A Stranger's Gamble (Lords of Chance Book 3)

by Tarah Scott

  Anger swept through Sophie. A man whose family had fallen into ruin because of gambling? That was worse than Lord Declan. How could her father consider marrying her to a penniless nobleman?

  Lord Blair tossed back the rest of his sherry and set the empty glass on the mantle. “The discovery of the old marquess’s impoverished estate shocked us all. His penchant for gambling ran far deeper than anyone suspected. Unlike most noblemen in his situation, Adam did the honorable thing and paid his father’s debts after his death. That is what has left him without any fortune. I give you my word, the man is an honorable fellow.”

  Her father heaved a sigh. “Sophie is a strong-willed lass.”

  He walked to the right, out of her view, and the clink of glasses told her he was filling a glass with liquor from the sideboard. He returned into sight, two glasses of sherry in hand and handed one to the earl.

  Shorter and with a slight paunch, her father looked old alongside Lord Blair’s height and muscle. She’d inherited her father’s curly auburn hair but, thank heavens, not his bulbous nose. According to her father, she’d inherited her dear, departed mother’s delicate build, heart-shaped face, and brown eyes lined with sooty lashes.

  “I fear Sophie may not agree to the match,” he said.

  Sophie exhaled a silent breath of relief. He knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t go quietly to the gallows. One marriage had been quite enough. She flushed. She’d eloped with Matthew of her own accord, so couldn’t fault her father for that marriage. He now only wanted her to be happy, as he and her mother had been.

  Like many girls of sixteen, she had mistaken an older man’s age for quiet wisdom and strength. Matthew hadn’t been a bad man, but he’d been an abominable husband. Brooding men of nearly forty years of age quickly lost their attraction. He needed to be the center of attention at all times, and he was terrible with money, which was far worse than his need for attention.

  When he’d fallen ill, she had been his nursemaid the last eighteen months of their marriage and his life. He finally had enough of being ill and locked himself in his room and drank himself to death. He’d considered himself a poet in the right of Byron—many young women like herself had agreed—and, like all poets, his death was deemed a tragedy. Of course, a scandal followed, for no real poet died without scandal.

  Matthew had died over a year ago, yet the gossip persisted. The idea that she poisoned her husband at all, much less because he’d had an affair—Matthew had precious little time for her, much less another woman—was laughable. But the gossip persisted, and she’d finally heeded the devil that whispered in her ear that she should give the gossipmongers what they wanted. When people had even remotely hinted that she’d had anything to do with her husband’s death, she’d just smiled and shrugged. That had fueled the gossip and earned her the nickname Belladonna, after the nightshade family. No one said the residents of Invergarry were particularly imaginative.

  She started to pull the door closed, then froze when her father said, “But it is time she wed. I will send the lass straight to her Aunt Madeline in Edinburgh without delay. She will see that Sophie is ready to meet the marquess at Lady Seafield’s ball.”

  Sophie blinked.

  It is time she wed?

  Had the decision been made? Why not? Her choice of husbands had been terrible—or so her father would reason. He wouldn’t be wrong on that account. But did that give him the right to choose a husband for her?

  Her father stared into the fire. “I fear Sophie’s marriage to that ne’er do well has wounded her.”

  Wounded her? Her heart softened. What made her father think she was wounded? Women had a right not to want to marry. Why should she give up her freedom a second time?

  “Shall was toast the future Marchioness of Monthemer?” Lord Blair asked.

  Her father nodded and lifted his glass. “The Marchioness Monthemer.”

  He and Lord Blair clinked glasses, then drank.

  Sophie resisted the urge to burst into the room and vow she would marry no one, marquess or not. Instead, she eased the door closed. With measured steps, she headed down the hall then up the stairs to her room where she sat on the bed, hands on her lap. She imagined a doddering man in at least his late sixties who wanted a pretty young wife to remind him he was still a virile man. She’d seen such unions often enough to know the old men made prisoners of their young wives, who they feared—and with good reason—would take lovers.

