Clenching and unclenching her hands in her lap, the awkward weight of the foreign object on her third finger reminded her of her fate. Vangie swung her attention to the closed door. Odd, she’d almost expected his lordship to be there, staring at her with his penetrating, unfathomable quick-silver gaze.
It was as if he could see straight into her thoughts, her soul, yet he kept his emotions shuttered, barring her from viewing any portion of his true self. Clasping her hands again, Vangie felt the ring he’d placed on her finger less than a half hour past. She stared at the emerald-cut sapphire framed by a double row of diamonds. It was a brilliant ring, its fit a trifle loose. She turned it round her finger.
She laughed, a sad hiccupping rasp, saturated with unshed tears. “I should’ve heeded Puri Daj’s warning. Should’ve run as fast as my feet would carry me when I saw him, the black panther,” she murmured in self-castigation.
Yet, how was she to know her life would irreversibly change because of one innocent dance? A solitary tear slipped down her cheek.
After slowly pushing to her feet, she wandered to the window. A hummingbird moth flitted from flower to flower, greedy for the sweet nectar hidden in the blooms. Resting her head against the warm glass, she frowned then shuddered.
She stood precisely where he’d stood as both their lives were shattered. Lifting her face, she allowed a thin sunbeam to bathe her in its warmth. The golden ray gave her strength and hope.
A clock chiming in another part of the house brought Vangie from her reverie. Her stomach growled, reminding her she’d not broken her fast. She angled to stare at the door once more. She wasn’t wed yet and, by God, she wasn’t marrying anyone against her will.
Climbing from the curricle, Ian surveyed the weathered two-story brick building. A black-lettered sign, hanging from two hooks, Joseph Dehring, Solicitor, swayed and rattled in the damp breeze. He lifted his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flicked it open.
Four minutes to three. He wasn’t late. Hell and blast. This once he cursed his punctuality. He rather liked the idea of Stapleton stewing a bit at his tardiness, fretting whether he would call at the appointed time. Or, appear at all.
Ian had been sorely tempted not to, truth to tell. Damn his insufferable honor. And damn Stapleton’s threats. Tucking the timepiece away, he climbed the steps to the entrance. Although the appointment’s purpose was to sign the marriage agreement, he intended to try one final time to extract himself from the compulsory nuptials.
He made no effort to hide his scowl as he was ushered into a large office. The skinny clerk was so nervous, he didn’t announce Ian’s arrival, but shuffled backward out the door the moment he crossed the threshold. No doubt his glower contributed to the fellow’s ineptness.
Ian quickly surveyed the room as he removed his topper and tucked it beneath his arm.
Overflowing shelves filled one entire wall. The pleasant odor of old leather-bound books scented the air. A long since abandoned cobweb dangled from the topmost corner of one of the high shelves. A fern, sorely in need of water, drooped before a tall window.
Stapleton, and a man Ian presumed was Mr. Dehring, spoke quietly whilst examining a pile of papers atop a mammoth double desk. At his entrance, they stopped speaking and lifted their gazes.
He strode to the desk. “Please tell me you don’t mean to see this farce through, Stapleton? You, yourself acknowledge no impropriety occurred.”
“Ahem.” Mr. Dehring cleared his throat. “Why don’t I give you gentlemen a moment?”
He slid a handful of official-looking documents to Stapleton before making a hasty retreat.
After the door closed, Stapleton waved a hand at the papers before him. “If you’ll examine these, my lord, you shall find I’ve bestowed upon Evangeline a generous settlement, and—”
“I don’t want your niece’s marriage settlement any more than I want this damned marriage.” Ian couldn’t even bring himself to say her name. He’d been furious for the past pair of days and was the first to admit he wasn’t the least interested in being agreeable or civil.
Stapleton leaned forward resting his elbows on the desk and formed a steeple with his fingertips. Leveling him a lengthy stare, he tapped his fingers together several times.
Ian supposed the keen perusal might unnerve a lesser man, but Stapleton’s attempt at intimidation only irritated him more. He didn’t cow easily. Precisely why Stapleton resorted to the tactics he had two nights ago. Arching a mocking eyebrow, he returned the bold perusal.
