Chapter Seventeen
“Hit harder.”
“You’re a bigger fool than I’d initially thought. What the hell are you doing here with me? It’s your wedding night,” Brooks said.
“Shut up and hit harder,” Ian said, panting.
They were in the Raven Club’s boxing room where a square ring was roped off with stakes anchored to the floor at each corner. In the center of the ring, Ian and Brooks circled each other.
“It didn’t take long, did it, to push your bride away?” Brooks said.
Ian glowered at his opponent. “Stop talking. Start fighting.” The pair rocked back and forth with nimble footwork.
“As you wish, my lord.”
Ian’s jaw clenched. He needed this. Needed to fight. They were bare-chested and bare-fisted. Both men were slightly bent, head and shoulders forward, their fists balled to strike. They jabbed and punched as they moved around within the ropes in a well-practiced athletic dance. They were well-matched, and for several minutes neither talked. Their grunts and heavy breathing, along with their shoes scraping on the hardwood floor echoing off the walls, were the only sounds in the room.
Ian knew Brooks’s weaknesses and his strengths, just like Brooks knew his. Ian waited for his chance, then took it when Brooks leaned to the side. Ian struck out as fast as lightning to land a solid punch to Brooks’s ribs.
Brooks grunted, then back stepped. “You fight like the devil, Swift.”
“You fight like a boy, Brooks.”
Their athletic dance continued, each throwing punches—some blocked, some making contact. Sweat beaded on Ian’s brow and on his bare chest. He relished the physical exertion, but instead of feeling exhilarated, Ian felt frustration.
The muscles in Ian’s arm bunched as he surged forward, hitting Brooks squarely in the gut. Brooks grunted but didn’t double over from the hit.
Ian’s mind returned to the wedding breakfast, to when Grace had stepped from her hiding place, shock and anger reflected in her lovely eyes.
He’d hurt her. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d hurt most of those who loved him. If he’d been able to stop Matthew from racing on the treacherous track that day, his brother would be alive. His sisters would have a proper male role model, and his mother would need not worry about the succession of the earldom.
He’d never intended for Grace to learn of his intentions regarding the club in such a devastating manner. He’d lost his temper with the dowager, and Grace had overheard their heated argument hours after they’d exchanged vows before all who cared about them.
He was not marriage material. He’d lived a life of a rake and libertine for far too long to become reformed. Inheriting an unwanted earldom could not change him overnight, and he had no desire to become a better man.
For a decade, since his father’s dictates had forced Ian out of the family home, his lifestyle had served him well. The club had saved him financially and had given him purpose.
Nothing could change the fact that he’d hurt Grace. She’d held herself with pride, but he’d seen the misery in her blue eyes. The rigid set of her shoulders. The trembling of her fists at her sides. He’d wanted to soothe away her pain, be the husband she deserved.
But he wasn’t that man. Could never be.
Their marriage was not to be a real one. She didn’t want him in her bed, didn’t want to consummate the marriage.
Hell.
Distracted by his thoughts, Ian was slow to see Brooks’s fist strike. Ian raised his arm to block the blow, but he was late. Brooks took advantage of the split-second delay to land a solid uppercut to Ian’s jaw.
Pain exploded in Ian’s brain as his head snapped back. His vision darkened at the corners, and he fell to his knees. He blinked, perversely relishing the pain, knowing he deserved it, deserved much more.
“I’m done for tonight,” Brooks said, staring down at him.
“No.” Ian’s voice sounded guttural. He tried to get to his feet and ended up on one knee.
Brooks extended a hand and hauled Ian up. He dipped a metal cup into a bucket of water and handed it to his friend.
“Damn, Ian. She’s gotten to you good.”
Ian drank, then tossed the cup back into the bucket. “I can handle her.”
“If this is your way of handling the situation with your bride, you’ll end up bloodied and bruised. You lost focus.”
Ian started to shake his head, then stopped. The motion hurt like the devil. “She refuses to share my bed. She’s being unreasonable.”
Brooks choked on a laugh. “Seems to me she’s not the unreasonable one.”
“You think I should sell the club?”
Brooks hesitated, then reached for a cotton towel and wiped the sweat from his brow. “What I think doesn’t matter. It’s how she feels about it.”
“She despises gambling and blames it for all her father’s problems.”
“Then it’s up to you to explain what the Raven Club means to you, to all of us. The club saved you and took care of many others in your employ.”
He gritted his teeth. “It’s not just the club. She wants a husband who will love her.”
“So? Why can’t you be that man?”
Ian clenched his mouth tighter. “I cannot. It’s not in me.”
“Why? Is it because you didn’t know love from your father?”
“I cannot be what she needs, and I can’t explain it to her, dammit.”
Brooks gave him a dark look. “I’ve always known you were stubborn, Ian, but not daft.”
…
He’d left her on her wedding night.
They’d said their goodbyes to their guests and departed the wedding breakfast in Ian’s crested carriage and headed to his home. The ride was blessedly short, and Grace looked out the window in silence. Once Ian had seen her into the vestibule, he’d turned on his heel and left. He hadn’t bothered to introduce her to the servants as his wife. Although, she reminded herself, there were only two.