  How hard could it be to avoid an ancient marquess? She would attend parties in the oyster cellars, receive ball invitations, and go riding in the country. She longed for the general hustle and bustle of the city. Matthew had claimed he hated the big city, but Sophie had deduced that he didn’t want to compete with the more sophisticated men in places like Edinburgh. Byron’s lost cousin, they called him, and some still insisted that he’d died too young. She wouldn’t mind getting away from the talk of her poisoning her husband. Worse than the gossip, were the men who thought they would bed a wealthy widow in hopes of charming her—or perhaps forcing her—into marriage. These days, she couldn’t attend even a simple soiree without a gentleman—no, they weren’t gentlemen—trying to seduce her.

  Sophie thought back to the last time she’d been in Edinburgh. Her father used to take her and her mother every year in the autumn. She’d been twelve and had spent many of the days with her best friend Imogen Rose. When Sophie’s mother died, they hadn’t gone again to Edinburgh, and Imogen’s new stepfather had shipped her off to France to attend school. Imogen had written three times, then the letters stopped. Sophie had been hurt at first but, as she grew up, she realized people simply went on with their lives.

  A murmur of voices in the front drive below her window drew her attention. She rose and crossed to the bay window, then sank onto the seat. Below, Lord Blair spoke with her father beside the earls’ crest-emblazoned carriage. Her father had taught her that a wise person always made a deal that put him—or her—in a better position than the one in which they currently resided. A husband was definitely a step down from her current situation.

  She eyed the splendid bays harnessed to the carriage. She would insist that her father allow her to take her fine dappled mare Ophelia to Edinburgh. She smiled at the thought of cantering across the countryside surrounding the city. She would have a grand time in Town—then inform her father she wanted no part of his scheme.

  Worry niggled. What if he insisted she marry the marquess? Widows usually enjoyed more freedom than an unmarried miss. She and Matthew had been almost completely dependent upon her father. Then, when Matthew died, her father had gotten their marriage annulled. He had said the annulment was to free her from Matthew’s cloying family, but they were little more than an occasional nuisance. Sophie had the suspicion her father had gotten the annulment because he felt guilty that he hadn’t been able to prevent the marriage. If Matthew had of turned out to be a better husband, her father would no doubt have accepted that she was happy. But she hadn’t been happy. Father would have taken care of her not matter what, but his overindulgence to Matthew’s demands meant she had never truly left her father’s protection. Did that mean he had the right to dictate who she married?

  The two men shook hands, then Lord Blair vaulted into the carriage and pulled the door shut. A flash of sunlight caught the polished brass trim of the carriage as it lurched forward and started down the drive. She watched as the coach grew smaller. Why was Lord Blair matchmaking? He was a friend of her father’s, but not a close friend. She wasn’t aware they had conducted business together. Had this Marquess of Monthemer engaged Lord Blair to facilitate a marriage for him? Usually, attorneys facilitated marriage contracts. The carriage disappeared around a stand of trees.

  “Is it true, Miss Sophie?”

  Sophie shifted to face her lady’s companion and good friend Beatrice. She hovered near the door.

  “Beatrice, I swear, I have told you a thousand times not to do that.” The woman made as much noise
as a cat stalking prey.

  “Are you to be married?” Worry lines etched deeper than usual between Beatrice’s brows.

  Sophie grimaced. “Good Lord, news travels faster in this house than does a wildfire.” She waved a hand. “’Tis nothing to fret about. I will…”

  An idea—a wild idea—struck. She and Beatrice shared the same build, height, and hair color. Sophie had met her Aunt Maddie as a toddler, so the woman didn’t actually know her.

  Sophie grinned. “Bea, you are coming with me to Edinburgh.”

  Beatrice’s scowl deepened.

  “Sophie?” Her father’s voice rang in the hall. “Come to the study, lass. At once.”

  The plan would work. All she had to do was fool an old woman who had never met her and talk their faithful driver into keeping quiet. The latter would prove easy. The old driver was already an accomplice to other schemes.

