by Jaide Fox
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New Concepts Publishing
www.newconceptspublishing.com
Copyright ©2004 by Jaide Fox
First published by New Concepts Publishing, September 2004
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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HIS WICKED WAYS
by
Jaide Fox
© copyright by Jaide Fox, September 2004
Cover Art by Eliza Black
ISBN 1-58608-343-0
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
It would have been difficult for even their closest friends to say whether Darcy St. James and Nicholas Cain were the best of friends or the most devoted of rivals. The truth was they had been nearly inseparable from early childhood, and they were, and had always been, both. Although the contest between them was not nearly so obvious as it had been when they were green boys, those who knew them well were always aware of the war constantly waged between them beneath polite smiles and impeccable manners in almost every aspect of their lives as each strove to best the other at whatever they set their hand to.
They might almost have been mistaken for twins. Aside from the fact that one rarely saw one that the other did not also appear, both men were tall and dark, both were Corinthians of some repute, and both were womanizers of even more renowned repute.
Darcy, the broader of the two and the tallest by several inches, was known to be something of a charming rogue. His mother had often lamented that he had more the look of a pirate than the younger son of a peer of the realm with his unruly, dark brown hair and the irrepressible gleam to be found in his hazel gold eyes more often than not, as if he were contemplating some devilment he found supremely amusing. She didn't believe it, of course, only that he appeared to be a rogue. She could not be persuaded to consider that any of her children were not perfect in every way and would have been greatly disturbed to know how close she was to the truth.
He had little reason to take life seriously. As the third of four sons, he was too far removed from the succession to concern himself with the responsibilities inherent in his father's estate as a Duke of the realm, and he certainly had no need to marry and produce an heir of his own. He had enjoyed a brief stint in His Majesty's militia, but the death of a fond, and very wealthy, aunt had left him rather well set up. At thirty, he had left his wilder years behind, but despite many a hopeful glance cast his way by the unattached females of the ton, he showed no inclination to settle and raise a brood in his own image.
Of the two, Nicholas was the more somber and, whereas Darcy was accounted a charming rogue, Nicholas, with his steely blue eyes and coal black hair, was considered a cold devil, nearly as deadly with his rapier sharp wit as with sword or pistol on the dueling field. He was slighter than Darcy, but it was not something generally noticed by those unfortunate enough to fall on his bad side.
He was said to be the image of his father, the late Marquis of Kent, who'd died at the ripe old age of five and seventy, supporting the old adage that the good died young and the wicked lived long and prospered.
It certainly seemed true of Nicholas, who had parlayed his modest inheritance as a fourth son into a sizable fortune, most of it, many said, at the gambling tables. Whether true or merely a reluctance to give the devil his due, rumor had it that he was by far the wealthiest of any of the old Marquis’ brood, including his eldest brother, the new Marquis.
The rivalry between the two was never heated and had not once over the years formed even the smallest wedge between them, not surprising since they were so evenly matched that if one triumphed today, it would almost certainly be the other who came out the victor the following day. Their ongoing contest was limited, however, to a test of skill, wit, strength and stamina in games of chance, racing, pugilism, or fencing. So far as anyone could see, it had never extended to a rivalry for the favors of the fairer sex. They had been known to swap, and sometimes share, their mistresses and since Nicholas, at one and thirty, showed no more inclination to marry than Darcy, their friendship had never been tested on the more serious matter of finding a bride.
It occurred to William Moreland as he tossed his hopeless hand onto the table in disgust to wonder if it was at all possible that he might see the day he bested the two of them, or even one of the two. “That's it for me,” he muttered, stretching his cramped limbs and glancing around the virtually deserted men's club in search of a passing servant he might send to fetch him another drink. “My luck's out tonight."
Boyd, the hopeless optimist who'd made up their fourth, pulled his attention from his own hand long enough to send William a sympathetic glance. “I'm sure it'll turn soon, William. It has to,” he added simply.
William grimaced. “If by that you mean ‘or I won't have a farthing to my name', you're not far off, but you've been saying that for a good fortnight now, and lady luck has yet to favor me."
Darcy and Nicholas exchanged a speaking glance before Darcy sent him a speculative look. “It's not as serious as that, surely?"
William forced a halfhearted chuckle, shaking his head. “I'm not quite rolled up, but near enough I'm thinking of rusticating for a bit ... if my luck doesn't turn soon."
Darcy grinned. “It must be bad if you're considering a visit to your dear old aunt."
"Not that!” William muttered with an exaggerated shudder, suppressing the urge to grind his teeth and thereby set off speculation as to his true reasons for leaving town, which involved a female to be sure, but not of the lower classes.
The sad truth was that he damned near was rolled up and his fond mama had been hounding him to present himself to a young, wealthy widow only just returned to England from an extended visit to relatives in the Americas. As reluctant as he was even to consider it, he was very much afraid he'd reached a point where his wishes were not nearly as important as his pockets, particularly since his ‘dear old aunt’ showed no signs of failing health. “I met a cozy armful the last time I was down that way."
