Reckless Viscount

by Amy Sandas

  “In most cases, the funds you brought forth would have been enough to settle a major portion of debt, or at least provide some means to improve the current situation at Dunwood Park so some profit may start to be had.” The solicitor shook his head and his soft jowls wagged beneath his chin. His rummy eyes met Leif’s over the dingy desk scattered with books and documents. “But in your case, Lord Neville, there have been generations of viscounts before you willfully laying waste to the estate. Your father literally ravaged his inheritance until there was nothing left to ruin. I don’t know what else to tell you, my lord.”

  The man started to gather up the paperwork and stack the books.

  Leif stopped him by placing a heavy hand over the sea of papers. His teeth ached with the pain of realizing how perfectly his father had finally broken him.

  He met the solicitor’s tired gaze with desperation seething from every pore in his body.

  “Tell me how to rectify this,” Leif growled from a tense throat. “There has to be something I can do.”

  Loose jowls wagged impatiently.

  “You are unmarried,” the old man stated as if the answer were obvious. “Find yourself an heiress, Lord Neville.”

  The solicitor stood on stocky legs and gestured toward the door of the small dark office. “Now, if there is nothing more, I intend to go home to my dinner. I suggest you do the same.”

  But Leif didn’t go home.

  His quarters in London had never been home to him. They were simply another means to the end he sought. The only home he had ever had, the place he loved more than anything else in his life was Dunwood Park.

  Self-loathing rolled through him as he walked through the damp gray fog that layered the streets. Not seeing the city around him, not caring where he went.

  All of it, all those years of whoring—his father had been exactly right in that at least—had been for naught. The great fortune he had amassed by scrimping on every expense necessary to uphold the façade of being a devil-may-care charmer with an insatiable libido, every bit of coin he squeezed out of his daily living and tucked into savings had come to naught. It was a drop of piss in a cup compared to what he needed.

  Leif hunched his shoulders and stuffed his fists down into his coat pockets then cursed violently when he rediscovered the hole in the inner lining.

  Marry an heiress? Ha! He only knew one unmarried woman of that description and there was no way she would consider him. Not to mention the fact that Anna would kill him if he even mentioned the idea.

  Down the street, shouts of revelry lifted Leif’s gaze up from the pavement beneath his feet. A group of rowdy young men poured out of one of the solid brick buildings that lined the avenue. Likely a brothel or dance hall considering where they were. He recognized each of the young lords, men just out of university, each of them set to inherit a grand estate and solid fortune. No concerns except for where they were off to next to toss their generous allowances away on a never-ending flowage of wine and women.

  Leif hated them on sight.

  Not so in the reverse. One of the lordlings caught sight of Leif approaching and slapped a couple of his friends on their backs to get their attention.

  He called out enthusiastically. “By damn, it’s Lord Riley!”

  “Lord Neville now, you dunce,” one of his companions corrected caustically. “Didn’t you hear the old viscount kicked it?”

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Leif drawled, wishing the little pukes would disperse and take their wide-eyed drunken naïveté with them.

  The one who had called out stepped forward. He was the oldest son of a duke.

  Leif wanted to punch him in the face.

  “Where you off to tonight, Neville?” His tone was thick with expectant curiosity.

  “Why do we care?” one of the young men from the back of the group interrupted petulantly. “Let’s get on.”

  The son of a duke cast an apologetic look at Leif before growling over his shoulder, “We care, you blasted idiot, because this man is a bloody legend. Which you’d know if you listened on occasion rather than constantly running your useless mouth. For the rest of the night, Foley, I expect you to keep your ignorant tongue clamped between your teeth.”

  A few of the men chuckled at the set-down.

  Leif was growing bored.

  “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve a night of dark contemplation ahead of me.” He began to walk around the group but was stopped short when another obnoxious bloke blocked his path. He eyed the man’s ruddy face with a raised brow and an impatient tilt of his head.

  “Join us for a few, won’t you? We’re headed to the Red Lion Inn. They’ve got a private room waiting for us. Beats contemplation of any sort, if you ask me.”

  Leif was surprised to find himself considering the invitation. Maybe this is what he needed tonight. A distraction. Actually, obliteration might be better. Tomorrow, he could think about what he would do with the rest of his wasted life. Right now, the idea of several stiff drinks and mindless company seemed to fit.

  “All right, mates,” he said dryly, “but there had better be a bottle of strong Irish whisky when we get there.”

  “Bloody excellent,” the son of a duke exclaimed with a wide grin as he clapped Leif on the back.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Why would the man utter such notorious exaggerations? Surely, he won’t be believed. What could he possibly have to gain?” Lady Blackbourne was furious, her skirts snapped with each lengthy stride as she paced across her study.

  Abbigael had no answer.

  For days now, friends of the Blackbourne’s had been calling with news of the gossip flying through town.

  Apparently, after leaving the Carmichael’s ball the other night, Atwood had taken his pernicious tongue straight to where it would cause the most harm. He went from one gentleman’s club to the next, spreading his tale of a young girl with deranged and violent impulses, locked away for years by her own father, now let loose upon London in the guise of an innocent debutante.

