Wicked Nights with a Lover

by Sophie Jordan

  His attention drifted back to Mary. She was talking, he realized. “They’re all supposed to be under his roof together. Grier arrived over a week ago. A nice-enough girl, if not a bit outspoken. Another arrived just yesterday and another is supposed to show up this afternoon. Only that one’s not staying as the other two are … that’s why he’s throwing together a little soiree tonight. He’s hoping to convince the new one to stay for the grand event.”

  Three? The randy old goat had fathered three daughters?

  “That a fact?” Ash dragged a hand though his too-long hair, watching Mary rise and begin to dress, his mind churning over the implications of what this development could mean for him. His partner suddenly had heirs. Three, to be exact.

  “Reminds me that I need to get back,” Mary muttered. “There’s much to do. He wants everything spotless. He expects at least a dozen to attend …”

  “A dozen … who?”

  She shrugged. “Some fine gents, I hear. Real bluebloods.”

  The hairs on Ash’s neck began to stand as he watched her shimmy into her gown. “What scheme has he concocted?”

  “He ain’t saying, but Grier can’t keep her tongue behind her teeth.”

  “And what has this Grier said?”

  Mary looked over her shoulder as if she expected the great Jack Hadley to materialize behind her. He was that way. Larger than life, an intimidating figure to many.

  “Well … she thinks he’s got it in his head to marry them off to some bluebloods. All three of them. Any swell will do, so long as his blunt has run dry and he’s desperate enough to marry a bastard daughter of Jack Hadley.”

  “Bloody hell.” He shook his head. “Why would any swell want to—”

  Mary waved a hand about her fiercely. “For this, of course. All of it. The mine, the factory …”

  Cold washed through Ash’s veins. Of course. For everything he had worked so hard for.

  It all came together then. He understood why Jack suddenly wished to claim the daughters he’d seen fit to forget. He wanted what they could bring him. Prestige. A door to the glittering world of the ton. The sneering aristocrats would have to welcome him into their drawing rooms if his daughters married men among their ranks. His hand curled into a fist at his side.

  Mary must have seen something in his face. An uneasy look drifted across her features. She drew out his name on a heavy breath. “Ash.”

  “I’ve made this this,” he said tightly, motioning to his elegant suite. “The hells were nothing before me. And the mine? The factory? It was my idea to invest—”

  “I know, I know,” Mary soothed.

  “He means to hand over what is rightfully mine to some lily-handed prigs who suck up the nerve to marry his bastards?”

  “Well, they are his heirs, Ash,” Mary pointed out. “And their future husbands have a right—”

  “Just because Jack shagged these chits’ mothers doesn’t give their future husbands the right to claim all I’ve worked for! All I have built!” His chest lifted on a deep breath.

  “What can you do about it? You’re partners. If Jack gives each of his princesses a share of all he owns, it’s his right.”

  “Princesses,” Ash sneered and shook his head in disbelief. Jack Hadley had thieved, cheated, and murdered his way to the top. Everyone knew it. His daughters were no princesses.

  “At least a dozen bluebloods will be in attendance tonight. Grier let it slide that one of them is even a real duke.” She snorted. “Can you imagine that? A duke? Dining with ol’ Jack Hadley. Maybe even becoming his kin?” She laughed.

  And taking what is mine? The factory? The mine? The hells? All that Ash had in this world. “No,” he bit out past his teeth. “I can’t imagine.”

  And he couldn’t. He didn’t want to believe that the man who had taken him under his wing would discard him for a gaggle of females he’d never even met—daughters or not. After plucking Ash off the streets and giving him his start, how could he not consider Ash in any of this?

  “Well, I’m off.” Mary pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  “Wait a moment,” he murmured from chilled lips. “I’ll drive you home.”

  “Oh.” She arched her eyebrow, the look in her blue eyes decidedly wary. “You’re not going to start any trouble, are you? I’ve no wish to get scolded for talking out of turn.”

  “Jack won’t give you a thought,” Ash assured her. “I’m coming,” he said flatly.

