor. The land seemed wilder than Kent or Lincolnshire, stirring his senses and making him feel reckless.

  He stifled the excitement that had been building since that night at Brook’s. He could not afford more recklessness. It had already threatened his purse and affected his manners. He should have warned the caretaker that he was coming. He should also have written to his father.

  The first oversight had been inadvertent. Between shock and an excess of wine, he hadn’t remembered the formality until yesterday. By then there had been little point.

  But ignoring his father had been deliberate. It would be just like Montcalm to interpret the announcement as an invitation to visit. Once here, he would take charge – just as he’d done with Max’s first team of horses. Distrusting Max’s judgment, he’d fired the groom who had trained the team since their births, then assigned their care to his own trainer, who had promptly ruined their mouths.

  So he would deal with Montcalm later. At the moment, he had more urgent considerations. He’d outpaced his baggage coach to make sure he arrived before his friends, though with luck their journey was as plagued with trouble as his had been – delaying rains, a lame horse near Bath, a cracked wheel five miles later. But they could arrive as early as this evening. He hoped the staff was adequate.

  He frowned as the drive entered a small wood. Several trees were dead or dying. Broken branches littered the ground, raising questions about the steward’s competence.

  Other problems caught his eye as he emerged. By the time he reached the house, he was furious. The park was unkempt, with walls in disrepair and a drive so rutted it would jolt teeth even in a well-sprung carriage. The house was equally grim, its double wings tucked behind a narrow facade boasting cracked windows and crumbling brick. Had Ashburton increased his profits by allowing a house he never used to decay?

  He hated men who raped the land to line their own pockets. Landowners were caretakers for the future. Even an unused house would eventually be pressed into service for a relative or other dependent. How could anyone justify such neglect?

  But Ashburton might not be at fault, he admitted as he climbed down from his curricle. If an owner never visited, a dishonest steward could claim fictitious repairs, appropriating the cost for himself.

  He grimaced. If that were true, the house might be unstaffed and in worse condition than it appeared. If only he had been sober when the idea of a party had come up. He might have been less willing to believe another man’s solicitor.

  Frowning at the cracked paint on the door, he tried the latch. It was open.

  The entrance hall seemed dark as a cave. But his eyes soon adjusted, bringing details into focus – satinwood paneling that showed signs of recent care, a marble floor, six-panel doors leading to rooms on either side, arched hallway openings just beyond, and a graceful stairway rising in the back.

  Not until a gasp sounded in the shadows did he realize that a maid in a dark brown gown stood beneath the stairs, one hand clutching a feather duster, the other clasped to a generous bosom. She wore no cap. Auburn hair had come loose from a tight knot, framing her face in a nimbus of fire. Gray eyes held surprise and curiosity. His groin stirred.

  “Who are—” she began, but he cut her off.

  “What a charming picture, though it looks like you need help,” he added, noting cobwebs near the ceiling.

  Three steps brought him to her side, allowing light from the open door to turn her hair into a blazing inferno, driving all thought of cleaning from his mind. His arm circled her shoulders, holding her still while he studied that stunning face.

  She gasped.

  Lust engulfed him, stronger than anything raised by Annette’s most practiced tricks. “Lovely,” he murmured. “A welcome addition to any staff. You would be an instant success at Covent Garden, sweetings. Gentlemen would overrun the greenroom to meet you.”

  Her head reached his eyes. She twisted away from his gaze, grazing his chin with an elegant ear. Surrendering to irresistible temptation, he nibbled it.

  “Cad!” Her hand connected firmly with his cheek as she jerked out of his grip.

  Only then did he realize that she’d been trying to escape. He clenched his fists against retaliating, for she had every right to protest his reckless assault. “My apo—”

  She interrupted. “How dare you walk in without even knocking?”

  “I own this house. Where is the caretaker?”

  * * * *

  Hope stared at the stranger. He looked perfectly normal, if she ignored the fury seething in his eyes. Dark hair curled from under an elegant top hat, one strand escaping down his forehead to draw attention to brilliant blue eyes. A greatcoat broadened shoulders already wide enough to rival those of her most powerful tenant. But he was typical of the aristocracy – selfish, arrogant, and demanding. Might he become dangerous when she pointed out his error?