  It was the disaster of her Dublin come-out all over again. Only this time it was worse because he painted her as being malicious and purposefully deceitful. It was horrible, and his exaggeration of her past was terribly effective. People loved to believe in the fantastic.

  “We must keep to the invitations we accepted as if nothing is amiss,” the countess insisted. “The only way to combat such gossip is to ignore it.”

  Outwardly, the plan went well. Over the next week no one shut their door in Abbigael’s face. No one shrieked and pointed her out as a monster. But that was as far as people were willing to go in order to avoid offending the Blackbournes. Because, even though most maintained a polite veneer, there was an undeniable undertone that had not been present before the rumors. And most telling of all, the gentlemen who had been showing interest in Abbigael at previous functions retreated to a safer social distance. They weren’t exactly unkind, nor did they show any loyalty by standing at her side in spite of the whispers that were circulating.

  It was all too familiar. Hell revisited.

  And just as last time, Abbigael felt powerless to defend herself. Because some of what was being said was true. She wasn’t insane, but part of her had been lost in the wake of her mother’s death. How could she explain the deep tearing pain she had known for those months without sounding a little bit mad? How could she deny her own father’s decision to send her north?

  The countess assured her she could still be successful in her endeavors despite of the damaging talk.

  “Not everyone is concerned with such dramatic speculation. I would estimate there must be at least several handfuls of reasonable people still left in the ton. Your poise and charm will speak for itself.”

  “I hope you are right,” Abbigael replied, but she was not convinced.

  Superstition and fear were powerful motivators. Even if there were people who didn’t believe in the accusations of insanity, what gentleman would want to involv
e himself with a woman who existed under such a heavy shroud of scandal and doubt?

  She followed the countess’s advice and attended each affair with hope and a smile. They were never without an invitation as the Blackbournes’s friends provided unspoken support. Whether out of loyalty to the earl or actual consideration for her plight, Lord Rutherford also lent his social influence to her cause. He always made a point of greeting her politely and engaging her in conversation at each event. Abbigael knew the gesture was intentional and she appreciated it all the more for the fact that Rutherford barely seemed to realize the impact he made.

  Tonight they attended another crushing ball. This one was thrown by the Terriburys, an aristocratic family with no less than seven daughters to marry off. Lady Terribury had done a fantastic job of it so far and only had three girls left, though her current challenge was a set of twins that by all reports were perfectly matched in every way.

  Lady Terribury had grown very savvy through the successful come-outs of her first four girls. Her guest list ensured that the gentlemen far outnumbered the ladies present so as to provide as little competition for her daughters as possible. The uneven numbers also assured that no lady was ever left without a willing dance partner. The ball was sure to be a treasure trove of marriageable men spanning the spectrum in attributes and interest.

  Abbigael took extra care in her appearance that night. She chose her favorite gown—one of pale-blue silk with an overlay of the finest Irish lace. Her maid twisted her hair up onto her head in a romantic fall of soft curls intertwined with matching blue ribbon. She stood in front of her vanity mirror moments before leaving the house and stared at her reflection. She had never seen herself so elegant.

  As long as she kept from looking above her chin, she almost believed she could face down the rumors of her past with dignity and grace. But just as she turned away, she made the mistake of glancing upwards, meeting her own stare in the reflective glass and seeing the doubt and fear she knew would be there.

  Because she knew the truth.

  She had come to London with a plan to secure a husband before her past caught up with her. She had fully intended to conceal the facts of what she had endured in the wake of her mother’s death. And in that way, she was just as deceitful as Lord Atwood claimed.

  And for the life of her, she was not remorseful. Didn’t she deserve to find happiness? Should the devastation of loss that once ravaged the heart of a sensitive young girl forever haunt her future?

  The Blackbourne carriage brought them to Terribury House, and as the earl escorted them to the door of the large glittering mansion, Abbigael felt a sense of foreboding. She knew Lord Rutherford would not be in attendance. The countess mentioned something about him being too cowardly to enter the heart of the hunt. Knowing her side was down by one made her all the more apprehensive.

  Judging by the carriages lining the street and the crowd evident through the well-lit windows of the house, the ball promised to be a grand crush. Abbigael wished she could feel hopeful that she might experience a certain amount of anonymity in the sea of guests, but she knew such a thing was unlikely.

  As soon as they entered the ballroom, it was obvious that the battle had been lost.

  The change that came over the room when she was announced was swift and complete. A penetrating tension fell over the crowd nearest to them. Women craned their necks to study her with smug curiosity. Gentlemen who had looked at her with interest and appreciation only a week earlier took great effort not to meet her gaze.

  Abbigael could only stand on frozen feet as word of her arrival traveled and the entire crushing room seemed to turn and look at her as if she were some odd spectacle at a county fair.

  And there, peering through the crowd with a smirk of joyful disdain on his thin lips, stood Lord Atwood. Apparently, he had decided his earlier rumors had not been damaging enough. For some reason he was intent on ruining her, and whatever malicious tidbits he had been spreading tonight had finally succeeded.

  It was over. Her last hope had come to a brutal and definite end.

