Chapter 17
In all his life, John had never ridden like the devil was on his heels. Until now.
It wasn’t the devil.
It was the call of Meredith Trent.
He threw his riding gloves and long, mud-crusted coat to the footman at the back entrance of Hell Fire.
The gaming club had been open now for a month and it was the favorite spot of the London darlings.
The opulent gambling palace really wasn’t as scandalous as it sounded. He and Edward had been adamant that there would be no prostitution on the premises.
None.
The two dozen large, but immaculately dressed, toughs who watched the many tables, halls, back rooms and nearby side streets all made sure that no illicit deals happened. Also, they ensured that there was no cheating and that if some tosser decided to become enraged and start a fight that it would be ended before it had truly begun.
Oh no. This place was where fools with too much coin came to throw it all away.
It had been another point.
No one, absolutely no one, was allowed to gamble to the point where they’d blow their brains out come dawn.
Captain Matthew Rourke, a man with an Irishman’s angel tongue, could persuade just about any man to walk away from the tables if needed. And he was worth his weight in gold, picking up spirits when they’d fallen a touch too low.
Hell Fire wasn’t about to be in the papers for self-slaughter.
Even with these particular stipulations, the club raked in thousands every night. The upper rooms were opulent, gilded affairs where beauty reigned supreme. The best wine, brandy, and cigars were available as was the best service. Ladies were allowed to gamble, too.
A certain duchess had lost twenty thousand in their first week and she hadn’t even shed a tear.
The ton really did have more money than sense.
Now. . . One other vice they did allow was fighting. Not animals. John and Edward did not peddle that particular brand of cruelty.
But if two men wanted to beat each other bloody, not on impulse, and with a referee to ensure order was maintained? Well, then, that was something that could be bet upon, after all.
Edward had discovered a taste for it. Not betting but fighting. This had quite surprised John, given the delicate flower his brother had been upon first acquaintance.
It was true that Edward had been a soldier, but his toughness had been that of giving commands, wearing shiny buttons, and never quite getting into the muddy bloodbath of it.
But Edward had come a long way and learned many hard lessons since he’d so easily cast his fiancée to the wolves.
Actually, Edward had made the transition from callow youth to jaded man in the last year. He was now a strong, hard man whose eyes had been opened to the realities of life.
Sometimes, it surprised John to what extent. Sometimes, he did wonder if he had accidentally forced his brother too far.
But. . . It was too late to go back. They could go only forward now. And John had stood by Edward once the boy had admitted he’d been a complete ass to Emmaline, that he had been shallow, cruel, and foolish. . . Just like all aristocrats inevitably were.
He’d been an ass to John, too, on first meeting. They all had, his rarified brothers. He’d exploited that. That condescension had made it so easy to manipulate them.
Now? Now they were all better men for knowing their true selves and each other.
John strode down the hall, fully aware that he was not truly better or superior. All that he’d hoped for in regards to himself had failed to manifest.
Revenge hadn’t given him satisfaction or peace. So, he’d begun to work with his brothers. To know them. And bit by bit, he’d begun to trust them. Something he’d never have thought possible.
It was odd, having such connections, even if he was wary of them and their permanence.
He threw open the door.
Edward, russet-haired, broad-shouldered, shirt open at the neck and knuckles bloodied stood before a bottle of brandy. He puffed lightly on a cheroot.
“Wrap your knuckles, Edward.” John shook a teasing finger. “Wrap your knuckles.”
Edward rolled his eyes. “I’m not vain.”
“Vain? Stupid?” John drawled. “They’re closely related.”
The look of sheer frustration that darkened Edward’s eyes caused John to laugh.
“Look, Brother,” John said lightly, clapping Edward on the shoulder. “You needn’t prove you’re as tough as granite. You either are or aren’t. Showing people you’re tough in all actuality is a sign of weakness.”
Edward nodded. “Point taken, but sometimes that burn. . . Of my bare knuckles hitting flesh. . .”
John eyed his younger brother and nodded, recalling that experience himself. “Feels damn good, does it not?”
“It does,” Edward replied.