  Fear choked her. He probably embodied every vice her mother had warned her against. His willingness to enter a strange house and accost the first female he met branded him a rakehell, and he was clearly contemplating how to avenge her slap.

  She suppressed her dread of the power embodied in those shoulders, for displaying fear, or even nervousness, would be a mistake. Like any predator, he would pounce on the first sign of weakness. Backing another pace, she spoke slowly, as to a dull-witted child.

  “Your driver has lost his way, sir, bringing you to the wrong estate. My mother and I lease this property from my uncle.”

  His brow furrowed. “Is this not Redrock House?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it is mine.”

  “You must have fallen victim to a charlatan. My uncle would never sell it.”

  “He did not sell it. He lost it in a card game.”

  Her knees nearly buckled. “You are sure?”

  Sympathy flashed briefly in his eyes, surprising her. “My apologies for being the bearer of bad news, Miss—”

  “Ashburton,” she said when he paused.

  “And I am Lord Merimont.” He proffered a card. “Ashburton wagered Redrock House eight days ago. I won.”

  She cursed herself for flinching at the abrupt words. He was watching her like a hawk and would not have missed so telltale a reaction. When she refused to respond – she didn’t trust her voice – he continued.

  “You are in shock, Miss Ashburton. Not that I blame you. Losing one’s home is always upsetting. Why don’t you summon your mother so we can sort out the next step?”

  Losing one’s home. The gall of the man! “Mother is ill.” She motioned him toward the office.

  Damn Uncle Edward for finding a new way to annoy her. It was just like him to hand over his despised relations to a man who would use them ill. She recognized Merimont’s name. Only last summer the London papers had reported an incident at an unsavory brothel, and no one would ever forget his appalling behavior at the Horseley ball.

  But she could not allow him to intimidate her. Redrock House was all they had. She should have expected something like this, for troubles never arrived singly. Her mother’s chill had returned with a vengeance, sinking deep into her chest with wracking coughs that occasionally led to vomiting. She must deal with Merimont quickly, so her mother would not discover so dangerous a man under her roof.

  She took the seat behind the desk, ignoring another flash of his fury. He had the most expressive eyes she had ever seen – odd for a man reputed to have no morals and no regrets.

  “As I said,” he continued
, assuming his own chair. “I am sorry to bear bad news, but the estate is now mine. As I am in need of it, I must cancel your lease.”

  “Impossible.”

  His eyes widened. “You are misinformed. A contract with your uncle does not bind me. He can house you elsewhere.”

  “You are misinformed, my lord. If not for the lease, my uncle would have tossed us out ten years ago. It was established by my grandfather. Changes in ownership do not affect its terms. They remain in force until it expires – in another seventy-five years.”

  “What?” He sagged into his chair, his shock too overdone for sincerity. Everyone knew his father owned property in half the shires of England, so finding this house occupied was hardly a tragedy.

  She forced calm into her voice. “It is a ninety-nine-year lease, my lord, and attaches to the estate itself, giving us free, unmolested use of the house and guaranteeing us half the estate income. Obviously you were unaware of its provisions, but winning an estate at the gaming table is no different from buying a pig in a poke. You have no cause to complain if it is less than you expected.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, my lord. The lease cannot be broken. Believe me, my uncle tried everything, including a petition to the king, but he could not evict us. Nor can you. The White Heron in the village is simple but clean if you need accommodation. Or you might prefer the Spotted Pony in Oakhampton, which is larger and renowned hereabouts for its ale.” Oakhampton was three miles away.

  “Not so fast, Miss Ashburton. Where is this infamous lease?”

  Pulling open a drawer, she extracted a sheaf of papers. “This is a copy, as is the one my solicitor holds. Another is on file at Somerset House in London, as part of my grandfather’s will. Copies are also lodged in other places, so it would be nearly impossible to destroy evidence of its existence.”

  “If you were a man, I would call you out for such calumny,” he growled.

  She frowned, detecting real pain in his voice. “Then I beg your pardon. Uncle Edward burned two copies before he discovered that Grandfather had anticipated his reaction. I have no evidence that you are different. Not only are you Uncle’s friend, but you have already proven yourself a lecherous gamester.”