Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2)

by Nicola Davidson

  “Not the duchess. In truth you are dowager duchess. One word that makes all the difference.”

  “This conversation grows excessively tiresome.”

  “Indeed? I’m finding it fascinating. By the by, when are you going to tell your beloved third son he had a wife and children he adored? A family residing in London as we speak?”

  Hatred twisted her face, and just for a minute she appeared unspeakably ugly. Almost as swiftly, the expression faded away as though it had never been. “He. Does. Not. Every piece of evidence relating to that terrible folly with the lowborn whore was destroyed. I saw to it personally. Money can smooth all manner of wrinkles.”

  “Ha. Howard might not remember her of whom we do not speak, but what happens when he appears in London and comes face to face with his spitting image?”

  “England is littered with the by-blows of noblemen.”

  “Except the young lad isn’t a by-blow, is he? Born in wedlock, he’s the Earl of Trentham, legal heir to the Mannering dukedom.”

  “As I said,” Charity hissed, abandoning her tea to stalk over to the window and brace her bejeweled hands on the ledge, “there is no evidence whatsoever to support such a claim. Her parents, the midwife, maid, law cleric, the wretched fool who married them, they are all gone. No one will ever know of...earlier times.”

  An unwilling grin of admiration tugged at his lips. By God, she was a heartless criminal, corrupt to the core. Probably why they had always gotten along so well.

  “And what of me?” Percival said softly, rising and soundlessly crossing the thick cream library carpet until he stood directly behind her.

  “What we discussed is hardly possible right now,” she snapped in reply, although her breath hitched slightly as his hand closed around her shoulder and squeezed once, hard.

  “I am next in line, Charity. My father was Uncle Henry’s only sibling. You promised me a dukedom.”

  “And you’ll get it. Howard will only ever know of you as his heir, and there are no other possible claimants.”

  “Yes. It was rather fortunate, cousin Frederick’s wife barren all those years, then perishing birthing a dead girl. As for Brenton, well, his bedsport preference was never going to result in offspring, now was it?”

  “How dare you!”

  Percival inclined his head. “You’re right. Far more important to discuss the future. Howard is fit, healthy and only fifty years old. More than capable of siring several children. What happens when he marries a suitable lady and beds her twice a day until she does her duty?”

  “Actually, he isn’t capable. He confessed to his dear, sympathetic mama that an illness he suffered in the colonies left him wretchedly unable to father children. He was quite, quite broken about it. Said it was why he’d never taken a wife in San Francisco, just enjoyed, ah, occasional feminine company of a temporary nature,’ said Charity, cold as her name.

  Excitement and anticipation curled in his stomach. “That is wonderful news, but I have no desire to be duke aged eighty. Patience is not one of my many virtues.”

  “Then you’ll have to learn it. If something happened to Howard now, there is no one in the world who wouldn’t be suspicious.”

  Percival seethed with frustration, but she was right. It really was too bad he’d been born several hundred years too late. Unwanted relatives had been far easier to dispose of back in medieval, even Tudor times. An ambush in a clearing, a sprinkling of poison, even just an old fashioned duel and the winner took all.

  “So we wait. And watch. Although I do think I would rest easier if the, er, by-blow was not a factor.”

  “On that matter,” Charity replied, delicately wrenching from his hold and gliding towards the door, “we are in complete accord. I always hoped our magistrate might show true spine and get rid of the whore’s brats, but unfortunately he only amused himself with torture. One is now out of our reach, but as for the other, perhaps it is time for fate to intervene.”

  He smiled widely. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  ~ * ~

  “Louisa! What have you done? And what is that ghastly rotting smell?”

  Wincing at Belinda’s shriek, Louisa looked up from where she was sweeping up a pile of broken beaker glass. “Nothing is rotting. It was just a simple experiment with some Sicilian sulphur.”

  Her companion screamed again. “Your hair! You’ve burned a section right off…there are soot marks on your cheek…and you are soaking wet!”

  She shrugged. “I got a bit too close to the flame. Much better that I get doused in cold water than roasted alive, don’t you think?”