At once, Stapleton’s fierce gaze became unyielding. “You cannot be absolved from responsibility regarding this farce.” He pointed a well-manicured finger. “You ought to have gone for help at once and not taken it upon yourself to loosen Vangie’s stays.”
Guilt prodded Ian, none too gently.
Relaxing against the high-backed leather chair, Stapleton folded his arms across his chest, and continued, acid permeating his tone. “Had you done so, her reputation would’ve remained intact. The gossipmongers wouldn’t be bandying her name about with malicious glee and,” he lowered his hands to grip the chair arms, disgust written across his face, “taking undue pleasure in her humiliation.”
Fiend seize it, he made valid points.
But she couldn’t breathe.
Ian blew out a frustrated sigh, though he remained mulishly silent. He’d argue that truth no more. The difficult task proved keeping his lips sealed regarding the damage Miss Caruthers had done to her own good standing prior to his making her unfortunate acquaintance.
He forced himself to stubble it. Stapleton would deny such offensive allegations and most likely call him out for voicing them. The result of such a duel was predictable. Ian was a crack shot. He’d no intention of killing a decent man over an immoral tart.
Too bad the same couldn’t be said of Geoff. The devil seize it, why did he have to think of Geoff at this moment? His mood was black enough.
Straightening, Stapleton nudged the documents across the scratched and stained desk. “Please, Warrick, do take a seat, and see if the terms meet with your approval.”
Ian dropped his hat atop the desk when what he wanted to do was throw it in Stapleton’s face. Teeth clamped, he yanked off his gloves and tossed them beside the hat. Sinking into a chair, he eyed the papers before lifting them with the same enthusiasm he would a fresh horse turd.
Perusing the settlement, he barely concealed his astonishment. Fifty thousand pounds; a stable full of prime horseflesh; numerous pieces of jewelry; and the Sheffleton Cottage. He shook his head. Cottage, his arse. Sheffleton was a thriving two-hundred-acre estate. He should’ve been thrilled at the generous dowry Stapleton bestowed upon his niece, but Ian wanted no part of it.
It amounted to bribery, pure and simple.
He felt like a fancy man, being paid to take Evangeline Caruthers to wife. A wife he didn’t want. A wife not of his choosing and one he’d never have selected for himself. A wife he could never like, much less love.
He sighed, swallowing a vulgar oath. He was as good as hung, and what was more, Stapleton damn well knew it. At least the wench was pleasing to the eye. He’d no doubt she’d also be a pleasure to bed. If he could move beyond the men who’d sampled her before him.
The door opened after a quick rap. Mr. Dehring poked his balding head—and only his head—inside the room. His gaze—eyes magnified behind wire-rimmed glasses—darted between Stapleton and Ian. He curled his lips into a thin smile. The diminutive man didn’t know if it was safe to come in.
Ian quirked an eyebrow at Stapleton. Well, he silently challenged.
Stapleton angled his dark head and gestured with two fingers. “Come in, Joseph. You need to witness Warrick’s signature.”
Mr. Dehring hurried into the room, another pile of papers beneath his arm.
Waving the foolscap he held, Ian shook his head. He tossed the document onto the desk, mindful of the affronted glance Mr. Dehring shot him for his irreverence. “I want nothing to d
o with your money, Stapleton. Transfer the entire settlement to your niece as her irrevocable property.”
“Come now, Warrick. Don’t be hasty,” Stapleton said, though he couldn’t quite disguise his astonishment. “Somersfield is in disrepair, and the new Arabian bloodline you’ve invested in would set back a man with pockets much deeper than yours.”
Ian glared, again stifling the stream of obscenities thrumming in his throat. “Bloody hell, does your interference know no bounds? What other business of mine have you been prying into?”
Stapleton crossed his legs, lounging against his chair, completely at ease once more. “There’s the rather stiff penalty Prinny’s assessed.”
Ian curled his toes in his boots until they protested in pain. What he truly wanted to do was slam his fist atop the desk—or into Stapleton’s much too smug face. “That amercement,” he said with a calm deliberation, though fury tunneled through his veins, “is none of your concern.”
