For many reasons, Luc wouldn’t normally be found in the environs of The Ram’s Head, and before he had taken more than two steps, one of those reasons stepped directly in his path. He groaned inwardly. Bandying words with Will Nolles, the proprietor and owner of The Ram’s Head, was as appealing to him as dancing nude with a copperhead.
Nolles was a diminutive man, his build slender, and wearing a close-fitting dark green jacket, a wide white cravat tied in a bow adorning his throat and striped hose on his legs, his leaning toward dandyism was obvious. His pale green eyes glinting in the smoky candlelight of the inn, Nolles blocked Luc’s path. “I couldn’t believe my ears,” Nolles murmured, “when one of the barmaids came into my office and told me that you were here tonight.” His eyes as unblinking as a snake’s, he asked, “I don’t believe I’ve seen a Joslyn in my humble tavern in ... months. How is it that we’re honored with your presence tonight?”
Luc regarded him, deciding his next move. On the surface, Nolles was an honest tavern owner, but he made his profits, rather large profits, as the leader of a gang of smugglers—Luc had already spotted several known members of the gang scattered about the room. With good reason, none of them had any love for the Joslyns, and Luc was quite certain that there wasn’t one of them who wouldn’t enjoy putting a knife between his ribs.
Earlier in the year, Barnaby, Luc’s half brother, had cost the smugglers a fortune by capturing the huge cache of smuggled goods they’d been hiding in the tunnels beneath Windmere, the ancestral home of the Joslyn family. Not only was the contraband turned over to the Revenuers, access to the tunnels had been destroyed. If Barnaby could have brought Nolles to the hangman’s noose he would have, but during the confrontation in the old barn, Nolles had managed to slip free.
The discovery of the contraband had been a nine-day’s-wonder, and no one had acted more astonished than Nolles. Publicly, all was polite, but Luc knew that the intervening months had done nothing to lessen the desire for revenge that burned in the breast of Nolles and his gang, and he winced. He could almost hear Lamb’s voice in his ear berating him for sticking his head in the lion’s mouth.
Standing six feet four and with the muscle to match his imposing height, Luc wasn’t the least intimidated by the situation, but conscious that every minute he delayed allowed Jeffery to dip deeper into Harlan’s purse, Luc decided to forego the pleasure of inciting a brawl and shrugged. “I felt like a change of pace,” he answered with barely a trace of a French accent in his voice. One sleek black brow rose. “Any objections?”
Nolles spread his hands. “Of course not.” He smiled tightly. “The Ram’s Head is a public tavern after all, open to one and all.”
“Precisement,” Luc said, noting out of the corner of his eye which room Jeffery ushered Harlan. “And now if you will excuse me ... ?”
Nolles half-bowed and moved out of his way.
Feeling Nolles’s gaze on his back like the kiss of a blade, Luc walked toward the door through which Jeffery and Harlan had just disappeared. Reaching the door, he didn’t knock; he simply opened the door as if he was expected and entered the room.
It was a pleasant room. A small fire crackled on the brick hearth, keeping the faint chill of the October night at bay, and pairs of candles burned in pewter sconces placed around the room. Beneath a window that faced the front of the tavern was a carved oak lowboy, decanters filled with spirits and glasses neatly set in the middle. On the opposite side of the room, flanked by two brown leather chairs, squatted a small chest, the top littered with several packs of cards, dice and other items used for gaming. In the middle of the room was a large, green baize-covered table; a half-dozen wooden armchairs with padded leather seats were placed around the table.
Harlan was slumped in one of the chairs on the far side of the table, and Jeffery, in the act of tenderly pressing a snifter of brandy into Harlan’s hand, glanced up at Luc’s entrance. Recognizing Luc, annoyance on his handsome features, Jeffery said, “This is a private room.”
Luc smiled, and there were those who would have warned Jeffery not to be misled by that particular smile. “Come now, mon ami,” Luc said, “we are practically cousins. Surely you cannot object to my joining you.”
Harlan stared happily at him. “It’s Luc Joslyn. I like Luc. Luc’s a friend of m’family,” he said, smiling beatifically at Jeffery. When Jeffery remained unmoved, Harlan added, “He’s Joslyn’s half brother. Half French, you know. Your cousin Emily married him.” He giggled. “Married Barnaby, not Luc.”