John looked away for a moment, wondering how to say what needed to be said. But then he realized there was really only one way. Abruptly.
So, he pinned his brother with a frank stare. “Meredith Trent has come to London.”
Edward lowered his cheroot, the smoke dancing about his hand. “I beg your pardon?”
John spoke with extreme exaggeration, “Miss Meredith Trent has-”
“I heard you,” Edward bellowed.
“Then why ask?” John asked calmly. Although, he knew exactly why his brother was acting like a bull seeing red.
“Because she bloody well should have stayed wherever the hell she was,” Edward snapped, eyes flashing.
John tsked. “Reverting are we? It isn’t Meredith’s fault you abandoned your lady love at the altar, now is it? In fact, Meredith merely provided the opportunity to show everyone who you truly were.”
“Damnation, John. Do you have to be so blunt, even in the truth?” Edward grabbed the bottle of brandy and drank straight from the mouth.
“Yes,” John stated. But then he softened and looked to the brandy bottle.
“Give it here,” John said, swiping it from his brother. Edward did love his drink and he could drink and drink and never seem the worse for wear. It was the trait of many a reckless young buck.
“What do you suppose she’s doing in town?” Edward asked at last.
John leaned in and said, “Staying with James.”
“Bloody hell,” Edward groaned before lifting his cheroot to his lips.
“And she’s going on the mart,” John added with as little care as possible.
“The marriage mart?” Edward demanded.
John plunked the bottle down, sat in the beautifully made leather chair and put his feet up on the boulder-like mahogany desk. “Is there another kind for a lady?”
Edward’s lip curled slightly. “She is not a lady.”
“I’ve grown fond of you, lad.” John narrowed his eyes and forced himself to retain a devil may care tone as he felt fury singing through his blood. “Indeed, I have. But you just showed your true colors again. The colors that made me abhor your lot to start with.”
Edward stared for a long moment. “I know, John,” he admitted at last. “I am. . . Not the best of men.”
“You’re not the worst, either,” John relented. “But I should hate that you truly learned nothing last year. We might have to rethink our relationship if you haven’t.”
“I. . . I still long to blame someone for what happened,” Edward replied, turning towards the windows which looked out to the packed street below. “I miss her so damned much.”
“I still doubt it,” John countered, studying his brother. “I don’t think you’ve got any clue who the real Emmaline is. You still have an image of saintliness in your head. She’s never been and certainly is not now such a thing.”
“I can’t even get to know her,” Edward bemoaned, plunging a hand through his hair. “She’ll have nothing do with me.”
John nodded, bridging his hands. “And rightly.”
“Yes,” Edward acknowledged.
“Circumstances won’t improve if you go about saying Merry isn’t a lady.”
Edward’s brows rose ever so slightly. “Merry?”
“We have become more familiar in the last weeks.” John kept his face blank, determined to allow the depth of their familiarity show.
“God. That’s where you were.” Edward rolled his eyes. “Convincing her to come back and cause trouble.”
“No,” John corrected, wondering how the devil the situation had become even more complicated than it was before. “James sent me up there to bring her back. Still feels guilty, does that one.”
Edward sighed and stabbed out his cheroot in a small, porcelain dish on the desk. “James was born with an extra dose of guilt and responsibility.”
John couldn’t help the bitter smile. “Luckily for him, he only feels guilt rarely.”
“But he does feel it,” Edward affirmed. His love for his eldest brother, despite the pain of everything, was unshakable.
Unlike their father.
The words were between them though unspoken.
John had barely known the old man. John had wanted to kill his father when the man had come back into his life. That damned man had been old and frail. Afraid of death. Afraid of going to hell.
Only age and illness had made the arrogant arse try to make up for his past. . . And that had taken shape in the form of money and trying to bring his bastard back into the fold.
It had been a personal hell, interacting with the man who had ruined his mother’s life.
His father had never felt real guilt for anything in his life. But John hadn’t been a fool. To ignore the chance of entering his family’s style of living? It would have been the height of stupidity and he’d been unable to pass the chance up of taking revenge.
“What do I do about her?” Edward asked, wincing.
“Do?” John echoed.
