Revenge (The Cardigan Estate Book 1)

by Emmy Ellis

  Taking a deep breath then letting the air out slowly, Jonathan licked his dry, cracked lips and reached for a glass of water. His throat arid, the water went down a treat. His heart hammered too fast, and the proverbial hole in the ground didn’t appear to swallow him the fuck up.

  Who was the daughter? He’d heard nothing about her. She must be pretty young, or else he was sure he’d know something, her being Cardigan’s kid. The bastard bragged about what he had to all and sundry.

  “What’s she like?” Jonathan asked.

  “Who, Leona?” Cardigan smiled. “A very nice girl. What else d’you expect me to say about my own flesh and blood? Dickhead…” A frown marred his forehead.

  Letting fate decide, Jonathan said, “I accept your proposal.” His stomach churned as he digested his words. They echoed through the room, sounded doom-filled, sealing him to a fate he wanted no part of.

  “Then shake on it.” Cardigan reached out his hand.

  Dread grew heavy in the pit of Jonathan’s stomach.

  I bet I’ve lost. Shit.

  Heart thrumming faster, he silently prayed.

  “Your call, guv,” Sam rasped in his bored monotone.

  “Nah.” Cardigan’s grin widened. “We’ll let our friend here turn over his cards first. That’s how kind I am.”

  Jonathan glanced at his palms and shaking fingers, damp with sweat. He knew better than to argue so turned over his cards. They seemed to smirk at him from the green baize. Mocked him.

  Come on, don’t let me down now. I’ll do anything, just let me win the money.

  Cardigan reached out to turn his own cards over. An eerie smile played on his lips, the corners twitching. “Come to my house at eight tomorrow night. You can meet my Leona then.”

  * * * *

  Jonathan left The Swan and Cygnets via the back door.

  What fate was worse? Death, or marriage to an unknown woman?

  Dazed, he stumbled along the backstreets towards the house he’d lived in all his life. The scent of fresh rain blew past him on a rough gust of wind, and his hair danced briefly then settled back down. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and bent his head, the pavement cracked and uneven beneath his tired feet.

  Marriage…shit. There’s always divorce if it doesn’t work out.

  He took a deep breath then released it. Some of the tension in his head and neck bled away. Rubbing his nape, he winced at a twitching nerve.

  Things would have been easier to deal with if his mother, Beth, was at home waiting for him to walk in, her usual cup of tea in hand. Jonathan wouldn’t have been at that card game in the first place had she been alive today. She would’ve seen some way to getting him out of the mess he was in with regards to his brewery. Too much credit and not enough money to pay the bills—going round on a roller coaster, unable to get off, sometimes at a high, but mainly at an all-time low, with the scary loop-the-loop in between.

  Jonathan’s thoughts turned to his friend, Sonny Bates.

  “You’d be welcome to join in a poker game with Ronald Cardigan and try your luck at doubling or even trebling your money,” he’d said.

  Or losing the fucking lot.

  Jonathan had been on edge earlier but not overly worried at the prospect of a game of cards with Cardigan. Sonny had warned him that Cardigan picked on a certain player each night but had assured him it wouldn’t be Jonathan. Sonny had got word that small-fry Mickey Rook had slighted Cardigan the previous week. Cardigan had made it clear Mickey should attend the game—if he knew what was good for him.

  Sonny wouldn’t have lied to me. Cardigan must have changed his mind. Got a feeling I’m going to lose the fucking business now anyway. Cardigan’ll take over. And who am I to stop him?

  Cardigan had given Mickey Rook menacing glares throughout the first half of the evening and milked him dry. At the point when Cardigan thought he’d cleared him out, Mickey produced a large wad of notes and placed the lot on the table. Cardigan had already turned over his cards.

  Taking his chance to win and leave the game, Mickey whipped his cards over.

  “Fix!” Cardigan had shouted. “You’ve fucking fixed the game, son. Did your mate here help you?” Cardigan had turned to Harry Findley. “Well? Did you?”

  “No,” Harry said.