“I’m aware of that,” Jeffery muttered.
Harlan frowned, seeking a thought. “Older than Barnaby. Would have been the viscount,” he said finally, “but born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
Gritting his teeth, Jeffery said, “I’m quite familiar with Luc’s antecedents.”
Harlan reared back in the chair and stared at him in astonishment. “You know Luc? His half brother is Lord Joslyn.”
“I know that,” Jeffery said tersely. “Lord Joslyn married my cousin, remember?”
Harlan nodded cheerfully. “Married your cousin, Emily.” He looked at Luc. “I like you. M’father likes you, too.” He thought a moment. “My brother, Miles, likes you, too. Says even if your mother was French that you’re a good ’un.”
“Yes, yes,” Jeffery snapped. “Everybody likes Luc.” A wheedling note in his voice, he said, “But I don’t think we’d like him joining us, do you?”
That Harlan was cup-shot and in no condition to be gambling was obvious, but he was an amiable, well-brought-up young man, and even as drunk as he was, it would never have crossed his mind to deny another gentlemen his company. “I like Luc. No reason he shouldn’t join us.” A huge yawn overtook Harlan and he added sleepily, “Think I’ll nap. Change my luck.”
Before Jeffery could argue with him, Harlan’s head dropped to his chest and to Luc’s relief, he passed out. Harlan was safe from Jeffery for tonight.
Strolling over to the small chest, Luc picked up several pairs of dice. Taking a chair across from Harlan, he placed the majority of the dice to one side, keeping one pair. Tossing the dice with a careless ease that spoke of experience, he smiled at Jeffery and said, “Hazard? Shall we toss a few? I understand from your cousin that you are a great gambler.”
Jeffery hesitated. Passed out, Harlan was of no further use to him tonight, and while he had a pocket plump with Harlan’s vowels, the gambler in him wasn’t ready to walk away and end the evening so tamely—not when there was a bigger prize to be won. In the seven or eight months that Luc had been on British soil, his reputation, earned in the gaming hells in London, for winning all games of chance, was well established. Besting Lucifer, so called because no one denied that Luc had the devil’s own luck, had become the goal of many a foolish young man ... and some older, wiser gentlemen who should have known better.
Jeffery considered himself an expert gamester, and the thought of beating Lucifer was an exciting one, but he was wary. He had confidence in his own skills, but he couldn’t dismiss Luc’s reputation. Dare he try his hand?
From beneath lowered lids, Luc watched Jeffery struggle with prudence and temptation, betting that temptation would win. Jeffery was, after all, a gambler, and he smiled to himself when Jeffery shrugged and said, “Why not? The evening is young yet.”
Luc kept a cool head when gambling, eschewing, except for an occasional glass of wine, any liquor. He ascribed that one trait to his phenomenal luck, that and an instinctive skill with the cards and knowing when to call it quits. Jeffery appeared not to have learned that lesson.
Luc was correct. Jeffery was unlucky and threw crabs again and again while Luc knicked it every time the dice were in his hands. After several tosses of the dice, instead of realizing that luck did not favor him tonight, in a bid to recover his losses, Jeffery kept raising the stakes. Luc did not stop him until boredom set in and, perhaps, a touch of compassion. From Emily he knew that Jeffery had been draining The Birches, the family esta
te, for years to support his gaming and that if Jeffery did not change his ways, he would lose everything. Luc was a calculated gambler, but he wanted no man’s ruination on his conscience, even a weasel like Jeffery, and after a few hours, he ended the game. Rising from the table, Luc had not only Harlan’s vowels in front of him, but he had vowels from Jeffery in the amount of two thousand pounds.
His face tight, Jeffery rose from the table and after giving Luc a curt nod barged from the room. Alone with Harlan, Luc shook him awake. Harlan started when Luc said gently, “Come, mon ami, I think it is home for you.”
Harlan smiled angelically at him. “Luc. I like you. M’father likes you. Miles does, too.”
Luc laughed. “Bon! Now let me stay in everyone’s good graces and get you to your horse.”
Harlan glanced around and, spying the dice on the table, he blinked. “Did we gamble?”
