Chapter Four
Bracebridge removed his hat when Sinclair’s housekeeper opened the door. He nodded at the woman. “Good day, Mrs. Elliot.”
“My lord.” She curtseyed but did not move aside to admit him.
“I’ve business with Mr. Sinclair,” he said. He had no quarrel with her. Indeed, she’d always struck him as highly competent.
She winced. “I’m not to let anyone in, my lord.”
A reprehensible part of him wished Gopal had been less conscientious about Sinclair and his debts. Bracebridge would have stood by happily while the bailiff evicted the man on behalf of whomever the new owner of the Cooperage would have been. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
Mrs. Elliot’s eyes widened. She believed Bracebridge would make good on the implied threat, and that was all he needed: her conviction that he would have her employer on the street. In truth, no matter how satisfying the idea, or how darkly he glowered at Mrs. Elliot, he could not. How could he, when the man he so despised was also Anne’s father?
“My lord.” She curtseyed, one hand clutching the side of the door. “I cannot allow it.”
“I’ll see him now or fetch the bailiff.” He softened his tone. “Step aside, madam.”
She backed away with a wary shrug. “Milord.”
Upstairs, a door slammed. Mrs. Elliot froze when Sinclair’s voice rang out: “What is the meaning of this?”
Emily’s father appeared at the top of the stairs, impeccably dressed as always. He clutched a goblet in one hand and dangled a dark green bottle in the other. He took a long drink from the goblet and emptied it before he sloshed the contents of the bottle into it. “You,” Thomas Sinclair said as he headed down the stairs, his attention on Bracebridge. He lurched to one side and hit the railing hard, though he managed to steady himself. “What are you doing here?”
Sinclair looked substantially older and more dissipated than the last time Bracebridge had seen him. Now that he was close, though his clothes were as fashionable as ever—the man was wearing a Rachagorla waistcoat, for God’s sake—Bracebridge noted that his neckcloth was askew and his shirt collar was uneven on one side.
“As if you don’t suspect the reason.”
“Lord . . .” Sinclair drank half the contents of his goblet. “Bracebridge.” He descended the last few stairs, then bowed slowly and with too much care. “You are not welcome here.”
Bracebridge had enough experience with angry drunks to know to position himself in front of Mrs. Elliot; drunks like Sinclair always went after the weaker. “Sir.”
“You.” Sinclair pointed at Mrs. Elliot. “He is not to be admitted. Were those not my clear instructions? That blackguard purveyor of sin and despoiler of Britain’s most honorable sons is not to be admitted to decent homes. This is a decent home.”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Elliot said with a panicked look at Bracebridge. “But—”
“Not to be admitted to the house.” He emphasized each word and then gestured at the ceiling. “Is this not the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Sinclair,” Bracebridge said. “I insisted.”
“I shall deal with you presently.” Sinclair returned to Mrs. Elliot. “You are discharged. Be gone before the day is done. Tell that pretty scullery maid Nancy or Betty or Daisy or whatever her name is that she’s promoted into your place.” He made a shooing motion. “I’ll not tolerate insubordination and inadequate service. It’s too much for a gentleman to bear.” He said that last bit with a look at Bracebridge intended to imply there was only one gentleman present.
“Mr. Sinclair—” The woman’s chin firmed.
“Out!” He reeled into the wall again and knocked a small watercolor off kilter. “I’ll have you arrested for trespass.”
“You haven’t that right,” Bracebridge said. He might not throw the man out, but oh, how he would enjoy this. He intended to have every ounce of satisfaction to be extracted here.
Sinclair’s watery-eyed glare pierced him. “I’ll dismiss any servant I please.” He snapped his fingers. “I might dismiss the entire staff, and it would be no business of yours.”
“Yes, as to that.” Bracebridge then addressed the housekeeper. “Pay him no need. His threats of prosecution for trespass are empty.”
“Get out of my sight!” Sinclair waved the bottle. “Both of you. I won’t have either of you in this house a moment longer. Conspirators, the lot of you.”
“He’s discharged me a dozen times,” Mrs. Elliot said in a low voice. “Tomorrow he won’t remember.”
“No whispering!” Sinclair attempted to go around Bracebridge to reach Mrs. Elliot. “If you’ve something to say, say it to me directly, or I’ll call you a bloody damned coward.”
