Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2)

by Nicola Davidson

  George’s hand tightened on her waist, but unlike Kildaire, the action didn’t repulse or frighten her. It made her feel safe. And more than a little breathless.

  “Forced marriages are bloody medieval,” he growled. “That is what happened to Mama.”

  Startled at the blurted words, Louisa stared up at George, willing him to keep talking. But he’d clenched his jaw, and the flush on his face only accentuated his flawless cheekbones. Damn him.

  “I did wonder,” she said slowly. “Lady Edwards is so lovely, and Sir Malcolm…er…”

  “Is the Devil on furlough from hell.”

  Seven words, and yet there was so much hatred in them she stumbled on the hem of the last ill-fitting gown she might ever wear. Only George’s swift action halted an impromptu face-first meeting with the ballroom floor, and she sucked in several breaths as her heartbeat returned to normal.

  “Why…why can’t you just leave?”

  George stared at her, and abruptly his expression changed into the mocking, cold one she loathed. “Abandon my mother and leech from my brother-in-law? Oh, a capital idea, Miss Donovan.”

  Embarrassment scorched across her cheeks. Damnation, that had been the worst possible thing she could say to him. Especially when George’s loyalty to and protection of his mother was one of his most endearing traits, as was his refusal to use Lord Westleigh as his personal bank. “I only meant—”

  “I know exactly what you meant. That I’m the kind of shallow, flighty bastard who doesn’t care about anything other than drinking and women and the next party, correct?”

  Stung, she glared at him as they circled two young couples. “Forgive me. I must have missed you running for parliament. Or working in an office. Or building something lasting. All the things that men do because they have a choice. You went to Eton, and Cambridge—”

  “On scholarships,” he snarled. “Always bound to a stranger’s good graces.”

  “Who bloody cares? You passed everything with flying colors, gained firsts in Latin and history, and made lifelong friendships. You could be someone, George. Someone very special.”

  His shoulders slumped, and just for a moment his eyes flashed with a pain so stark, and a weariness so pronounced, she could scarcely believe she was looking at bold, arrogant and assured George Edwards.

  “You know who you are, Miss Donovan,” he said in a voice so devoid of emotion, she shivered. “You’ve always known. But I don’t. Do you have any idea what that is like, to have a murky lineage, real father unknown, part of your very existence a blank slate? No. Of course you don’t. And only someone who has never wanted a day in their life could possibly talk of choice. When you have no funds, there is no bloody choice. But you judge me anyway. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the dance had ended. Good evening.”

  And for the second and far more devastating time in their acquaintance, George left her standing on the dance floor.

  Alone.

  ~ * ~

  The rumors were true: no courage—Dutch, English or otherwise—could be found at the bottom of a brandy bottle. Even two or three or four. Five was definitely the magic number, especially when one wanted to forget a conversation had ever taken place.

  Bloody Louisa Donovan. He’d never blurted out those truths to anyone. His brain had been scrambled, first at her obvious revulsion and fright of Kildaire, and then with her too-sharp words about his life.

  Leaning well forward in Ardmore’s lavish town carriage as they sped for Chateau Hell, George attempted to secure said magic fifth bottle. Unfortunately he only achieved a face-first encounter with a pair of deliberately scuffed shoes.

  “I’m flattered,” drawled Thomas. “But you really aren’t my type.”

  “’Tis true,” he replied, collecting the bottle and carefully arranging himself back on the seat. “I possess a brain.”

  “Debatable.”

  “Cold, hard fact, you pudding-faced whelp of Prinny’s backside.”

  Next to Thomas, Colonel Lord Robert Langley snickered and lifted a half-empty bottle for another long swallow. “While I always admire decent insults, this is George’s stop. If he doesn’t get out, the neighbors will think we’re having a goddamn ménage a trois and neither of you are my type.”