  He’d hear it from Jack’s own lips that while he viewed Ash as a son, he didn’t consider him good enough to be his heir … good enough to inherit all that he’d built for the two of them. Jack instead preferred for his share of wealth and property to go to a trio of blue-blooded dandies with nothing but birth and rank to their credit. Oh, and marriage to Jack’s bastard princesses.

  When Ash arrived at Jack’s Mayfair house, it was to find double the usual servants buzzing about. Like an army of ants, they swept, dusted, and polished everything until it gleamed. Hothouse roses, fragrant and rich in color, covered every surface. Beyond extravagant for this time of year.

  Amid the cloying bouquet, the butler led him into Jack’s office, a wood-paneled circular room of deep walnut that was as familiar to him as his own bed. He’d spent countless evenings in this room, a glass of Jack’s finest brandy in his hand, discussing business, life, the politics about Town and how it all might affect their enterprises.

  They were alike: both brought up from the gutters, both having tasted abuse at the cruel hands of the unforgiving and merciless London underworld. Both with an insatiable hunger to succeed, to win and prove that they were no longer gutter trash. Ash had always told himself that’s why they worked so well together, why they’d become partners.

  Apparently, he’d been wrong. They weren’t alike.

  Ash knew what he was, knew what drove him, and he felt not the slightest remorse or wish to change. Some men were built for domesticity and could content themselves with a simple life. A wife, home, children, church on Sundays. He wasn’t one of them. He didn’t aspire to be. Nor was he like Jack. Jack craved a place in Society, position, the final stamp of approval—and he would step on Ash to get it. That much was now clear to him.

  Ash surveyed the familiar room with fresh eyes. Even though Jack could scarcely read and do little more than pen his name, books lined the walls of his office, stretching to the domed ceiling.

  He settled his gaze on Jack, sitting behind his desk, his secretary beside him, assisting him as they read over some documents.

  Looking up, he greeted Ash as though nothing were out of the ordinary, as if gentlemen from Society’s highest echelons were not about to descend upon this very house. “Ash. I didn’t expect to see you today.”

  “Is it true?” he demanded, wasting little time.

  Jack didn’t even blink. He never did. Never gave an outward sign of what he was thinking. A trick Ash had learned from him. Never show the world the true you. Cling to your guard. “Is what true?”

  “You have daughters. Three bloody daughters!”

  Jack sighed and slid a glance to his assistant. “Give us a moment.”

  Ash watched him with narrowed eyes as the secretary left the room. Jack leaned back in his leather chair as the door clicked shut. “One of the maids, I presume? Every female on my staff falls into titters at the sight of you. Is there no woman you can’t seduce?”

  Ash snorted. Jack knew all about bedding women. His illegitimate offspring attested to that.

  “Why are you here, Ash?” he demanded in a hard voice that told Ash he already knew.

  “I want to hear the truth from you.”

  Jack studied him a long moment before speaking. “I’m a father. Is it so surprising that I should want to see my daughters? I’m not a young man anymore.”

  “I know you’ve gathered them all here to auction them off to some damned bluebloods.” He felt his top lip curl back from his teeth in a sneer.

  “Is it so wrong to
want to see my girls well arranged—”

  Ash broke out in laughter. He couldn’t help himself. He knew Jack Hadley too well to believe he was a well-meaning father concerned with the welfare of his daughters.

  “Come, Jack. Do you even know their names? This is about you. About getting yourself a duke for a son-in-law.”

  The older man’s ruddy face burned vividly. “Of course, I know their names. I took pains to locate them, haven’t I? They’re all here …” A scowl swept his face. “Well, I believe so. The final one was to arrive today. She’s been a bit elusive. Damned inconvenient. I have a big evening planned and I need her here.”

  The final one. She didn’t even merit a name. She was without an identity. And yet Jack would hand over to her, to each of them, what Ash worked so hard to build. It was intolerable.

  “So you don’t deny you’ve claimed them as your heirs? That you intend to marry them off and give away all that I’ve labored to—”

  “It’s not all yours though, is it?” Jack cut in.