Luc nodded. “Mais oui! And the Lady Luck, she was with you. You won your vowels back.”
Harlan’s blue eyes opened very wide. “I did?” he asked, astonished.
Luc smiled and waved the vowels in front of Harlan’s face. “Indeed, you did. Now before the night is much older, I suggest we go home.”
Harlan nodded and said confidingly to Luc, “I’m foxed, you know.”
Even after his nap, Harlan was quite inebriated, but Luc managed to get him into his greatcoat and maneuvered the staggering young man out of the tavern. Outside in the chilly October night, with no little exertion, Luc hoisted him onto his horse and stuffed the vowels into one pocket of Harlan’s greatcoat. When he was certain that Harlan was alert enough not to fall off, he mounted his own horse and, holding the reins to Harlan’s horse, began the journey to the Broadfoot estate, Broad View.
By the time they reached the tall iron gates that marked the entrance to the driveway to the house, Luc was more than ready to be relieved of his drunken charge. The journey to Broad View was necessarily slow, and only Luc’s quick action had prevented Harlan from falling off his horse numerous times. If Harlan wasn’t on the verge of taking a bad spill, he was telling Luc how much he liked him, how much every member of his family liked him and singing at the top of his lungs every ribald ditty he’d ever learned.
A pair of torches burned on either side of a pair of double doors of the mansion, and while Harlan continued to sway and sing, Luc dismounted in front of the brick and stone mansion. Immediately one of the doors opened and Miles stepped out onto the terrace in front of the house.
Miles was an older version of Harlan, a little taller and broader of shoulder, but with the same blue eyes and light brown hair. Smiling, Miles shook his head as he walked toward Luc. “Chirping merry, is he?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“When I heard the racket, I assumed as much.” Miles hesitated. “Was he at The Ram’s Head again?”
Luc nodded. “Gaming with Jeffery Townsend.”
Miles’s pleasant features stiffened. “Devil take it! Father is going to disown him if he’s lost to that rakeshame again.”
“You have nothing to worry about tonight... . Harlan showed great skill at Hazard and was able to recover all of his losses and, I think, a few thousand pounds from Monsieur Townsend. You’ll find the proof in the pocket of his greatcoat.”
Miles’s eyes narrowed. “Really.”
Luc nodded again. “Indeed, I was there and saw the whole thing.”
“And did Harlan display this, er, great skill before or after he was fuddled?”
“During. I believe the liquor allowed him to toss aside his inhibitions and simply throw by instinct,” Luc replied with a straight face.
“Really,” Miles repeated, the dryness of his tone obvious.
“Truly,” Luc said. “And now if you will excuse me, I must be on my way.”
Mounting his horse, Luc tipped his head to Miles and swung the animal around. “Bon soir,” Luc called over his shoulder as he kicked his horse into motion and the darkness swallowed him up.
Leaving the gates of Broad View behind him, Luc turned his horse in the direction of Windmere. Long after midnight, the night was increasingly chilly and Luc thought he caught the scent of rain in the air: he would be glad to reach Windmere and his bed.
There was no moon, but familiar with the road and the trustworthiness of his mount, he kept his horse at a brisk trot. Rounding a bend in the road, his horse snorted and shied. A short distance ahead, in the light from its lamps, Luc could make out the shape of a wrecked vehicle. The phaeton sat at a drunken angle, the right wheels lodged in the ditch next to the road.
Approaching nearer, in the shifting fingers of light, Luc recognized the pair of blaze-faced chestnuts that looked at him with perked ears. The horses belonged to Silas Ordway and unless he missed his guess, so did the vehicle. A quick glance at the scarlet striping on the wheels and body of the phaeton confirmed it.
Alarmed, Luc halted his horse and leaped to the ground. There was nothing to tell him how long ago the wreck had occurred, but Luc knew that the old man would not have left his prized chestnuts standing at the side of the road unattended.
“Silas!” he called out as he walked up to the phaeton. To his alarm, Silas answered him from the ground on the other side of the vehicle.
“Luc? Is that you, lad?”
The old man’s voice was weak, and ignoring the jolt of anxiety he felt, Luc said, “Oui! Let me secure the horses and I shall be with you in a moment.”