  Jonathan had marvelled at how calm he’d appeared. Harry was a bit dim sometimes, but even so…

  Cardigan had huffed. “You’d better leave now, gentlemen, and let me tell you, you need to watch your backs in future. You needn’t think I’m taking this lying down. Show them out, Sam.”

  “Right, guv.”

  Sam had heaved his massive bulk from his chair and grabbed Mickey’s and Harry’s arms. The door opened by one of Cardigan’s goons, Sam hoisted the two men off their feet and through the opening.

  In a black mood, Cardigan had turned his attention to Jonathan, who’d staked two thousand altogether throughout the entire game, pooling all his spare cash, which more than made up for what Cardigan had lost to Mickey Rook.

  Jonathan sighed again. He’d been well and truly taken for a mug. Cursing himself at his stupidity in ever going to a Ronald Cardigan game in the first place, he let himself in his front door. Weary, he climbed the stairs.

  Sleep evaded him. The uppermost thought in his mind? That he’d soon be meeting a woman he’d agreed to marry—without ever having set eyes on her before.

  Chapter Three

  Debbie was engrossed in Heat magazine. She didn’t jump when the door to the massage parlour opened. Cardigan had a key, the only person other than herself, and he swaggered in, his bald head gleaming beneath the light from the chandelier. He was wide and tall, muscly, fit for a sixty-something, appearing much younger, and if you bumped into him in the dark, he’d block out the moon.

  “All right, Treacle?” he said, coming up to the reception desk.

  He always called her that instead of her name. She liked it.

  “Fine, ta. You?”

  He scowled. “A bit knobbed off as it happens.”

  “Why’s that then?” She didn’t like him knobbed off. It changed his face and bearing, switching him from the man she’d come to know into the one she hadn’t before he’d lowered his defences around her.

  “Poker.”

  “Ah. Want to talk about it?”

  He nodded. “All the customers in with the girls?” He glanced around the empty seating area. “Or just a slow night?”

  “They’re all busy. The next one isn’t due for an hour.”

  “I timed it right then.”

  “You always do.”

  “Press the button.”

  She scooted across in her chair to prod the bell push that alerted the girls that she wasn’t manning the desk. It meant they had to let the customers out themselves instead of her playing hostess.

  Cardigan strolled over to her door, punched in a code on the pad beside the jamb, and she followed him into her room. This one had a proper bed, and if any coppers did a raid on the place, she had her excuse ready. This was where they went to rest between clients, a safe space to relax.

  Cardigan shut the door. Debbie flopped on the bed and waited for him to join her. She snuggled into his side, and he cuddled her.

  “Fucking Mickey Rook,” he said.

  Debbie sighed. “Oh dear.”

  “He’s a pest. Cheated me. I’m going to do for that fucker.”

  She tried not to dwell on what Cardigan did when he wasn’t with her. “Is that why The Brothers were in here earlier?”

  “Yeah, I sent them scouting after Mickey had left.”

  “Thought so.”

  He squeezed her closer. “Micky wasn’t in here then?”

  “Nah. Haven’t seen him for a while.”

  “Little wanker.”

  He went on to get everything off his chest, then mentioned Jonathan Pembrooke, someone she’d gone to school with. He was a tasty fella, not so much as a teenager, with his spots and prominent Adam’s apple, but he
’d grown into the latter, and if she wasn’t exclusive to Cardigan and such a ‘filthy slag’ as some people called her, she might have tried her luck.

  “He played poker?” she said, shocked.

  “Yep. His brewery’s on the way to being fucked.”

  “That’s no surprise to me. It’s not like all the pubs round here serve his beer, is it?”

  “They will soon.”

  “Ah.”

  “He lost the game and won my daughter.”

  Debbie forced herself not to smile or laugh. Leona was about forty-five from what she’d gathered while chatting with Cardigan. A young bloke like Jonathan with her… Christ, what a lucky bitch. Then she felt guilty. She was happy with the man on her bed, didn’t need anyone else. “Does he know how much older she is than him?”

