“Hang himself! Oh, my!” Merissa grasped the woman’s arm. “Please take me to him. I’ll pay you. I’ll do anything.”
The woman smiled. “Now, you’re talking, missy. I do believe I deserve something for my troubles.”
Merissa reached frantically in her pocket, barely noting whether it was a halfpenny or a shilling she withdrew. “Here. If you’ve been kind to my brother, I want to give you something.”
The woman bit the coin, and then turned to lead Merissa up the stairs.
The smell was awful, some horrible combination of vomit and rot. How could Charles stay here? How could he have possibly allowed himself to come to such a pass?
Fear and anger warred inside her. If Charles was dead, she’d never forgive herself for not coming sooner. If he were alive, she was going to give him a tongue-lashing he’d never forget.
The woman knocked on a door at the end of the hall, then shook her head. “Don’t sound as if anyone’s in there. Maybe he went out, and I didn’t see him leave.”
Or maybe he’s dead and I’m too late! Struggling against her worst fears, Merissa grasped the doorknob. The door came open easily. She stepped into the darkened room and was struck immediately by stale, foul air, as if the place had been locked up for days. “Charles,” she called. “Are you here?”
There was a scuffling noise and a familiar voice said angrily. “Go away, Janie. I told you, there’s no help for me. I’m just trying to work up my courage to do the deed.”
Merissa advanced toward a curtained off area of the room. “Charles, curse you, you’ll do no such thing! I won’t have you shame the Cassell name by taking your life!”
“Merissa? My God, Merissa!”
Charles appeared from behind the curtains, although she scarce recognized him. His once impeccable blond hair was messy and wild, his comely features obscured by several days’ growth of beard. He looked terribly pale and thin.
He gave her a disbelieving look and groaned. “Go home,”‘ he said, shaking his head. “It’s too late. There’s nothing you can do for me.”
As he retreated behind the curtains, Merissa felt her fury reach the boiling point. She rushed forward and threw the curtains aside. “I most certainly will not leave! Not before I give you a piece of my mind. How could you do this, Charles? How could you?”
Charles sat on the rumpled bed and hung his head in his hands. “I don’t know, kitten. It all got away from me. One minute I was a fine swell with money in my pockets. The next I knew I was blind drunk in an alley outside Crockett’s being relieved of my watch and every penny I possessed by some evil-looking fellows. When I came to my senses the next day, I found I owed a fortune in gambling debts. There it was, my name on dozens of vowels, my signature.”
A sob escaped him. “I tried to make good on them, but all I did was get myself in deeper. By then, all my friends from Cambridge had abandoned me. Everyone but Ned, and he doesn’t have any money either. I didn’t know what to do, how to begin to make it all right.”
His words ended in a pitiful moan that sent a chill through Merissa. But she gathered her resolve and said, “I’ve brought you some money, Charles. It’s not a huge amount, but it should be enough to at least pay the interest on your debts.”
Charles looked up. “How much money? Where did you get it?”
“It was Mama’s. Elizabeth found it in that old chest of hers.”
“How much money?” he repeated.
“About fifty pounds, give or take a few shillings.”
Charles took a deep breath. “It might be enough to get me into a game. The fellow at Crockett’s would never let me in, ‘but there is always—”
“No! Don’t even think it! You’re not going to take our inheritance from Mama and gamble it all away!”
Charles’s eyes were pleading. “Don’t you see? It’s the only way. My luck’s bound to turn. It has to!”
Merissa set her jaw. “You’re going to use the money to pay the worst of your debts, and that’s that. Then you’re going to come back to Whytcliff and pull yourself together. Somehow we’ll find a way for you to go back to Cambridge. You’re going to make something of yourself, something besides a worthless gamester.”
“No.” Charles shook his head vehemently. “I won’t go back. I don’t want to be a solicitor, or a clergyman like Papa. I want to join the dragoons.”
“You want to be a soldier? You’re mad!”