"A country maid?” Boyd asked with interest.
"A clever milk maid,” William responded and chuckled at the look on Boyd's face. “You are far too green to be playing with the likes of these two if you think by that that I'm referring to bovines, which I can see that you do."
Boyd's brows descended in a perplexed frown. “Goats, you mean?"
Darcy burst out laughing and even Nicholas’ lips twitched on the verge of a smile.
"No,” the three of them said almost in unison.
Catching the eye of a servant at last, William ordered a round for the table and settled back to study Boyd with keen interest. “Here's a youngster who needs to be taken under someone's wing."
Boyd flushed. “I can take care of myself,” he said stiffly.
William lifted his hand and gestured at Darcy and Nicholas. “But, my lad, you see before you two of the most notable Corinthians in all of England, both of whom have also been touted as England's greatest lover. You can not go wrong to be advised by such paragons of manhood such as Darcy St. James and Nicholas Cain."
Boyd's eyes widened slightly. “Is that who you are, then? I hadn't made
the connection.” He frowned after a moment. “The greatest lover by whose authority?"
"The ladies."
"They talk of such things?” Boyd demanded, aghast and obviously chagrined at the notion.
"Among themselves,” William said, grinning, “but one hears these things."
Boyd thought that over before glancing first at Darcy and then Nicholas speculatively. “There can be only one ‘greatest',” he said simply.
Nicholas and Darcy, who'd returned their attention to their cards, looked up at that, exchanging a challenging glance.
William had no sooner observed it than his mind kicked into high gear and began to formulate and discard one plan after another. “From the mouths of babes ... I hadn't actually given it a thought,” he murmured slowly. “I suppose, if I were a betting man, I'd put my money on Nicholas."
Darcy sent him a look. “Why is that?"
William shrugged. In truth, he had no reason to suppose either man lacking in prowess since, to his knowledge, neither man had left behind a female with complaints in that direction. They were more inclined to go into a decline when Nicholas and Darcy moved on than to complain that they had lingered overlong. He'd suggested it for the simple reason that he thought Darcy more inclined to rise to the challenge than Nicholas. “Something my mistress said about deep waters ... or maybe it was still waters?"
When he glanced at Nicholas, he saw that those steely blue eyes were narrowed upon his face speculatively. “What are you about, I wonder?” he murmured coolly.
William felt a faint flush rise in his cheeks. “Nothing. Only that, as Boyd pointed out, ‘greatest’ suggests the single best of all others."
"I sense a challenge ... and a wager,” Darcy murmured lazily. “I'm game."
"I, on the other hand, am not,” Nicholas said coolly.
William feigned a look of stunned surprise. “Refusing a challenge?"
"Is that what it was?"
Resisting the urge to tug at his cravat, which suddenly seemed uncomfortably tight, William glanced at the three faces before him and finally shrugged. “Isn't the proposal of a wager always a challenge of sorts?"
"A proper wager involves chance, or skills, but in either case, it is a contest where a clear winner can be determined. In this particular case, it could not ... even if there were a true challenge, which there is not."
"Why not?” Boyd asked, suddenly interested once more.
Nicholas studied him speculatively for several moments. “Put simply, the ladies of the demimonde can be had for coin, the daughters of the ton for a wedding ring, and the bored wives of the ton for a smile and wink."
Boyd was obviously aghast, and disbelieving besides. “You're saying there would be no point in wagering on it because you could have any female you chose, merely by casting your handkerchief in her direction?” he demanded.
Nicholas and Darcy exchanged a glance.
"Yes,” Darcy said emphatically.
William thought long and hard about the wager. The truth was, he considered his chances with the ‘fair’ widow virtually nil, particularly since he had no burning desire to acquire a wife at all and certainly not one who'd been rusticating in the Americas for the past five years and was probably a complete bumpkin. Besides, from what his mother had had to say, he rather thought her perfect for his purposes. In all of England, what female would be more resistant to the two of them than one who had reason to hate them both? “Just suppose a female might be found who would present a challenge? You are certainly right about the majority of England's fair ladies, and also about determining a winner in such a contest, but suppose the challenge was to see which of the two of you could succeed in seducing a female disinclined to favor either of you?"
"Why do I have the feeling you have someone particular in mind?” Nicholas asked dryly.
William reddened. “Actually, she only came to mind because my mother mentioned her to me when I dined with her earlier this evening."
"You can not mean to bandy a lady's name about in a gentleman's club,” Boyd put in disapprovingly.
Nicholas gave him a look that caused the color to leave his face for several moments before it rushed back with a vengeance. “As little as I like being chastised by a green boy, he's right,” Nicholas said coolly, turning his attention to William once more.
William squirmed uncomfortably. “If you will but notice, we have cleared the room."
