by Tarah Scott
A Stranger’s Gamble
Tarah Scott
A Stranger’s Gamble Copyright © 2021 Tarah Scott
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art: dreams2media
www.scarsdalepublishing.com
Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ballad of Discord
Chapter One
Adam Scott looked from the newspaper he was reading to the glass of brandy that sat on the table to his right. This was his fourth brandy at his club. The liquor, along with the warmth of the fire burning in the hearth had relaxed him to the point that he considered going to Lena’s to see if he could persuade her to spend the rest of the evening with him in bed. They’d spent a good part of the afternoon in bed, but he felt ten years younger than his thirty-two years and believed he could make a night of lovemaking.
He lifted the brandy to his lips and caught sight of two long-time friends. Alistair and Nick walked with purpose across the carpeted floor, and he realized they were headed toward him. Their grim expressions told him they had news he wasn’t interested in hearing.
When they reached him, he finished his brandy in one gulp, then said, “You two look as if you have just come from a funeral.”
Something flickered in Alistair’s eyes.
Adam sighed. “What happened?”
“Your father,” Nick said.
Adam tensed.
“He is at Lady Fleming’s.”
Adam relaxed. “He often gambles at Lady Fleming’s.” He never worried when his father gambled at Lena’s gaming hall. She always made sure his losses never got out of hand.
Nicholas shook his head. “He’s been there since early this afternoon.”
Adam cut a glance to the clock above the mantle. Half past ten. He’d left Lena’s bed at six. Surely, she sent his father packing when she arrived at the gambling hall?
“Rumor has it, he has sustained heavy losses,” Nicholas said.
Adam closed the paper, tossed it onto the table, and stood. He pushed past the two men, headed for the door. They followed him outside to the walkway.
“Have you a carriage?” Alistair asked.
Adam shook his head. “Nae.”
Alistair pointed to where his carriage sat. “Come, we’ll take you.”
Adam wanted to refuse but didn’t see a cab nearby. He nodded, and they hurried to the carriage. Adam entered first, then Nicholas.
“Lady Fleming’s,” Alistair instructed his driver, then pulled the door shut as he vaulted inside. He dropped onto the seat alongside Nick as the vehicle lurched into motion.
What a bloody fool he was to think his father, the Marquess of Monthemer, might be able to refrain from further ruination. A mental image rose of Adam turning the key in the lock on his father’s bedchambers with his father inside, then throwing away the key. The only thing stopping him from living out the fantasy was the knowledge that his father would jump from the third story window in an effort to find a game of cards. Adam had never known a man so sick with the gambling fever.
They reached Lady Fleming’s half an hour later, and Adam told Nicholas and Alistair to await him in the carriage.
“We’re coming with you, Adam, and that’s the end of it,” Alistair said.
He had no heart to argue and allowed the two men to follow him inside. Adam turned left into the largest cardroom in the building. Half a dozen men sat at the large table. Cigar smoke hung in the air and the smell of liquor permeated the room. Three women dressed in tight gowns hovered nearby. To Adam’s relief, his father was not among the men at the table.
He spun and hurried from the room, Nick and Alistair close behind. Adam headed up the stairs to Lena’s private office. A large man came into view beyond the railing on the second floor. Lord Mornton.
The earl started down the stairs as they neared the second floor. “If you are looking for your father, he left not half an hour ago.”
Adam halted one stair below the man. “He was here, then?”
The older man nodded. “Aye, he was here. I tried to talk him into leaving but…he had been drinking.”
“How much did he lose?”
Mornton hesitated.
“That bad?” Adam asked.
“He lost everything.”
“What does that mean?” Adam asked in a soft voice.
“The townhouse here in Town. The land in Aberdeen. All but the entailed estate.”
Alistair cursed, and Nick drew a sharp breath.
“Such losses are unheard of,” Alistair said. “It is illegal.”
“Signed and witnessed by a solicitor,” the earl said.
Without another word, Adam brushed past him and hurried up the last half dozen steps to the hallway. Two doors down he turned into the open door of Lena’s office. She looked up from a document lying on the desk in front of her and met his gaze, unwavering. No remorse, no guilt. But he read in her eyes the knowledge that his worst fears and that she’d been the instrument of his downfall.
“How bad is it?” he asked in a too-calm voice he barely recognized as his own.
“You know how your father is when he gambles.”
Adam gave a single slow nod. “You took your usual cut.” It wasn’t a question, and she didn’t reply. “How much?” he asked.
“Ten thousand pounds and the townhouse here in Town,” she replied without hesitation.
Adam felt as if a team of horses had rammed into his chest. “Who is the fortunate man who will be living in my home?”
She hesitated, and his blood went cold.
“You.”
“At your father’s insistence—”
“Pray, do not blame others for your greed,” he cut in.