  George glared at the dark-haired soldier slumped across from him. At least he hoped he was glaring at him—there were several replicas sitting side by side. All large, brooding and weighed down in being the Duke of Southby’s younger brother. By all accounts, and in the many commendations and promotions he’d received, on the battlefield Robert was unmatchable in courage and daring. But on furlough, he closed himself off and became a different man entirely.

  “Ha. You should be so lucky, Robbie. Actually, it sounds like you need a woman more than any man in England. Perhaps if you beg, some spongy, purple-haired dowager might take pity on you.”

  Robert scowled darkly, his startling amber eyes mere slits. “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Unnecessary, with so many willing volunteers.”

  “Deranged chits,” said Thomas, lounging back on the butter-soft cream leather squabs. “At least m’sisters limit themselves to godawful odes.”

  “Silence. Your sisters are splendid. And accomplished lock-pickers.”

  “You bloody bastard. I knew that was you! Nothing is safe in my home now!”

  George grinned, anything to prolong his stay in the carriage. “You’re most welcome. By the by, my offer to wed all three is still open. We’d have to live under a bridge, but it would be an adventure. And imagine the fun at Christmastide.”

  “Don’t understand you,” mumbled Robert. “One wife would be too many, let alone three of them. Why would you want a trio of faithless liars?”

  His jaw dropping, George glanced at Thomas, who looked equally stunned. But before they could interrogate Robert further, the man closed his eyes and slumped against the carriage window, fast asleep.

  “Well,” George said slowly as he fumbled with the carriage door latch, knowing he couldn’t stay any longer, no matter how much he wanted to. “On that note, I’m done in. Be gone, my bed is calling with a sweet siren’s song.”

  “Long as you don’t reply,” said Thomas. “Not even England’s enemies deserve the yowling stray symphony in G minor.”

  “Jealousy is a terrible thing. Good evening. Er, good morning,” he finished with an exaggerated bow that nearly had him arse over ears on the icy footpath, as his friend’s carriage moved away into the pre-dawn gloom.

  The cold was a slap to the face, altogether too effective in clearing the pleasant fog in his head. But the second, and far harsher slap, was the sight of Chateau Hell’s front door partially ajar.

  What the hell?

  Fear clamped around his heart, and he stumbled up the steps and into the foyer. The silence was deafening, the sound of his footsteps in contrast loud and eerie. A flash of movement in the corner of his eye made him turn, just in time to see his mother waving a giant fireplace poker in his direction. “Mama! What the bloody hell?”

  Emily gasped, dropped the poker, and ran to him. “Are they gone?”

  Christ.

  “Is who gone? Mama, what happened?” he said sharply, as he lit a cheap iron-handled candelabra for further light.

  “There were men here. I don’t know who they were, but some of them sounded Irish. They had a terrible fight with Sir Malcolm in his office. The noise! I ordered Pearce and the servants next door and hid in the cellar with my sewing basket.”

  “Where is Sir Malcolm now?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps we should check his office. He might be dead,” he said slowly, and his mother looked so hopeful, George nearly smiled.

  Taking her hand in his and squeezing it, they climbed the stairs and paused outside the office door. Then he nudged the door with his foot, and it swung open.

  Any words died in his throat.

  Holy fuck.

  They’d walked into a goddamn Macbeth
scene. Blood, so much dark red, metallic-scented blood. Frozen trickles on the glass windows. Smears coating chair arms, candlesticks, inkpots and seascape paintings alongside everything else currently in a broken, haphazard heap in the center of the usually immaculate room.

  “George,” gasped his mother, clutching his arm, her face without a trace of color. “All this…but he’s not here!”

  Chills raced down his spine. “No. Who would dare do this? Everyone minded him, even the worst from the Rookeries. What legal cases did Sir Malcolm have before him? Were their papers?”

  “He always kept everything in that desk. Locked. Check it, darling. We’ll have to send for the Watch, and once they or his cronies are here we’ll never know.”

  George slowly approached the rectangular oak structure and set his candelabra down. The stench in the room made him want to vomit, but his mother was right about one thing. If there was something worth finding, it had to be now.