  “Nah, but he’ll soon find out.” He rolled on top of her and stared into her eyes. “Come on then, Treacle, do what you do best. Make me forget.”

  Chapter Four

  Cardigan travelled home in the back of his luxury car, Sam at the wheel.

  Treacle always had a good effect on him. He got lost with her in bed, wasn’t the man he’d built himself up to be for the time he was with her. Famous in the criminal underworld, he clicked his fingers to get anything sorted. His word was law; nobody crossed him on his patch—and God fucking help them if they did. A widower, he had the choice of many from a string of floozies, none of which lasted very long, and now he had Treacle, he didn’t want anyone else. Nobody could match up to his late wife, Katherine, but his search for happiness in a relationship that had so far eluded him was on the up now.

  He thought of Leona, still living at home. She disapproved of his lifestyle, forever trying to make him see the ‘error of his ways’. He laughed quietly. Her and her adopted posh accent—she’d taken the fact they had money a little over the top, modelling herself on an old school friend she’d had years ago. Becky something or other. Silly cow. He kept telling her it was in the breeding, not the way you presented yourself. People knew when you were from class. And they most certainly weren’t.

  Bloody proud of my roots, I am.

  He’d grown up piss poor, his earlier life hard. He’d joined a proper gang soon after marrying Katherine, a motley crew of youngsters, and they’d robbed a bank. His share of the money had come in handy and enabled him to purchase his first pub, The Stag.

  As man and wife, they’d enjoyed the high life, and he’d built up his empire, vowing to Katherine he’d go on the straight and narrow and run The Stag legitimately. They’d worked side by side until Leona was born. Then Katherine spent the majority of her time looking after their daughter and suggested they buy a house.

  He saw her in his mind now, his beautiful wife.

  “I don’t want our little girl being brought up in the pub atmosphere,” she’d said.

  He leant his head against the car seat and brushed away a treacherous tear—Katherine was his soft spot—drifting back to the past once more.

  Inevitably, the shady deals going on in his pub turned him back to crime. He’d be the leader of such matters if they occurred in his own establishment. With Katherine safely out of the way at the new house, he’d joined in on the numerous crimes she incredulously read about in the local newspaper. Using his share of the money from various schemes, he bought another pub, The Three Horseshoes. He employed a manager for each public house and devoted his time to working his way up.

  Frightening people came naturally to him, as did lending money with extortionate interest rates or pimping women out on shadowy street corners. To him it seemed he earned money for doing nothing.

  Cardigan’s thoughts moved back to the present. Leona would be a hard obstacle to get over. She’d been getting right on his nerves lately, hence him setting her up as the prize in tonight’s poker game. He’d just have to persuade her that it was in her best interests.

  I’m not having my mates feeling sorry for me. I’ve heard the bloody wisecracks about how ugly Leona is. I’ll make her see sense.

  He glanced out of the window. “Drop me off on the corner, Sam. Take the car with you. I fancy a bit of fresh air. A good brisk walk’ll do me nicely. You can take the rest of the night off, because I’ve got Leona to sort out.”

  “Right, guv.”

  Chapter Five

  Incensed, Leona Cardigan paced the living room. She caught sight of herself in the large mirror that hung over the open fireplace. Bright-red cheeks gave her a more severe appearance. A long, pointed nose and thin pale lips didn’t help either. Her lacklustre hair, brown peppered with early grey and scraped into a bun, pulled her features back.

  Married? What was her father thinking?

  “What?” she screeched.

  He winced and took a sip of his whiskey. “Don’t shout like that. I’ve got an almighty bloody bonce ache.” He rested his head on the back of his burgundy leather wing chair.

  “Why shouldn’t I shout when you come in here and tell me something like that? How did it all come about? A business deal?”

  “Nah, you were won in a game of poker.” He roared with laughter.

  “A game of poker?”

  “I thought you’d be pleased. It can’t be nice knowing no one wants you. Besides, you’re getting on my nellies, moping around the house like a bloody dog.”

  That was a bit harsh, but she supposed she wasn’t anything like the daughter he remembered from years ago. She’d changed into a woman he despised most of the time.

