He caught Henrietta’s eye. Her mouth twitched into a smirk that spoke volumes. Better you than me. But Mama would turn her attention back to her oldest daughter soon enough. No doubt the moment they reached the ballroom where Revelstoke housed his pianoforte. Coupled with what Catherine passed off as singing …
In spite of himself, he winced. He prayed Revelstoke had laid in a good supply of brandy. He was going to need it in vast quantities if Mama insisted on her daughters being part of the entertainment.
The carriage rumbled to a halt at the head of a sweeping drive. The stone bulk of Shoreford House rose gray against a backdrop of blue sky. Shouts hailed from the yard, followed by a heavy thunk as the steps were let down. George leapt from his seat, ready to hand his mother and sisters out of the conveyance.
A gentle breeze bore the salt tang of the Channel, mingled with an earthy heaviness that wafted from the stables. The late August sun beat a gentle warmth on the back of his neck.
“I can’t believe you’ve actually come.”
George turned to find Benedict Revelstoke approaching from the main house, a grin across his cheeks. But as he neared the carriage, his gaze glanced over the bruises on George’s face, and he frowned. “I was about to ask how far your mother twisted your arm to convince you to come, but I see she’s resorted to more drastic means of persuasion.”
George clasped his old friend’s hand. “Do me a favor and don’t call attention to it. If I have to put up with any more cold compresses and female twittering, I may as well take to my bed permanently.”
“I don’t know how you’ll avoid it. Once Julia gets a good look at you …”
“I thought I heard my name.” Benedict’s wife appeared just beyond his shoulder, waddling from the house in the wake of a prominent belly. “Gossiping about me behind my back, are you?”
Revelstoke caught her hand and pulled her close. Their fingers entwined as if they couldn’t bear as much as an instant apart. For a moment, they stared into each other’s eyes, and in that brief expanse of time, they disappeared into their own realm where only the pair of them existed. It lasted less than two seconds, but an entire conversation seemed to pass between them.
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, George cleared his throat. God help him if he ever became that love-struck.
Julia stepped forward to inspect him more closely. “My goodness, what have you done to your face?”
Revelstoke raised his brows and shrugged.
George made sure his mother was well occupied in directing the servants with the baggage before responding. “Came out on the wrong end of a rather vigorous discussion, but never fear. It looks worse than it is.”
“I shall ask Cook to make you a poultice to draw out the bruising.”
He shook his head. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account. I’m sure she’s got enough to oversee with a houseful of guests for the next week.”
“It’s no trouble at all. She acquires a special blend of herbs from a woman in the village. One of our yearlings got himself into a scrape a while back, but the herbs worked their magic, and he’s back as good as new. Outstrips the rest of them from one end of the pasture to the other, and barely blows at all.”
“You want to dose me with a remedy that you use on livestock? I think I’ll pass, thank you. Only do me the service of not mentioning your ideas to my mother.”
With a laugh, Julia excused herself and trundled off to greet the Upperton sisters. Soon the air filled with high-pitched chatter.
George tilted his head in the direction of the main house. “You look disgustingly happy.”
Revelstoke shook his head. “Ever the one for a flowery turn of phrase, I see.” He took a few steps in the direction of the house. “Are you planning on telling me what you’re really doing here?”
“I’m attending this house party at your invitation. Why else would I have come except to pass a few days rusticating here with your guests? Can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.”
Revelstoke cast him a sidelong look. “Pull the other one. From all appearances, you’ve got yourself into some scrape or other, so you’ve either come here to hide or you want me to get you out of it.”
“Don’t you have some horseflesh you’d like to show off?” George waved a hand in the direction of the stables. “A new broodmare? Perhaps one that’s produced the next champion at Ascot?”
Revelstoke clapped him on the shoulder. “That bad, is it? Perhaps you’d rather we have a drink in my study while the ladies settle in. And if you’ve got any particular sins you’d like to confess, I’ll have a listen.”
“I never held much with religion. Too many diversions count against you, you know. But if the vicar offered brandy to his parishioners, he might find he had a more faithful flock.” They tramped up the front steps in the wake of two footmen juggling a trunk. The sight reminded him of his sisters and their mother’s advice to pack their entire wardrobe. “I say, who have you invited to this gathering?”
“Entirely too many, but Julia thought we ought to show a bit of hospitality. If I can interest a few of the men in acquiring some horseflesh while they’re here, it may all be worth it. She’s invited her sister, of course, and my brother, and since we’ll be entertaining an earl and a marquess, naturally half of polite society saw fit to beg an invitation whether we wished to see them or not.”
George suppressed a groan. “That means my mother will insist on putting my sisters on display. Tell me your pianoforte’s out of tune. They might actually sound decent for once.”
“As a matter of fact, Julia just had someone look at it.”
“Better order another case of brandy, one I can reserve for my own personal use.”
Revelstoke closed the door to his study and strode to a side table where a cut crystal decanter stood full of rich amber liquid. He poured two healthy measures and handed George a glass. George stared into the swirling depths and considered downing the alcohol in one go. No, best not to over-imbibe or else he might confess more than necessary.
Revelstoke clinked glasses and raised his drink. “Come now. What’s brought you here and in this state?”