  Trying not to disturb the scene, he examined the desk and sifted through drawers. Only one was locked. “Nothing.”

  “What about under it?”

  Holding his breath, George inched under the desk, his fingers tapping and sliding against the smooth, cold wood, searching for any kind of oddity, any kind of indentation that might indicate all was not what it seemed. Suddenly his hand brushed a tiny box affixed to the bottom of the desk. Aha. By touch alone he eased back a thin sliver of wood and something heavy and metallic dropped into his hand.

  “Well, well,” he muttered, holding his nose before sucking in a quick lungful of air. “A key.”

  “To the locked drawer? Go on, try it.”

  It required several jiggles and two hard yanks, but finally he got the thing open. The plain brown folder stuffed in the bottom looked innocent enough, but the back of his neck prickled wildly. This could be something powerful. Dangerous. On the other hand, it might be something good like a property deed or bank account details.

  Snatching it up, he jerked back out from under the desk and scrambled to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Not a moment too soon,” Emily agreed, and George picked up the candelabra as they hurried from the library, down the stairs and into the small and shabby front parlor.

  Settling onto an embroidered chaise, George stared at the folder like it was a coiled snake rather than heavy parchment. What he wouldn’t give to be back in Thomas’s carriage right now, warm, drunk and unaware. “Hell.”

  “Don’t faff about, open it!”

  Very reluctantly he slid a thumb under the already-broken seal, pulled out a single sheet of paper and began to scan the neatly cursive handwriting.

  Sir Malcolm,

  I am a fair and reasonable man, but you have pushed me well beyond my limits of patience. A great favor was done you in the collection and settlement of all debts, but it has now been some months and I have yet to see a penny of the twenty thousand pounds owed me. Suffice to say, I am extremely displeased.

  George sucked in a breath so harsh it felt like he’d swallowed razor blades.

  TWENTY THOUSAND POUNDS.

  A fucking fortune no matter who you were speaking to.

  “George? George! What’s wrong? What does it say?”

  “Just a minute,” he choked out. “Let me finish.”

  To be ruled by the dark mistress of gambling is unfortunate, especially when one does not have deep pockets. But for a senior magistrate to teeter on the edge of bankruptcy is a grievous sin and I cannot allow the situation to continue. Yes, you know things about me best kept private. But I know far more about you.

  His hands shaking, George swallowed hard several times. He’d need more than fingers and toes to count his vices, but gambling wasn’t one of them. There was something to be said for having no funds and a mathematician best friend who had painstakingly demonstrated the futility of attempting to beat the house. But Sir Malcolm had few acquaintances, let alone friends. No one would drag him from a salon or gaming hell.

  “George!”

  “Just a minute!” he growled. Closing his eyes briefly, he opened them again and forced himself to read the remaining paragraph.

  So, to use words you are familiar with, here is my decision. Either the money is repaid in full, half by the start of the Season, half by the end, or life becomes exceedingly unpleasant for the Edwards family. I will be forced to publicly disclose everything I know about your financial situation, alongside the information gathered regarding your morally unsound and illegal activities. Of course, all your wife’s secrets would also be revealed, and that would certainly delight your long-standing, high-ranking patron, would it not? You were gifted everything you have. Do not doubt for a moment it can all be taken away.

  K.

  “GEORGE!”

  “Ruination,” he said quietly, handing the letter to his mother.

  Minutes later she stared at him, her face even whiter than the parchment. “This is all my fault.”

  “What? How could it be?”

  “You don’t know any of it, George. Nor will you know how sorry I am.”

  And with that, she ran from the room.

  Chapter Four

  Mannering Castle, England/Scotland border

  So close.

  After the deaths of all other Grenville males—the previous duke to a tumefaction of the heart, and the duke’s heir and spare more recently to the serious fever that decimated parts of the north—Mr. Percival Grenville had been agonizingly close to having the world in his grasp. Mere days away from descending on London as Duke of Mannering, one of the wealthiest, most important men in the entire realm. But the Fates were crueler than the devil himself. His dream had been ripped away by his cousin, missing for over twenty bloody years. Suffering bloody amnesia. Who acted like a bloody damned heathen colonial.