For years, Anne had taken the brunt of this man’s anger, constantly protecting her younger sisters from his vituperation. The thought of every moment she’d been forced to accept his blame and disregard still made his heart ache. He wondered how often Emily had been alone here with her father in this condition. He prayed to God it was not often.
Bracebridge planted himself in front of Mrs. Elliot. “I would be obliged, ma’am, if you convinced Miss Sinclair to remove to Rosefeld at her soonest possible convenience.” He did not want Emily here. Not with her father like this. “Before then, even.”
Mrs. Elliot put a hand over her heart, stricken and pale as snow.
“Here now,” Sinclair said. “What’s all this whispering when I’ve told you not to? Plotting against me like the blackguard you are.” He jabbed a forefinger at Bracebridge. “You’ve had it in for me since I sent you packing for having the gall to think you could marry a Sinclair.”
To Mrs. Elliot, Bracebridge said, “I promise I shall handle your situation, whatever that may be. You and the staff may apply to me. If it comes to the worst, I’ll see all their wages are paid. My word on it.”
Sinclair slammed a hand against the wall hard enough to rattle one of the gilt-framed mirrors. “I said, get out!”
Bracebridge tipped his head toward the housekeeper. “Leave us, Mrs. Elliot. Please.”
With a glance at Sinclair, she fled down the back stairs.
The moment she was gone, Sinclair sneered at him. “If you do not leave my house, I’ll have you thrown out.”
Now that Mrs. Elliot was downstairs, he no longer had to mind his language. He meant to enjoy every moment of this. “You haven’t the right to throw me out.”
“The devil, you say. This is my house.”
“As we both know, that is not so.” He savored the procession of reactions as they appeared on Sinclair’s face. “It is my right to evict you from the Cooperage.”
Sinclair drew back, just sober enough, thank you, to understand what Bracebridge was saying. What wouldn’t Bracebridge give to crush this man’s heart the way Sinclair had crushed his? “The Cooperage is now mine.”
“Impossible.”
He smiled. “The deed came into my possession earlier today.”
Sinclair blanched, and his upper back banged against the wall. “Impossible.”
“Two Fives isn’t the only hell under my management.” He scratched his chin but continued to smile. He blessed Gopal for having the wit to buy up those debts and all the new ones, then come immediately to inform him. “As you’ve been so busy telling others, I encourage gentlemen to lose all the money they have when they gamble at one of my properties. Not coincidentally, the house often finds it advantageous to buy up debts.”
The other man poured more wine, but only a few drops splashed into the goblet. He focused on Bracebridge, eyes crossed and red-veined. He leaned back and blinked several times. “You won’t put me on the street.”
Bracebridge shrugged.
“Nor send me to debtor’s prison. None of my girls would allow that. In fact, I don’t believe you have got the deed. Davener bought it up, not you.”
“If you thought Walter Davener would remember anything more complicated than his name, you were mistaken.” He withdrew the case Gopal had given him and opened it enough for Sinclair to slide out the note relating to the Cooperage. “I believe this is the relevant document.”
Sinclair focused on the page. Red crept up from his neck to his cheeks. “Get out.”
“Mind your tongue, Sinclair,” Bracebridge drawled with pure satisfaction. “This is no longer your property. Should you elect to stay, you’ll find I am an unforgiving landlord.”
“You are a disgrace to your father’s name.”
His anger receded. He’d had his heart broken before and survived. Sinclair’s insults were nothing compared to that. He tucked the case back into his pocket. “I’m sure he would agree with you.”
“You aren’t fit to wipe the mud from Anne’s shoes. You weren’t before, and you aren’t now.”
“The Cooperage is mine,” he said evenly. “If you were wise or sober, you’d worry about how you’ll pay the rent.”
Sinclair heaved the empty bottle at him, but Bracebridge dodged it easily. Glass shattered against the wall behind him and peppered his back. Sinclair was sliding fast into the final years of a life that had been crumbling for years. Bracebridge had no sympathy. “I’m not the only gentleman to be ruined at Two Fives.”
“No, sir. You are not.”
Sinclair fiddled with the middle button of his waistcoat. “I’ll have your money before the end of the day.”