“There you’re wrong, Warrick.” Stapleton’s menacing mien had returned. “Anything affecting Vangie is my concern. A portion of her marriage settlement would certainly soothe the Prince Regent, don’t you think?”
God help him from launching himself across the desk and grabbing his throat. “You know nothing of it.”
“I know your brother killed one of Prinny’s favorites.”
Smug arse.
“Geoff was…” How could Ian explain the duel?
By-the-by, Stapleton, my brother found your niece engaging in a ribald dalliance with the Duke of Paneswort on the veranda. Poor gullible, infatuated pup that Geoff was, it appeared to him she was being set upon against her will. Naturally, he was honor-bound to call out the duke.
Or so Lucinda had ranted to Ian when she’d told him the cause of the duel.
Against Miss Caruthers’ will? And geese lay golden eggs.
He’d heard men at Armstrongs’ ball boasting about sampling her charms, even if her uncle hadn’t.
Staring past the sooty-paned window behind Stapleton, Ian rested his gaze on the scarcely-visible ship masts lining London’s harbor. Geoff had wanted to join His Majesty’s Navy.
Father had soundly forbidden it. With one son already in His Majesty’s service, the risk to the viscountcy was too great. Despite his sire’s strenuous objections, Ian had used his inheritance from his maternal grandmother to buy a captain’s commission.
If he hadn’t joined the army to escape his father’s control, his brother would be off safely sailing on a ship somewhere. Geoff wouldn’t have attended that fateful ball or defended the unworthy Miss Caruthers’ reputation. Guilt, a putrefied black knot, settled in Ian’s gut.
He couldn’t even explain Geoff’s role in the duel without besmirching Miss Caruthers to her uncle. Was the man truly completely ignorant of her fast behavior?
Ian sent Stapleton a quick glance. It wasn’t entirely impossible. Half the peerage was indebted to the man in one way or another. None dared risk his wrath. He possessed the ability to single-handedly ruin titled lords. So flush were his pockets, Stapleton had even extended several thousand pounds to the Prince Regent.
Stapleton Shipping and Supplies had amassed a colossal fortune. The third son of a viscount himself, Stapleton was the envy of the ton: well-heeled, full of juice to be exact, and well-bred. He was nearly untouchable. Only a disastrous scandal could shake his position.
A scandal such as the one Ian was party to.
He forced down a snarl. No doubt great care had been taken to keep the whispers about his coquette of a niece from reaching Stapleton’s ears.
He looked up, catching Ian’s scrutiny. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes. “Have we an agreement then?” Stapleton paused then inched the ink and quill across the desk. “I’ll pay the amercement too. Consider it a wedding gift.”
Fury ripped through Ian, and he planted both hands on the desk’s worn edge. He bent forward, rigid with rage. “Hear me, Stapleton, and hear me well. I take care of my own. I don’t want a single groat from you!”
Stapleton cocked his head to the side. His eyes held that odd glint again. A slow smile curved the corners of his mouth. “So be it.” He waved his hand at the solicitor, before sweeping it across the documents. “Joseph, make whatever changes Warrick deems fit.”
Ian fought the urge to sneer his thanks. What was Stapleton grinning about, the pompous twit? Ian sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek. Damn but he wanted to tell the ass to go bugger himself.
At Ian’s insistence, Mr. Dehring amended several clauses of the contract. As the solicitor—his spindly fingers permanently ink-stained—made the meticulous changes he insisted upon, Ian curled his lips in contempt. Ridiculous practice that—paying a man to take a woman to wife. He didn’t care if it was what society did. He wanted no part of it. He’d be no better than his father if he accepted Miss Caruthers’ marriage settlement.
And by all the saints, I am not my father.
He picked up the quill, fingering the goose feather’s stiff tip. “Tell me, why bestow such an enormous settlement?”
The bequeathment made no sense. Was it because of her gypsy blood? Stapleton had already offered him her hand, and Ian had been forced to accept it—had given his word he’d marry the wench unless Stapleton terminated the agreement. The man didn’t have to endow his niece at all.
“She’s not even your daughter,” Ian murmured, gauging Stapleton’s reaction.
The older man paused, papers in hand. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring.
