Heartbreak and Honor

by Collette Cameron

  “No. You cannot alter the books or change the wagers—not even to scratch or black them out.” Bretheridge drew in a harsh, hissing breath. “By God, the damnable cur.”

  Seldom did Bretheridge become angry or curse.

  “What?” Lucan glanced at the scribbled entries again.

  His mouth pressed into a stern line, Bretheridge stabbed the book with his manicured finger. “Just there.”

  Ld R bets Ld. Craven a hundred to fifty the gypsy AA will be compromised or disgraced before Season’s end, two hundred to fifty if Ld R succeeds in seeing the deed done personally.

  Alexa’s initials leapt from the page before rage blurred Lucan’s vision and blood whooshed in his ears. He balled his hands until his nails cut into his palms.

  “Ruddy bastard.” Lip curled, he practically snarled. “I’ll kill him.”

  Renishaw’s coming across Alexa at the bookstore hadn’t been by chance. He’d sought her and created a public spectacle intentionally. The churl intended to ruin her for sport and profit.

  Money passed through Renishaw’s fingers faster than piss through a drunkard. If he masterminded the fire in Derbyshire—and Lucan would wagers his title Renishaw had—the thugs who started the blaze wouldn’t wait for payment.

  With pockets to let, Renishaw would have to procure funds. And fast. Their sort didn’t take kindly to being bilked any more than Bellary did. The viscount might find himself with a broken arm. Or worse.

  Far past time the members of White’s blackballed Renishaw and threw him into the gutter where he belonged. Lucan would pursue that another day. Right now, however, a cold sweat engulfed him as concern for Alexa and Jeremy formed a shriveled knot in his gut.

  Men of Renishaw’s ilk possessed no honor, a truth Lucan knew too well. Harvey rested in the family cemetery these many years as a result of a Renishaw’s unscrupulousness. The bugger would use any means to ensure he collected his wagers.

  Lucan shoved his right-hand fingers into his glove. Best have a word with Needham and warn him of the danger to Alexa. Wise, also, to send a note round to Chattsworth, advising Genny to use extra diligence regarding Jeremy.

  “Placing a bet, Harcourt?” Renishaw’s overly loud voice penetrated Lucan’s ire-induced haze.

  Lucan spared him an indirect glance and crammed on his other glove. “Sod off, Renishaw.”

  “Tsk, tsk. No need to be boorish.” A shrewd smile teased the viscount’s mouth. “The question was innocent enough.”

  Nothing the fiend did was innocent.

  Renishaw ambled closer and peered at the ledger. His mouth twisted into a full smirk when he saw the page Lucan and Bretheridge studied. “Thought you were above such mundane pursuits.”

  “You know bloody well I place an occasional wager.” Always, entirely harmless.

  “Hmm, true.” Renishaw touched his chin and affected a contemplative pose. “Wait, it would be duels your maman won’t let her little boy participate in.”

  “For you, I’m sorely tempted to make an exception and send you straight to hell to burn for eternity.” Sending a covert glance round the room, Lucan pointedly edged away from the viscount. He’d like to place something in the betting-book, all right.

  Renishaw’s smug face.

  “How is your mother? Heard her health was failing. Whoever will care for your imbecilic brother—?”

  “Stubble it, Renishaw.” Bretheridge slammed the betting ledger closed.

  “Speaking of my brother, you piece of . . .” Lucan mustered every ounce of control he possessed and smothered the vulgar oath tapping behind his teeth. “Harm Jeremy, even look at him unkindly, and you’ll rue the day you returned to England.”

  The din and conversations dwindled as regulars noticed the tense exchange and stilled to listen.

  A satisfied glint entered Renishaw’s eyes. He enjoyed this.

  Lucan wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Maurice Renishaw was even more arrogant and loathsome than his older brother.

  “After our earlier exchange, Renishaw, a man claiming a whit of common sense, or the faintest intelligence, would have steered clear of me.” Catching Bretheridge’s attention, Lucan slapped his hat atop his head and jutted his chin toward the door. “Let’s go. I find the air inside has grown most offensive.”

  “I’ll say.” Bretheridge followed suit with his hat. “We can continue our conversation later.”