  Now that it was done, Abbigael felt strangely numb.

  Lord Blackbourne shifted beside her and took her elbow in a gentle hand.

  “Would you like to stay?”

  Abbigael considered his words, spoken in his way with quiet strength and subtle understanding. There was no expectation in his tone and she didn’t need to look at him to know that he stood tall beside her, offering silent and steadfast support in the face of the probing glances from the people around them.

  Abbigael turned to look over her shoulder at the countess and saw the regret and empathy in her dark eyes. The lady would see this as her own failure and Abbigael hated knowing that the woman’s kindness had been dragged to such a disastrous end.

  Meeting her gaze, the countess smiled.

  “I would love to insist we stay and show these imbeciles that you have nothing to be shameful of, but perhaps it is best to retreat for now. It is entirely your choice, my dear.”

  Abbigael’s numbness faded to be replaced by deep regret.

  The Blackbournes would stand beside her no matter how catastrophic her situation became, and it appeared that things were not going to improve no matter what she did or who she had for allies. Lord Atwood was determined to ruin her and she would not bring the Blackbournes down with her.

  She forced a smile to her lips.

  “It has been a difficult week, my lady. Perhaps it would be best to retire early.”

  “Of course. We can discuss things in the morning after a solid night’s sleep.”

  Abbigael nodded. The countess would not stop trying to help her no matter how useless the cause.

  She was doing the right thing.

  Turning on his heel, Lord Blackbourne offered Abbigael his arm. He escorted the ladies from the ballroom before their hosts even had a chance to greet them.

  Back at the house, Lady Blackbourne assured her once again that all was not lost. Her smile was encouraging, but she could not quite hide the concern and frustration that had settled like fine weights between her brows. Perhaps noticing the strain in Abbigael‘s own expression, she offered to send up a gentle sleeping draught to help her find her rest.

  “All will be better tomorrow. It is amazing what a bright new day can do to lift sunken spirits and strengthen resolve.”

  “Thank you, my lady. I hope you know how much I appreciate what you and the earl have done for me.”

  “Think nothing of it. Get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.”

  Once out of sight from her hosts, Abbigael made her way to her room on heavy feet, allowing the despair to spread from her heart and fill her limbs. She had been resisting the full acknowledgment of failure for days, but she could no longer hold it back.

  She was exhausted and heartsick.

  Reaching the privacy of her bedroom, Abbigael fell across her bed and closed her eyes, indulging for a brief moment in the anguish that threatened to overtake her. The dark weight of grief was overwhelming and encompassing, but it was its familiarity that frightened her most, and she quickly reined in her emotions. She could not afford to lose herself in the hopelessness she felt. Such feelings only led her to more misery.

  She rose from the bed and changed from her evening gown into a nightgown and robe. She pulled the pins and ribbons from her hair and untwisted its length, running a brush through it to loosen the tangles.

  Then she set to work gathering up her things that had become scattered throughout the room during the days of her stay. The distraction of the busy work was a welcome respite.

  She tucked her jewelry and hair ribbons into boxes, taking a long moment to run her fingertips over her mother’s broach. Then she moved on to her books and personal linens, pausing only when a maid knocked at the door with the sleeping aid the countess had promised. Abbigael set the drink on her writing desk and took a look around. The larger items would have to wait until morning when she could call for he
r luggage. That would be soon enough to announce her intention to return to Ireland.

  She imagined the news would be a disappointment to Lady Blackbourne.

  And her father.

  Abbigael sank down onto the small desk chair and lifted her hands to cover her face. Her shoulders slumped as she thought about having to tell her father that she had failed yet again. His disappointment would be keen. Not that she thought he wanted to be rid of her exactly, but he did wish to see her settled. Until she had a family of her own, she would remain his responsibility and he had never really understood what to make of that.

  Abbigael took a deep, steadying breath, squared her shoulders and tried to imagine returning to her mother’s family in the north. She could live her life there as the odd relation. The sad motherless girl with only half a soul. In spite of their trepidation, she believed they had come to accept her. She could find fulfillment under such circumstances if she tried hard enough.

  Or maybe she could stay at her father’s country estate in Wexford. Though she would not like to be there when it came time for him to entertain his political contacts in the summer months.

  Either way, she didn’t need a husband. She would be fine without someone to talk with over dinner, someone to walk with on sunny days. And she didn’t need children to be happy. Small hands tugging at her skirts, chubby arms lifting for a hug.

  No, she didn’t need those things…she simply yearned for them with every breath she took and every pulse of blood through her heart.

  Abbigael clenched her teeth against the darkening angle of her thoughts. She didn’t want to dwell on the pain of what this failure would bring. She didn’t want to imagine the babes she wouldn’t have or the endless lonely nights that stretched ahead of her. Right now, she wanted to escape from it all to the sweet oblivion of sleep.

  She lifted her chin, pushed the hair from her face and turned in the chair toward the desk. The countess’s sleeping draught waited patiently and Abbigael lifted the glass and drank the syrupy concoction. A deep and dreamless sleep would be a welcome change from the restless nights she had endured since Lord Atwood had arrived in town.