  Smoothing his bone-crushing rage into an expression of friendly politeness, Percival turned away from the wide library window with its tranquil view of perfectly trimmed grass, deep blue lake and acres of forest, and smiled at the broad-shouldered giant currently usurping his position. “I know it’s only been a month, your grace, but how are you settling in? Any further memories returned?”

  Mannering closed the ledger he had been carefully studying, propped both his elbows on the beautifully carved oak desk, and grinned. “I’m settling in very well. Everyone is most helpful and obliging. Unfortunately my mind is still mostly a blank slate about all this, so I daresay I’ll be relying on you for some time in the future, Percy, my friend. But I’ve already told you to call me Howard; we are family, after all, and so few of us left.”

  Percival barely suppressed a wince, both at the shortening of his name and the frightful American accent the words were delivered in. Technically, of course, the fourteenth duke was as blue-blooded as they came. But he looked like a ruffian laborer with his silver-touched blond hair brushing his collar, carelessly loosened cravat, and simple linen shirt with rolled up sleeves revealing deeply tanned forearms. He acted like one too, always laughing loudly and bantering with the kitchen maids and stable hands as though they were his equals.

  It was enough to make one violently ill.

  Damn to hell and back the idiot elderly clerk who on a visit to America literally bumped into the lost heir on a San Francisco street. Apparently Howard Jones, shipping firm overseer, took some convincing he was really Howard Grenville, English aristocrat, but had eventually agreed to return. Just in time to snatch the dukedom from Percival’s eminently capable and far more suitable hands.

  So close.

  “Family. Yes, of course,” Percival murmured through gritted teeth. “Howard.”

  “Very fortunate I never forgot my first name, isn’t it? All the ‘your gracing’ and ‘Mannering’ is difficult enough, glad I didn’t have to relearn another name as well. My poor brain might have given up entirely. Actually, talking about my poor brain, I need some fresh air. Care to join me for a brisk walk around the gardens while there is still enough da
ylight?”

  “While that sounds delightfully invigorating,” Percival lied, “I’m afraid I must decline. Promised my wife I would take her for an outing in one of the carriages. Oh, you don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not! Far better to be used than gathering dust and rust. Enjoy your afternoon and give my regards to Beth,” Howard replied, clapping him heartily on the back as he loped from the room like some sort of vulgar giraffe.

  Percival’s fists clenched, his mind screaming at him to run after his cousin and bury the dagger permanently residing in his champagne-polished Hessian squarely between those massive shoulders. Instead he perched his slender frame on a comfortably padded chaise, took a long sip of hot tea and raised a mocking brow at the floor to ceiling bookcase.

  “You can come out now.”

  With a faint clicking sound, a section of mahogany wood swung open and Charity Grenville, Duchess of Mannering, strolled out.

  “Good afternoon, Percival,” she said crisply, casually pouring herself a cup of the steaming brew as though she had been busily embroidering by the window rather than hiding behind a false wall.

  Inwardly, he shook his head. She might be the chilliest, most devious woman he’d ever met, but it was easy to see how she’d landed one of the premier dukes in the kingdom. Charity had been the undisputed diamond of her day, and even now, when her perfectly coiffed hair was pure silver and pale blue eyes framed by lines and indents, she was still attractive.

  “Spying on your own son?” he said easily. “For shame, aunt. What would Mannering think?”

  “What Howard doesn’t know, he cannot worry his poor scrambled head about. Now, best run along. You don’t want to keep dear Beth waiting,” she replied, every inch the unrepentant empress.

  “Dear Beth knows her place. Unlike you, duchess made.”

  Charity’s lips tightened then settled into a smile harder than the gold-set diamonds looping her neck. “But I am the duchess. Do not forget that. Ever.”