Her trunks had been delivered and now sat in the center of the vestibule. She stared at the marble floor, the tall columns, and then at the winding grand staircase and gilded balustrade. Not long ago she’d been in his arms, pressed against the door in a sizzling embrace.
“My lady?”
Grace whirled to find the housekeeper, Mrs. Smithson, approach. Grace frowned. She hadn’t heard her footsteps. Had she been that distracted by her thoughts?
“The earl instructed me to show you to your rooms. The footmen will see to your trunks.”
“The footmen?”
“Yes, my lady. Castleton hired them a few days before along with a full staff of maids, a full-time cook, and scullery staff. He wants you to be comfortable here.”
Goodness, Ian had been busy. Of course, he’d gone through the efforts before she’d told him she wanted a marriage in name only.
Two young men appeared and went immediately to the heavy trunks, lifted them like they weighed little more than small portmanteaus, and climbed up the stairs. They were burly and muscular and didn’t look like the typical footmen she’d seen in any of the London homes she’d visited.
“This way, my lady.” Mrs. Smithson motioned to the stairs.
Grace followed. At the landing, the housekeeper turned right and started down a long hall. They passed door after door until she halted by one at the end of the hall. Grace had only visited Ian’s home at night, and she hadn’t realized how large it was.
Mrs. Smithson opened the door to a brightly lit bedchamber. The coal brazier had been lit along with candles, revealing a spacious bedchamber decorated in pale pinks. The furniture was elegant and feminine. A four-poster bed had a lovely coverlet and half a dozen plump pillows embroidered with roses. A small escritoire with clawed feet was located by a large window. A lush Brussel’s carpet with a beautiful Oriental pattern covered the floor. Grace walked to the window seat and looked out the window to see the gardens below. They weren’t well-kept, but she preferred a more natural landscape and the view was stunning.
“The room is lovely and decorated in my favorite color.”
“His lordship chose it to please you.”
“Truly?” He’d taken the time to learn her favorite color? How?
“He mentioned he asked your young brother,” Mrs. Smithson answered her silent question. Her mind turned to the day at Gunter’s. They must have discussed much more than ice cream flavors and racing horses.
Why bother? Ian hadn’t wanted to marry.
“Your gown is lovely,” Mrs. Smithson said. “I can help you with the hooks. Castleton has not hired a ladies’ maid. He thought you would like to select one or send for your own maid.”
“Rose will arrive tomorrow. If you can assist now, I would be most grateful.”
“Of course, my lady.”
“His lordship wants you to be comfortable, my lady. If you require anything, all you need do is ask.”
Once again, Grace was surprised to learn of his efforts.
She can rusticate in the country.
His words resounded in her mind. The truth was that he never intended for her to learn that he’d kept his precious casino.
“You must be famished. Dinner will be served in the dining room.”
“Is Castleton expected?”
“No, my lady. He has departed for the evening.” Mrs. Smithson turned, but not before Grace caught the flash of sympathy in the housekeeper’s eyes.
He’d left her.
On their wedding night.
She could only assume he’d escaped to the Raven Club. What did she expect? She’d demanded a marriage in name only. He was following her command. Then why did she feel such emptiness, such sorrow?
She let out a long sigh. If only he hadn’t betrayed her.
Would she have agreed to marry him if she’d known he intended to keep the club?
Her position had been precarious. Her father’s debts. Her nonexistent dowry. Adam’s schooling. Her imminent ruin.
If only she hadn’t learned of his deception from eavesdropping on his conversation with the dowager. If only Ian had been honest, had explained his intentions, perhaps things would have turned out differently and she wouldn’t be spending her wedding night alone.
She pushed aside her disappointment. She was never one to wallow in self-pity. She preferred action. Hadn’t she bravely sought out employment with the milliner to ease her financial burdens?
She was healthy and strong-willed. There were worse things than dining alone.
Even on her wedding night.
As that thought crossed her mind, another took hold. “Can you tell me where Castleton’s bedchamber is located?” She’d been to his chambers once before to see his clothing and cut his hair, but it had been at night and she wasn’t certain of its location relative to her own chambers.
“The servants use the door from the hall, but you won’t need to.”
She wouldn’t need to. Did Ian tell Mrs. Smithson about their arrangement? Grace felt her face heat.
“You may use the private door that leads directly into his chambers.” The housekeeper pointed to a paneled door by the escritoire. It had been surreptitiously painted the same color as the wall and was hard to see unless one knew to look for it.
A private door to Ian’s bedchamber.
But you will not use it. She’d stood before him hours ago dressed in her wedding finery and swore she would never willingly come to his bed.
Challenge accepted, he’d said.
Would he slip through the door tonight and try to seduce her?
Why did the thought cause her heart to pound fast in excitement rather than outrage?
“Thank you, Mrs. Smithson. I’m tired from the day and have decided to have a tray brought to my room. Please help me with my stays.”