Her expression cooled—something he’d witnessed a thousand times. “The marquess would simply have lost his fortune in another gambling hall,” she said. “If not tonight, another night.”
“And why should someone else benefit from the ruination of my father and me, the man you claim to love?”
“It is not personal,” she said.
He gave a mirthless laugh. “How well I know.”
Adam turned, and Nick and Alistair stood aside as he strode from the room.
Chapter Two
Olivia could scarce believe it, but
her husband had just confirmed the rumor that their close friend Adam Scott, the new Marquess of Monthemer was destitute. She shifted her gaze from her friend Lady Charlotte Cassilis, who sat on the divan opposite her in the parlor, to their husbands, standing at the parlor hearth where a low fire burned.
“I knew his father gambled away his estate outside of Edinburgh before shooting himself last year, but what of his property in Aberdeen?” Olivia asked her husband.
“The old marquess lost all but the entailed estate in Inverness,” Nicholas replied.
Her heart tugged. “How does a man lose so much in a card game?”
Charlotte shook her head. “How could Lady Fleming allow Adam’s father to gamble away everything in her gambling hall? She was to marry Adam.”
“Charlotte, I have asked you not to engage in gossip,” Alistair said.
“So, you have,” she replied without rancor.
“I’m impressed Adam was able to keep the details of his financial difficulties quiet this long,” Nicholas said.
“Why did you not tell us, Nick?” Olivia demanded. “We have had him for dinner at least three times this last six months and seen him at parties, and I had no idea.”
Nicholas lifted a brow. “I should think that obvious, my dear.”
“Because men do not discuss financial matters with women,” Charlotte said with a roll of her eyes.
Olivia looked at Charlotte. “He must marry.”
Nick narrowed his eyes. “Olivia—”
“Oh! I know the perfect girl,” she exclaimed.
Charlotte’s brow creased, then her eyes lit. “You don’t mean…”
Olivia nodded. “Yes.”
Charlotte clapped. “How absolutely perfect.”
“It is not our place to interfere,” Alistair said.
“Alistair is right,” Nick said. “Besides, Adam may not wish to marry.”
Olivia slanted her husband a sideling glance. “Do not act as if marriage is a man’s doom.”
“Come, love. You know full well that I consider marriage to be the sweetest of prisons.” He took two steps, grasped her hand, and brushed his mouth against her fingers. Despite five years of marriage and two children, she shivered. The man need only look at her with that fire in his eyes and she melted.
But she had power over him, as well. Olivia tilted her head and looked at him from beneath her lashes. “Do you not want the marquess to experience the same sweet prison you do?”
“She’s got you there,” Alistair said.
Charlotte arched a brow and pinned him with a stare. “Do you disagree with Nicholas, sir?”
“Not in the least.” He leaned a shoulder against the mantle.
“Oh, but our husbands are charmers, are they not?” Olivia asked. “But we shan’t be distracted.” She raked her gaze down her husband’s long frame. “No matter how pleasing they are to look upon.”
Or how much they please us.
Nicholas settled beside her on the sofa. “Love, fate brought me to you. Perhaps, one day, Adam will be as fortunate. Alistair is right, we simply cannot interfere.”
“He is not consorting with Lady Fleming, again, is he?” Charlotte asked.
Her husband studied her. “Just how much do you know of Lady Fleming?”
“Everyone knows of his connection to Lady Fleming,” she replied. “And she is the only women to run a gaming hall in all of Edinburgh.”
“For God’s sake, Charlotte,” her husband said in a stern tone.
“Please, Alistair.” Charlotte rolled her eyes. “The affair between Adam—the Earl of Monthemer—and Lady Fleming is—was—one of the most notorious love affairs in Edinburgh, probably all of Scotland, notwithstanding the Royals. News of their association used to be in the gossip sheets at least once a week. Rumor has it, when the old marquess lost his estate to Lady Fleming, it was she who broke off her and Adam’s association, but I don’t believe that for a moment.”
Olivia snorted. “Of course not. She is only trying to save face. Adam must have broken off with her. He would never marry the woman responsible for his father’s death. A good woman will set Adam to rights.”
Nick held up a hand, palm out. “Adam has made it clear he prefers ruin rather than marriage.”
“Marriage to the wrong woman,” Olivia said.
Nick sighed. “He did not tell you that.”
“It really is a pity you did not tell Charlotte and me sooner of his financial difficulty,” she said.
Nick compressed his lips. “I believe I already said that financial difficulties are not something a man discusses with a lady.”
“Had we known earlier, we could have taken action,” Charlotte said.
“There is no action for us to take, Charlotte,” Alistair said in warning.
“Hush. Olivia and I know just the right woman for him.”
“An heiress, I assume?” Nick said.
