“Mayhap if ye didnae look like ye’ve scented shite when ye speak to me, I’d be more inclined to converse with ye,” he returned.
“I don’t want to speak with you,” she countered. “However, I require some insight that I believe you can best provide.” She paused, her gaze aimed at the floor. “I need your assistance.”
Behind him another damned quadrille began forming. “But ye didnae need my assistance earlier when I asked ye for a dance.”
“No, I did not.”
“Well, I dunnae need anything from ye at the moment, Miss Harris, so I reckon I’ll decline.”
“You—you are a horrible man,” she sputtered.
“Now, then, I didnae say anything disparaging about ye when ye turned me down.” Sending her a swift grin mostly because he knew it would annoy her further, he walked away to claim Miss Alice Williams, who lisped but knew a great deal about their host and hostess and how the ball was especially extravagant this year because Sir Eldon had made a pair of bad investments in the Colonies and they didn’t want anyone to know just how badly off they were.
A few feet back from the dance floor Miranda Harris still stood, and still glared at him when she wasn’t looking toward shadows at the edges of the room. A pretty lad approached her, and she smiled as she sent him away—and the smile dropped from her face again.
At the end of the dance he parted from Miss Williams and then ducked into a side hallway. Working his way around to the other end of the ballroom, he slipped up behind Miranda Harris. As she glared about for him or some other menace, he leaned in a breath and caught the scent of her hair. Lemons. That suited her: bitter and decisive. Of course, it was also a lovely scent, fresh and clean against the warm oppressive smell of the ballroom.
Aden stood still for a moment. It would serve her right, to demonstrate that he wasn’t nearly as charmless and despicable as she’d thought him before they’d ever met. To make her feel a little of the disappointment that touched him when he thought of never kissing her, never turning that scowl of hers into a laugh. He could damned well have done that, if she’d bothered to give him half a chance. So. Let the games begin. “Miss Harris.”
She flinched, then turned around. “Mr. MacTaggert.”
“I’ve nae partner for this waltz. Since ye want insight and I want to dance, I reckon a waltz is a fair solution.” He held out one hand. “Agreed?”
Squaring her shoulders, she set her white-gloved hand in his. “Agreed.”
“Ye look as if ye’ve just decided to stand in the street and let a coach run ye down,” he commented, noting that both Miss Pritchard and Miss Williams had partners for the waltz; the Sassenach bucks might call him a barbarian, but they were eager enough to follow behind him.
“Thank you,” Miranda returned crisply. “Very flattering. Just what a young lady wishes to hear when she’s at a grand ball.”
“If ye want compliments, ye’re going to have to be nicer to me. Fair is fair.”
They took a position on the dance floor close by where Niall and his Amy stood, and a few feet from Eloise and Matthew. Coll, as usual, wasn’t dancing, but had taken command of a table covered with breads and cheeses.
As the music began Aden put his hand on Miranda’s waist and stepped them into the dance. She had a grace about her, a confidence that made her movements fluid and seemingly effortless, a skill that most of his other partners for the evening had lacked. For once he didn’t have to keep himself poised, ready to catch a lass before she hit the floor if she should stumble.
“I don’t want compliments,” she finally said.
“Nae. Ye want insight, ye said. To what?”
“A man who wagers.”
“We’re all different, lass. Some of us arenae even particularly villainous. Ye’ll have to be more specific.”
“A man who is very skilled at wagering.” She took a breath, her gaze briefly lowering to his cravat. “One who might select a particular person, and intentionally work to put that person into a difficult position for a reason.”
The query surprised him. “That’s fairly specific. And still a wee bit vague. Who’s the target? What’s the difficult position?”
She shook her head. “None of your affair. I want to know what sort of man does this, and whether he can be reasoned with.”
With a brief frown, he considered. Clearly, she didn’t intend to give him any further information. Even so, her description was precise enough that she had a specific scenario in mind. And luckily enough for her, whatever he thought of her insults, he did enjoy a good puzzle.