After tying his horse to a nearby sapling and doing the same with the chestnuts, Luc hurried around to the other side of the phaeton. He found Silas half-lying, half-sitting in the bottom of the ditch, his right arm cradled next to his frail body.
“Mon Dieu! What happened?”
In the pale light of the carriage lamps, Silas grimaced. “Some fool came racing up behind me and crowded me off the road. Clipped my wheels and tipped me into the ditch as pretty as you please.” Forcing a smile, he added, “Damn fool thing to have done at my age, but I suspect I’ve broken my arm.”
Luc carefully shifted the old man, but at Silas’s swift intake of breath, he stopped. Glancing down at him, Luc asked, “How bad is it?”
“Not so bad that I intend to lie here all night,” Silas replied testily. Scowling at Luc, he muttered, “Get me out of here, lad. I ain’t made of crystal—I can stand some jostling—just get it over with.”
“Let’s do something about that arm first,” Luc said. From beneath his greatcoat, he tugged his cravat free and used the wide strip of linen to anchor Silas’s arm to the elder man’s body. Satisfied the arm was secured, in one easy movement, Luc picked up Silas as if the old man were a doll and, carrying him in his arms, clambered from the ditch.
Luc glanced around, seeking a safe place to deposit his burden. In the dim light from the carriage lamps, except for the stand of trees where he had tied the horses, only darkness met his eye.
Aware of Luc’s dilemma, Silas said, “Put me down, lad. I ain’t a swooning damsel from a Gothick novel.” Dryly, he added, “My arm is broken, not my leg.”
Setting Silas down gently, Luc waited until the old man was steady on his feet before saying, “Let’s see if I can free the phaeton before anything else.”
Silas nodded and Luc walked over to the chestnuts. It was tricky, but the animals were powerful and well trained, and with a minimum of anxiety, under Luc’s guidance, the phaeton’s wheels were freed from the ditch as the vehicle lurched fully onto the road.
Approaching the side of the vehicle, Silas said, “Help me up—I can handle the reins while you tie your horse to the back of the phaeton.”
Luc hesitated and Silas said, “Luc, I know my animals. These horses have been mine since birth. They’re good, steady boys. They won’t run away with me—they’ll stand here steady as rocks until they’re asked to do something else.”
Trusting Silas’s word, Luc jumped down from the phaeton. A few minutes later, Luc had the old man settled in the phaeton and his own horse tied to the
back of the vehicle. Climbing into the vehicle, he took the reins from Silas’s hand.
Noting the lines of pain around Silas’s mouth and the paleness of his complexion, Luc asked again, “How bad is it?”
Silas dredged up a smile. “Not as bad as the time I was silly enough to fight a duel and get myself shot in the shoulder for my efforts. Now, if you please, get me to High Tower before I shame myself by fainting.”
Luc grinned and gently set the chestnuts into motion. He’d met Silas in April and, astonishing both of them and everyone who knew them, a friendship had grown between the two vastly different men.
Luc had liked the elfin old gentleman the moment he’d been introduced to him by his cousin, Simon Joslyn. They’d met in one of the fashionable gaming hells in London and within a matter of days, this past Season, it hadn’t been unusual to find Ordway leaning on Luc’s arm as the older man showed him around the city and introduced him to various members of the ton.
They made a strange pair, the tall young man with questionable antecedents and the wizened old gentleman. There were a few raised eyebrows, but by the time the Season ended in June and the ton dispersed to their country estates, the friendship between the two men was taken for granted.
Silas’s country estate, High Tower, was situated not far from Windmere, where Luc was staying, and over the summer the friendship between the two men had continued to prosper and grow. The old man was reclusive, but Luc was often at High Tower, dining and playing cards with Silas until the morning hours, when he would return to Windmere.
The phaeton was well sprung, and the ride to High Tower passed without incident. A lone torch flickered near the door of the house, and slowly halting the horses underneath the small portico that had been added in the last century to the half-timbered Tudor manor house, Luc said, “If you’ll hold the horses, sir, I’ll rouse the house.”
Silas grunted. “If someone isn’t at the front door within the next five minutes, I pay them too much.”
Desire Becomes Her Page 3