  Chapter Four

  After breakfast a week later, Sophie stood at the bottom of the front doorsteps, wrapped in an ermine-trimmed pelisse as the footmen strapped the last of her three trunks onto the back of the coach-and-six. The maids had packed twice the dozen dresses Sophie had laid out for the trip. Having a calico printer as a father ensured a never-ending supply of fashionable prints to wear. She would have to work hard to attend enough parties and events to be able to wear them all.

  A thrill rushed through her. Edinburgh. She would stay with the aunt she hadn’t seen since she was five. Aunt Maddie lived in Italy until four years ago when she returned to Scotland. Sophie’s father never said it, but she suspected her aunt blamed him for Sophie’s mother’s death. That was silly, of course. People died of pneumonia all the time. She could just as easily have died in Edinburgh as she had in Invergarry.

  At any rate, it seemed Aunt Maddie had forgiven Sophie’s father enough to agree to her staying until she met the marquess. Discomfort swirled in her stomach. She would have preferred to stay at an inn and not deal with the woman who had never bothered to visit her and her father.

  Sophie breathed deep of the early autumn air and willed her shoulders to relax. She planned to enjoy herself on this trip, marquesses and aunts be damned. The footman nimbly leapt from the carriage with the last trunk finally secure. She eyed the vehicle. Three days in a carriage did not appeal to her. Thankfully, day after tomorrow afternoon, she would break free of the confines of the vehicle and ride like the wind on her mare Ophelia for the final few miles into Edinburgh.

  The scrape of her father’s boots on the steps sounded behind her, and she turned as he reached her. She had told him that she had no interest in marrying a marquess. He had put his foot down and said she was going to Edinburgh—and that was that.

  “Your Aunt will take good care of you,” he said.

  “Of course, Father.”

  “I won’t be able to join you until the ball. We have a problem with the latest vat of Turkey Red.”

  Sophie nodded. “No need to worry. I shall be fine.”

  He grasped her shoulders and she looked up into his face. “This is for the best, Sophie. He’s a good man. Not many noblemen would have paid their dead fathers debts, especially to the tune of leaving themselves penniless.”

  “You have never met the man,” she replied.

  “That will be rectified when I arrive in Edinburgh. I have made arrangements at the two inns where you will stay the two nights. You are not to travel after dark.”

  “There is no need to worry, Father. You know I am a crack shot.” She lifted her reticule, where she kept a muff pistol. She didn’t mention that she’d stowed her favorite revolver in the valise Beatrice was bringing down.

  Her father locked gazes with her. “Mr. Williams has strict instructions from me not to let you bully him into driving past sunset.”

  Sophie’s heart softened. “I won’t bully him, I promise.”

  When her cousin had been waylaid by highwaymen six years ago, Sophie had begged to learn to shoot. To her surprise, her father had acquiesced without argument. Though he had remained staunch that she would no longer be allowed to ride on a road after dark.

  “I will see you in Edinburgh.” He kissed her forehead, then headed back inside to his study where his men from the dye works waited.

  Sophie sighed. He obsessed over his dye works. She understood his passion. She felt the same with her horses. She shifted her gaze to her to prized mare tied to the back of the carriage. Nothing compared to the wind in her hair and the feel of a horse moving beneath her as she galloped across the heather.

  Beatrice emerged from the house, a cloth-covered basket looped over one arm and the valise in the other.

  Sophie grinned at the bag. “Thank you, Bea.”

  Beatrice scowled and lifted the basket. “I heated stones for the journey, Miss.”

  “You think of everything,” Sophie said. “You did think of everything?” She glanced meaningfully at the canvas bag.

  “Aye,” Beatrice said. “But no good can come of your shenanigans, miss.”

  Sophie winked. “What good is life without shenanigans?”

  She had everything she needed in that bag, but she couldn’t take advantage of the items until day after tomorrow. On that point, Mr. Carney was adamant. On the third day of their trip, when they were an hour from Edinburgh, she would ride like the wind on Ophelia.

  The footman opened the door. Sophie descended the stairs to the coach with Beatrice at her side. Sophie paused and looked back at her childhood home. The stately stone manor with its black slate roof lay nestled amidst gardens on the edge of town. She felt certain nowhere on earth was more beautiful. She would have a nice adventure, then return home to the heather covered hills she and Ophelia loved to travel together.

