Another gust of wintry wind carrying a spattering of rain hurried his steps. He entered his club just ahead of the impending deluge and scanned the room. Older members occupied chairs here and there, perusing the Times or trading the latest news. As he suspected, Crawley was nowhere to be found. Not Crawley nor any of the others who had been in on the scheme with him, but the hour was early.
Well, then. He may as well settle himself in for the next while in the hopes at least one of the men would put in an appearance.
He called for a newspaper and found himself a seat at an unoccupied table with a view of the entryway, but the details of the latest bills in Parliament did little to hold his attention. What did he care for importation or appropriation acts when he’d lost the last of his personal funds? That money, at least, was all his, damn it. If he could somehow regain it, he’d have something his wife couldn’t touch. And perhaps he’d prove himself to both her and Jennings at the same time.
Before long, a shadow fell across the page. Rowan looked up to find Crawley standing in his light.
“What’s the idea sending a Bow Street Runner after me?” Crawley brushed at his sleeves, spraying the newspaper with icy water droplets.
Rowan raised both brows. “I didn’t send him after you.” At some point, he was going to have to go out in this devil-cursed storm, track down Dysart, and have a chat with the man about his methods. “He was supposed to find Higgins for me.”
“Seems he found me instead,” Crawley said mildly enough, but that meant nothing. Crawley could discuss his own financial demise just as casually. “And put me through all the questions he meant for Higgins. At any rate, Higgins is gone, which is the same as I told that fellow from Bow Street.”
“I’m aware.” Rowan wasn’t inclined to invite the other man to sit, given the tenor of his approach. “I went to Higgins’s townhouse in hopes of catching up to him.”
“And you didn’t think to let me in on your plan before you brought in outside help?”
“I needed the outside help. Higgins’s butler claimed he went off to Italy.”
“Of course he did. If you came into a fortune, would you spend the winter in England?”
That gave him pause—had word of his hasty marriage already circulated? “I’d like to track down my funds if possible. You may well be able to sustain the loss, but I cannot.”
Crawley rocked back on his heels. “You couldn’t at the time.”
“I still can’t,” Rowan reminded him tightly.
“That’s not what I hear.”
“What exactly have you heard?”
“I don’t know what he’s heard,” said a new voice, “but I hear congratulations are in order.”
Rowan glanced beyond Crawley’s shoulder. Keaton, yes. Rowan knew him mainly by reputation—as someone to be avoided at all cost at the card table. He stood now, blocking the view of the common room.
“Do you, now?” Rowan asked carefully. He did not offer Keaton a seat any more than he had Crawley, but Keaton took a chair nonetheless.
He nodded. “The news has been going round that your fortunes have reversed since you fell into the parson’s trap.”
“Yes, indeed,” Crawley put in. “And what were we saying about not spending the winter in England if we could avoid it?”
Rowan ignored Crawley. “You might say that, yes.” At the same time, he wondered what Keaton wanted. It could only be one thing, really. He must consider Rowan an easy mark. “Although I should warn you my wife expects to thoroughly reform me.”
Keaton laughed. “Don’t they always? But just because you’ve been leg-shackled doesn’t mean you have to let her lead you by the nose, does it?”
“I don’t intend to, although I believe prudence to be the order of the day for the next while.” If he came across as henpecked, so be it. He wasn’t out to impress someone like Keaton.
“And I was hoping to lure you into a game.”
“In that case, I’ll leave you to it,” Crawley said. “But do me a favor, Battencliffe. Call off your dogs.”
Rowan scowled after Crawley’s retreating back. Yes, another meeting with Dysart looked imminent. Then he turned to Keaton. “I’ve never had much luck at cards.” Of which Keaton must be fully aware. “I don’t imagine that’s changed simply because I found an heiress willing to overlook my shortcomings.”
Then a new thought occurred. As long as he had to contact Dysart, he might as well do some probing on his own. “Why don’t you try Higgins? I’ve heard he’s come into some funds recently. They must be fairly burning a hole in his pocket.”