  “Not today…oh, Louisa, how could you do this today? Your third comportment tutor is here ready to greet you, and instead of reading in the parlor and gowned appropriately like you are supposed to be, you’re in a damned filthy cottage with singed hair, sooty cheeks and boy’s breeches.”

  Oh God.

  “The tutor can’t be here yet. She’s not due until the afternoon.”

  “It is the afternoon. You’ve been here for hours with your beakers and fire and damned Sicilian sulphur,” snapped Belinda, wringing her hands.

  “That is twice you’ve said damned now. I am beginning to fear that the apocalypse has begun.”

  “Do not try and make jokes, young lady. This is serious.”

  “Yes, it is serious. I’ve assisted two tutors in deciding to resign their post, but they are becoming tougher each time. So I’ve decided the asylum would be infinitely preferable. Most certainly preferable to marriage to Lord Kildaire at least. And do not worry about your future; if my parents tried to send you away I would give you every penny I have set aside for scientific supplies.”

  Belinda glared at her. “Not everything is about money. And please do not start up that nonsense about the marquess again. How could you possibly dislike him? He is young and handsome and so charming. And that accent! It dances on the air.”

  “He said some awful things. That he wanted to share me with his associates!”

  “Did he actually say those exact words?”

  “He said I would learn to love them!”

  “Oh, Louisa, stop it. Just stop it. All men hope their wife will be cordial to their friends. A lady, especially a marchioness, should be cordial to those around her.”

  Gritting her teeth, Louisa continued to sweep up the shards from her broken beaker. The fact that Belinda had been taken in by Lord Kildaire’s falseness was hard to accept when usually she remained Louisa’s staunchest ally. How typical, that the only person to see the marquess for his true vile self was George. And he had definitely placed her firmly back in the enemy camp after she’d managed to spoil their dance and temporary truce by making about the most thoughtless comment imaginable.

  “Lord Kildaire is most definitely not the man I am looking for,’ she said eventually. “Besides, I have no desire to live in Ireland.”

  “Ireland is a truly beautiful country. And from what I understand, he has properties in England as well, so you’d just travel between them. Imagine all the lovely house parties.”

  Louisa coughed to halt a wave of nausea. Imagining the kind of entertaining that man did with his “friends” was not something she ever wanted to do. “No thank you.”

  “Well. Sometimes I just don’t understand you at all. An old man, an unattractive man, of course you would turn away from marriage. But Kildaire is neither. You are behaving rather like a spoilt little madam, Louisa. Now, come along. Lord knows what I’m going to be able to salvage from your current state, but I shall try.”

  Gulping at the sharpest tone Belinda had ever used, Louisa discreetly left a pile of coins for the two footmen and two maids who had assisted her with today’s scientific study, and followed Belinda outside into the cool, bleak afternoon. It wasn’t much of a trek back to the main buildings of the Donovan estate—the long-abandoned cottage where she did her experiments was only two fields over. But the cool breeze on her wet clothing chilled her to the bone, and it f
elt like they walked the length of Gloucestershire when her companion turned her head away and refused to talk to her.

  Tears burned her eyes. First George, now Belinda. If she’d somehow managed to gravely offend Caroline before leaving London, precisely every person she cared deeply about would now hate her.

  Trudging into the manor house, Louisa kept her head down and arms wrapped around herself for warmth. If the singed hair and soot on her face were as bad as Belinda’s screams would have her believe, the less people who saw her before an attempt at repair was made, the better.

  “Louisa Eleanor Donovan! What on earth are you wearing?”

  She froze. Hell and damnation. Her mother was right behind her. “Don’t fret. I’m just going to change right now,” she said, not turning around. “I…was out in the stables. A good thing I was wearing breeches, because the horses were naughty and kicked the trough right over. Doused me from head to foot.”

  “You’re lying to me.”

  “No, Mother. I’d better hurry. Don’t want to keep the comportment tutor waiting any longer.”

  “She’s not waiting. Miss Trimble is right here. So turn around and greet her.”

