The boxing room was more shadows than light but then it usually was. Most of the light focused on the ring where Lord Ekroth stood, as he kept glancing around at the other men surrounding the roped-off area.
Rafe had called the meeting, invited Ekroth into the ring. It had appeared he was going to decline the invitation until Mick ushered him in with a gentle prodding and the lifting of the rope. Splints kept Rafe’s left hand immobile and it was far from being completely healed, but he could pack quite the wallop with his right.
He wondered if Ekroth recognized the significance of the group of men who were in attendance. If any of them realized why they had been singled out for this particular lesson.
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Easton. What’s the meaning of all this?” Ekroth asked.
“Lord Rafe.”
“Pardon?”
“Not Easton, but Lord Rafe Easton. That’s how I should be addressed.”
“I didn’t think you much cared for your noble heritage.”
“I’ve had a change of . . . heart. So in the future, you will address me with the respect that my father passed down to me.”
“Simple enough. Consider it done.”
“Splendid. Now on to more important matters. Do you know what you all have in common?”
Each one looked at the others. Some squirmed. Some shook their heads. Some averted their gazes.
“You were all at Wortham’s the night that he decided to send the earl’s daughter to her ruin.”
“You were there as well,” Ekroth said accusingly.
“Indeed I was, and so I’m well aware of what you’d planned for the woman who is to become my wife. And it doesn’t sit well with me. Doesn’t sit well with me at all. So, gentlemen, tonight I give you a choice: you can see your debts to me come due and your status within Society ruined, or you can let it be known—without going into specifics—that you know Wortham to be unsuitable for any man’s daughter, sister, or cousin. You will ensure that he is reviled, considered the scum of the earth, and shunned by all who are proper. Do that, gentlemen, and with the exception of Ekroth, all your debts to me will be wiped clean.”
“What of me?” Ekroth demanded.
“Of you I require a bit more. You wanted to put your hands on her, humiliate her, ruin her with your vile touch, while promising nothing in return.”
“I promised five hundred quid.”
“Her worth cannot be measured.”
Ekroth jerked up his chin. “So what do you plan, my lord, in order for us to be even?”
“I plan to beat you bloody.”
Geoffrey Litton, Earl of Wortham, strode into his library, frustration gnawing at his heels. Today should have been the day when everything was once again set right. Angus Dimmick had been publicly hanged that afternoon for committing several murders. The man was a frightening piece of work, and Geoffrey was grateful to be no longer in his debt. He’d witnessed the hanging, then gone to a tavern to celebrate with a few tankards. When the tavern closed he had headed home. What he truly wanted was a game of cards, but every club he visited barred his entrance, informed him that he was not welcome. He had expected it of the Rakehell Club, but the others made little sense. He’d yet to run up a debt elsewhere.
Something was amiss.
Tomorrow when his vision wasn’t quite so blurred and his head wasn’t swimming, he’d go round to the clubs again and talk to the owners about his membership.
The room was mostly shadows. One lone lamp burning low on the desk guided him to his liquor cabinet, where he poured himself a hearty helping of Scotch. He lifted the glass and inhaled the heady aroma. He tossed back a long swallow, turned on his heel, staggered back, and to his everlasting mortification, squealed like a piglet that had just had its tail pulled.
Rafe Easton sat sprawled in a chair near the cold fireplace.
“What are you doing here?” Geoffrey asked, despising the high pitch of his voice, though he seemed unable to lower it.
“Come to settle our debts.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Geoffrey said. “That Dimmick fellow. He said he would erase my debts if I knifed you. I would become a permanent member of the club when he regained possession of it. He’s to blame. Now he’s dead. You have nothing to fear from me.”
“I never had anything to fear from you. And I don’t give a damn about the knifing. What I do care about is the atrocious manner in which you treated your father’s daughter.”
“But you’re marrying her. I saw the announcement in the Times. So she’s come out of the situation smelling like roses.”
Easton slowly rose from the chair. Ominously. “But what if I hadn’t been there that night? What then? You were going to give the lords freedom to rape her.”
“No.” He backed up, hit the table, glass decanters tinkled. “No, no. Only examine her, touch her. Not actually fu—” He remembered the last time he’d used that word in relation to Evelyn. “—bed her. She would have lost her value if she were no longer a virgin. It’s all moot now.”
“Hardly. You’re going to see after her welfare as you promised your father you would.” He tossed some papers onto the desk. “You’re going to sign those.”
Geoffrey tried to see them without getting too close to Easton. “What are they?”
“Transfer of all property that is not entailed, including this residence, to your beloved sister.”
“What? No. Never.” The man had gone mad.
“Consider it a wedding gift to Eve. Sign the papers and I’ll not beat you to within an inch of your life.”
“You dare to threaten me?”
“Not only do I dare it, I enjoy it. You lost your membership to my club, and you’ve no doubt discovered that no other club will have you.”
Red flashed before Geoffrey’s eyes. “You arranged that?”
“Oh, I’ve arranged a good deal more than that. There is not a lord in all of England who will give you leave to marry his daughter. You will die without issue, and your cousin Francis will inherit the title and estates when you are dead. Until that time, for the aristocracy, you no longer exist. You will be invited to no balls, no dinners, no parties. You will have no choice except to live out your life on your ancestral estate, alone, with nothing to sustain you except regret for the unkindness you showed Eve and the knowledge that I am always watching. You won’t see me, but rest assured that I shall be aware of every breath you take.”
“You’ll not get away with this.”
Easton gave him a devilish grin. “I already have. Sign the papers.”
Geoffrey crept toward the desk. “At least allow me back into your club. I shall go mad with no cards to entertain me.”
“Try managing your estates.”
“But the cards, you see, they are my passion.”
“A misguided passion. They led you toward the path to ruin, but it was your choice to step on the road the night you offered up Eve to anyone who wanted her.”
“You must give me something for signing these papers.”
“I’m giving you your life.”
But what a miserable life it would be. “I’d rather you’d kill me.”
“That can be arranged.”
Geoffrey saw the hard coldness in Rafe Easton’s eyes. Yes, he thought, he could arrange it. But it wasn’t what Geoffrey truly wanted. He would find a club willing to take him in. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would find a way out of this mess. Dipping pen in inkwell, he signed every document, then watched as Easton gathered them up and slipped them into a satchel.
“You missed an opportunity, Wortham, to claim a wonderful woman as your sister. You sought to take everything that matters away from her. It seemed only fitting that I take all that matters away from you. Leave London before the sun rises or you’ll find yourself in debtor’s prison.”
“But I just paid my debt to you.”
“No, you paid the debt you owed Evelyn. Your debt to me remains open, my lord, and as I am now in possession of the markers you signed to Dimmick, your debt is considerable.”
When Rafe Easton left, Wortham placed his head in his hands and wept for all he had lost, for the lonely life that would stretch out before him.