The Lady Risks All
Page 1
The Lady Risks All
Stephanie Laurens
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Epilogue
An Excerpt from The Edge of Desire
An Excerpt from The Reckless Bride
Announcement page to And Then She Fell
About the Author
By Stephanie Laurens
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Lord Julian Roscoe Neville Delbraith, second son of the Duke of Ridgware, was a wastrel. Indeed, profligate beyond belief, he gave the term new meaning. Tall, dark-haired, and dangerously handsome, he prowled the ton with the lazy grace of a well-bred panther whose appetites were perennially sated, as, indeed, he ensured they were. He was considered by the gentlemen to be a capital sort, one with whom many wished to claim acquaintance, while the ladies appreciated his ineffable elegance, his expertise on the dance floor, his ready charm, and his occasionally exercised rapier wit. His attire, naturally, was invariably exquisite, and his horses turned Corinthians green. Wine, women, and gaming, in reverse order, were his principal occupations, which surprised no one; the Delbraiths had a long and venerable history of spawning males with an addiction to wagering. It ran in the blood.
That said, Lucasta, Lord Julian’s mother, acknowledged Savior of the Delbraiths in the recent generation, was credited with having been sufficiently strong in her handling of Marcus, Julian’s father, to have preserved the family fortunes. Marcus would have liked to have gambled his income away, but Lucasta had put her foot down and vetoed it. Adamantly. More, her firstborn son, George, was the first Delbraith in generations uncounted to have escaped the family curse.
Some felt that Lucasta’s sterling efforts with Marcus and George had left her with insufficient reserves to effect a similar transformation with Julian, while others considered Julian’s headstrong will beyond even his mother’s ability to rein in, even had she been free to concentrate solely on him. In society’s eyes, Julian was the epitome of the archetypal male Delbraith.
Yet to society and the family, Julian’s enthusiastic embracing of the Delbraith curse mattered not at all. George was the heir.
Large, solid, quiet, and rather stuffily reserved, unlike his younger brother, George appeared to have no vices at all. While Julian could be counted on to be flippant, irreverent, and entertaining, George stood with his hands behind his back and said as little as he could. In short, George was boring, but that, too, wasn’t a concern, because, after all, George was safe.
Consequently, when, on Marcus’s death, George succeeded to the title, the family and society smiled. They continued to smile when George contracted an eminently suitable marriage with Caroline, daughter of the Earl of Kirkcombe, a sensible young lady well-regarded within the ton.
Caroline, following her mother-in-law’s lead, considered George a paragon, at least with respect to his lack of susceptibility to the family curse. That she found him significantly less of a paragon in more private arenas she kept very much to herself; outwardly, she championed George at every turn, and society nodded approvingly. Unsurprisingly therefore, Caroline had no time for the rakishly attractive, outrageously dissolute Julian; her attitude made it clear that she regarded him as a potentially corrupting influence, one she wished to keep well distanced from her husband, herself, and the child she was soon carrying.
Not at all insensitive, Julian bowed to his sister-in-law’s unspoken wishes; she, after all, was his brother’s duchess. His visits to the family estate, Ridgware, in Staffordshire, previously quite frequent when he would dutifully call on his mother and then stay to play with his three much younger sisters, grew further apart, eventually dwindling to rare. The great house’s staff, who saw far more than anyone supposed, counted that a real shame, but no one paid their opinion any heed.
Then Caroline’s baby was born and proved to be a son. Christened Henry George Neville Delbraith, the boy bore all the physical hallmarks of a true Delbraith. Viewing said signs with due concern, Caroline swore that, come hell or high water, her son would never be touched by the Delbraith curse.
On the morning of the christening, Julian arrived at the church, sat with his mother and sisters, then under Caroline’s baleful eye, feeling very much like the wicked witch of the fables, he passed his entirely innocuous christening gift to his mother to convey to his nephew, and immediately the service was concluded, shook his brother’s hand, civilly wished his sister-in-law and the bundle held tightly—protectively—in her arms well, and drove himself back to London.
Subsequently, Julian only called on his mother and sisters when Caroline, and preferably baby Henry, too, were not—at least at that moment—under the same roof. If George was about, Julian would look in on him, but with such dissimilar characters and the weight of the title on George’s shoulders, the brothers had never had all that much in common; a comment, a shared observation, and they parted, amicably, but distantly.
Meanwhile Julian filled his life with his customary round of gambling and dissipation; cards, dice, horse racing—anything racing—he was always willing to gauge the odds and sport his blunt accordingly. Dalliance, with Cyprians initially, but increasingly with bored matrons of his own class, filled whatever time he had to spare. His reputation as a wine connoisseur continued, but no one could recall ever seeing him in his cups. Then again, it was widely acknowledged that being three sheets to the wind while wagering large sums was never a winning proposition, and everyone knew Julian took his worship at the altar of his family’s curse very seriously.
And the years rolled on.