  Next to her, Belinda cleared her throat. “Louisa got mud splattered on her along with water. From a stray hoof. I only need a quarter hour, Mrs. Donovan, and she’ll be ship shape and ready for afternoon tea.”

  “No,” said her mother, in a truly awful voice. “You will turn around this minute and greet Miss Trimble, Louisa.”

  She grimaced. Meeting a comportment tutor at the foot of a staircase while wearing wet breeches and possessing a soot-smeared face and flame-sizzled hair did not exactly place her in a position of power. The tutors were supposed to discover further down the track that she was no lady, not at the first meeting. What if this one saw her as a challenge and dug her toes right in? Louisa would never get rid of her then, because topping today’s effort would be nigh on impossible in terms of unladylike behavior. Apart from ruining herself, of course, and that was a drastic step she didn’t want to take. Not at this point, anyway.

  Taking a deep breath and conceding defeat, Louisa turned around.

  “Good afternoon,” she said to a tall, middle aged woman in a high-necked beige gown. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  The woman stared at her for a long moment, her mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish. Then she swooned.

  “Miss Trimble!” said her mother, dropping to her knees and whipping out her fan to frantically wave it in front of the tutor’s face.

  Seconds later the woman sat up, and groggily shook her head. Then she looked at Louisa. “No,” said Miss Trimble very clearly. “No, I will not.”

  “Please,” begged Margaret. “You can see my daughter desperately needs your expert assistance. And you are the very best.”

  Miss Trimble snorted. “No, dear lady, she needs a miracle. Besides the appalling breeches, I will eat my bonnet if those marks on her face are mud. As for her hair, one does not burn it unless one is involved in shenanigans entirely unbefitting a young woman seeking an aristocratic husband. I am indeed the best, and will not sully my good name with this…this termagant.”

  “For an increased fee?”

  “Not for a king’s ransom,” said the tutor icily as she got to her feet. “I’ll see myself out. Good day to you, madam, Miss Donovan.”

  Silence reigned in the foyer, until Louisa could practically hear her own thundering heart. “Mother, I told you to let me change my clothing first.”

  Margaret held up a hand. “Not one more word. When your father returns he will hear of this debacle, and decide on your punishment. Now go to your room and scrub your face. Belinda, do what you can to remove or disguise the burned hair.”

  “Of course,” whispered Belinda with a bobbed curtsy.

  “Louisa, Lord Kildaire was to visit us in a few days, but I’ll write and ask him to postpone. I shall say you are…indisposed. But in a fortnight’s time, you will be quite well. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I will also instruct my secretary to search for another tutor. Fourth time lucky, perhaps?”

  “Yes, Mother,” she repeated meekly, heeding the ominous warning.

  “Then get out of my sight.”

  Fleeing upstairs, with Belinda right on her heels, Louisa didn’t dare let out her sigh of relief until she reached her spacious chamber. There was a silver lining to this terrible day, and that was a two-week respite from seeing Lord Kildaire again. But when the next tutor was engaged and arrived, she would have to tread carefully for a while. Despite her bravado about preferring a stay in an asylum to Kildaire, the thought still terrified her. As did the thought of Belinda being sent away forever.

  Her situation had become precarious.

  And that was a dangerous thing.

  ~ * ~

  George had nearly paced a hole into his bedchamber rug, but damned if he could sit still. Three days later Sir Malcolm was still missing, and with every hour that passed, his heart lifted a bit more.

  Please, please be dead.

  If real justice did exist, the thug bastard would be fished from the Thames tied up like a parcel of Venetian silk and decorated with several bullet holes. Anything to show he had suffered for once in his life. Suffered as much as they had for twenty-one years.

  Halting in front of his looking glass, George unbuttoned his linen shirt, shrugged it off then turned and peered over an unnaturally pale shoulder at the hideous mess of ridges and grooves decorating his back. Oddly, he could still remember the origin of each deep, puckered scar. How old he’d been. The weapon of choice—horsewhip, heated poker or nearest heavy object. Not to mention the reason. Just as well no one ever saw his back, not the sun, the moon, friends or any of the women he’d bedded. And they never would. The sight of it gave him waking nightmares, no point spreading the joy around.