  “That gypsy wench is a tasty little morsel I mean to have.” Renishaw licked his lips and cupped his crotch.

  Holding his breath, Lucan closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He’s goading you. He curled his toes in his boots and fisted his hands, picturing Alexa’s lovely face then his mother’s frail features. Don’t react. Lucan tried to recall one of the many scriptures he’d heard during Sunday sermons on patience and being slow to anger.

  Didn’t help one iota.

  Oh, to hell with it.

  He seized the shorter man’s lapels and jerked Renishaw near. God, he wanted to pulverize the prick.

  “I don’t know what warped game you’re playing, but if you harm one hair on either Miss Atterberry’s or my brother’s head, if there are any more mysterious fires or suspicious occurrences within five miles of anything I own, if you place another bet which affects me or mine, I promise you,” Lucan lifted the viscount another pair of inches and shook him until his teeth clacked, “you will regret ever having been born. I shall ruin you.”

  “Harcourt.” Bretheridge laid a calming hand on Lucan’s arm. “Let him go. You have an appointment. Remember?”

  Lucan released Renishaw, and resisting the urge to slug the bastard, shoved him away. “Bother Miss Atterberry again, murmur her name—even in a dream or your perverse thoughts—and you’ll answer to me. Feel free to wager on that.”

  Renishaw stumbled backward a few paces, a flush darkening his countenance. His livid gaze roved the room as he straightened his rumpled clothing. “Awfully protective of the chit. Makes a man wonder why, if you have designs on her yourself.”

  Thread of truth there. Lucan must convince Alexa to marry him. Soon. Once she bore his name, she’d be safe. None dared risk his wrath or the power his position afforded him. More than one man experienced absolute destruction due to an offended, high-ranking peer.

  He hadn’t ever gone that route before, preferring not to abuse his title, but for Renishaw, he would make an exception.

  “Or,” Renishaw winked at a couple of his already half-foxed cronies, “perhaps you’ve already sampled her charms yourself.”

  Outraged objections mixed with a smattering of lewd chuckles exploded round the room until Lucan elevated a brow and stared down a handful of men.

  “What was she like?” Renishaw licked his lips, lust glazing his eyes. “Does she know any heathen tricks?”

  That bloody well does it.

  “I’m afraid I have to delay our departure for a few moments.” Lucan handed his cane then his hat to Bretheridge.

  “You’re an utter imbecile, Renishaw.” Bretheridge shook his head and stepped to the side. “Just don’t know when to leave off, do you?”

  Confident everyone’s attention focused on him, Renishaw grinned and raised his voice. “I heard she likes her swiving rough and willingly spread her legs for her brutish captor—”

  Lucan swung—a fierce right hook straight to Renishaw’s beak-like nose.

  Bone crunched, and Renishaw crumpled to the floor.

  “Here now, Your Grace.” The manager and a servant rushed over. “We cannot have such ungentlemanly behavior in this establishment. I’m afraid I must ask you to take your leave.”

  The retainer knelt to attend an unconscious Renishaw. He half-heartedly daubed at the blood oozing from the viscount’s nose.

  “My apologies, Mr. Ra
ggett.” Lucan accepted his possessions from Bretheridge. “I was but defending a lady’s honor.”

  Raggett gave a sage nod, slinging Renishaw a contemptuous glance. “Indeed. Shouldn’t be necessary amongst White’s gentlemen.”

  Lucan flexed his hand. Might have broken a knuckle. After swiping his hair off his forehead, he slapped his hat atop his head before addressing the other patrons.

  “I strongly suggest, that in the future, no one agree to any sort of wager with that blackguard.” His gaze veered to Renishaw, moving his head back and forth and groaning. Swiveling to the door, Lucan bumped into a newcomer. “Beg your pardon.”

  “Not to worry, Harcourt.” Bellary’s stern countenance remained unchanged until his attention lit on Renishaw. The planes of his face hardened to granite, his eyes slits of wrath. He stamped to the moaning man.

  “You can expect more of the same, or worse, if I wait much longer for you to honor your wagers, Renishaw.” He nudged the viscount with his boot, a sneer contorting his face. “You have two weeks, then I’d choose my seconds if I were you.”

