“Never wager that which you can ill afford to lose. Unless, of course, your opponent is too deep in his cups to recall the stakes. Then, by all means, wager the moon.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Reedham while partnered for a rousing game of whist.
It was very late and Colin Lacey was very drunk. Normally, being in such a state was jolly good fun. But not tonight.
“I presume the wager is going well?” a dry voice inquired from across the table.
Colin lifted his head from where it had dropped onto his forearm. When had Chatham sauntered in? And when had he begun that strange, weaving dance he was performing? Colin shook his head. The world moved sickeningly. Ah, yes. It was the brandy that made his friend sway and ripple in his chair. A dreadful lot of brandy.
Snorting sloppily, Colin replied, “No. Not well at all. But you knew that.”
Lazy, elegant fingers gripped a glass of whisky and tossed a shot down Chatham’s throat. Colin wondered if Chatham was drunk, too. He could never quite tell for certain. Benedict Chatham, Viscount Chatham, was a deuced controlled man, even deep in his cups. One never knew if he was furious or thrilled beyond measure. His demeanor remained the same, whatever the circumstances: World-weary cynicism and biting wit accompanied by frightful intelligence and a curious magnetism that women found irresistible, despite being bone-thin and linen-white. Colin had been his friend for over three years, and still, he often seemed a virtual stranger, albeit an amusing one.
Wiping a hand over his face, Colin attempted to sit upright. “None of thish would be neces—necessh—there would be no wager at all if my brother were not such a moralizing prig.”
“Careful there,” Chatham replied, his posture negligent, one slim leg slung over the other, a hand propped on his knee. A single finger of that hand lifted to indicate the bottle of brandy some club employee had conveniently left on the table. Colin’s elbow had nearly knocked it to the floor. “It would be a shame to damage the valuables.”
“You are brilliant, do you know that, Chatham?”
“You’re only saying that because you’re drunk.”
Colin shook his head emphatically. “No! No, no, no. Brandy is dreadfully expensv—exshpen—costly. That’s why I swore it off. Stopped it like that.” He snapped his fingers, but they seemed to miss each other, because the sound wasn’t right. “Can’t afford the stuff. Can’t even afford decent boots. Bloody Harrison cut off my funds.”
“Yes, your brother is not one to suffer fools forever, it is true.”
“Tha’s right! It is his fault I am in this predic—predicam—mess. Now the wager grows more bloody impossible with every new chap who adds his name to the book.” Colin waved to the sideboard, where the betting book lay open, waiting for the next gentleman to up the ante. Thankfully, this particular book was being kept here, at the exclusive gambling hell known as Reaver’s, in a private room accessible only to those Chatham allowed inside. As the future Marquess of Rutherford, Chatham could afford to arrange such conveniences—fortunately for Colin. And Lady Jane Huxley, he supposed.
Graceful as a cat stretching after a nap, Chatham stood and retrieved the book, glancing down at the growing list of notations. “I fail to see your complaint. The more who join the wager, the greater your reward.”
“Never meant to ruin anyone.”
Chatham turned his vivid turquoise gaze on Colin. That particular look—a cold, measuring sort from eyes that were hooded beneath low, dark brows—always gave him the shivers. It was like being examined by a wolf who was not especially hungry at the moment, but wanted to reserve the right to assess his options. “Then perhaps you should not have wagered in the first place.” Chatham’s voice was soft, expressionless.
Colin snorted and glanced down at the marble tabletop. “You sound like the duke.”
“Does he know about the wager?”
He laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. “If he did, he’d cut off far more than my funds.”
In truth, he wouldn’t blame Harrison for delivering violence upon his person. The more time Colin spent with Jane, the worse he felt about what he had to do. Take that very evening, for example. Before arriving at Reaver’s and getting thoroughly sotted, he had attended a ton event at Lady Reedham’s town house—a musicale, or some such. Given the nature of ton events, it was sometimes difficult to discern the difference. In any case, there had been a great deal of dreadful music, and although his brain was pleasantly foggy at the moment, he thought he recalled a gangly young woman at the pianoforte, banging away as though sorely vexed with the composer.