  Twenty-one fucking years.

  The beatings had started shortly after his mother and stepfather’s wedding. Open hand graduating to closed fist to whatever happened to be nearby, pausing only when he left for Eton aged thirteen. Being a pretty-faced, poverty-stricken King’s Scholar brought a new set of horrors, but he’d learned to defend himself and then made some powerful friends, so no more scars—mental or physical—could be added to his collection. Cambridge had been another respite, but as soon as he graduated, everything resumed.

  It was the only existence he knew. Pain. Being trapped. Survival. Making jokes, frantically polishing the veneer of himself to be agreeable.

  Please, please be dead so I can spit on your corpse and dance on your grave.

  “George? Darling, are you up here?”

  Swiftly he yanked on his shirt and re-buttoned it. “In here, Mama.”

  Emily marched into the sparsely furnished bedchamber, her shoulders back and a genuine smile on her lips. “There you are,” she said, handing him a neatly folded pile of crisp linen. “I’ve just finished those two shirts. I saw a splendid embroidered cuff pattern in La Belle Assemblée and a certain dandy is going to be pea-green with envy.”

  He grinned. “You know, Brummell hasn’t spoken to me since I refused to tell him the name of my tailor.”

  “Oh dear. I’m sure you miss his disdainful looks and cutting wit. And that terrible oiled hair. Quite the disaster.”

  “Mama...” George replied, instantly sober at the thought of how close they were to actual disaster. “We need to talk about Sir Malcolm.”

  Emily tensed, her fingers bunching and crushing the fabric of her pale pink cambric gown. “I’d rather not.”

  “Tell me about the gambling debt. Did you know?”

  “Yes,” she said eventually, visibly trembling.

  George tossed the shirts onto his bed. “God. As if I didn’t hate him enough...twenty thousand pounds! Why didn’t you say he was a fucking good-for-nothing gambler? I would have stolen a pistol and shot him myself. Hell’s teeth! Gambling! Of all the stup
id, worthless...fuck!”

  “George. Language.”

  “What am I supposed to say, Mama? Dash it all? At twenty thousand pounds? He’s lost more money than we’ll ever see. What kind of fucking numbskull does that? I never thought such a tight-fisted bastard would wager sums to lead to that much debt. Goddamned fucking scum should be killed if he’s not dead already.”

  Emily’s shoulders slumped, her beautiful, timeless face turning haggard before his eyes. “Oh, my darling,” she whispered. “Everything you just said about gambling is absolutely true. It is wicked and unforgiving and life-destroying, and it cares not whether you are man or woman, prince or pauper. But you have one crucial point incorrect.”

  “Really?” he said uneasily. Her gaze wouldn’t meet his before; now it had him pinned. “And what might that be?”

  “The debt is mine.”

  George froze, staring at her uncomprehendingly. “What?”

  “I am the gambler. As bad as Georgiana Cavendish, with none of her allowance, and the shame is my constant companion. Occasionally I won, which only encouraged me to continue. But mostly I lost. And I would keep going trying to recoup it, and lose that too. Then I’d stagger out of the salon feeling so sick. You have no idea how many tears I shed or words of rage I screamed into my pillow. Wondering how, when my life was already so broken, I allowed it to become so much worse.”

  “But Mama, we have nothing. How…how did you find the money to wager?”

  “I borrowed from friends. Sold things. Used the household allowance and saved on poorer quality food. I took on extra mending in secret, even though Sir Malcolm forbade it.”

  “Stop,” he snapped, holding up a hand when it looked like she would say even more. “I can’t. Not everything. Not today. I’m so angry right now.”

  “Please don’t hate me, George. I couldn’t bear that.”

  He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t hate you. But I truly fucking hate what you’ve done. Now I’ll have to repay the money. Somehow raise twenty thousand pounds without anyone finding out. The ton will destroy us otherwise. And we aren’t running to Caroline, she has enough on her mind expecting her first.”