“Higgins, you say?” Keaton glanced about. “I don’t believe I’ve seen him of late.”
So much for that long shot. “Ah, well, I thought I caught a glimpse of the man. I must have been mistaken.”
“Higgins?” said a newcomer. “I heard he left the country.”
Rowan looked up sharply. Of medium height, with brown hair and eyes, the man seemed familiar in that vague fashion of a perfectly ordinary gentleman. No doubt they’d crossed paths at some social event or another, if not a gaming hell, but Rowan would be buggered if they’d ever been introduced. Several others stood with him.
“Is that right?” he asked carefully. “And who told you this?”
“I’ve heard it from a number of sources. Couldn’t say who told me first.” The man extended a hand. “The name’s Andrews, by the way.”
Rowan took it. “Battencliffe.”
“Did you get caught up in Higgins’s game, too?”
Rowan nodded. “Afraid so. And I couldn’t afford to lose the blunt.”
“Too true,” said another, his tone overly cheery. Too much so for the man to have lost everything. “He took me for five hundred.”
There was a general murmur of agreement and commiseration. Thank God Rowan hadn’t had that much left, or he’d have sunk even more into the plan.
“What do you think you’ll do about it?” he asked a gentleman on his left.
The man shrugged. “What can I do but be more careful in the future? I won’t get that blunt back.”
“Higgins had best watch himself if he ever again sets foot on English soil,” said another. “A good few of us will be out for his blood.”
“Yes, I heard Fotheringham lost out, as well.”
Good God, had half the ton’s younger sons fallen for the swindle? Rowan knew of five or six other investors, and here was another lot. To be certain, he asked around. Each of Andrews’s friends knew several others who had been taken in. And they’d all heard of the scheme from various sources.
All the more reason to pass along this information to Dysart. If the Bow Street Runner somehow suspected Crawley was on the wrong side of the scheme, these revelations would muddy those waters faster than the current rainstorm churned up the Thames.
“I’ve heard of games like that,” Keaton commented. “You recruit enough pigeons to put money in and have them find new investors. The funds keep moving up the chain, but the entire thing collapses under its own weight eventually. Either this Higgins chap was clever enough to run off with the blunt before that happened, or the entire thing fell through on him and he got out while he still had his skin.”
Damn, damn, and damn. Rowan should have asked more questions before sinking his last funds into the plan. But he’d been desperate, and Crawley had convinced him it couldn’t fail, as long as Rowan was patient. Of course, then Crawley had been caught up in the debacle, as well.
“Gentlemen, to Higgins.” Rowan wished he’d ordered a drink so he might raise his glass. “A clever enough son of a bitch to take us all. And may God have mercy on his soul if any of us ever catch up to him.”
The others sent up a rousing, “Hear, hear.”
Keaton produced a pack of cards from inside his topcoat. “With all this talk of loss, I suppose now would be a bad time to propose you win some of it back?”
Andrews, the fool, sat a bit straighter. “What, what?”
“What do you propose anybody play with?” Rowan asked. “Lacking in funds as we all are.”
Keaton merely showed his front teeth in a wolfish attempt at a smile. “I’m happy to take markers.”
Not a single one of the others pushed away from the table. Idiots, the bloody lot of them, if they involved themselves in the sort of high-stakes game Keaton was known to excel at. Clearly, in spite of what Higgins had taken them for, not a one of them was hurting for funds. Which meant, no matter what they’d said about Higgins and his sensitive bits, it was nothing but posturing.
“If no one minds, I’m happy to observe.” Rowan really ought to take himself out of the situation altogether, but he held on to a thread of hope that one of them might say something useful.
Either way, Rowan knew he was not going anywhere for at least the better part of the afternoon. A hackney to Bow Street would be impossible to find in this weather. He certainly wasn’t going back to the townhouse, where his wife waited to badger more fiscal sense into his head. For all the good it would do him.