“The sort of man who’d lure another man into ruin to get someaught he wants,” he mused aloud. “I reckon ye’ve answered yer own question, lass. What anyone else wants or needs doesnae concern him. Another man’s situation and pride doesnae concern him. He has a goal, if I’m hearing ye straight. As far as he’s concerned, he’s worked toward it, put up with someone whose skills dunnae come close to his own, spent his valuable time leading the fool into temptation, and he means to collect.”
As he spoke, Miranda’s fair complexion took on more than a hint of gray. None of this discussion was supposition or fancy, then. Someone she knew had gotten in too deep, and she wanted a way to get them out. “But reasoning with this person?” she countered. “It can’t be as pointless as you’re suggesting.”
Turning her in his arms, he shrugged. “Ye gave me two sentences, Miss Harris. In my experience, which is all I can go by, this lad wants whatever it is he played for. Find someaught else that interests him and convince him how that thing will benefit him more. Offer him a prettier prize, or one ye can convince him is more valuable.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, and she leaned into him a little. If not for her stated dislike of him and the blood gone from her face, he might have thought the move flirtatious. But this woman didn’t do flirtation, evidently; she remained direct. If she ever decided she liked him after all, she’d likely simply state that very thing to his face. Aden shortened his steps and firmed his grip on her hand and waist, keeping her secure until she got her feet beneath her again.
She lifted her face to look at him. “Thank you.”
Well, that was unexpected. He wasn’t about to let her know she’d surprised him, however, or that it hadn’t occurred to him not to support her. “I’ve a wife to find. I dunnae need to be known as the MacTaggert who makes lasses faint. I’ll leave that to Coll.”
“Even so.”
The dance ended, and since she still didn’t look quite steady on her legs, he carefully transferred her hand to his forearm so she’d have something to hang on to. “I like wagering,” Aden said, not certain whether he’d be better off confessing his sins or denying he had them. “I’m good at it. I’ve nae brought anyone else to ruin by it, and a time or two I’ve walked away from the table to keep from doing just that. If my insight helped ye then I’m glad of it; as I said, ye’re to be my sister-in-law, after all. But if ye want to hate me, I’m nae overly troubled by that, either, except to note that I did give ye my best dance just now.”
“Why did you waltz with me, then?”
“Curiosity,” he answered smoothly, because that answer made more sense than him admitting that perhaps her loathing did trouble him just a whit. Or that in general he admired a lass who could stand toe-to-toe with him in a conversation, and one who looked like a sultry goddess while she did it. Or that he could imagine her eventual apology, and that it would be spectacular.
On the tail of that thought he stopped near a line of chairs so she could take a seat if she needed to. Freeing his arm, he gave her a nod and turned away.
“You’ve given me some things to consider,” she said from behind him. “Thank you for that. As for causing someone’s ruin, even if you walked away from the table, you left someone desperately unskilled in the hands of others. Don’t expect praise for that. Not from me, at least.”
Aden kept walking. Arguing with a pile of rocks didn’t budge the stones. S
he’d made up her mind about who he was before they’d ever met, and nothing he said would alter her opinion. Whoever it was who’d gotten into debt with some talented swindler, with that tongue of hers she likely had as fair a chance as anyone of negotiating a settlement.
He generally liked a sharp tongue on a lass, a bit of fire to warm a chill night. And Miranda Harris had that aplenty, with a touch of flame in her brunette hair and a smolder in her deep-brown eyes to match. It was a shame she didn’t seem to want to warm up to him as much as she wanted to burn him to a crisp and shovel him into the ash bin. But then tonight he’d asked her for a dance, and whatever the twisting path was they’d traveled, he’d danced with her.
* * *
By the time the clock in the foyer had edged past half nine in the morning, Miranda had thrice put on and removed her bonnet and shawl, begun and abandoned two pointed letters, and contemplated simply announcing to her parents that she’d tired of London and meant to spend the remainder of the Season at home on their small estate in Devon.