  As Lucan exited the club, he turned to Bretheridge. “My man of business is out of town for an extended period. Might I impose upon you to have yours inquire at every gaming hell, card room, and club in London and purchase Renishaw’s vowels? Anyone he owes a farthing to, I want to buy out.”

  Bretheridge cocked his head, his acute gaze probing. He gave a half-nod and fell into step beside Lucan. “Yes, I’ll see to it today. I shall also see if Warrick can aid me. Perhaps even Devaux-Rousset. He’s returned to England for an extended stay.”

  “Devaux-Rousset? Isn’t he the chap who helped protect Lady Bretheridge? He visited Craiglocky, didn’t he?” Lucan adjusted his hat and nodded at an acquaintance.

  “Yes.” Bretheridge nodded a greeting too. “He has quite a network of men who specialize at covert sorts of things.”

  Gratification tempered Lucan’s heated blood. “Do request Devaux’s aid. I intend to crush Renishaw.”

  “I gathered as much.”

  They skirted a pair of young women peering into a shop window. The ladies burst into giggles when Lucan and Bretheridge strode past.

  Thank God, Alexa didn’t giggle, at least not a high-pitched bird-witted tittering that set his teeth on edge, crossed his eyeballs, wilted his staff, and made him crave a bracing gulp of whisky.

  “Harcourt, might I ask why you are so infuriated?” Bretheridge eyed him speculatively. “Renishaw’s an unmitigated arse.”

  Yes. He is.

  “And, what he said about Miss Atterberry was undeniably reprehensible.”

  Inexcusable.

  “But, by George, you lost your temper and broke his nose.”

  Most satisfying.

  “Not the least typical for you, my friend. And now you’re hell-bent on revenge.”

  Lucan spared Bretheridge a sidelong glance. “He deserved what I dealt him and more, truth to tell. I stopped him from striking her at the Temple of the Tombs this morning.”

  He swung his cane and set a brisk pace. He’d promised to call upon Alexa, and Needham must be warned of Renishaw’s ill-intent.

  “God rot him then. Cannot say I blame you in the least.” Bretheridge heaved a sigh. “He’ll call you out. I would bet on it.”

  Lucan shook his head. “No, he won’t. Not when I possess every I.O.U. he owes and spread word that if he challenges me, anyone who lends him a groat, or extends him credit, will experience my ire.”

  His ears still rang with Renishaw’s filthy suggestions. He wanted to punch the bastard again. And again.

  He would give Renishaw a choice.

  Lucan would pay Renishaw’s debts if he signed an agreement to leave England and never return, or he would demand payment for Renishaw’s vowels, which he couldn’t pay. He’d bankrupt him, make sure every door and resource was closed to the cur. If the thugs he owed money to didn’t get to him first.

  Bretheridge stopped and gripped Lucan’s arm. “This isn’t like you, to abuse your position. You didn’t after Harvey’s death, and you bloody well had good reason to then. Why now?”

  Lucan met Bretheridge’s green-eyed gaze. No condemnation or accusation shone there—merely concern and confusion.

  “I’m going to marry her, Flynn, and I need your help.” Shutting his eyes, he strove to regain his self-control as another wave of ire overcame him.

  “Marry her?”

  Lucan almost smiled at the incredulous expression distorting Bretheridge’s face and the way his voice rose to a schoolboy’s squeak at the end.

  “After that,” Lucan jerked his thumb in the direction of White’s as he resumed walking, “she must have the protection of my name as swiftly as possible. Le bon ton will take after her like the devil himself.”

  “There’s truth to that, unfortunately.” Bretheridge stepped behind Lucan to allow a couple to pass.

  Lucan checked his watch. He’d be late if he didn’t hasten his pace. Should’ve rode. “Please inform our friends. Our circle must rally around her, show their acceptance and support and act as a buffer until I can convince her to accept my suit.”

  “Why wouldn’t she?” Bretheridge crooked his mouth and winked. “Doesn’t every woman aspire to marry brilliantly?”

  “Not Alexa. She doesn’t want to be a duchess. Doesn’t want the life of a peeress or the ton’s trappings.” Lucan slowed his stride. Would marriage to him make her miserable, destroy the fiery gypsy who captivated him, and replace her with a bored, bitter woman?