“Seems my mistress forgot to tell me a thing or two. Like the fact she has a brother who doesn’t quite appreciate his sister being a kept woman.”
“It’s not as if you’re the man who ruined her.” Revelstoke raised a brow. “Are you?”
“Of course not, and you shouldn’t even have to ask. I draw the line at leading innocents astray.” He stared out the window to the greenery beyond the crosshatch of the mullions. Along a whitewashed fence, mares grazed surrounded by their cavorting foals. “I’m not Lucy’s first protector, and I certainly won’t be her last.”
“Then why would her brother have a problem with you in particular?”
George sipped at his brandy to play for time. “I didn’t come here to discuss my problems with my mistress.”
The look Revelstoke gave him clearly communicated his skepticism. “Then why are you here?”
“I can’t visit an old school chum, especially considering you never come into Town?” He set his glass on a burnished oak table. “Why, you practically forced me to make the trek out to this godforsaken corner of Kent.”
“The last thing I’d expect of you is to attend something so respectable as a house party, especially considering chances are quite high your sisters will torture us with their musical talent. So what is it?”
Revelstoke knew him too well, damn the man. “How’s the horse-breeding business going?”
“It’s flourishing.” He nodded toward the pastoral scene just beyond the window. “Ask Julia to show you about the place later, and you’ll see all the improvements we’ve made with the profits. But you’re no more interested in acquiring a horse than you are in attending a house party.”
George snatched up his glass for a fortifying drink. “I was wondering, since you’re doing so well, if it was possible to spot me a loan.”
&
nbsp; Revelstoke tore his attention away from the window. “How much do you need?”
Another mouthful. His last. “Five thousand pounds.”
Revelstoke spit out his brandy. “Five thousand? Good God, man. What makes you think I can afford to hand you that sort of blunt?”
“Could you see your way clear to lending me a thousand, say, or five hundred?”
“I daresay you stand a better chance, yes.” He marched back to the sideboard in search of the cut-glass decanter. “But what on earth have you been up to that you need those kinds of funds?”
George studied the pattern in the Axminster carpeting. “This and that. I may have got myself in a bit too deep at cards, on top of everything else.”
Revelstoke eyed his freshly poured glass before slowly setting it aside. “Dare I ask what everything else comprises?”
George shrugged. “A mistress whose tastes run to the expensive, mostly. She insisted on a fairly fashionable address, and I’ve fallen behind on the rent.”
Revelstoke fixed his gaze on George. “Don’t you think it’s time you gave up that sort of living and settled down?”
George stared at the ceiling beams. Dark and heavy, like the rest of the room. “Oh no. Don’t you start, too. Bad enough my mother’s planning on throwing every eligible young miss in attendance in my direction, I don’t need you waxing poetic on the virtues of married life. Besides, you can’t tell me keeping a wife and child isn’t any less expensive than keeping a mistress.”
“But it is. No need to maintain separate addresses, for one thing. No need to staff two houses.”
George wagged his head from side to side. “You’ve come over all practical since you became leg-shackled. It’s downright boring.”
“With the right woman—”
“There you go, sounding like my mother again. I will be the first to commend you on your excellent taste in brides. At least you had the foresight to choose one with wit and cleverness. I’m afraid there aren’t many others like your Julia, though. You’ll have to understand this mere mortal doesn’t possess your luck in that department.”
Revelstoke rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just being absurd.”
“Absurd or not, a betrothal is not going to solve my financial problems. Not unless you’ve invited an heiress or two who might be willing to overlook my long list of shortcomings.” He paused just long enough to allow Revelstoke to reply, knowing full well his friend didn’t maintain the proper social connections to attract such an heiress.
In the face of Revelstoke’s silence, he went on. “Since no heiresses seem to be in the offing, you might tell me which gentlemen among your guests might be persuaded to play a few hands of whist.”
“Have you learned nothing at all from your current predicament?” Revelstoke pushed his glass away. “You’re in trouble because you played a few hands too many. Another game isn’t going to get you out. It may even put you in deeper.”
“Then how do you propose I get my hands on five thousand? I need blunt and soon.”
A line etched itself between Revelstoke’s brows. “This is about more than a demanding mistress.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because if that were your only problem, you’d hand her her congé and be done with it. So perhaps you tell me the real reason you need so much money, and I’ll consider a small loan.”
“You’re right.” George took the decanter and topped off Revelstoke’s glass before pouring himself another measure. Talking about that night inevitably called visions of an old school friend to mind. One who had been in far worse straits than George—straits narrow enough to drive a man to put a pistol in his mouth and pull the trigger. At the memory, George shuddered. “Do you remember Summersby?”
Revelstoke paused, glass halfway to his lips. “I heard. Damned tragedy, that.”
“Do you know why he did it?” When Revelstoke shook his head, George went on. “Creditors hounding him. He got in too deep and couldn’t pay.”
“And him with a wife and young child.” Revelstoke shook his head once more, this time in censure. “This is the sort of thing I mean. You get in too far—”
“The debts aren’t mine,” George cut in. “They’re Summersby’s. I mean to pay every last one. No reason his family should suffer. They’ve been through enough.”