But that was not the important part. The critical bit came a few minutes later, when he spotted Lady Jane Huxley seated in the third row of chairs, her head bowed as if in prayer. It took some time to spot her—she was quite short in stature, and two additional rows of gawkily tall women sat between him and her. He’d been determined, however, and at the next opportunity, when the girl at the pianoforte took a blessed break, and the ladies next to Jane bolted for the refreshment table, Colin slipped in and took a seat beside his quarry.
Glancing down at her lap, he quickly realized that she hadn’t been praying at all. “Good book, Lady Jane?”
She jerked and fumbled with the thing, snapping it closed and adjusting her spectacles. Then she cleared her throat and turned to stare at him with wide, mahogany-brown eyes. “Lord Lacey,” she said with admirable steadiness. “How unexpected to see you again. I did not realize you were a lover of Mozart.”
“Oh, I’m not.”
She blinked slowly, her lips quirking. “Perhaps that is best, given the performance.”
Groaning in agreement, he chuckled then glanced around. “Are you here with your mother?”
She nodded and stroked her hands over the book cover. “She insisted we should attend in support of Miss Blythfield, who is a friend of my sister. This evening is her musical debut.”
“The one playing the pianoforte?”
“Yes.”
“You are supporting that?”
A helpless grin tugged at her mouth, breaking wide as she shook her head at him. “Perhaps ‘supporting’ is a bit strong, upon further reflection.” When she smiled, little dimples appeared in her cheeks, a sweet surprise in what could only be described as a round, plain face.
He rewarded her with a wink. “Hence, the book, I gather.”
“You are most discerning, my lord.”
“I have been called worse.”
She laughed, a pleasant, slightly husky sound. “One shudders to imagine.”
Deliberately, he leaned toward her, lowering his head near hers. “I came to see you, Lady Jane.”
Eyes flaring wide, a flush rising from her generous bosom to her face, Jane sputtered, “M-me? Whatever for?”
Two chairs away, an elderly woman of considerable bulk cleared her throat pointedly, drawing his eye past Jane and causing him to straighten under the matron’s stern gaze. “Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere,” he murmured, glancing around the room. The guests must have been anticipating a second round of musical torture, because many were heading back to their seats. Quickly, before Jane’s mother could return and mistake him for a suitor, he surreptitiously covered Jane’s hand with his own. “Wait until the music begins again, then meet me in the front hall.”
Judging by her frown, it seemed Jane would protest, so he squeezed her hand. She looked down at where they entwined and stopped, her teeth worrying at her lower lip.
Marshaling his most persuasive expression—the one his sister, Victoria, had dubbed his “sweet-as-a-spring-lamb face”—he whispered, “Please, Lady Jane. Won’t you grant me this favor?”
Her eyes met his, full of doubt, discomfort … and something else. There, in the dark-brown depths magnified by her spectacles, was the hidden spark of longing he’d noticed during their conversation in the bookshop. Lady Jane Huxley, like any other female of her age, wanted to be courted, to be admired and whispered to in a dark corridor. To be pursued.
Most men overlooked her, this short, plump, brown-haired, plain Jane. And those who did not were eventually dissuaded by her studious absorption in whatever book she had in hand. Even when a gentleman bothered to engage her, she rarely offered more than a few polite words. Given how infrequently men paid her any mind at all, Colin would not blame her for being skeptical of a suddenly ardent suitor. But if he was to be successful, he must gain her trust. And soon.
He could almost hear his brother’s cold sneer. Bloody hell, he’d said it to himself often enough: A man is never so loathsome as when he deceives an innocent for his own benefit.
But he had no choice.