  Sophie faced the carriage and allowed the footman to hand her up into the carriage. Beatrice followed, then busied herself with the warming stones and the fleece-lined lap blankets. The carriage tilted slightly as the footman hopped onto his seat beside the driver, then the crack of Mr. Carney’s whip sounded, and the carriage jolted into motion.

  Sophie peered through the plate glass window and let the sun warm her face. Thick, white puffy clouds dotted the bright blue sky. As they turned out onto the open road, excitement hummed in her belly. The last of the thatched roofs of the village disappeared behind them.

  Chapter Five

  Adam stretched his arms and gave a loud, luxuriously yawn. From the lumpiness of the bed, he knew he lay in his lodgings at Alston House—but how he’d gotten there was a mystery. He’d spent an enjoyable evening at Luckie’s Oyster Cellar, dandling a bonny wench on his knee while bellowing drinking songs at the top of his voice. Fueled by an endless supply of cheap porter and even cheaper whisky, the last thing he recalled was slipping under the table in a delightful stupor.

  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. This wasn’t the first time he’d stumbled back to his lodgings too drunk to remember a step of the journey back, even though he hadn’t done nearly as much of that of late. A bankrupt estate had a somewhat sobering effect on a man. He sat up slowly and rubbed his chin, noting the scratchiness of his whiskers. It was time for a shave.

  “You’re awake earlier than I expected,” a deep voice commented from near the door.

  Adam started and glanced over his shoulder to see his friend, Lord Nicholas, his back against the door, arms folded across his chest and his polished boots crossed at the ankles.

  “I apologize for my late arrival last night, Adam. You forgot to tell me where to meet you.” Humor gleamed in Nick’s eye. “However, you were easy enough to find. I merely had to walk down Cowgate to hear the singing—how does the song go… a lusty young smith at his vice stood—”

  “I know the words,” Adam cut in. He rolled onto his back. “You should’ve joined me for a drink.”

  “I did.” Nick laughed. “Have you no recollection of last night, at all?”

  “Cheap whisky interferes with such pesky things as memories,” Adam remarked with a dry smile. �
��I trust you didn’t find drinking it too much of a chore?”

  “Nae, lugging you up two flights of stairs, however, was tasking. You are damned heavy. Get dressed. We have important business to discuss at the Poker Club.”

  Adam climbed out of bed, stretched his arms over his head, then grabbed his shirt from the foot of the bed. “Poker Club? Have you no burning desire to stay here in my sinfully extravagant lodgings?”

  He glanced about the small depressing room, furnished with just the lumpy bed and a table—with no chairs. A broken mirror hung sideways on one wall, and a torn print depicting a cow standing near a stone cottage adorned the other. The single small window with its extensive view of the rooftops below provided the only light. He’d quit buying candles. They only vanished into the pockets of Alston House’s other tenants. Many a time, he’d caught Mrs. Latimer from the room above picking the lock of his door.

  “I have news,” Nicholas said, interrupting Adam’s introspection. “Be quick, man. I’m in the mood for Luther’s goose pie.”

  “Luther does serve a particularly tasty goose pie.” Adam crossed to the table where sat an empty water basin. “Damnation, I need shaving water.” He fastened the last button on his shirt.

  Nicholas reached for the brass bell hanging by the door. “I’ll summon the maid—”

  “No, not the bell.” Adam pointed at the ceiling. “Mrs. Latimer is weary of the bell. She claims I ring it far too vigorously and far too often.” He picked up a sheet of paper from the table. “Your obnoxious ringing of the bell disturbs my rest. Only the most ungodly of creatures would ring the bell as you do…so on, and so forth.”

  Adam tossed the letter back on the table, reached into the saddlebag resting on the floor, and withdrew his finely crafted pistol. He crossed to the window and threw it wide open. The bright light made him wince as he leaned out, pointed the pistol skyward, and pulled the trigger. The loud crack shattered the morning silence. Something thudded in the room above, followed by loud swearing and the pounding of feet on the floor.