The Viscount's Vow

by Collette Cameron

  If he could get past the men who had gone 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 a brow at Stapleton. Well, he silently challenged.

  Stapleton angled his dark head and gestured with two fingers. “Come in, Joseph. You need to witness Lord Warrick’s signature.”

  Mr. Dehring hurried into the room, another stack of papers beneath his arm.

  Shaking the papers he held, Ian shook his head. “I want nothing to do with your damned money, Stapleton. Transfer the entire settlement to your niece as her irrevocable property.”

  “Come now, Warrick. Don’t be hasty. 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 at Stapleton. “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 once more, seemingly completely at ease. “There’s the rather stiff penalty Prinny’s assessed—”

  Ian set the papers aside and 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,” Ian said with a calm deliberation, though fury thrummed through his veins, “is none of your concern.”

  “There you are wrong, Warrick. Anything affecting Vangie is my concern. A portion of her marriage settlement would certainly soothe the Prince Regent.”

  “You know nothing of it.”

  “I know your brother killed one of Prinny’s favorites.”

  “Geoff was. . .”

  How could Ian explain the duel to Stapleton?

  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 he was, it appeared to Geoff she was being set upon against her will. He was honor bound to call the duke out.

  Or so Lucinda had ranted to Ian when she’d told him the cause of the duel.

  Against Miss Caruthers’s will? And geese lay golden eggs.

  He’d heard the men at the Armstrong’s ball boasting about sampling her charms, even if her uncle hadn’t.

  Staring past the sooty-paned window behind Stapleton, Ian’s gaze rested on the scarcely visible masts of the ships in London’s harbor. Geoff had wanted to join His Majesty’s Navy.

  Father had soundly forbid 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, Geoff would be off safely sailing on a ship somewhere. He’d not have attended that fateful ball nor defended the unworthy Miss Caruthers’s reputation. Guilt settled a putrefied, black knot in Ian’s gut.

  Hell, he couldn’t even explain Geoff’s role in the duel without besmirching Miss Caruthers to her uncle. Was the man truly 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’d the ability to ruin titled lords. Stapleton had even extended several thousand pounds to the Prince Regent, so flush were his pockets.

  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.

  Ian 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 perusal of him.

  “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. He planted both hands on the desk’s worn edge, and bent forward, his body 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 an odd glint. A slow smile distorted 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 Lord 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. Watching the solicitor—his spindly fingers permanently ink-stained—make the meticulous changes Ian insisted upon, he 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’s marriage settlement.

  And he was not his father.

  He picked up the quill, fingering the goose feather’s stiff tip. “Tell me, why such an enormous settlement?”

  It didn’t make 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 and his nostrils flared. Ian almost grinned. Oh, that riled him.

  Interesting; yes, very interesting indeed.

  “Perhaps not in name, but she is every bit as much my daughter as Yvette is. I’d have taken her into my home in an instant, but an unfortunate stipulation in her father’s will prohibited me 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 get it over with.

  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.

  He signed the contract, then tossed the quill on the desk, leaving the solicitor to sprinkle sand across the wet ink. Ian ignored the solicitor’s frown of disapproval and the man’s “tsking” as he rushed to wipe the droplets of ink off the desktop before they left a permanent stain.

  Ian stood. Yanking on his gloves, he met Stapleton’s irritated gaze. Pointing at the drying paper, Ian 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. They’re busy at work even as we speak.”

  Levering to his feet, he faced Ian. “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 be tempted to plant Stapleton a facer. Or shake his hand. The man was shrewd, diabolically shrewd. Even in his anger, Ian could appreciate a great strategist.

  Running down the stairs, he leapt into the curricle. Balanced on the buttoned, black leatherette seat, as he tooled the horse the length of Red Croft Street, he couldn’t pr
event his lips from curving in admiration of the colossal fallacy Stapleton was spreading to preserve his niece’s character.

  Why there is nothing gossip worthy at all.

  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 had 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 already heard tattle of the marriage. What else might they have heard? Blister it. 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 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’s intended, to see to her well-being.

  Stapleton was making sure 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.

  He snorted his contempt, maneuvering the curricle round a stable cart piled high with filthy straw and horse manure buzzing with flies. What 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.

  The crack of the curricle’s wheel giving way rent the air.

  Bloody hell. What next?

  The horse stumbled. Ian was hurled from his seat and crashed headlong into the manure cart.

  Chapter 9

  The eve of her wedding, Vangie stood before the door to Uncle Gideon’s study. She had a plan. Sucking in a calming breath, she rapped sharply on the heavy door.

  “Enter.”

  Her shoulders squared, she marched into the room prepared to do battle. Halting before his desk, she scanned her uncle’s face. A lone lamp, sitting atop his desk, lit the room. In the muted light, his expression was guarded, though she was sure warmth shown in his eyes. Encouraged, she relaxed her shoulders.

  “You’ve need of something, Vangie?” he asked, putting his quill aside.

  She wasted no time but came directly to the point. “Uncle Gideon, please reconsider this union.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to say, my marriage.

  She searched his compassionate eyes, then played her trump card. “I want love in my marriage, Uncle. Love like my father and mother shared. Love like you and Aunt Adélaid feel for each other.”

  Taking a deep pull of air, she challenged him. “Would you deny me that happiness?”

  His lips curved in a poignant smile. “My dear, I’d like nothing better than for you to marry for love, but after the affair at the Armstrong’s, if you don’t marry Lord Warrick, it’s unlikely you’ll marry at all.”

  He looked away and straightened a short stack of papers. His face was in the shadows, but he seemed tense. “The ton has a long arm, and a far longer reaching memory.”