Her brother had put her squarely in the middle of his troubles, and her flight, her rebuke, would do nothing to remove the debt he’d incurred. And while she’d several times decided that his stupidity in no way obligated her to do anything but tell their parents, she’d known that to be a lie even as she was thinking it.
Matthew was her brother, and she would not allow his ruination—or her family’s—if she could do anything to prevent it. And he’d been correct when he’d worried what their parents would do if they discovered he’d been wagering again. It would take more than selling his beloved horse to settle this debt. It would take more than selling Harris House here in Mayfair and its entire contents, she imagined. It would take more than the lot of them fleeing to the Americas to find their fortunes, because acquiring that much money in any of their lifetimes seemed beyond impossible.
The knocker swung against the front door, and a shiver rattled through her as Billings answered it. She’d kept to the morning room since an early breakfast; the last thing she wanted was for the butler to have to come looking for her and arouse everyone else’s interest about who might be calling.
She glanced at her maid, who sat in the corner mending a stocking. “Remember,” she whispered. “No matter what, you do not leave this room.”
Millie nodded. “I would never.”
Billings rapped on the half-open door. “Miss Harris, a Captain Vale is here to see you.”
“Please show him in, Billings.” With a hard breath, clenching her hands together behind her back both so he wouldn’t touch her and so he wouldn’t see them shake, she took up a position between the end table and the window. It was a flimsy piece of furniture, but this morning it was the best shield she could manage.
The butler stepped aside and Vale walked in, still neat and precise in his naval blues, his hat tucked beneath one arm. “Miss Harris,” he said, inclining his head.
“Captain. That will be all, Billings. Please shut the door.”
Sparing her a curious look, the butler did as she asked. Both Matthew and her father had already left the house—Matthew fleeing like a cat with its tail on fire—but her mother remained abed. Balls always did her in until at least noon, and hopefully today would be no different.
“You’ve agreed to see me,” Vale said into the silence, “so I presume Matthew has spoken to you.”
“Yes, he has. The subject of our conversation made me curious, however. As you wagered with him, surely you realized that you encouraged a debt far beyond my brother’s ability to repay. Absurdly so.”
“I will point out that your brother also knew his own … budget, shall we say? And that he passed by that number with his eyes open.”
“I understand that, though I might compare the two of you to a snake and a mouse. The only reason the mouse doesn’t flee is that he doesn’t see the snake—until the snake’s jaws clamp down over him. Once beyond a certain point, the debt became so absurdly large that playing deeply to extract himself was undoubtedly the only thing that made sense to my brother. But my question to you is why keep playing when you could not possibly hope to receive ten thousand pounds, much less fifty?”
He tilted his head a little, the gesture making him look even more falconlike. And today she was definitely the rabbit. “Because he might think himself capable of repaying five thousand or even ten thousand pounds. At fifty thousand—well, to be succinct, I own him. There is no escape but the one I suggest.”
The statement reminded her of what Aden MacTaggert had speculated—that Vale had had a goal, and he’d reached it regardless of any harm it might cause to others. “And you suggested a union with me.”
“Just so.”
She forced a chuckle. “Frankly, Captain, I am not worth fifty thousand pounds. But you did say you were thinking of purchasing a house in Mayfair. I imagine my father would be willing to assist you in that. He is also on the boards of several clubs, which could bene—”
“Why would I accept a discounted house and a membership at Boodle’s over fifty thousand quid, which would gain me all that and more?”
“Because you’ll never receive fifty thousand pounds from Matthew. It simply doesn’t exist.”
“But it does. I’m looking at it. The fact of whether you’re worth that amount of money isn’t the point. The point, Miss Harris, Miranda, is that to me you are worth enough to convince me to make the trade: you for your brother’s debt.”
“But why?” she burst out. For heaven’s sake, none of this made sense. Logic. She wanted logic. That, she could argue against.
