After a pause in which he smiled with admiration down at the flower, Pinkerton continued, “Rather reminds me of that raven beauty who came to my ball—the uninvited guest of Lady Worthley. Miss Sherwood. How does she fare?”
Inwardly, Radcliff cringed, a hollow feeling reverberating throughout his body. “I know not. I haven’t seen her in over three fortnights.”
He had been tempted numerous times to seek her out despite her coldness to him. Despite her words that suggested he was of no more consequence than any of her other lovers—or less than a lover for it cost him fifty bloody shillings. And while he was not one to give up easily, he was not a fool to be where he was clearly not wanted.
She clearly did not feel the same way he did. He desired Darcy Sherwood more than anything he had ever desired in his life. Desired not only her body. But the thrill he derived from bringing her pleasure. The sense of achievement when he brought a smile to her lips. He missed their easy conversations. The peace he felt when he held her in his arms. He desired even the anger that his arrogance provoked in her.
“No need to, I suppose, now that the deed to Brayten is returned to Edward?” Pinkerton inquired.
“Brayten will be held in a trust for an indeterminate time,” Radcliff answered. He did not need to explain to Pinkerton, who nodded with comprehension, the reason. Nor did he disclose how he had nearly refused to return Brayten to Edward at all.
After his last visit to Darcy, he had found Edward back at home nursing his battered nose.
“Bitch damn near broke my nose,” Edward had exclaimed after Radcliff had confronted him about being at Mrs. T’s.
To which Radcliff had decided to complete the task by leveling his right hook square in the center of Edward’s face. He had then grabbed Edward by the collar in one hand, lifting him to his feet, and thrown him against the wall.
“And if you ever dare lay a hand upon Miss Sherwood,” Radcliff had said, “by God, if you so much as glance in her direction, I will break every bone in your body.”
He had not realized how strongly he had been gripping Edward’s throat until the latter started turning blue in the face. With disgust, he had released his hold of Edward, who had fallen to the floor on his knees, gasping and wheezing.
Radcliff decided the boy was lucky to have escaped his wrath with only a broken nose.
“Should you, er, decide to pursue the company of Miss Sherwood,” Pinkerton said, breaking into Radcliff’s thoughts about how easily and willingly he would have broken the noses of a fleet of men who dared to touch Darcy, “know that I will be there to back you.”
Radcliff raised his brows.
“You would lose your entrée into Almack’s, of course,” Pinkerton continued. “I fear women can be rather harsh, but you have far too much standing and respect from most of your peers to be cast out entirely.”
“Your words of support are much appreciated,” Radcliff responded with tenderness for his old friend, “but she will have none of me.”
It was Pinkerton’s turn to raise his brows. “Indeed?”
“I believe she is content in her situation at the Tillinghast gaming hall.”
“How can that be?”
Radcliff shrugged. Not particularly interested in pursuing the current course of conversation, he said simply. “She is the daughter of Jonathan Sherwood.”
“That she is,” Pinkerton conceded and, to Radcliff’s relief, decided to resume his discourse on the best climate and water conditions for day lilies.
“Thank God the whole horrid affair is at an end,” Anne Barrington said a few moments later to Radcliff when tea was being served.
Radcliff had hoped to leave the party without exchanging a word with Anne, but Juliana had begged him to stay. The three of them sat at one of the small tables that had been laid out in the garden for tea.
“But don’t you think you were rather harsh on Edward—on us?” Anne admonished. “I understand placing Brayten in a trust, but the allowance you have allocated for him can hardly sustain the most frugal miser. After all, the poor boy has suffered so much at the hand of that harlot. Did you hear that she attempted to break his nose?”
Staring hard at his aunt, Radcliff wondered if certain mothers would forever overlook the trespasses of their offspring.
“She failed miserably,” Radcliff returned icily, “so I took the liberty of breaking it myself.”
Anne choked on the biscuit and looked at her nephew as if he were mad.
“And I would not hesitate to break it again if he ever speaks ill of Miss Sherwood,” he added and fixed upon his aunt such an ominous stare that one would think he was threatening to break her nose.
“As for the matter of his allowance,” Radcliff continued, “the majority of what would have been his will be used to support your grandson.”
“My what?”
“A responsibility he has grossly neglected. He is fortunate that the Sherwoods want nothing to do with him—a fortune he little deserves.”
“I suggest,” he said as he stood up. He could not bear his aunt’s company any longer, not even for Juliana, “that you thank the Sherwoods in your prayers each evening.”
With his aunt stunned wordless, he executed a curt bow to Juliana and headed back inside the house.
“My hat and gloves,” he told one of the servants.
He would have return to his county seat, Radcliff decided. He was weary of London and the ton with all her meddlers and gossipers. Most of all, he needed a respite of anything that reminded him of Darcy Sherwood.
“Cousin!”
Radcliff turned to find Juliana bounding down the hall towards him.
“How old is he?” Juliana asked. “What is his name?”
“He is being taken care of,” Radcliff answered. “You need not trouble yourself.”