Olivia gave her husband a brilliant smile. She knew he would go along with the plan once he understood. “Of course. She is sweet natured and intelligent.”
Alistair coughed. “It’s the intelligent part that gets a man into trouble every time.”
“I will speak with Sophie’s father,” Olivia said.
“Sophie? Sophie Shaw?” Nick whistled. “Her father owns Dalquhern Dyeworks—Liam Shaw. He is, indeed, wealthy.”
“And angling for a good match for his daughter,” Charlotte said.
“Like any good mama,” Alistair murmured.
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “Like any good parent. You are forever saying that you only have our children’s interest at heart. Mr. Shaw only has Sophie’s best interest at heart. He would be lucky to have a man of character like Adam for a son-in-law.”
“What if they don’t fall in love?” Nicholas asked. “You would not want to cheat Adam—or Miss Shaw—out of love, now would you?”
“Oh, pish,” Charlotte said. “What’s not to love? Sophie is high-spirited—”
Nick chuckled. “There’s the catch.”
“Her father had the marriage annulled once the man died a year ago. She was only sixteen when they eloped to Italy without his permission,” Alistair said.
“He was twenty years older than her,” Charlotte said. “You know how older men prey on young women.”
“Did not her first husband die under strange circumstances?” Alistair asked.
Charlotte arched a brow. “Now who’s listening to gossip?”
“Alistair is right,” Nick said. “Wasn’t she accused of poisoning him?”
“She was never ‘accused’ of poisoning her husband,” Charlotte said in a tart voice. The men exchanged a glance, but Charlotte continued, “Sophie is a superb rider and, of course, she’s beautiful.”
“That’s something,” Alistair said, his voice full of good-natured amusement.
Olivia faced her husband. “Nick, you must speak with Mr. Shaw. He is much more likely to agree to the plan if it comes from you.”
He grabbed a log from those stacked to the right of the hearth and tossed it on the low fire. “I cannot imagine what would induce me to speak with him.”
“Never mind, Olivia,” Charlotte said. “We will enlist the aid of Lady Meyers. She’s close with Mr. Shaw.”
“Heaven help us,” Nick muttered. “Not Lady Meyers.” Charlotte opened her mouth but closed it when he raised a hand. “Lady Meyers has made an art of the profession of ‘busybody.’ Adam will not appreciate her meddling.”
“Then it’s settled,” Olivia said. “Nick, you will speak with Mr. Shaw about Adam. Tell him…tell him that the two shall meet at Lady Seafield’s ball. The soiree is the event of the season.”
“Olivia—”
She rose. “Come, Charlotte. We have some planning to do. Oh, and, Nicholas, I will be seeing Lady Meyers three says hence.” She linked her arm through Charlotte’s and led her from the parlor.
Chapter Three
Sophie set aside her book and left her sitting room
. She turned the corner in the hallway and stopped short at the sight of Janie and Sarah, two maids in her father’s household, each with an ear pressed against her father’s study door.
“What if he’s old and fat?” Sarah whispered.
“Or haggle-toothed?” Janie giggled.
Sophie tiptoed the few paces to the maids and whispered, “Move over.”
The girls whirled, eyes wide.
“Excuse us, miss.” Janie dropped a quick curtsey, grabbed Sarah by the ear, and pulled her down the hallway.
Sophie frowned at their disappearing backs. Odd. Usually, the three of them eavesdropped together. She faced the door and pressed her ear to the wood. She had excellent hearing and easily distinguished her father’s voice.
“She is my only daughter, my lord,” he said. “And an heiress in the bargain.”
“He is a man of honor as well as a marquess,” a cool male voice answered.
A marquess? Her mind catapulted back four months, when her father urged her to consider Lord Declan’s suit. At only twenty-eight, Viscount Declan turned the ten thousand pounds of debt he’d inherited upon his father’s death into nearly twenty thousand pounds of debt, all within a year. When her father discovered the truth, he sent the viscount packing. Her father had told her she was too young to remain a widow. Still, she hadn’t thought much of his matchmaking. Perhaps that had been a mistake?
Sophie grasped the brass doorknob and, with a slow, careful twist, eased the door open and peered through the crack. A small fire crackled in the hearth, just enough to dispel the early autumn chill from the room. Her father paced the red floral Brussels carpet. The silver clock displayed on the marble-topped mantle chimed five times.
Sophie glimpsed a polished boot before a tall, well-dressed man in his thirties with dark hair and a strong jaw stepped into view near the hearth. He strode to the fire and leaned against the mantle, a glass of sherry in hand.
Lord Nicholas Blair.
Lord Blair tapped his fingernail on the rim of his glass. “The Marquess of Monthemer.”
Her father halted and locked gazes with him. “Tell me, Lord Blair, what assurances have I that the marquess will not gamble away Sophie’s dowry as his father did his fortune?”