Colin’s breath stopped as he waited for Jane’s assent. They could not have the conversation he needed to have with her here, where members of the ton crowded within earshot. He must get her alone.
She glanced behind him then gave his hand a return squeeze before sliding hers away. Slowly, she nodded, pretending to return to her book. “Very well,” she whispered. “My mother is approaching. You should probably go.”
A rush of elation drove him to his feet and toward the back of the room where a long table acted as a repository for the refreshments.
He was close. He could feel it.
Suddenly, his skin itched. Especially his neck beneath his cravat. He ran a finger between the cloth and his throat, feeling the telltale dampness there. Rolling his shoulders, he sidled past a pair of velvet-clad matrons and avoided the flirtatious gaze of one of their charges.
Since the atrocious months following Harrison’s decision to cut off his funds, his body had almost entirely adapted to its forced sobriety. In truth, as the fog of drink had cleared, he’d even begun to appreciate its benefits. For one thing, he was less likely to be hunched over a chamber pot upon waking. And the odds that his sister would wish to claim him as an uncle to her firstborn improved with every day he did not do something to embarrass her. Of course, she did not know of his plans for her dearest friend. Or why such a thing was necessary.
A twinge of pain tightened his throat. He swallowed hard to quell it.
Behaving in a loathsome manner, necessary though it might be, made him long for the comforts of oblivion. Right now, he would gladly forsake certain body parts—the smallest finger on his left hand, for example—for one blessed bottle of brandy. Lady Reedham did not offer his chosen beverage, so he downed a cup of orgeat punch and propped his shoulder on the wall near the room’s entrance. Then, he waited for his shy wren to gather her courage.
As expected, she did not rise until well into the second set. He watched as she tiptoed past the row of her sisters and moved to the double doors near where he stood. A footman bowed as she passed into the corridor, bowed again as Colin followed a minute later.
Frowning, he searched the dark hall, lit only by two tapers. Where had she gone? He had told her to meet him here, had he not? He scratched his head. Yes, he distinctly recalled saying—
“Psssst. Lord Lacey.” The loud whisper came from his left. A white glove appeared from an alcove behind the stairway. It waved him closer.
He grinned. This was going to be easier than he’d thought.
Approaching her slowly, he grasped her hand in his and gave it a tender kiss, as a knight might do for his lady. Or, at least, that was how a typical female might imagine it, he supposed.
But Lady Jane was not the typical sort. She immediately jerked her hand away, leaving him kissing air, and hissed, “Are you foxed again? I have no use for drunkards.”
Perhaps the wooing was not going quite as well as he’d imagined.
He let his arm fall back to his side and adopted a sheepish expression. “I humbly apologize, my lady. I do not fault you in the slightest for believing the worst of me. My only intention was to demonstrate my sincere regard.”
She was quiet for a long minute before sighing. The darkness of the alcove made it difficult to gauge her expression. He couldn’t see much more than the occasional reflection of light off of her spectacles. When at last she spoke, her voice was hushed and restrained, as if she only half believed him. “What did you wish to speak to me about?”
Suddenly, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Sweat sprang forth on his palms. He pressed them against the inside of his gloves and cleared his throat. “Right, well. Yes. That is … you—you know I have a great many regrets.”
She did not reply.
“And that I have recently made it my ambition to reform—er, rectify matters. To set things back in order, so to say.”
Still, nothing from Jane. Well, perhaps a bit of honesty would tug on her heartstrings. Or at least her vocal cords.
“The truth is, Lady Jane, my sister has not spoken to me in some time. She was most dismayed by my prior behavior. I cannot blame her.”
A soft snort of what sounded like agreement came from Jane’s general vicinity.
“I had lost hope of regaining her affection until last week, when you and I encountered one another in the bookshop.” Somewhat blindly, he reached out toward the white of her gloves. “You are her dearest friend, are you not?”
A sniff, then one of the gloves rose to fuss with the rim of her spectacles. “One may say so, as she is mine.”