Edward clenched and unfixed his hands. “Avoid her? Just seeing her will make me think of Emmaline.”
“Look here, I don’t know what the right thing is.” John dropped his feet back to the floor, obliged to point out the obvious. “I’m not a moral compass, Edward.”
“That you’re not,” John agreed without hesitation. “But you often do seem to know what to do.”
“I’ll thank you for that. But I have a personal plan for her.” It had dogged him his entire ride back to England, the idea that she would face the snakes of London alone. He wouldn’t bother her. Indeed, he wouldn’t. But he still had to do something.
John swallowed then said the almost impossible words. “I may need your help.”
Edward snatched the bottle of brandy back. “I know I’m going to need this.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” John mocked, desperate not to let his feelings show.
Edward snorted. “I lost my faith in a church a year ago.”
“Actually, I’m fairly sure you never had it or you never would have believed Emmaline bedded someone else.”
Edward lifted the bottle. “John, nothing you could say can make me feel lower than I already do.”
“I’m not interested in you feeling like a tosser.” Edward stood and crossed to the window, looking out over the part of the city that had been far more familiar to him than the west. “I’m not a saint.”
“I didn’t realize anyone had even considered you a possibility for canonization,” Edward quipped.
John laughed. “Definitely not.”
“Fine then. Neither of us are saints.” Edward took a drink then eyed his brother. “But what are you doing with her. I know you, John. I can see it. You’re a cat and you’ve got a mouse in your sights.
“She’s a lion herself,” John protested, his voice warming with admiration despite his best attempts. “Not a mouse. But. . . She’s no idea what she could be contending with. She’s going to marry. A peer, very likely. We all know what they can be like. And I, well. . . I want her married. To the right man.”
Edward stared at him, aghast. “You’re mad.”
“Yes.”
Edward plunked his bottle down and threw up his hands. “John, you can’t keep playing about with people.”
John refused to be repentant in this. So, he demanded, “Why, when I can clearly see what’s best for them.”
“You’re not divine, John,” Edward growled.
“I thought we’d already established that,” John mocked. As he looked out at the teeming city, out at the people scattering about like ants, desperate to earn their daily bread and a quiet corner to sleep in, he knew he could not simply step aside and trust Meredith’s future to fate. Fate was a sword, waiting to fall.
“So, then?” Edward prompted.
“I’m going to watch which fellows sniff about her,” John said softly. “And then we’re going to use our lads here at the club to discover every damned thing about them. I’ll not have her marrying a man who will use her ill.”
“She’s not yours to protect, John.”
“No,” he agreed. “She’s not. I’ll stay well away from her. I promise you that.”
“My God, man.” Edward’s eyes widened with shock. “You want her.”
“I do not,” John snapped.
“You bloody well do.”
He couldn’t deny it again. As good a liar as he was, he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to make Edward believe it. Distraction was his only hope. “Let’s make ourselves absent for a bit.”
“Make ourselves absent where?” Edward asked, his voice still stunned from his realization about John and Meredith.
“I don’t know.” John dug his hands into the windowsill, wishing for relief. Wishing he could stop thinking about her. He didn’t know what to do. He’d come to London, determined to do something for her. Anything. After the way their last meeting had gone and what he’d learned from Clyde, he felt an irrepressible need to fix the debacle.
“There’s a new show on at the Haymarket,” Edward offered.
“A play?” John echoed. He loved the theater. If things had been different, he would have sponsored an acting company. There was something about the magic of a play that always held him transfixed. “Right then. Let’s go.”
Edward nodded then opened the door. Before striding through, he paused. “I think you could be making a vast mistake.”
“In what?” John asked, as he pushed away from the window.
“Meredith Trent,” Edward leveled. “I think you should stay out of it. You already changed the course of her life once.”
“Twice.” John smiled wryly. “After all, she was rusticating in Scotland until I arrived with the good news.”
“Twice is enough, John,” Edward warned. “You’re courting disaster.”
“Edward, don’t be pessimistic,” John replied heading out into the hall. “Besides, you know what they say?”
Edward let out a suffering groan. “And what is that?”
John gave his brother a mischievous grin. “That the third time is a charm.”