Ian almost grinned. Oh, that had riled him. Interesting. Yes, very interesting indeed.
“Perhaps not in name, but Vangie is every bit as much my daughter as Yvette. I’d have taken her into my home in an instant, but an unfortunate stipulation in her father’s will prohibited my doing so.”
What kind of a stipulation could thwart a man of Stapleton’s means and power? Ian eyed him a moment longer then dropped his gaze to the papers before him. Best to see it finished. He dipped the quill in the bottle of ink. Blister it. He was done over. The noose was knotted, the rope stretched tight. There was no escape. The gallows had him.
With bold, angry strokes, he signed the contract. Afterward, he tossed the quill onto the desk, leaving the solicitor to sprinkle sand across the wet ink.
Mr. Dehring frowned his disapproval and tsked as he rushed to wipe the ink droplets off the desktop before they left a permanent stain.
Ian rose, and yanking on his gloves, met Stapleton’s irritated gaze. Pointing at the drying paper, he said, “You know this compulsory marriage won’t restore your niece’s reputation any more than it will halt the chatterboxes’ tongues.”
Stapleton smiled then, a self-satisfied grin that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. “Perhaps not, but I’ve recruited several powerful, influential peers and their wives to spread their own on dit. Even as we speak, they’re busy repairing the damage you caused.” Levering to his feet, his expression hardened to steel. “No doubt you’re aware how far my hand reaches when necessary.”
The merest hint of a threat laced his words.
“Indeed,” Ian snapped, slapping his topper on his head before turning on his boot-heels and striding from the room. Another minute and he’d have been tempted to plant Stapleton a facer. Or shake his hand. Even in his anger, Ian could appreciate a great strategist. The man was shrewd. Diabolically shrewd.
Running down the stairs, Ian breathed in London’s stagnant air. God, he couldn’t wait to leave the putrid city for the countryside. He leapt into the curricle. Balanced on the buttoned, black leatherette seat, he tooled the horse the length of Red Croft Street. Another grudging smile curved his mouth at the colossal fallacy Stapleton likely spread to preserve his niece’s character.
Why, there’s nothing gossip-worthy at all.
Surely you’re aware Miss Caruthers and Lord Warrick are practically neighbors in Northumberland. They’ve known each other for a number of years and are secretly betrothed
. Naturally, that’s why he only asked her to dance at the ball.
The wedding was planned for late summer, but due to the recent tragic loss of his father and brother, all the details have yet to be finalized. Yes indeed, it’s a simple matter to procure a special license and move the wedding date forward.
What balderdash. Was there a ninnyhammer gullible enough to believe that claptrap? Ian’s face split into a grin. Indeed. Most of le bon ton.
Turning the equipage down another cobblestone street, he made for Berkley Square. He’d yet to inform his staff that on the morrow they’d have a new mistress. His pulse quickened despite himself. Most likely, his staff had already heard tattle of the marriage. What else might they have heard? A January plunge in the Thames couldn’t have cooled his ardor any faster.
He supposed it was acceptable, even expected, for one’s betrothed to see to their intended’s personal needs when an ill-fated situation presented itself. While some would argue he shouldn’t have been in the ladies’ retiring room no matter the cause, others could make an equally sound argument it was his duty, as Miss Caruthers’ intended, to see to her well-being.
Stapleton was ensuring that particular tidbit was planted in the right ears. As the tale circulated among elite circles, eyebrows would be raised of course, and Ian knew those hoping for a juicy scandal would be compelled to settle for something a mite less succulent.
What utter rot. The ton believed what was convenient to believe. Now he was in a devil’s own scrape, soon to be leg-shackled to a flirtatious jade.
He snorted his contempt and maneuvered the curricle around a stable cart buzzing with flies and piled high with filthy straw and horse manure. The crack of the curricle’s wheel giving way rent the air. Bloody hell. What next? The horse stumbled, and Ian was hurled from his seat, crashing headlong into the manure cart.
On the eve of her wedding, Vangie lingered before the closed door to Uncle Gideon’s study. She had a plan. Sucking in a calming breath, she rapped sharply upon the heavy panel.
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 7