“But he is my nephew, is he not?” Juliana pursed her lips together. “I had a suspicion that Edward and Miss Priscilla—though I was quite young back then. Such matters were mainly beyond my comprehension.”
How Juliana managed to become half intelligent and not made into an addlepated young woman by her mother was a marvel to Radcliff. There was hope for her yet, he decided.
“Will you be seeing the Sherwoods soon?” Juliana inquired.
“No,” Radcliff said flatly.
Juliana frowned. “Oh. I had hoped to meet Miss Sherwood again.”
“I suggest you return to tend to your mother. She has been dealt a shock—”
“When do you expect to see Miss Sherwood next?”
“I do not expect to see Miss Sherwood again,” he responded as he accepted the hat and gloves that a servant had brought.
“But why?”
“She would rather I not.”
“But how is that possible? Did you upset her?”
Radcliff glanced sharply at his cousin, reconsidering his earlier praise of Juliana. He responded with some irritation, “If I did, it is no affair of yours.”
“I beg your pardon, cousin. Only it seemed you were quite taken with her,” Juliana persisted with a naivete that made it hard for anyone to become too angry with her.
“I was—but she refused me.” He hoped that would put an end to Juliana’s line of questioning and turned to leave.
Juliana’s eyes widened. “Refused you? It is unbelievable that anyone would refuse to marry you.”
“I did not offer…” Radcliff stopped. It was inappropriate to be talking of mistresses before his young cousin.
“But especially Miss Sherwood,” Juliana went on. “She adored you.”
Radcliff turned around again. “What do you mean?”
And how the devil would you know? he wanted to say to the little chit.
“I saw it at the ball. In her eyes when she looked your way. And she did look your way quite a number of times, though she pretended not to. It seemed quite apparent that you were the reason she came to the ball.”
Was that what Pinkerton had been trying to allude
to as well? Radcliff wondered. His demeanor softened towards his cousin.
“Be that as it may,” he said, “Miss Sherwood has made it clear that henceforth, she has no interest in pursuing our acquaintance.”
“Forgive me, cousin, if what I am to say next should be considered brazen, but I did not think you were one to…to quit easily.”
“It was indeed brazen,” Radcliff told her, then felt a stab of guilt when she hung her head, but he had no need for his niece to question his manhood. “I appreciate your concern, but you need not trouble yourself of my affairs.”
Juliana opened her mouth, but this time Radcliff would not allow her to delay his departure further. He bid her adieu and proceeded home.
*****
“A hundred shillings,” Darcy told Henry as they sat in the dining room again the following evening—at the very same table she used to sit at with Radcliff.
“Don’t seem right,” Henry grumbled. “What sort of medical background has this man? I hear most of his kind are little more than witch doctors.”
“I haven’t much of a choice,” Darcy replied. “I do not want another Barrington bastard.”
But even as she spoke these words, she felt a sense of loss, torn between wanting to keep the last evidence of Radcliff and not wanting to be reminded of the man who broke her heart.
“Very well,” Henry relented. “I’ll secure you a hundred shillings.”
Darcy shook her head. “You’ve not a hundred shillings to spare, Harry. I see your new lover has a new suit of clothes. He is not a man of means and is terrible at cards.”
Henry flushed and looked down at his plate of half-eaten food.
“And I require more than a hundred shillings,” Darcy added.
“What of the money from Broadmoor?”
“The first installment won’t be enough to discharge all the bills and pay for Nathan’s tutor.”
“Have you appealed to Mathilda?”
“She can loan me two hundred, far short of what I need.”
Henry knit his brows. “There must be some way…would you consider Newcastle?”
The name made her shudder. “He has not been as attentive to me as of late and—”
“That can easily change. You have only to sneeze in his direction.”
“And I could not bring myself to ask him,” Darcy finished. “I could not be beholden to that man. It takes all my strength not to recoil from his touch.”
A woman at the other end of the dining hall squealed. Darcy turned to see Cavin Richards at a table with a brunette. He was leaning into the table at an awkward angle, and Darcy had a suspicion, though the tablecloth hid it, that he had his hand upon the woman’s leg—or further.
The thought entered both her and Henry at the same time.
“Do you suppose he would…” Henry asked.
“Worth asking, I suppose,” Darcy answered.
She turned the idea about in her head throughout the evening. Her luck at the table was middling, and she could not help but think it fortuitous that Cavin should be here the night she might need him. Smartly dressed in a burgundy coat and beige trousers, he was a much admired Corinthian. He certainly had the fiduciary means to assist her.
How she dreaded asking others for help. Her father had never done it well, to his family’s detriment. And it was only thoughts of Priscilla and Nathan that gave her enough courage to swallow her pride. Nathan would have the respect he deserved. She would not allow the Barringtons to defeat her family.
“Mr. Richards,” she approached after she had battled down her hesitation. “I desire a word with you, if you will.”
“There is no ‘if’ where Miss Sherwood is concerned,” Cavin replied. “Summon and I come.”
He excused himself from his companion for the evening and followed Darcy into the small library used only by those seeking a quick and quiet tryst.