“Perhaps, but it’s what I want. That’s why I got into gambling. I hoped to win enough to buy a commission. And I won, too, in the beginning.” His blue eyes glowed. “You should have seen me. At one point, I was ahead 50,000 pounds. A fortune, enough to buy you and Elizabeth high-toned gowns and a carriage, to bring you to London and see you presented, with plenty left over to buy my colors.”
“A fortune you said you won,” Merissa sniffed. “But you didn’t stop then, did you? You kept gambling until you’d lost it all, and more.”
The light went out of Charles’ eyes, as if it had been doused. He hung his head in his hands again. “You’re right. I’m a fool and worthless devil, a complete gudgeon. I should do everyone a favor and end it all. If I had a pistol, I’d have done it by now.”
“Thank heavens you don’t have a pistol!” Merissa sighed. It was painfully obvious that Charles was incapable of sorting this out on his own. She was going to have to do what needed doing. “Who do you owe the most to?” she asked.
“Crockett’s. They’ve a big ugly fellow who works there. He threatened to break both my legs if I didn’t pay up. That’s when I came out here, in the hopes they wouldn’t be able to find me.”
“What’s this fellow’s name?”
“Worth. He’s a black-hearted fiend. Does their dirty work for them.”
Merissa nodded absently. This Worth couldn’t be that bad, she told herself. Surely he would not abuse a lady. She would have to go to this place—this Crockett’s—and try to reason with them. If Charles killed himself, they would get nothing. It would be foolish for them not to accept partial payment now and accept his promise to honor the rest of his debt as he was able to do so.
As for Charles’ dream of being an army officer, well, that was too bad. He was going to have to settle down and find some way to earn a living. The time for childish dreams was over—for all of them.
Merissa felt a pang as she contemplated her own dream. For one night, she had been Cinderella. Then, it had all vanished into smoke and mist.
She sighed heavily and set about tidying the filthy room. At the very least, she needed a few hours sleep before she confronted the scallywags at Crockett’s.
Eleven
It was like searching for a needle in a haystack, Christian mused as he drove his phaeton into the city. If only he had not missed Merissa the day before. But he’d arrived at St. Alban’s to find her wagon and team already stabled at the livery. When the man there mentioned that she’d asked after the next mail coach, Christian knew at once that he was too late. Despite driving all night, he was some hours behind her. Too many to hope that she’d still be at the Lombard station. But where the devil would she go? How would she, a green country miss, find her way around bustling London?
Presumably, she’d search out Charles the very first thing. Damn! If only Elizabeth had read the letter and recalled Charles’ address. But Elizabeth knew no more than he did. Which was next to nothing. Only that Merissa was somewhere in London, searching for her brother.
Charles, he was the key. If he was a gamester, someone at the clubs should remember him. Couldn’t be that hard to spot. A blond gapeseed with a Derbyshire accent.
Gloomily, Christian contemplated that there must be dozens of fresh-faced young men ruined in the hells every year. What was there about Charles to make him stand out?
He’d asked Elizabeth to show him a picture of her brother. The youth in the miniature didn’t look much like Merissa, more like Elizabeth. The same soft face and trusting blue eyes. None of the fire and vine
gar that Merissa possessed.
A throb of longing went through Christian. What a woman. Merissa Cassell was, to dare London on her own in order to save her brother. What would it be like to experience some of that tender devotion she lavished on Charles? To have those enchanting blue-gray orbs of hers fixed on him with adoration and love?
He’d had his chance. Upstairs at Darton Park in the bedroom. He’d held her in his arms, felt her sigh beneath his kisses. For those brief moments, she’d been his.
Then he’d thrown it all away. Had to. He couldn’t marry her. Wouldn’t be fair. How could he promise to be faithful? To never hurt her or break her heart? How could he take such a risk?
He was what he was, a heartless bounder, a selfish hedonist. He took what pleasure he could from life and never looked back.
Hell, if that were true, what was he doing in London? By coming here, he’d lost his wager to Devon. Even though Devon was a friend, Christian didn’t like to lose to anyone.
