Gabe scowled. “I’m waiting until the last moment.”
“Wise decision,” Masters said. “And … er … what about your sisters? Have they made any choices?”
Something in Masters’s tone alerted Jarret. He glanced over at his friend to find Masters examining his fingernails with seeming nonchalance. But there was a telltale tightening of his jaw, and he’d gone very still.
Gabe didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, Celia is still annoyed at Gran over it, and Minerva is angry as hell that Jarret got out of it. Minerva says she means to fight it, too, but I don’t know what she thinks she can do. Jarret was the only one who had anything to negotiate with. Even Oliver’s plan for getting around Gran failed.”
“Well, if anyone can find a way around her, it’s Lady Minerva,” Masters said in a too careful voice.
Jarret tensed. He’d wondered if there were something between Masters and Minerva after seeing them together at the St. Valentine’s Day Ball, but he’d forgotten about it after Oliver announced his engagement to Maria.
There damned well better not be. Masters might be his best friend, but he was not to be trusted around women. And he had a peculiar habit of disappearing to God knows where for days on end. Minerva deserved better than a sometime husband. If not for Gran’s machinations, she wouldn’t even have to find—
“Trumps are hearts, Lord Jarret,” Miss Lake said.
He looked down to see that he’d tried to take her jack of diamonds with a five of spades, the trump suit from their last game. Confound it all to hell. The idea of Masters going after his sister had distracted him.
“Of course,” he said smoothly and pushed the trick across to her.
But now he was in trouble. At least three tricks had gone by, during which he’d played without thinking. He tried to remember what had been played, but for the life of him he couldn’t.
Damn, damn, damn! He couldn’t remember where the queen of clubs or ten of hearts was. He’d had neither—he remembered that much—but which had she already played?
It was the last two tricks now, and they were at a draw again. He had the nine of hearts and a five of clubs—and it was his lead. He was fairly certain she had the eight of diamonds and either the queen of clubs or ten of hearts.
He did some swift calculations. If he led with the five, every possible combination ended in a draw. If he led with the nine of hearts, she could win, he could win, or it could end in a draw, depending on how she played.
He ought to lead with the five. That was the safe choice, since he couldn’t lose. But he couldn’t win either. What if his next hand was abysmal? At least by leading with the nine of hearts, he had a chance to win.
It all rested on whether she would have saved the trump or the high card. From the way she’d been playing, it was hard to be sure.
He took a long breath. It had never been in his nature to play it safe.
With his heart thundering in his chest, he laid down the nine. She shot him a quizzical glance, then played the ten of hearts.
He stared blindly at the cards. He’d guessed wrong, and now he was sunk.
The last trick was a mere formality. She’d won the bloody hand, which meant she’d won the game. And the wager.
Damn it all to hell.
Chapter Five
Annabel gaped at the cards, hardly able to believe her eyes. Mr. Masters broke into a cheer, which triggered groans from those who had bet against him. Lord Gabriel, who’d bet on his brother, uttered a curse unfit for a lady’s ears.
Lord Jarret just stared at the cards, expressionless.
That wasn’t terribly surprising—he hadn’t reacted to his cards the entire game, making it impossible to read his strategy. When he’d gained the lead, she’d been certain the game would end in a draw. She’d known exactly what cards he had left and thought for sure he knew the same for her. His friends had emphasized that he was famous for remembering every card played.
So why had he played the nine of hearts? Could he have assumed that she didn’t remember what had been played?
No, that made no sense. Once he’d played the nine, she’d had no choice but to follow suit, which meant she’d had no choice but to win.
Had he let her win? That seemed the only logical explanation. But why would he, when he’d been so opposed to helping her brother’s brewery?
There was only one explanation: he’d wanted to avoid bedding her.
She thought back to their discussion. When he’d made his outrageous proposal and she’d agreed, he had appeared to be alarmed that his bluff had been called. And a man like that would have too much pride to back out of a wager.
Had he decided that the only way to avoid bedding her against her will was to lose? If he had, that showed him to be far less a rogue than she’d guessed. Either that, or he found her unattractive, which he hadn’t seemed to do. Granted, she wasn’t some fresh young thing, but she wasn’t doddering on the edge of the grave either, and a true rogue wouldn’t be that particular, would he?
Still, if he’d wanted to be a gentleman about it, he could simply have refused to demand payment of the debt. Or taken Mother’s ring. Why hadn’t he done that?
Perhaps she really had beaten him.
A heavy silence fell on the room. Everyone waited for her or Lord Jarret to speak.
“It looks like Plumtree Brewery will be joining up with Lake Ale, Lord Jarret,” she ventured, not sure what else to say.
His eyes locked with hers, glinting green in the candlelight. “It certainly does.”
Even his tone gave nothing away. It was extremely unnerving. “Thank you for agreeing to the stakes. For agreeing to play cards with me at all.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Ah, there it was—just a hint of irritation in his voice.
He stood abruptly. “Where in town are you staying, Miss Lake?”
She blinked, taken off guard by the question. “At the Spur Inn.”