Revelstoke set his glass aside with a clunk and clapped George on the shoulder. “Commendable of you. Never thought I’d say this, but it’s noble.”
“Hardly.” George let out a harsh bark. Some other man might have thought it laughter, but Revelstoke knew him too well to mistake the sound. It was pain, pure and simple. “I mean to ruin every last one of them, starting with the Earl of Redditch.”
Revelstoke let out a low whistle. “Summersby involved himself with that crowd?”
“Unfortunately.” While he might be one of the wealthier men of the ton, Richard Marshall, the Earl of Redditch, could seemingly never get his hands on enough blunt. If a man fell afoul of him at the card table, the earl called on the entire family’s power to ensure repayment of any debt. And that was precisely where Summersby dug his hole too deep.
“You might be aiming a bit too high there. If you came here with the intention of meeting him, I’m afraid that family is too well connected for the likes of us.”
George had suspected as much. “No matter. If you can spot me some funds, I can work on turning them into more. That way when I go back to Town, I’ll be ready for the bastards.”
“I’m afraid you’re in for some difficulty there.” Revelstoke clapped him on the shoulder once more. “Julia’s father, you see. She doesn’t want him tempted, so she’s asked me to let all the gentlemen know she’s prohibited deep play for the duration of the party.”
CHAPTER TWO
GEORGE STALKED down the path bisecting beds of trailing flowers and shrubs. No deep play. Ridiculous, but he might have guessed. Julia’s father had nearly ruined his family four years ago with his debts. Well, George would find a way around the restriction, if he could interest anybody—preferably someone with deep pockets—in a few hands of piquet. They could retreat to the nearby village.
Pea gravel crunched beneath his Hessians, but not loud enough to drown out the infernal racket coming from the ballroom. Catherine hit yet another off note, and the keening jangled through his brain.
He didn’t even bother wincing anymore. The action was fruitless. Once his sisters started rehearsing, the best remedy for the pain was a large bottle of brandy, preferably taken in Wales. If he set off walking now, he might arrive in Cardiff in a week or two, but that wouldn’t solve his financial woes.
A carriage hound, white with black spots, ambled toward him for a sniff. George scratched the beast’s neck absently while more musical atrocities assaulted his ears. The dog let out a plaintive whine.
Damn it all, was nowhere safe? If he didn’t escape soon, his head would begin pounding worse than if he’d drunk several bottles of Whitechapel gin the previous evening. Another false note, and the hound threw back its head and howled.
“I know how you feel, old boy,” George muttered.
He raised his fingers to his temples and rubbed. God, he needed to get away. Already the pulse-like current was throbbing in his head, faint for now, but it would not remain so for long. The floral-scented air did nothing to hold off the next twinge. He strode off at a faster pace.
The garden ended abruptly at a high hedge. On its other side, mares grazed in the middle of rolling pastureland while their foals nipped at each other and kicked up their heels in raucous circles. He followed the hedge to the cliff where a path wound its way down to a sheltered cove.
There, at least, the roar and hiss of the surf would cut off the caterwauling from the house. There, he might find a touch of peace for a few hours if he was fast enough to forestall a vicious megrim.
His booted feet had just reached the flat strand of pebbles when he saw them. Sunlight glinted off a pair of golden
heads. A child, a small boy of no more than six, ran through the waves, squealing when the cold water lapped at his bare toes. A young woman strolled in his wake. Her watchful eyes belied the ease of her gait.
A sharp gust off the Channel seized her bonnet. With a cry, she grabbed for it, long fingers curling around the brim at the last moment before the wind snatched it. After a fruitless attempt to secure the flimsy bit of straw to her head, she left it to straggle down her back by its ribbons. Her hair blew free of its bindings in long, tattered curls. Like the child, her feet were bare, and the damp hems of her skirts flapped about her ankles.
George caught his breath. He shouldn’t stare, but he couldn’t help it. When she laughed at the boy’s antics, the sound tolled like the pure note of a church bell on a frosty winter morning. The echoes might carry for miles through crisp air. They fell on his beleaguered ears like a healing balm.
The boy trotted into the surf, letting the waves chase him, while his sister—she couldn’t be anything else, she was so young—stood back, ever mindful. The set of her shoulders betrayed a readiness to act.
The pair still hadn’t noted George’s presence, and he held back, sensing he’d somehow crashed in on an unguarded moment. No young lady would want a gentleman to catch her unshod, her hair unpinned and her bonnet dangling. Who was he to spoil the moment by forcing her to adopt the formality a stranger’s presence required?
Not only a stranger, but a man, and she was hardly chaperoned.
He really ought to return to the main house, but the prospect of enduring his sisters’ performance kept his feet planted on the spot. Here, the air was blessedly free of false notes and the only screeching a child’s joyful cries.
A child, hang it all. A child, such as Lucy was carrying. The thought pounded through his head like the cacophony of his sisters’ singing. It jangled and clashed. He’d never asked to become a father. He wasn’t ready, damn it. What would he do with another soul who looked to him for support, for guidance, for protection? He hadn’t the slightest idea how to be a father. He’d never had a proper example.
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