Now that he was here, he should be contemplating a hearty breakfast, a long nap and what sort of amusements he would take in that evening. Instead, he was tied in knots over a stubborn country wench and her fool brother. He wasn’t going to be able to go home and relax. At most, he’d take time to have a shave and change of clothes, then go directly to the clubs and inquire after Charles. A sense of urgency drove him. What if something happened to Merissa? What if she was robbed, or God help him, something worse?
His empty stomach twisted with anxiety as he urged his exhausted team faster.
~ ~ ~
Merissa took a deep breath and gripped her reticule more tightly, then knocked on the door of the nondescript brick building with her other gloved hand. So, this was a “hell,” a place men went to gamble, drink, and indulge other unmentionable vices. She could hardly imagine Charles in such a place. Did he have no shame, any sense of decency?
Obviously not, or he would not be in the predicament he was in. She sighed heavily, remembering the squalor of the rooms on Rosemary Lane, the haggard, hopeless expression on her brother’s face when she first arrived.
But they’d had a long talk, and she was satisfied that he’d learned his lesson. He’d finally agreed that if she could get him out of this disaster, he’d give up his plans to enter the army and return to Whytcliff.
She felt sorry for him, having to relinquish his dreams; but then, as she’d told him sternly, part of growing up was accepting that your childhood fancies were just that, the silly notions of someone too young and foolish to realize what life was all about.
Charles was a man now, she’d said, and it was time he behaved as one.
Her brother had agreed. Then, they’d both hugged and cried a little, and Charles had gone to bed.
Merissa had tried to sleep as well, but she was far too restless and unsettled to find her rest. She kept thinking of her own dreams, crushed before they could even begin to blossom. Dreams of Christian holding her, kissing her...
“Yes?” A small window opened in the door, and Merissa could see the harsh, distorted features of a man glaring out at her. “What do you want? Have you a delivery? They go around in back at the servants’ entrance.”
“A delivery? Certainly not,” Merissa answered. “I’ve come to speak to Mr. Crockett.”
The beady eyes peering at her narrowed even more. “What do you want with Crockett?”
“It’s a private business matter.” She made her voice as quelling as possible.
“Go away. The boss don’t entertain visitors this time o’ day.”
The window slammed shut. Merissa exhaled an exasperated sigh. She’d not thought it would be easy. Obviously this Mr. Crockett had no manners and no sense of propriety.
She knocked again, harder. After a moment, she paused, listening. The door remained shut.
“Mr. Crockett!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “I know you’re in there! I must see you! It’s a matter of utmost urgency!”
The window opened again. “Quit that caterwauling or I’ll have you thrown into the street!”
“Just try it!” Merissa snapped. “And I’ll inform all of London society that Mr. Crockett is a fiend who attacks women! I’ll come back tonight and stand on the curb and tell every one of your deep-pocketed clients exactly how I was abused. I believe there are as yet a few gentlemen left in this city. I’ll make certain they know what sort of establishment this is.”
The man at the window used some words Merissa had never heard before. Then the heavy door creaked open. “Come in then,” he growled. “You’ve about ten bloody seconds to state your business before I make good on my threat.”
Merissa took a deep breath and entered the foyer. It was lavishly decorated with a plush crimson carpet on the floor, cream and gold silk wallpaper and gleaming brass lamps.
“Well?” the man demanded. His features were even more battered and distorted than she had imagined. His nose was crooked in two places, one of his eyelids drooped alarmingly and both of his ears were lumpy and misshapen. The overall effect was very fierce and frightening. Merissa decided that he was well-suited to his role of guard dog.
But she was not afraid of him, not much. She drew herself up to her full height, glad for once that she was a “gawky meg,” as Mrs. Hammond referred to her, and could face him eye-to-eye. With as much composure as she could muster, she said, “I’ve come to speak to Mr. Crockett. Although. I’m unwilling to divulge the nature of my business with a stranger, but I can tell you that it involves a debt to be paid to him.”