  Ash ignored the question, pressing on. “The gaming hells were scarcely hanging on when you made me partner. The mine, the factory … I had to convince you to even agree to invest—”

  “But I did agree,” Jack inserted. “You couldn’t have bought the mine or factory without me. And you’ve made me a very wealthy man. So wealthy I can buy myself any son-in-law I want.”

  Ash inhaled sharply. “What of me? Am I not to be considered a candidate?” The wild idea seized him, and he could not shake it loose. If marrying one of Jack’s daughters helped him secure even a slight hold on the empire he’d built, then so be it. True, he’d still have two other daughters and their dandy husbands to contend with, but he’d cope—and all the better if he was married to a direct heir. One third of Jack’s share would be his. Combined with the share he already possessed, he’d hold the greatest majority.

  Jack arched a bushy brow. “You want to wed one of my daughters? You?”

  The flesh near his eye ticked beneath Jack’s appraisal. Of course he didn’t want to marry one of the chits. He didn’t want to marry anyone—much less some female he’d never clapped eyes on before. But in that moment he did want to know that this man who had saved him from starvation and abuse—this man who was the closest thing he would ever have to a father—thought he was good enough.

  “Perhaps,” he answered and held his breath as Jack regarded him with steady, unflinching eyes.

  “Sorry, Ash. You know you’re like a son to me, but I have big plans for these girls and you don’t quite fit into them.” His expression must have cracked, because Jack added, “I can’t have you for a son-in-law. You’re no different from me—another rat from the stews.”

  The words gouged him. “I see.”

  Nodding, he turned and strode from the room, each bite of his boots on the carpet driving the insult of Jack’s words deeper home.

  He did see. He saw everything clearly then. Jack had communicated his message perfectly. Ash wasn’t good enough, and he didn’t deserve to keep the empire he’d built up from two crumbling hells all to himself. He simply wasn’t good enough to be Jack’s sole heir.

  Except no one told him he wasn’t good enough. That he couldn’t have something no matter what he did, no matter what he said or how hard he tried. He’d proven that over the years.

  And he’d prove it again.

  He may not want to marry, but he would.

  He would have one of Jack’s daughters, steal her right out from beneath his nose. Whatever bloody duke Jack had lined up for her would just have to miss out. Because Ash wasn’t about to lose.

  Not ever.

  Chapter 7

  She was vastly underdressed.

  This regrettable thought flitted through Marguerite’s mind as she entered Jack Hadley’s drawing room to join her sisters. Her father, the butler informed her, was indisposed at the moment but would join them later. Just as well. She was not here for him, after all.

  “Marguerite?” The older of the two girls rose to her feet, her elegant skirts swaying as she moved forward with an easy confidence. “I was afraid you would not come.” She motioned to the other female sitting so silently, her slim hands folded neatly in her lap. “We’d begun to fear you did not wish to meet us.”

  “Of course I wanted to meet you. Both of you.” Especially before I leave. Marguerite took a hesitant step, unsure where to sit.

  “Come, seat yourself. I’m Grier and this is Cleopatra.”

  “Cleo,” the one with hair nearly as dark as Marguerite’s hastily corrected. A grim smile curved the lips. “My mother’s a bit fanciful.”

  “You live with your mother?” It was on the tip of Marguerite’s tongue to ask why she was here then, if she had a mother.

  “Yes, and my stepfather.” A grimace flickered across her pale face. “And my half brothers and half sisters.”

  “Fourteen, can you believe?” Grier volunteered, tucking an auburn strand back into her loosely arranged chignon. Her skin was unfashionably tan, but even that did not hide the spattering of brown freckles over her nose and cheeks.

  Grier leaned forward. Reaching for the tea service, she poured a cup for Marguerite.

  “Fourteen? How lovely,” Marguerite murmured.

  Cleo shrugged. “Not really. Why else would I answer the summons of a father who never sought to acknowledge me before?”

  Marguerite nodded slowly, appreciating her candor and feeling the echo of that sentiment rush through her. “That’s why you’re here then?”