  “I’ve got my charity work, that keeps me busy. And how can you say I mope around the house? It’s all right for you, what with your ventures. You’ve got some sort of focus in your life.”

  He swigged a large gulp of whiskey. “Ah, but I know how you feel, not having that special person in your life, don’t I? I always had your mother, and now I haven’t.”

  “What about your slappers? Don’t they provide what you’re missing? You look like you’re enjoying yourself with them, and they were in the house often enough. It disgusts me.”

  He waved a hand at her impatiently. “So you keep saying. They kept me young, and anyway, I don’t bring them here anymore. And we’ve conveniently got off the subject. I thought you’d be grateful for what I’ve done. You always were a hard one to please once you hit your teens, with your trumped-up ideas and your stuffy way of gassing.”

  Leona bit back a spiteful retort and swallowed. “So, who is this man I’m supposed to be getting married to?”

  “He’s called Jonathan Pembrooke. Owns a brewery, so you’ll not go short of cash once I start buying his beer. There will always be drinkers. He’s about thirty, but—”

  “Thirty? He’s fifteen years younger than me. I don’t believe the level you’ve sunk to. And how convenient he owns a brewery. It was a business deal after all. You make me sick.”

  He ignored her outburst, smoothing a palm over his head. “He’ll be here tomorrow night about eight. Make yourself presentable. You know I don’t go back on a deal, so you’ll just have to like it or lump it—or fuck off out from under my roof and make your own way. I’ll be putting money into his business because it needs a bit of help, and I want you to work for him. Keep an eye on it. He’ll be thinking he can still run it on his own, but he’s got another think coming.”

  “Me?” Leona’s mouth hung open. “You’ve got a cheek, you have. I refuse to do it. I won’t marry someone I don’t even know, just so you can join your empires together.”

  “You will bloody marry him, my girl. You don’t bleedin’ go back on what I’ve said. And if you do, like I just said, move out and pay your own way for a change. Get a bloody job.”

  Leona stormed out and thumped upstairs to her dressing table. She sat on the stool and looked in the mirror, wanting to see herself as someone else would. Her bony nose dominated. Dull grey eyes slanted downwards. She cringed, and her face screwing up into an unattractive expression brought on tears.

  Who in their right mind would want to marry me
anyway?

  Business reasons, the root of the deal. Her father must have let the man know what the poker stake was. No sane person would agree to marry someone without first knowing who they were and what they looked like, surely?

  Throughout the night she lay awake, coming to the conclusion, after the initial shock had worn off, that getting married to this Jonathan Pembrooke wouldn’t be so bad. Him being younger, it’d look like she had the ability to snare any man she wanted. Everyone in her circles would think he loved her and had chosen to marry her, ugly or not.

  Being married would give her a sense of belonging, and even though he’d never take the place of her beloved William, she’d try her hardest to get along with him. They’d be engaged for quite some time—she needed to become accustomed to this strange thing happening in her life, something she’d never envisaged happening at all.

  With sleep still evading her, she got out of bed and padded over to her mirror again. She’d at least kept her trim figure. She supposed it may have been because she’d never had any children. Thinking of her age, she wondered if it would be possible to still try for a baby. She shuddered at what she’d have to go through to achieve that. Maybe she’d find this Jonathan attractive?

  ‘Doing it’ wouldn’t seem so bad then.

  Chapter Six

  Rebecca Lynchwood sighed. Her loneliness at becoming a widow after her husband died ten years ago scratched at her mind. She thought of him now, conjured up his image in an attempt to convince herself he was still there. Still with her. William had been the be all and end all for her, apart from their daughter, Gracie. His death of heart failure at thirty-six had transformed her life from one of happiness to one of total despair.

  Tears stung her eyes, and a lump formed in her throat.

  She remembered how she’d fallen in love with him, how she’d come close to losing him—or so she’d thought back then—after their engagement. Someone else had their eye on him without her knowledge, had schemed to steal him away from her. This woman really thought she’d succeed, too, and she might have if Rebecca hadn’t listened to William.