The brute’s expression altered instantly. “Why didn’t you say so?” he grumbled. “You could o’ saved us both a bit o’ trouble.”
“I hardly think it would be wise for me to announce on the street that I am in possession of a sizeable amount of money. Although this area appears to be reasonably safe, at least during the daytime, I’m certain there are footpads and thieves about.”
The man raised his brows at this then said tersely, “I’ll go announce you.”
He started down the hall, leaving Merissa to glance curiously around the foyer. She was on the verge of examining some gilt-framed pictures hung along one wall, when the man returned. “Here now, you come with me,” he said. “This is no place for a young lady. Besides, it wouldn’t do for any of our regulars to see you here.”
“Why not?” Merissa asked as she followed him down a, narrow side corridor,
He shook his head. “Bad for business. Gentlemen come here to escape sour-tongued lasses like you. No tellin’ what you might say to them.”
Merissa repressed a small smile of satisfaction.
Her tension returned as they reached a closed door at the end of the hall. The man went inside, and as she stood there waiting, all her anxieties returned. The porter might be easy to manipulate, but she did not think his employer would be so susceptible to her will. Would Mr. Crockett accept the fifty pounds she’d brought and agree to allow Charles to pay the rest off gradually?
What was to keep him from taking the money and then continuing to harass Charles? Did a man like Crockett have any honor she could appeal to? Or was he, as Charles said, an unscrupulous thief who’s already driven several young men to suicide and felt no remorse for his terrible deeds?
Panic threatened. She should never have come here alone. At the very least, she should have brought Bob, or paid the burly driver who’d brought her here to accompany her in. She felt like a defenseless coney facing down a wolf. At the thought, her hands went to her throat in a gesture of dread.
A few muffled words floated through the door: “Damn plucky wench... stood right up to me.” Incredibly, the doorman appeared to be arguing her case. What had worked with him, might work with Crockett. Show no fear. Remind him that she was a gently bred lady. Argue Charles’s cause as persuasively as she could.
The door opened suddenly, and the porter came out and gestured for her to go in. Squaring her shoulders, Merissa entered the lion’s den.
A man stoo
d by a large writing desk. His face was turned away from her but she could see that he was tall and almost as powerfully built as the doorman. He was impeccably dressed, his black tailcoat fashioned of glossy, tightly woven superfine, his pantaloons of gleaming gray serge.
She held her breath as he faced her.
“Miss.” He gave her the most sketchy of bows, curt and harsh, almost mocking. “Penrose said you wished to see me.”
His eyes were cold, like shards of gray ice. Merissa glanced away, thinking that this was how predators paralyzed their prey.
Her gaze roamed the lavish room, observing the carved walnut wainscoting, the deep brown leather furniture, the perfectly trimmed quill lying beside a pile of creamy white parchment. This was a man used to power and control. There was a pitiless sense of order surrounding him.
She dared another look at his face. Features nearly as blunt and crude as the doorman’s, except for his eyes, which were infused with a ruthless cunning.
“Yes,” she began. “My brother, Charles Cassell, I believe he is indebted to you for some gambling losses.” She fumbled with her reticule. “I’ve brought a portion of it.”
His eyes raked her, searching, assessing, hunting for weakness. Merissa bore his scrutiny as calmly as she could. She hoped the sound of her pounding heart wasn’t audible.
He moved to the writing desk. “Let me consult my records. Charles Cassell, you say?”
“Yes.”
His immaculately manicured hands examined several leather-bound ledgers, selected one and opened it. Within seconds he seemed to have found what he was looking for. “Indeed,” he said, “your brother owes me twenty thousand pounds.” His gaze returned to her, wolfish and avaricious. “How much have you brought?”
“Fifty pounds.” It sounded pathetic, even though it was a fortune to her. Probably not even enough to purchase the furnishings in the room.
Earl of Scandal (London Lords) Page 13