“I hesitate to ask, for it is no small request, but for the sake of restoring the familial bond between Victoria and me, would you consider speaking to her on my behalf?”
“Me? What would you have me tell her?”
“Simply that I am attempting to deserve her regard once again. Perhaps that you have seen my efforts with your own eyes.”
White-gloved arms folded across a darker bodice. He couldn’t remember what color dress she wore—a dull brown, perhaps—but he knew it was dark because her gloves looked like they floated in the deep shadows. “You and I have spoken twice, Lord Lacey. And while those conversations have been … pleasant, I would hesitate to give an endorsement on such paltry evidence.”
And just like that, his shy little bird took the bait. “That is why I have sought you out, my lady. For, I believe, were you to spend more time in my company, you would be convinced of the sincerity of my efforts.”
She stood for a while, thinking. He could practically hear her thinking.
“Entirely proper, you understand. I have the greatest respect—”
“Why me?” Jane interrupted.
“Victoria trusts you.”
“No, I mean, why do you not simply speak to her yourself? Or, for that matter, why do you not attempt to make amends with the duke? I have heard he is in town.”
Blast. This wager was going to kill him before it was over. His family was not a subject he relished discussing, the duke in particular. “My brother is not the forgiving sort,” he said quietly. And that was the bloody damned truth of it.
“Yes, I can well imagine.” Her instantaneous, heartfelt agreement was surprising—and encouraging. Most women lusted after Harrison, or at least the chance to leg-shackle a powerful duke. Apparently, Jane was the exception. In fact, he was finding her to be the exception in many regards. She was different than the usual run of wallflowers. Once a man got past her thorny walls of shyness, she was actually quite … nice. And not at all dull. The opposite, really. He liked her.
He lowered his head and spoke, mimicking a confiding posture. “I have made overtures, but he will have no part of it. Even threats of revealing his grace’s rather graceless dunk in the Blackmore fish pond have failed to bring him ’round.”
This time, her snort was obviously muffled laughter. Her voice rippled with it when she said, “What I wouldn’t give to have witnessed such an occurrence. Akin to an eclipse of the sun, both rare and awe-inspiring.”
“Oh, his grace was the picture of dignity, I assure you. One might even say he was soaked in it.”
That got Jane laughing so hard, she bent double and braced her hand on his arm to steady herself. “The duke … drenched … with a l-l-lily pad … on his beautiful, golden head.”
He raised his brows. She had a dashed good imagination. “I hadn’t thought of that. He could wear it like a crown. Suits him perfectly. Harrison Lacey, the eighth Duke of Blackmore. King of the Fish Pond.”
She waved her hand at him, gasping for breath as another round of laughter consumed her. Clearly, Jane found the idea of Harrison meeting with misfortune exceedingly humorous. Come to think of it, so did he.
Taking several deep breaths to regain control, she patted his arm. “I do enjoy your company, Lord Lacey. I—I would not be opposed to spending more time together. So long as our visits are proper.”
His heart thudded sickeningly against the wall of his chest. She had agreed. It was what he’d come here to achieve. Now, winning the wager was possible.
Abruptly, he wanted to retch.
Instead, he nodded and smiled down into her flashing spectacles. “You shan’t regret your decision, Lady Jane,” he lied.
After watching her disappear back into Lady Reedham’s music room, he’d gone straight to Reaver’s and gotten roaring drunk.
Which was where he presently sat. Drunk. At Reaver’s. Watching Benedict Chatham sip his second glass of whisky and thumb through the bleeding betting book that was five pages longer than it had been a fortnight ago.
Chatham arched a brow and glanced up at Colin. “Breeches?”
Colin’s stomach heaved with nausea. He let his head drop back onto his arm where it rocked back and forth in despair. Chatham chuckled before remarking reassuringly, “Well, at least they did not specify a color. Now, that would be a challenge.”
*~*~*