“That’s in High Borough Street, right?” When she nodded, he donned the hat and greatcoat hanging from a hook on a nearby post. “I’ll accompany you.”
“No need for that. I can hire a hackney.”
“Out of the question.”
“I can take her,” Mr. Pinter put in.
“No,” Lord Jarret said firmly. When Mr. Pinter looked as if he might protest, Lord Jarret added, “Miss Lake and I have a few matters to discuss. Privately.”
Warily, she rose. She’d assumed that their discussion would take place in the morning.
“You’ll return here when you’re done, won’t you?” Mr. Masters asked Lord Jarret, still grinning about his win. “Now that you’re on a losing streak again, I want another crack at you and Gabe.”
“And you want to gloat awhile longer,” Lord Jarret said dryly.
“Absolutely. You’re not going to live this one down anytime soon.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Lord Jarret remarked with no trace of rancor. If he was angry, he hid it well. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to have your fun another time, old boy. I’m coming back to speak with Pinter. Then I’m going home. I have to rise early if I’m to travel to Burton.”
While she was still gaping at him over that, he rounded the table. “Come, Miss Lake, we’d best go.”
She took the arm he offered. As soon as they got out onto the street, she asked, “What do you mean, travel to Burton? There’s no need for that. Just talk to the East India Company and convince them to carry our October brew. Offer them reassurances that you’ll guarantee it, or something.”
He shot her a cold glance. “The wager was that I would help Lake Ale, not that I would turn a blind eye to anything your brother’s company does. I’m not risking my family’s relations with the East India Company without knowing more about your brother’s brewery: its situation, the amount of ale that could reasonably be produced, the plan he has for—”
“But you can’t come to Burton!” she cried.
His eyes narrowed
on her. “Why not?”
“I-I … well …” Inspiration hit. “How will your brewery manage without you?”
The minute he saw Hugh and realized that she’d invented her brother’s “illness,” or that Hugh hadn’t entirely approved this plan, he would back out of their agreement, wager or no wager.
He navigated her expertly around a mud puddle. “Plumtree will be fine. I’ll leave instructions for my master brewer and Croft, and they’ll handle things until I return. I won’t be gone more than a few days.” He searched her face. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
She forced herself to meet his gaze steadily. “Of course not. I merely don’t want to inconvenience you.”
He gave a dry laugh. “Rather late for that. You wanted my help, and now you have it. I’m happy to escort you and your family to Burton whenever you’re ready to leave.”
She considered that. If he traveled with them, she might be able to control the situation better than if he showed up at Lake Ale unannounced. Still, it would be altogether better if he remained in London.
“Forgive me, sir, but I can’t imagine your bumping and jostling in a mail coach with me, my sister-in-law, and my nephew,” she said.
“Nor can I. Which is why we’ll take the Sharpe family traveling coach.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“My eldest brother is the only one who uses it, and he’ll be out of the country with his new wife for another two months at least.” He slanted a glance at her as they turned onto High Borough Street. “It will save you the fare to Burton.”
A flush touched her cheeks. She hated to admit it, but that would be helpful. Neither she nor Sissy had dreamed that lodgings in London would be so expensive. They had precious little for the journey back, and none to stay at a coaching inn as they had coming to London.
She hadn’t been looking forward to a day and a half of solid travel by mail coach with Sissy and a cranky twelve-year-old. This would enable them to stay one night at an inn, even with his lordship.
So she swallowed her pride. “Thank you, that is very kind of you. And of course we’ll provide for your lodgings along the way.”
“Nonsense. Since I’m foisting my presence on you, I’ll take care of those costs. I welcome the chance to get to know the rest of your family, since I’ll be working with your brother.”
Panic hit her again. “What do you mean?”
“We have to hammer out the terms of this agreement. If Lake Ale is providing the brew, will he wish us to transport it? Is he planning to transport it? Does he have enough resources and good local connections for barrels, or will that be something else we provide? A venture such as this involves several variables, which must be negotiated.”
She stared at him, once again surprised by his sharp thinking. For a man running a business temporarily, he certainly had a good mind for it. That could prove dangerous.
“Do remember that my brother is unwell,” she said. “He may not be able to give you the information you require.”
He cast her a long, considering look that made her glance away guiltily. She wasn’t exactly lying to him. Hugh was unwell. In a fashion.
“Just how ill is your brother?” he pressed as they dodged a lumbering cart.
What should she say? If she said Hugh was very ill, then he might not help them for fear of the company going under. But Hugh had to be ill enough to make it believable that he was unavailable while Lord Jarret was in Burton.
She settled for something vague. “The physician says he’ll recover in good time, as long as he isn’t disturbed by matters at Lake Ale. But the brewery manager and I can provide you with whatever you need to know.”
“It sounds as if you spend a great deal of time there. I assumed you only brewed the ale, not helped to run the business.”
“With Hugh unavailable, I have no choice.”