  “That’s why we’re both here,” Grier clarified. “We’re both short on opportunities. Cleo is tired of being maid, cook, and nanny all rolled into one, and I’m … well. I just needed to get away from home.” Grier’s dark eyes took on a faraway glint. She tugged at her snug sleeve and scratched beneath at her wrist, convincing Marguerite she would be vastly more comfortable wearing something else. “I should have left a long time ago, but never had the opportunity before now. So, here we are then. And what of you? Are you here to stay?”

  “It wasn’t my intention. I came to meet you both.” Marguerite cleared her throat, deciding now was as good a moment as any to explain that she would be leaving the country. “Before I go.”

  “Go?” Cleo asked. “Where are you going? You just arrived.”

  “I’m leaving. Tomorrow. For Spain.”

  “Spain? How exciting.” Grier took a healthy swig of her tea and reached for a biscuit. “This is the farthest I’ve ever been from home. It’s fair to assume then that you’re not locked into sad circumstances that force you to accept the hospitality of the father who’s neglected you all your life? Good for you.”

  Marguerite winced. She would scarcely consider her circumstances good.

  “But what of tonight?” Cleo asked, her eyes bright with disappointment. “You do not intend to join us then?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Did you not receive my letter?” Cleo shook her head. The light streaming through the mullioned glass struck her dark hair, making it appear blue in places. “Jack gave me your address. I sent it two days ago. I thought that’s why you were coming today.”

  Marguerite swallowed. She’d moved from the boardinghouse yesterday. Ever since her horrid nightmare, she’d been eager to leave the boardinghouse behind. Every time she glanced at the corner of the rented room, she expected to see the dark cloaked figure of Death again.

  Aside from that, Roger insisted on putting her up at a hotel until they departed. His sisters resided with him in Town, so it was hardly appropriate to stay with him, but he was eager to begin his role of benefactor.

  “What’s tonight?” she repeated.

  “Jack is throwing a little soiree for us.” Cleo’s smile looked tight and brittle on her lips, as if the words hurt to speak.

  “Oh, call it for what it is,” Grier bit out, brushing the crumbs from her skirts as she finished her biscuit.

  “I’m certain we can find you something
to wear,” Cleo offered, the hope rife in her voice.

  “Did you not hear her?” Grier asked. “She’s leaving for Spain. I don’t think she wishes to snare a husband tonight. Not as we are meant to.”

  Husband. The word knifed through Marguerite, settling like a noose around her neck. It was as if Madame Foster was beside her now, whispering in her ear, you will marry.

  “Snare a husband?” she managed to get out past dry lips.

  “Jack has invited a few gentlemen to meet us this evening. It’s to be a special gathering.”

  “Special.” Grier snorted. “An auction more like it, so that these bluebloods may assess us as potential wives. It’s why he’s gathered us. He wants to wed us to some blue-blooded dandies, so he can call himself one of them.” She sighed. “But the prospect of marrying well, security … never having to worry about the roof over my head …” She gave a single hard nod. “I’d be a fool to pass up such an opportunity.”

  Marguerite stood on shaking legs, her head spinning. “I must go.”

  “You just got here.”

  “I’m sorry. This isn’t what I thought … what I expected.”

  “Marguerite,” Cleo settled her gaze on her. “You can’t mean to leave so soon. We haven’t even begun to acquaint ourselves.”

  “She’s white as a ghost.”

  “I’m so sorry. I can’t stay … I’ll be back—”

  “When? You’re leaving for Spain,” Grier reminded her.

  She was correct, of course. Marguerite took a calming breath. She was leaving for Spain. She was not getting married. Not getting married. No need to dart from the room like a panicked hare at the mere mention of a husband. No need to react so irrationally. Still, the word hung there, too much, too close … too dangerous.

  “I will call on you when I return.” Hopefully, her father will have deserted all mad notions of marrying her off by then and satisfied himself with the more obliging Grier and Cleo. She nodded doggedly, backing out of the room. “I must go. Take care. Both of you.”