“I have need of a loan, Cavin,” she blurted with the door barely closed. “Of about a thousand pounds.”
Cavin looked bemused. After a moment’s pause as he realized she was in earnest, he responded, “Well, you don’t tarry about the bush, do you? That’s a grand sum of money. If it is funds you seek to borrow, why not apply to old Wempole? I am no banker.”
“Wempole is no longer in a position to lend me what I require.”
“And what of Broadmoor?”
Darcy felt her cheeks flame. “I doubt he will be seen here anymore.”
His brows shot up, but he did not inquire further. It was a virtue Darcy appreciated in him—Cavin never pressed for more information and perhaps because he did not care.
“I shall pay it back with interest,” Darcy added as she watched him approach her.
“How delightful,” he murmured, reaching out to curl a tendril of her hair about his finger.
“Not that sort of interest, Richards.”
“But the interest is what interests me, eh?”
“I am in earnest.”
“Tell you what,” Cavin drawled as he relinquished her hair. “This be a gaming hall, I shall play you for it. High card draw. If you win, the money is yours. If I win, your price will be your body for the night—given to me as once you used to.”
Her breath caught in her throat. It had been years since they had shared a bed, but even then their company had been simply a joining of flesh, of two people who enjoyed the carnal pleasures. As Darcy studied the twinkle in his grey eyes and how his hair falling over his eyes only seemed to improve his rakish appeal, she began to wonder if perhaps a tumble with someone like Cavin wasn’t exactly what she needed to drive out all thoughts of Radcliff.
Her lips curled in a half smile at his resourcefulness, and she replied, “You flatter me.”
Cavin bowed. “Indeed, I have never offered a woman anywhere near a thousand pounds for the privilege of bedding her. However, no other woman comes close to being Miss Darcy Sherwood.”
“A fact that has not stopped you.”
“As with you, Miss Sherwood, I am more gourmet than gourmand. Variety is the spice of life.”
Darcy did not dispute him, though she knew his comparison no longer to hold truth. She had fallen in love with Radcliff Barrington and wanted no other man.
But it was not to be and she needed the money.
“Very well,” Darcy assented. She walked over to a writing desk, pulled out a pack of cards, shuffled the desk, and presented it to Cavin.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“LADIES FIRST,” Cavin insisted.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled up a ten of spades and felt a small sense of relief. There was less than a third of a chance that he could win.
Cavin smiled and casually held up a jack of diamonds.
“Well, don’t look thrilled,” he said upon seeing her frown.
“I don’t suppose you would lend me the thousand when our night is over?” Darcy tried.
“Perhaps I would entertain a wager double or nothing.”
Darcy did not respond. She had to wait and see how she would feel after the first night.
“I shall have to bid adieu to the lady at my table,” Cavin informed her as he headed towards the doors. “But I shall be in your chambers shortly. No need to send the page—I remember the way.”
He winked at her before departing. Darcy sank onto the settee. Damn. Now not only would she have to service Cavin, she had not a crown more than she had started the night with. It wasn’t that she didn’t find Cavin attractive. In fact, once they had concluded their affair, she had avoided any further physical contact for fear that they would end up once again in that uncertain territory of unspoken attachments that easily led to jealousy and pain. She had certainly been tempted through the years.
Until Radcliff had entered her world. And now she found it hard to contemplate being with anyone else.
She rose and went to pour herself a glass of wine at the sideboard. Well, perhaps she should make use of this occasion. Being with Cavin would remind her of the days wh
en coupling was but a corporal release, to serve an animal instinct. To harbor delusions that she could have anything more than that with a man would only set herself up for certain disappointment, as her experience with Broadmoor had proved.
Darcy poured a second glass after finishing the first. Radcliff Barrington had served his purpose. She had her prior debt taken care of and an income that would total fifty-five thousand pounds—more than she had ever thought possible prior to winning the deed to Brayten. What more did she truly expect? That he had taken her senses to new heights was an unexpected perquisite to the bargain.
The memory of their stolen moment in the garden warmed her as much as the wine. She settled into the settee with her third glass, and her hand crept down to lift the hem of her dress. When he touched her, it seemed she could think of nothing else but spending for him. Nothing else existed but the two of them and the need for their bodies to join together. She remembered being sandwiched between his hard body and the equally hard tree. She closed her eyes and clenched her thighs. How she wanted to take him in so many ways. She had not come close to exhausting her repertoire of seducing a man and making him spend. She had enjoyed succumbing to his commands, but she had also looked forward to righting the ship and issuing a few of her own.
She gulped the rest of her wine. She had to stop tormenting herself with such thoughts. Rising to her feet, she went to pour herself another glass. Gazing into the liquid, she wished that she could drink the Baron Broadmoor into a distant memory. The cards would not do it. She was sure to look for him after every hand.
The wine splashed down her throat. She barely tasted it. There were other men. More than enough vying for her attention. Perhaps they would make her forget him. And she could start with Cavin. Yes, Cavin. Devilishly handsome Cavin. Devilish Cavin. He was just the man she needed. He would remind her of the person she ought to return to being. Not this pained, lovesick woman.
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