“That’s how my grandmother got into it, as well. Grandfather fell ill, and she stepped in to help. He guided her from his sickbed.” Lord Jarret’s voice softened. “When he died of his ailment, a family friend offered to sell the place and arrange for the proceeds to go to Gran and my mother, but Gran insisted upon taking over. By then, she knew enough to manage on her own.”
“Your grandmother is a very brave woman.”
“Or a mad one. Plenty of men claimed it was the latter.”
“Let me guess: they were her competitors, right?”
He laughed. “They were, indeed.”
There was no mistaking his grudging respect when he spoke of his grandmother. He might not approve of her tactics in trying to make his siblings marry—and Annabel could sympathize with that—but he clearly admired her.
“I understand that you and your siblings were raised by Mrs. Plumtree after … that is …”
His face hardened. “I see you’ve heard of the family scandal.”
Oh, dear. She shouldn’t have alluded to that. It made her sound so … gossipy. She’d heard various versions of how his parents had died. One was that his mother had killed his father by mistaking him for an intruder and shooting him, then killing herself when she realized she’d shot her husband. Another was that his older brother had shot their mother when she’d tried to come between him and his father, and then had shot his father. Both versions rang false.
What was the real story? She didn’t dare ask. And clearly it wasn’t something he wanted to discuss, for a heavy silence fell between them. But just as she was about to apologize for prying, he spoke again.
“Gran became our guardian when I was thirteen. But I don’t think you can properly say she raised us.” His voice was remote, cold. “She was too busy at the brewery for that. We raised ourselves, for the most part.”
“That would explain why you’re all so—”
“Wild?”
She winced. There she went again, saying things she oughtn’t. “Independent.”
His laugh held an edge. “That’s a nice way of putting it.” He eyed her closely. “So what’s your excuse for being ‘independent’? Did your father raise you alone? Is that why you insist upon having a hand in his brewery?”
“No. My mother was an alewife. Every recipe we make was passed down for generations from mother to daughter in her family. You might say I stepped into her shoes.” Her voice softened. “They were big shoes to fill.”
“So you’ve been doing it for how long now?”
“Since before Papa died,” she said. “Almost seven years.”
“That’s impossible. You would have been far too young.”
“I was twenty-two when Mother died and I started going to the brewery.”
He gaped at her. “But that would make you—”
“Nearly thirty, yes. I’m afraid I’m rather long in the tooth.”
He snorted. “You’re annoying as the very devil, and one of the mouthiest damned females I’ve ever met, but not remotely long in the tooth.”
She hid a smile. Perhaps it was silly, but she was flattered that he hadn’t thought her an old spinster, as many in Burton did.
They walked awhile in silence. It was easy to do with the streets so busy. High Borough Street was known for its many inns and public houses, so people were coming and going even late at night. Thank goodness he’d walked her back to the inn; his massive frame made her feel safe.
He’d been right about the difference between London and Burton, though she’d been loath to admit it to him. She moved freely about Burton, mostly because of her family’s stature. She never even needed a footman—she was always quite safe as long as she stayed out of the less savory part of town.
But here … well, there were a number of unsavory parts in London. And though she might have been perfectly safe in a hackney, even those could be breached by a determined footpad.
They passed Plumtree Brewery, which seemed quieter with only the night staff at work, and approached Spur Inn. She’d chosen it for its proximity to the brewery and for its low cost, but she rathe
r wished she’d chosen another. The crowd downstairs in the taproom seemed very rowdy, and she doubted she’d get much sleep tonight.
He opened the door to usher her inside. “I’ll show you to your room. This is not a safe place for a woman to wander alone.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said as they climbed the narrow stairs.
“Given that you offered earlier to spend a night in my bed as part of a gaming wager,” he said in a husky voice, “I think you can call me something more personal than ‘my lord.’”
Heat rose in her cheeks. He would bring that up again. It made her aware that she was practically alone with him, since everyone else in the inn seemed to be tucked away in their rooms or in the taproom below.
Why had he made that wager anyway? Simply to put her off? Or because he desired her? And if it was the latter, then why let her win?
If they were to spend the next two days closed up in a carriage together, she needed to know if he was a gentleman or a rogue. “Speaking of that, Lord Jarret—”
“Jarret,” he corrected her.
“Jarret.” A shiver spun down her spine. Using his Christian name seemed so intimate. “I was wondering …” Oh, heavens, how was she to ask this?
“Yes?”
They’d reached the next floor. It was deserted. Once again, she found herself glad he’d accompanied her, for the room she shared with Sissy and Geordie was at the unlit end of the hall. She wouldn’t have wanted to be trapped alone here with some drunken fellow coming up from downstairs.
They stopped outside the door to her room. She forced herself to look him in the eye. “Did you let me win that game?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re less of a hellion than you care to admit. Because you’re a gentleman.”
“I’m not that much of a gentleman.”
She lowered her voice. “But a gentleman wouldn’t want to force a woman into his bed just because of a wager.”
“Then why would I make the wager in the first place?”
“To scare me. And when it didn’t work, you had to find a way out of it.”
A Hellion in Her Bed Page 7