Through those years, if any had requested enlightenment as to Lord Julian Delbraith’s financial state from anyone in the ton, the answer would have been that Lord Julian was certain to be one step away from point-non-plus. From falling into the River Tick and very likely drowning. To all seasoned observers it was inconceivable that anyone could maintain such a profligate lifestyle, and wager so consistently and so extravagantly, without outrunning the constable. Gamblers always lost, if not immediately, then ultimately; everyone knew that.
Caroline, Duchess of Ridgware, certainly subscribed to that view. More, she believed her feckless brother-in-law was draining the family coffers, but whenever she attempted to raise the issue with her husband, George scowled and told her she was mistaken. When, driven by the need to protect her son’s inheritance, she pressed, George’s lips tightened and he coldly and categorically assured her that Julian received only the modest quarterly stipend due to him under their father’s will and nothing more—that Julian had never requested further funds from the estate, not even from George personally. Caroline didn’t believe it, but faced with her husband’s uncharacteristic flash of temper she had to accept his word and retreat.
In actual fact, only two people knew the truth about Lord Julian’s financial position—his gentlemen’s gentleman, Rundle, and Jordan Draper, the son of the family’s man of business. At Julian’s request Jordan had assumed the handling of Julian’s financial affairs, thus separating them from his brother
’s ducal holdings. Only those two knew that Julian was one of the Delbraiths who cropped up every third or so generation. He was one of the Delbraiths who won. He didn’t win every bet, but over any period of time he always came out ahead. Not since he had, at the age of five, first discovered the joys of wagering had he ever ended a week a true loser; some weeks he only gained a farthing, but overall, he never, ever, lost money.
It fascinated Jordan Draper that no one had ever questioned why it was that a family as old as the Delbraiths, cursed with such a ruinous compulsion, had never run themselves or their estates into the ground. Through his association with Julian, Jordan knew the answer. Grandfather, father, son—over the three generations, one male at least would have the winning touch. Of course, that no longer mattered as, thanks to Lucasta and her influence on Marcus and subsequently George, the family was no longer hostage to the curse. The curse had been defeated . . . but in administering Julian’s accounts and investments, Jordan had to wonder if, all in all, the family truly was better off.
Consequently, Julian’s life, along with his extravagant lifestyle, rolled on largely uneventfully. He was well aware of the ton’s view of him; the knowledge reinforced his natural cynicism and made him inwardly smile.
Until late one night in 1811, a knock fell on the street door of his lodgings in Duke Street.
It was November, and the weather had turned bleak. Few of the ton were still in town, which explained why Julian was sitting by his fire, his feet propped on a stool and an open book in one hand. At the knock, he’d raised his head; hearing Rundle’s footsteps pass the parlor on the way to the front door, he waited, vaguely wondering—
“My lord!” Rundle burst into the room without knocking, not his usual practice. “It’s Higginbotham from Ridgware.”
Looking past Rundle at the senior groom from his brother’s estate, taking in the man’s disheveled appearance and grave face, Julian straightened. “My mother?”
Higginbotham blinked, then shook his head. “No, m’lord. It’s your brother.”
“George?” Julian couldn’t imagine why George would have sent Higginbotham racing to town to summon him, the wastrel younger brother. “What’s he want?”
Higginbotham looked like he’d swallowed his tongue, but then he shook his head again. “His Grace don’t want anything. He put a pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. He’s dead. We think you’d better come.”
Julian drove like the devil and reached Ridgware midmorning. Leaving his phaeton in the stable yard, he crossed to the house, entering via the side door. A pall had fallen over the mansion; the silence was oppressive. His footsteps echoed as he walked onto the tiles of the front hall. For a moment he stood silently, at a loss. Higginbotham had known nothing of what had driven George to such a rash and irreversible act. To an act so out of character.
To an act so inexplicable.
A sound down one corridor had Julian turning.
From the shadows, an older man in a fastidiously neat dark suit emerged. “Thank you for coming so promptly, my lord.”
Lips tight, Julian nodded. “Draper.” This was Draper senior, his brother’s man of business, Jordan’s father. The Draper offices were in Derby, much nearer than London. Julian searched Draper’s face. “Do you have any idea why George . . . I still can’t believe it . . . why he took his life?”
Sober and solemn, Draper nodded; he looked pale, worn down—significantly more aged than Julian remembered him. “Sadly, my lord, I do. That’s why I was relieved the staff had taken it upon themselves to send for you. This is a bad business, and we’ll need decisions made quickly if we’re to protect the family.”
“Protect . . . ?” Julian frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I know.” Draper waved down the corridor. “If you will come to the office, I’ll endeavor to explain.”
Julian hesitated. “My mother?”
“Prostrated by the shock, as is the duchess, but the doctor was here yesterday and both were sedated. I’m told they might wake in a few hours.”
“My sisters? And Henry? Good God, the poor boy’s the duke now.”
“Indeed, but the staff have the young people well in hand, and I fear . . .” Draper broke off and rubbed his forehead. “I fear our discussion won’t wait, my lord. In such a situation, time is of the essence.”