The housekeeper’s brow furrowed and she curtsied. “As you wish.” Mrs. Smithson worked the tiny row of pearl buttons, helped Grace step out of the beautiful gown, then hung it in the armoire. Next were Grace’s stays, then she laid a nightgown on the bed. “It’s lovely.”
The nightgown was nothing like Grace had ever worn before. A thin garment made of the softest cotton she had ever touched, it was embroidered with fine silver on the hem. The dressmaker had insisted she add it to her trousseau along with a matching wrapper. Of course, Ian was paying for everything, and the woman was more than happy to see Grace outfitted as the new bride of the Earl of Castleton. Grace had blushed when she’d first seen the garment.
Now she wanted to toss it out the window, except she had nothing else to sleep in. It didn’t matter. Ian wasn’t home, nor was he coming to her bed.
Mrs. Smithson went to the door, then hesitated. “Forgive me for speaking, my lady, but Castleton is not a bad man.”
Grace’s stomach tightened at the housekeeper’s words. Her husband may not be a bad man, but he certainly was a dishonest one.
“Good evening,” Grace said.
Mrs. Smithson curtsied, then slipped out of the room.
Grace spent a half hour pacing the lavishly appointed room in her nightgown. Rose would arrive tomorrow, but she decided to take out her gowns, shake them, and hang them in the armoire. A low knock on the door made her look up. A young kitchen maid carried in a tray and left it on a side table, then quickly departed. Grace had little appetite, but she nibbled on cheese, soft bread, and cold ham. It was surprisingly delicious, and she wondered where he’d found the cook.
Soon after eating, she made up her mind. Her dresses had been hung, her silver comb and brush set on the dressing table. If he wasn’t coming home, then she wouldn’t wait. There was one room in the house that held hours of entertainment. Entertainment and diversion from her predicament.
She donned her wrapper, took up a candlestick, then opened the door. Her footsteps were silent on the carpet runner as she headed down the hall, passing doors until she came to one on the opposite end from her bedchamber. She’d spent most of her late-night visits here with Ian, and she knew precisely which door interested her. Opening it, she swept inside the library.
The table where she’d instructed Ian about table manners that fateful night was no longer there. The large oak desk remained along with the magnificent shelves of books.
A perfect escape.
She set her candlestick on an end table and helped herself to Ian’s French brandy from the sideboard. She could spend hours here reading until she was too sleepy to keep her eyes open. She walked to the bookshelf closest to the desk when a flash of red from the corner of her eye caught her attention.
She froze. A stack of red, leather-bound ledgers rested on the desk. Spread open on the blotter beside a bottle of ink was one of the ledgers. She recalled seeing them on his desk on her first visit to the library. Her bookkeeping work for the milliner had aroused her interest in business, and her fingers had itched to open one of Ian’s books and learn his true worth and that of the Raven Club. She nervously glanced around the room as if someone would appear from behind a bookshelf or the furnishings and surmise her intent.
A peek couldn’t hurt, would it?
Don’t be ridiculous, she thought. Ian isn’t coming home tonight.
Hesitating for only a heartbeat, Grace placed her glass and candlestick on the desk and walked behind it. She ran her hand over the luxurious leather grain of Ian’s desk chair, then sat and reached for the open ledger.
An hour later, she was shocked and horrified at what she’d discovered.
Good God.
Her husband wasn’t just wealthy. He was filthy rich. More than she’d ever imagined. If he knew, the Prince Regent would be green with envy. The Raven Club was an endless source of income. But what was shocking was what he did with the money.
She leaned back in the leather chair, propped her feet up on the edge of the desk, and scanned the tiny rows of figures. Her husband donated to charities. Almost a dozen of them. He didn’t spell them out but used an abbreviated notation. The Orphaned Children’s Relief Society was one of them. She recognized the initials and the precise amount donated. She recalled the charity’s last meeting where an anonymous donor had made a significant contribution—enough to purchase coal for the braziers for the entire winter and refurbish the headmaster’s quarters. Ian was the anonymous donor.
There were others as well. Almost all the charities benefitted children or women. There were other notations as well—ones she couldn’t decipher. Was he making notes of the names of his most frequent gamblers, the pugilists who were the most successful, or something else?
Her analytical mind continued to scan the figures and notations. All the entries were in the same handwriting. A bold, masculine script. Only Ian handled the books. No secretary or assistant.
Interesting.
She understood firsthand that it was time-consuming and tedious work. Her accounting for the milliner was simple and on a small scale in comparison. Ian must spend hours at the task.
She studied the tiny figures in the rows and columns. He wasn’t perfect, and she spotted an error. She didn’t want to use ink, so she rummaged in one of the desk drawers until she found a pencil and made a note in the column.
Setting aside the ledger, she reached for another, then another. The candle burned low and she found and lit another. The brandy soothed her nerves as she worked. She grew drowsy, but she wasn’t ready to return to her room. Her very empty bedchamber. She rested the book on her chest and leaned even farther back in the leather chair. Her eyelids fluttered.
“First eavesdropping, now helping yourself to my private ledgers. I didn’t realize I married a spy.”
At these words, her eyes flew open to see her husband standing by the desk, his dark eyes staring down at her.