An hour and more passed, deal after deal, during which Rowan only learned one useful thing—his instinct not to get into a game of cards with Keaton was dead-on. The man had uncanny luck at the table.
Rowan might have been tempted to join if the game were with just the others, though. They laughed off their losses, confirming his suspicions. Anything Higgins had taken them for was a pittance to them. And if one or another were hiding behind bravado, that façade would remain firmly in place, unless Rowan could convince one to take him into confidence.
“Good God, this is the last place I expected to run into you.”
The voice, at once familiar and foreign, struck him like a sledgehammer to the gut. He hadn’t heard it for over eight years. He’d never expected to hear it again, at least not in such tones of pleasant surprise. He looked up and met the gray gaze of one of his former schoolmates—Alexander Sanford.
Chapter Ten
His gaze pinned on Sanford, Rowan pushed to his feet. Slowly, to hide the tension that had invaded his body. Since returning from India almost nine months ago, Sanford had made more than one effort at contacting him. Rowan had left every letter unanswered.
The beginnings of a smile faded from Sanford’s face, and his eyes narrowed. There it was—Sanford’s familiar expression. He’d always been the serious one. In the years since Rowan had last seen his former friend, Sanford’s features had weathered, the creases on his forehead and about his eyes deepening beneath his mop of spiky, light brown hair.
Rowan gave him a curt nod. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Can’t a man greet an old friend?” A level of caution laced Sanford’s tone. Just as well. If Rowan must be on edge, let Sanford be, too.
Rowan continued to eye him, while the air about them seemed to thicken. Sounds muted until Rowan realized they had an audience. Sanford’s interruption had brought the card game to a halt, and even Keaton was watching them.
“Perhaps I ought to let you get back to your game.” Still that wary note in Sanford’s voice.
“I wasn’t playing.”
“Might I buy you a drink?”
The word why leapt to the tip of Rowan’s tongue, but he clamped his teeth on it. No reason to give the others even more of a show. He stepped away from the table.
“Will Lindenhurst be joining us?” he asked casually, as if the previous eight years had not intervened. He didn’t even know for certain if Lindenhurst was in Town, but best to make sure.
“No.” Sanford cut him an assessing glance before heading toward a quiet corner.
“Naturally. You wouldn’t want him to discover you’d sounded out the other camp, after all.”
Sanford paused in the midst of pulling up a chair. “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
Rowan remained stubbornly on his feet. “You’ve chosen your side, haven’t you? No choice, really, is there, when you’ve let your sister marry Lindenhurst. Oh, yes, I heard.” He might have even admitted he’d witnessed it for himself last August, when he traveled to Cornwall in the hopes of convincing Lindenhurst to drop his revenge schemes. But Sanford could surmise as much. Surely he knew of his brother-in-law’s doings. “And now that he’s family, you’re bound in your loyalty.”
“He has married my sister, but that doesn’t mean the man rules me any more than I rule him.”
“You do know what he tried to do to me?”
Sanford nodded. “Knowledge of the fact doesn’t equal approval. I also know he attempted to make amends and you rebuffed him.”
Yes, Lindenhurst had tried to ruin him, only to offer him his vowels back at the last possible moment. In a fit of pride, Rowan had refused to take them. One of his more noble, if idiotic, gestures.
“Come, sit.” Sanford gestured to a chair beside him. “Put those differences aside. Can’t old friends have a drink together and catch up?”
Body stiff, Rowan obeyed. “You mean you want my side of the tale?”
Sanford crossed his arms. “Only if you wish to give it, but good God, man, I haven’t seen you for the better part of nine years. We might start with something more pleasant.”
Deuce take it, the man wished to chat. The same way Rowan had wanted to chat with Emma yesterday, as a means of becoming acquainted. Or reacquainted, in this case. Could it really be so easy?