“Your brother pointed you out to me one day shortly after I arrived. I recall it quite clearly. ‘That’s my younger sister, Miranda,’ he said. ‘Half the bucks in London are after her, the ones with taste, anyway. She’s a smart one, knows everyone, and never makes a misstep.’ You are what I require. Anyone can purchase a house. You are Society. Everyone knows you and, more important, likes you. And a love match between us grants me all those things, as well. Therefore, an imaginary fifty thousand quid in exchange for a lifetime of chances at investment, of dining with dukes and princes, of being admired and feted—I must disagree with my previous statement. You are worth every shilling of your brother’s debt.”
Miranda stared at him, the edges of her vision darkening and a dizzy swirl of light-headedness pushing at the back of her eyes. “You … you dragged my brother to ruin just to avoid … courting me?”
“He went along quite willingly. I didn’t drag him anywhere. And courting is a gamble. I prefer a sure bet.”
“And yet you are a gambler.”
“A very good one.”
The words she wanted to say would prevent her from calling herself a lady ever again. She weighed them anyway, then chose the one her mind kept shouting the loudest. “No!”
“That is what a child says when asked to give up a toy,” he stated. “You are three-and-twenty. Men have chased you for five years. I am a stranger with unknown prospects and a pension from the navy to recommend me. In an otherwise level playing field, why would you choose me?” He held her gaze for a dozen hard heartbeats as she tried to conjure an argument against what was actually some very logical mathematics—from his perspective, anyway.
“I wouldn’t,” she answered. “And I won’t. You don’t want me; you want my reputation. Your chosen course of action relies on the cooperation of a woman with whom you never bothered to speak until last night. You want my honor, and yet you have cheated and connived to steal it. No, Captain Vale. Choose another prize.”
The falcon assessed her, unblinking. Then he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and set it on the back of the couch. “These are the dates and amounts of promissory notes signed by your brother. A carriage and I will be here at one o’clock tomorrow to take you to luncheon. If you do not get into the carriage, I will send an identical list to your father.”
“He—”
“If I do not like the response I receive fro
m him, I will bring legal action against your brother. A well-respected family with such a reckless wastrel of an heir … Especially with the barely contained tale of your uncle still hanging in the air. John Temple, isn’t it? I imagine your friends will be shocked. As will the family of Matthew’s fiancée. The Oswell-MacTaggerts, I believe. All that is an aside, however, to your family being stripped of all its property and your father and brother, and quite possibly you and your mother, being thrown into debtors’ prison.”
Miranda wanted to scream. She wanted to punch him in his beak of a nose. “You will face repercussions as well, Captain. You have done nothing honorable.”
“True, but I have no stake in London. Not at the moment. And distasteful or not, a debt is a debt. My plan to settle this is simpler and much less messy, but the next step is yours. I shall respond accordingly.” He flicked a glance toward Millie, who sat openmouthed with her needle in the air. “And with equal discretion.”
“So you would wed someone who loathes you? What an unpleasant future you’ve imagined for yourself.” The argument was weak, but most of her mind simply wanted to wake up from this nightmare.
For the first time he smiled. His teeth were small and even, except for a gap where the left upper canine should be. The expression rendered him less like a falcon, but somehow more sinister—as if all the polite polish he showed on the outside was just that. Beneath a very thin layer of gentleman he stood there full of black, gaping holes.
“I have been places and done things you couldn’t imagine,” he said matter-of-factly. “Your displeasure matters as much to me as a single drop of water does to the ocean.” With a crisp motion he set his hat on his dark, short hair. “One o’clock tomorrow. And this will appear to be a love match. I suggest you act accordingly.”
With that he turned on his heel, opened the door, and left the room. When the front door opened and shut a moment later, Miranda sat down hard on the nearest chair. She’d spun this in every direction she could think of, searching for something else he might want, and he’d never even blinked. How … What … What could she do? Because this … horror could not be allowed to happen.
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