Draper was a solid man, a steady, unruffleable, conscientious man, which was one reason Julian had chosen his son as his own man of affairs. Growing even more puzzled—more alarmed—Julian nodded. “Very well.” He gestured. “Lead on.”
Following Draper down the corridor, he asked, “When did it happen?”
“Yesterday morning, my lord. The staff heard the shot at eleven o’clock, I believe. They had to break down the library door, but of course there was nothing they could do.”
Julian had had time to think during the long hours of the drive. “How many others know of George’s death?”
“At the moment, my lord, I believe the knowledge is restricted to the indoor staff, the stable staff, and the family. And the doctor and myself, of course.”
“So we have a chance of concealing the suicide.” His first thought was for his sisters, his mother, for Henry, and even for his sister-in-law; a suicide in the family, whatever the reason, cast a long social shadow.
Draper hesitated before saying, “Possibly.” He didn’t sound at all certain.
Julian followed Draper into the estate office.
Draper waved him to the chair behind the desk. “It will make it easier for me to show you the accounts.”
“Accounts?” Lowering himself into the chair, Julian frowned. “Why do I need to see the accounts?”
Lifting a heavy ledger from a shelf, Draper turned and met his gaze. “I regret to inform you, my lord, that your brother wasn’t, as was generally supposed, immune to the Delbraith curse.”
“Hell’s bells!” Julian speared the fingers of both hands through his hair and stared at the evidence of George’s addiction. In the past half hour, Draper had laid ledger after ledger before him, driving home one very simple fact.
George had succeeded where all Delbraiths before him had failed. He’d run the estate into the ground, then had compounded the damage by mortgaging every last asset to the hilt.
Lowering his hands, Julian sat back. “All right.” His mind was whirling, juggling figures and sums, chances and possibilities. He now understood why Draper had wanted him there. “Tot up the sum. All of it. And send for Jordan—tell him to bring all my current accounts.”
“Yes, my lord.” Draper hesitated, then admitted, “I took it upon myself to send for Jordan earlier—he should arrive within the hour.”
Julian raised his gaze to the older man’s face. “That was strangely presumptuous of you.” He said it without heat, more as a question.
Draper met his gaze. “I apologize, my lord, but I’ve known you and your brother since you were infants. I knew the family could count on your help, and, as I’ve said, we—”
“Don’t have time.” Julian grimaced, then nodded curtly. “Very well.” He pushed back his chair. “I’m going up to see my sisters. Send for me when Jordan arrives.”
He found Millicent, Cassandra, and Edwina in the small upstairs parlor they used as their own. They’d been informed that George had died, but they had been told nothing else. However, having heard the shot and witnessed the resulting furor, they were more than capable of putting two and two together.
“He killed himself, didn’t he?” Millicent, fourteen years old and bidding fair to becoming another Lucasta, sat sideways along the window seat, knees to her chest, and cut straight to the heart of the matter.
Having exchanged kisses and longer-and-tighter-than-usual hugs with all three, Julian sat on the cushion beyond Millicent’s toes and hesitated, wondering what he could spare them, whether he should . . .
Cassie, eleven, snorted. “Just tell us—you know we’ll get it out of the staff if you don’t.”
“But . . . why?” Millicent frowned. “It’s a thoroughly horrible thing to do—he must have had a reason.”
This was the tricky part. “I understand from Draper that George had begun gambling. It seems the curse had caught up with him, and rather than risk the estate and his family, George . . . well, he put a stop to it.”
Julian hoped they would swallow the white lie.
All three frowned, considering, then Cassie humphed. “That sounds like George. So stuffy that he couldn’t bear asking you for help.” Cassie turned her gray eyes on Julian. “You’ve been living with the curse all your life and it’s never hurt you—and you’ve never hurt the estate or the family, either.”
He managed a weak smile. “Sadly, George wasn’t me.”
“No.” Millie swung her legs down and briefly clasped his arm. “You’re made of much sterner stuff. But what about the taint? Of suicide, I mean?”
“You don’t need to worry about that. The doctor left a note saying that in the circumstances he would suggest we put it about that George died suddenly and unexpectedly of apoplexy.”
The three thought for a moment, then Edwina said, “Well, then, I suppose what we need to do next is get some mourning clothes so we can see George off in proper style.”
Millie grimaced. “True. He might have been an idiot, but he was our noble idiot and he sacrificed himself for us, so we should at least do him proud in the matter of his funeral.”
From the corner of his eye, Julian spotted a gig, driven by Jordan Draper, come bowling up the drive.
“We should go and talk to Mama,” Cassie said. “Discussing clothes might cheer her up, or at least take her mind off the manner of George’s passing.” She looked at Julian. “Have you seen her yet?”
“No. Not yet.” He paused, then said, “Why don’t you three go and distract her, and tell her I’m here, and that I’ll be up to speak with her as soon as I can?” He rose along with the girls. “I have to go and sort things out with Draper, just to get everything squared away. Tell Mama I’ll come up as soon as I’ve finished.”