—
Emma stared at the door that connected her bedchamber to Battencliffe’s. She could hear him moving about in there. Not just moving; goodness, was that humming? Oh, yes, he was home, finally. She shuddered to think how he might have occupied his time in the hours since this morning’s discussion.
She’d expected arguments over the household accounts. He was used to overspending and relying on credit. Now that he’d gained her marriage portion, he’d likely patronized all the shops on Bond Street. Dash it all, how was she supposed to teach him good spending habits if she couldn’t even keep him in the house for a few hours?
The light thuds of booted footfalls continued, but the door remained obstinately shut. She ought to be happy about that fact. She’d been asking herself all day how she would deal with the situation if he came in and demanded his marriage rights. Even she knew now was not the time to badger him about his spending habits. Not if she wanted more of his kisses.
And she did. All too well, her lips recalled that particular sensation, both soft and arousing, when he pressed his mouth to hers for the first time. And then the bold thrust of his tongue. The freshness of his scent surrounding her. The solid wall of his chest beneath her palms.
Even that later kiss, the hard one with the brutal edge, had left her with an aching hollow inside. She touched her fingers to her lips, half expecting to find them warm with the memory of his.
Oh, he’d awakened something in her. Something insidious and hungry. Even this morning when he stood in the study, goading her across the desk, whatever it was gnawed at her insides.
At any rate, the sooner they set about the business of producing the next Earl of Sparkmore, the sooner her father would hand Battencliffe the rest of the dowry. The sooner she’d have her own portion to use as she pleased. With wise investments, she could set herself up quite nicely on that money, but to get it she must fulfill her part of the bargain.
So why wasn’t her dratted husband coming in to fulfill his?
She set aside her hairbrush and stood. A mere door lay between them, a simple plank of wood. And if she opened it? If she presented herself in his bedchamber, what would he do? He couldn’t walk out on her if she visited him now, could he?
But her feet remained firmly in their spot on the opposite side of the chamber. Why was this so difficult?
Because he doesn’t want you.
Blasted voice inside her head. She’d spent the better part of the day silencing it—because naturally, it was correct. He didn’t want her, not when he’d walked out last night without completing his marital duties. Oh, he’d seemed to enj
oy showing her how to kiss well enough, but why hadn’t he followed through on the tacit promise his lips had imprinted on her? Why had he broken off so suddenly to ask her about her correspondence, of all things?
He’s good at the social game.
That insidious voice again, chipping away at any confidence she possessed. And here, too, it was right. He was good at putting on an act. What had he called it at the Pendleton ball? A display. What if, in the end, he found her so distasteful, he hadn’t been able to force himself to bed her? And then he’d stayed away all day…
He clearly did not want her now, either, or he’d be in here, tempting her with soft, little kisses. Even the promise of extra blunt once she’d produced an heir wasn’t enough to overcome her faults, apparently.
Her throat tightened. No, she couldn’t give in to that type of thinking. She’d listened to the daughters of the ton once too often when they’d giggled about her behind their fans.
That Emma Jennings, thinks her dowry can make up for that face.
Or when their cultured tones carried snide insinuations about her family’s origins. And you are connected to? Always with the raised brow and knowing smile. A cat ready to pounce on a juicy mouse might bear such an expression. Except the coup de grâce always came far more subtly than a paw full of unsheathed claws—a certain Ah accompanied by a dismissive nod, the same end to a hundred conversations.
If that weren’t enough, Emma had paid far too much heed to Miss Conklin’s admonitions about the way a proper lady ought to comport herself. Do not laugh so loudly, my dear. We aim to titter like little birds, not bray like donkeys. And Ladies do not take interest in business matters. Such things are beneath them. Emma had tried. Heaven only knew how she’d tried, but all that trying still wasn’t good enough.
Not for the ton and obviously not for her husband. It never would be good enough, so there was no sense in maintaining the façade a moment longer. She would conduct her business ventures, and she would do so openly, even if she did stain her fingertips with the ink required to keep the ledgers.
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