  God, no. He’d move them to a crofter’s cottage in the Highlands first.

  Bretheridge nudged Lucan’s upper arm. “Forget about titles, reputations, scandal, and gossip. You need to convince her to marry you as a man who loves her, adores her, and cannot fathom a day in his life without her. Nothing else matters to a woman.”

  “Waxing poetic, Bretheridge?” Lucan tipped his mouth into a lopsided smile. “What’s this nonsense about love? Much too soon to toddle along that nonsensical trail.”

  Bretheridge grinned and slapped Lucan’s shoulder. “I just witnessed a man defending the woman he loves. You, my friend, are, tit over arse, head in the wool-pile, smitten.”

  Am I?

  On horseback and waving like demented hags, Sir Howard and Lord Craven clattered across the pavement, making straight for Lucan. Craven reined in his horse, and his constant shadow followed suit. Was Howard capable of an independent thought or action? Did he piss when Craven did too?

  Lucan kept walking, not trusting himself not to yank Craven from the saddle. Only betting against Renishaw saved the fop from the same fate as the viscount.

  “You left the Needhams’ too soon, Harcourt.” Craven toyed with his reins, anticipation lighting his nondescript eyes. “Missed quite an entertaining spectacle.”

  “Don’t know when I’ve been more amused.” Sir Howard chuckled and scratched his chafed chin. “Indeed, I don’t.”

  Lucan turned around and furrowed his eyebrows. “What are you blathering about? I didn’t see either of you earlier when I dropped Miss Atterberry and her servants at home.”

  Wise to make sure anyone eavesdropping knew he and Alexa hadn’t been alone in his carriage. He’d deemed it prudent to leave before he’d been forced to acknowledge Alexa’s family. He didn’t trust them—particularly Peterson—and he didn’t trust himself to remain civil around the bounder.

  Several passersby slowed to listen to their exchange.

  “Came up behind you. Recognized your crest, of course.” Craven’s horse pranced in a circle. “Didn’t know who the other carriage belonged to until The Dowager Lady Atterberry thrust her head out. Furious as a hellcat. Actually gave my heart a terrible start, she was so incensed.”

  Craven patted his chest over
his heart.

  Sir Howard nodded, or attempted to until his over-starched cravat brought him up short. “Cannot blame her. Her stepdaughter seduced Lord Renishaw—in public, at that.”

  Chapter 21

  Escape.

  Alexa forced her legs to move, to put one foot in front of the other and turn toward the doors. Both her fathers had betrayed her, each claiming their actions were for her benefit. Gut-wrenching pain, so forceful she feared she would vomit, tore through her middle.

  Stoicism be damned. Unused to such extreme emotions, she desperately sought privacy to digest what she’d learned. After a final glance at the solicitor, she spun on her heel. Head bowed, she hurried to the entrance. Before she grasped the handle, the door flew open, and she careened into Katrina and Shona.

  “Alexa, what is it?” Peering beyond Alexa’s shoulder, Katrina reached for her. “My God, what has happened?”

  Shona tentatively touched Alexa’s arm. “Alexa? You’re pale as milk.”

  Alexa shook off their hands, and grasping her skirts, sprinted along the corridor. She must reach her room before she cast up her accounts or wailed like an infant.

  Double betrayal. Dat had lied. He knew her identity and then pretended he didn’t. Why hadn’t Steafan sent her to live with the Needhams if he worried for her safety? Surely, sequestering her with family members, rather than strangers secreting her away, made more sense.

  Tears burning her eyes, she lowered her head and darted around a corner. She rarely cried, and never did so in public. She skidded to a halt at the stairway’s bottom.

  On the entry’s other side stood Mr. Mortimer, the Duke of Harcourt, an elegant dame, and an austere gentleman. She’d seen the latter two at the bookstore, hadn’t she?

  Concern etched their faces and filled their eyes.

  Lucan surged forward. “Alexa, what has happened?”

  With one hand, Alexa shielded her face, hiding her watery eyes. Not caring if those below viewed her calves, she lifted her gown higher and climbed the steps two at a time.