“From Davener?” He snorted. “Why would he give you that kind of money?”
He put a finger alongside his nose. “I have my ways.”
“Best hope matters are in motion. I cannot guarantee I’ll be in a mood to sell to you. Or Davener. Or anyone else.”
“You’ll not accept payment on a debt of honor?” The lines around his mouth deepened. “I ought to have known.”
“It’s not a debt of honor now. It’s merely a debt to be paid in due time.” Bracebridge waited until he had Sinclair’s attention. “In the meantime, the Cooperage is mine.”
“Guttersnipe.”
He managed not to laugh. “Send Davener my way. If he forgets, my attorneys will contact you regarding the disposition of the property and the terms of your continued residence here.” He put on his hat. “I’ll take my leave by wishing you merrily to the devil.”
“This time tomorrow, you’ll regret those words.”
He was halfway to the door, but at that, he turned. “I doubt it.” He looked Sinclair up and down. “You’ve already done your worst.”
He closed the door firmly on his way out. He was halfway to his gig when the front door opened and a voice rang out from the portico. “My dear Lord Bracebridge!”
He turned and saw Walter Davener, of all people, start down the front stairs at the same time a groom drove Davener’s carriage around the corner from the stables. Emily came down the stairs behind the man. She had Frieda on a leash and looked to be dressed for travel. His gig blocked Davener’s gilded monstrosity from the front stairs, so the groom brought the carriage to a halt behind Bracebridge’s rig.
“My good fellow.” Davener was all smiles as he headed for Bracebridge. Behind him, Emily stopped at the bottom step. Her expression was absolutely unreadable, until she turned her head to one side and he saw indisputable evidence of recent tears. What was this? Bracebridge tried to catch her eye, but she steadfastly refused to look in his direction. What the devil was she doing stepping out with Davener?
The man had barely half the brains a sheep needed to stand in the rain, and he knew for a fact Emily did not care for Walter Davener. He’d made a notable pest of himself last season, to the point that the betting books had been full of wagers about which of Emily’s brothers-in-law would take Davener in hand and propose that his attentions be directed elsewhere immediately.
“You may be the first to congratulate us.”
“Oh?” He shot a look at Emily, but she was staring at the ground.
“I am the happiest man in the entire world,” Davener said. “For I have secured the hand of that most beauteous of maidens, the Divine Sinclair.”
“Emily,” Bracebridge said. She did not look up.
“Pray, my lord,” Davener said in ringing tones. “Do not address my bride-to-be in such familiar terms. It won’t do. Not at all.”
Bracebridge opened the door to his gig, then held out his hand to her. “Come along, Em.” That got her attention. Her eyes were wide and as blue as the sky. “The dog, too.”
“What is the meaning of this?”
Bracebridge put a hand on the gig door and held it open, his other hand still extended to Emily. “You don’t want to marry him.” He’d had his differences with Emily Sinclair, and he had deliberately withdrawn from all but the coldest of interactions with her, but that did not mean he would leave her to something like this. Not with those tears. “Whatever your father said to make you think you must do this was pure nonsense. Get in. Anne shall never forgive me if I allow this travesty.”
The world froze while Emily refused to meet his gaze. Her tear-stained cheeks told a tale, didn’t they? He waited, and it occurred to him that she might actually go through with this. Say what you would about her, she was loyal to her family. To a fault.
“Whatever his threats,” he said, “whatever hold he has over you, I shall make it right.” He held out a hand. “Come.”
She took a breath, their eyes met, and she practically ran to his gig, Frieda at her side.
“Miss Sinclair,” Davener called out in a confused voice, “that is the wrong vehicle. Pray come this way.”
She urged Frieda up and inside, and followed with an immodest flash of ankle and calf, and no assistance from Bracebridge.
“This is entirely out of order, Miss Sinclair.” Davener advanced on her, but Bracebridge caught his arm and held him back. The other man twisted to get a look at Emily. “This is no time to be driving out with another man. We are due at the vicarage! We shall be late.”
Bracebridge tightened his grip on Davener’s arm. He had an almost irresistible urge to connect his fist to the man’s chin. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”
Davener lunged toward the gig. “My love!”
Bracebridge let go with an upper cross that connected soundly with Davener’s jaw. The man hit the ground like a sack of dead rats.