Darcy glanced around in apparent surprise. “It must be later than I thought."
"Nigh on sunrise,” William pointed out, after studying his watch for a moment through blurry eyes. “If you've no interest in the bet, I suppose I'll take my leave."
"Just out of curiosity, the lady's name?"
"Lady Dunmore."
"Dunmore?” Boyd exclaimed, aghast. “She must be five and sixty if she's a day!"
William gave him a quelling look. “I mean young Lady Dunmore, the widow of her son."
"Bronte?” Nicholas asked, startled.
Chapter Two
"Isaac's widow?” Nicholas demanded coldly at almost the same moment. “I must say, that's very bad form even for you, Moreland."
"In any case,” Darcy drawled, “we've known her since she was a child. You must know her father's estate marches with my father's."
"And my brother's,” Nicholas said.
"Even if we didn't consider her off limits, being Isaac's widow, it wouldn't be a fair bet for the simple reason that she had a mad crush on me for years when she was a little girl,” Darcy added. “Don't get me wrong, for I was always rather fond of her in a brotherly way, but as I recall, she was a bit of an awkward filly—freckled as bedamned and boyish to boot, always trying to follow me and Nicholas and Isaac about and do whatever we did. Chances are that if the marriage hadn't been arranged between Isaac's parents and hers, she would've ended up an old maid, despite her portion.
"Women like that are far too desperate for the attention of a male to be any challenge at all."
"Well, that settles that,” William said, rising from his chair and trying not to look as outdone as he felt. “I will beg your pardon for my poor taste in suggesting her. For my part, my money's still on Nick, however. If you two do decide to take up the challenge, you will let me know?"
Nick watched him go. When they'd finished their hand, he rose, as well. “I'm for bed."
Without a word, Darcy got up, stretched in a leisurely manner and followed him out.
"I'd a bit too much to drink,” Darcy confessed while they waited for their horses to be brought around.
Nick eyed him coolly. “Moreland's discreet enough. I only hope the same can be said for young Boyd."
Darcy looked at Nick uncomfortably. “It's not as if it's something that could not be observed by anyone who spent five minutes in her company. It's a shame she inherited the look of her father rather than her mother, but an inescapable fact ... poor, homely mite."
"But she is the widow of a dear friend, and a neighbor. I don't like to think word might get back her, particularly since your comments are as often attributed to me as to you,” Nick responded pensively. “I've a notion to rusticate for bit."
Darcy's eyes widened. “In the middle of the season? You're not thinking of taking Moreland up on his bet?"
Nick sent him a look.
Darcy nodded.
The silent communication between the two of them had the tendency to disconcert their peers, but, having been developed over a number of years, it was finely tuned by now and, as often as not, completely unnecessary for either of them to verbalize their thoughts.
"I haven't seen Bronte since the services for Isaac,” Darcy said thoughtfully, then frowned. “Actually, now that I think of it, not even then. She was indisposed when I went to pay my respects."
"Precisely."
"I'm not certain I get your point."
"Does it not strike you as odd that Moreland suggested Bronte?"
"Absurd, indiscreet, and completely unsporting.
I'm not sure about the ‘odd'."
"As you so rudely pointed out, she was inclined to follow us about like a puppy desperate to please when she was child. Moreland would have no way of knowing that, but he could hardly fail to know that we knew her well. Why, I wonder, would he consider it a challenge for either of us to seduce her?"
Darcy thought it over, frowning. “You think, maybe, she considers us somehow responsible for Isaac's death?” he demanded, outraged at the injustice of it.
Nick shrugged, taking the reins of his horse as the groom brought it up to him and hoisting himself into the saddle. “On the surface, it would not seem likely. On the other hand, she was not there at the time, and I can think of no other reason why Bronte might avoid us—she was indisposed when I went to pay my respects, as well—and yet Moreland must have some reason to suppose she would not welcome us, don't you think?” he said when Darcy had mounted his own horse.
The two fell silent as they negotiated their way through London's streets. Once they'd arrived at Nick's lodgings, however, Darcy dismounted and followed him inside. “You are not seriously contemplating taking that bet?"
Nick gave him a look. “Sleeping over?"
Darcy looked around in momentary confusion. “I might as well borrow your couch for a few hours."
"Take the guest room, by all means. The bed will accommodate that frame of yours far better, and it will spare the springs of my couch. I'll send my man round to you in a bit."
"I couldn't help but notice you didn't answer my question,” Darcy said wryly, following him down the hallway.
Nick paused at his door and glanced back at his long time friend. “As you pointed out, it would hardly be sporting of me, would it?"
Darcy frowned, remembering the dirty faced child of their youth, and the skinny, freckled bride she'd become. “No,” he said slowly.
Nick turned the door knob and opened his door. “In any case, what would be the point?"
Darcy shrugged.
"We both know I'm the greatest,” Nick said, throwing his friend a laughing look as he entered his room and closed the door soundly behind him.