  “I don’t care about the haut ton. I can stay in the country. I’ll never venture to London again. I’ll . . . I’ll go away, perhaps with the Roma. Or . . . or I’ll go to the colonies.”

  He set the papers aside, then met her gaze. His was tormented. He extended a palm upward to her. “Vangie—”

  “I’ve no desire to marry someone of a high station.” She heard the desperation in her voice. His next words doused the remnant of hope in her heart.

  “The scandal combined with your heritage—”

  Vangie’s mouth dropped open. If he’d slapped her, she’d not be more hurt or taken aback. An icy blanket of shock engulfed her. She grasped the edge of the desk to steady herself.

  “My heritage?” she whispered hoarsely.

  Uncle Gideon closed his eyes and rubbed a hand across his forehead. He took a large breath, then quietly said, “I’m sorry. I ought not to have said that.”

  “But, that’s the real issue isn’t it, Uncle Gideon?” She clung to the desk as the truth of his words hit home. “Because of my Romani blood, I’ve been labeled a lóoverni, a . . . a loose woman.”

  She searched his remorseful gaze with her own, reading the truth mirrored in their depths. Lord Warrick was right.

  Uncle Gideon came around the desk and grasped one of her cold hands in his. “As your guardian, I must protect you, and while an arranged marriage isn’t ideal, many couples who enter into such unions have been happy.”

  And many miserable their entire lives.

  “Lord Warrick is a decent man, though at present, he’s angry at having his hand forced. Give him time, dear. He’ll come around.”

  “Please, I. . .” Vangie swallowed the lump of anguish clogging her throat. “I don’t want to marry him,” she whispered.

  “Vangie,” Uncle Gideon sighed. “It’s not only your honor at stake—”

  Her breath caught as she stared at him, aghast. Even in the dim light she could see the lines of strain on his face.

  Faith, that was the true crux of the matter.

  Who else’s then? His? Aunt Adélaid’s?

  Would her disgrace adversely affect his and Aunt Adélaid’s position in society and his business dealings?

  Undoubtedly.

  Yvette’s? Could the gossip destroy her chances of a brilliant match? Any match at all?

  Possibly.

  She couldn’t let that happen. Not after everything Yvette, Aunt Adélaid, and Uncle Gideon had done for her. Then there was Lord Warrick. What would her refusal do to his honor? Was he the type of man who valued honor above all else? She lowered her trembling chin to her chest, struggling for control.

  Dash it all, he was, of course.

  Uncle Gideon squeezed her hand and smiled reassuringly. “It’s a most suitable match for you, dear.”

  Scalding tears burned her eyes, though she nodded. “It’s a better match than I dared hope for.”

  Yet, she would settle for a haberdasher if he held some degree of affection for her. Instead, she was to wed a man whose only sentiment for her was scornful contempt. How could she endure it?

  Her last encounter with Lord Warrick still stung. He hadn’t even bothered with the proposal Uncle Gideon expected. Without a proposal and acceptance, could there even be a wedding?

  She’d not spoken of it to her uncle. The humiliation was crushing. If others were aware—well, she had endured all the pitying looks and tsking a body could tolerate.

  Uncle Gideon grasped both her shoulders, bathing her in a loving look. “You’ve much of my sister in you, Vangie.”

  He kissed her on the forehead, then admonished gently, “The wedding will take place tomorrow. I’ll hear no more talk of it.”

  Pouting and complaining would change nothing. She had her pride. She would not beg. Head bowed, lips compressed, she nodded again. If it were only her reputation at stake, she would refuse the match. The Roma would take her in. But her aunt, uncle, and Yvette had much to lose too.

  She could not . . . would not . . . bring censure upon them.

  “That’s my girl.” Uncle Gideon folded her into a warm, what should have been comforting, hug. Instead, it felt like imprisonment.

  Tears blocked Vangie’s throat. She couldn’t speak. Jerking from his grasp, she bolted to her bedchamber. Throwing herself across the bed, she gave way t
o her heartache and wept until sleep’s forgetfulness claimed her.

  A bird’s chirps woke her the next morning. She opened her eyes, curving her lips at the cheerful streams of sunshine slanting across the bedchamber’s rugs and wooden floor. What a glorious day. Stretching her arms overhead, she froze.

  An unpleasant memory shattered her happiness.

  Today she’d wed.

  Her arms fell to her sides with a thump. The smile eased from her face, replaced by a frown of despair. She sat up, then hugged her knees to her chest. Her unbound hair circled about her shoulders. Resting her chin on her knees, she considered the pandemonium of the past couple of days. Everyone had been in a dither, rushing around, preparing for the nuptials.

  Such silliness.

  Why bother with the falderal when neither party wanted to wed at all? Vangie had watched the fanfare with numb detachment, uttering short, monosyllabic replies when her aunt asked for her opinion.

  “Peonies or roses?”

  “Peonies.”

  “The peach silk or the white muslin for Yvette?”

  “Peach.”

  “Bonnet or wreath?”

  “Wreath.”

  “Tongue or ham?”

  Tongue or ham?

  At last, she could take no more. Yesterday, she’d slipped into the wingback chair before her balcony window and rested her aching head against the smooth, silk back. “Aunt Adélaid,” she’d said, her voice barely above a whisper, “you and Yvette do what you think best.”

  She’d raised a hand to her brow and closed her eyes against the nagging twinge. “I’ll leave the arrangements to you.”

  “But, Vangie, don’t you want. . .?” Yvette began.

  Vangie had lowered her hand and turned her head, resting her cheek against the soft, smooth fabric. She’d met Yvette’s, round, worried eyes. “I truly don’t care a whit what you decide.”