Viscount’s Wager

by Ava March

  The furrow on Pelham’s brow grew heavier as he took the proffered letter. “May I ask why?”

  “Because...” Anthony sat in the chair, set his bag at his feet and clasped his hands to keep his fingers from tapping against his thighs. “Because I can’t do it myself. I can’t read.”

  Definitely not the answer Pelham had expected.

  “But you went to Eton,” Pelham said with obvious confusion. Because being sent to receive an education implied one would, of course, have learned something from it.

  “I didn’t say I never learned to read. I can’t read. Letters and numbers...I’m too dim-witted to keep them straight in my head. Everything gets mixed up and I can’t sort it out and none of it makes a bit of sense and...” Anthony let out a defeated sigh and gave up trying to explain his stupidity to his friend. “I haven’t seen Gabriel Tilden in weeks. We had a bit of a row.” That was putting it mildly. “I don’t know where he is. Don’t believe he’s in London, though he could have procured a new room. But that’s beside the point. He sent me that letter and you’re the only person I can trust with it, especially given I don’t yet know what it contains. Could include some bits that could be quite damaging to both him and me if bandied about Town. So if you could please do me the honor, I would be greatly indebted to you.”

  As Pelham studied him, Anthony tried to not to think about how his pulse slammed through his veins.

  Don’t ask me any more questions. Please, don’t. Please, just read the damned letter.

  Finally Pelham nodded. The sound of paper crinkling filled the study as he unfolded the letter.

  “‘Eighteenth October, Derbyshire.’” Pelham glanced up to Anthony. “That’s over three weeks ago. Did you just receive this?”

  Anthony shook his head. “Likely was delivered well over a fortnight ago. I didn’t realize it was from him when I received it.” Because I’m a useless idiot. “Merely stuffed it in the drawer with the others. Wasn’t until earlier today when it finally occurred to me perhaps he had written me a note. Went through them all and found this one. The sender’s name on the outside is G and then T for the family name, and the signature at the end has a capital G. No one else I’m currently acquainted with would send me a note and sign it with their Christian name. Figured that one had to be from him.”

  “It is from him. It is signed Gabriel.”

  Anthony nodded once. A tiny hint of relief threaded into his veins. He had been quite certain Gabriel had been the writer, but one could only be so certain when one couldn’t decipher so much as a name.

  Pelham turned his attention back to the letter in his hand.

  “‘Dear Anthony—My apologies for not relaying this to you in person, but I thought it best I remove myself from London. I am currently at my home in Derbyshire, readying the house and property to be turned over to another. For you see, you suspected correctly. I find myself in a bit of a pinch. Gambling debts. A considerable amount of them at that, and the holder would appreciate being repaid. I know I could have turned to you, that you would have readily offered your assistance. But this is a situation of my own making. A hole I have dug myself into, and I am now determined to remedy it myself.

  You have my apologies for the manner in which I behaved a few mornings ago. There are no excuses I can offer that are worth the effort to give them voice. I am appalled at myself, at what I had allowed myself to become. A man whose word meant nothing. Held nothing but lies and omissions. You welcomed me time and again, and on each instance I took from you and was dishonest in return. I don’t know if you can ever find it in your heart to forgive me, but more than that, I don’t know if I deserve your forgiveness. I’ve done nothing to earn it save write words on a page. But I do want it. With all that I am, I wish for, I yearn for you to look on me once again as the man you would choose to call the dearest of friends.

  And since I have chosen this moment for honesty, I would have you know she wasn’t my choice. You were, but I couldn’t accept that then. I allowed her to seek me out in the garden, to use me in an attempt to incite Stephan’s jealousy and attentions. I’ll admit to using her too. Using her in some sort of vain attempt to prove to myself I could desire a woman. And when her uncle came upon us, I did what any gentleman would do—I offered for her. It was not a love match. There was not even a trace of the sort of desire I feel for you. And just as I find myself now, it was a situation of my own making. But I treated her with all the respect due to a wife. Over time, we became friends. Compatriots in a marriage neither of us wanted. Yet the relief, and the accompanying guilt, I felt upon her death...it was more than I could bear. So I eventually came to London, seeking to escape the house we had shared, seeking distractions. And I found them at the gambling tables.

  But you, you proved the most potent distraction of them all. No, distraction is not the correct word. A balm. With you, I learned to accept myself for who I am. To follow your excellent example. To realize there was no cause for shame, no cause to hold back. But my initial distraction haunted me. Had a hold on me. Vicious and tight. It became apparent to me that I needed to break free of it once and for all, and so I came to you. But I proved a coward. And once again, one falsehood after another fell from my lips. With each lie, it became harder and harder to rise above them, and I found myself severely lacking the strength to look you in the eye and admit the truth. For what if you turned away from me in revulsion? Better your hatred than your disgust. Or so I believed. But that moment when I walked out your door... I would never wish that on my worst enemy. It was enough, more than enough, to give me the strength to pick up a shovel and begin digging out of the hole I had landed in. For only when these debts are behind me can I have even the slightest chance of earning your forgiveness.

  I now find myself at the bottom of this page. I won’t demand your attention any longer. You have already given me more than I deserve. And you have my thanks, my unending thanks and gratitude, for enduring me. For choosing me. For all that you have done for me. London might hold my darkest days, but it also holds my brightest—each day I spent with you.

  —Gabriel”

  Complete and utter silence descended over the study.

  “I...I...” And Anthony found himself without words. The threat of tears pricked the back of his nose. A knot had lodged itself in his throat. He dropped his head, pressed his palms to his closed eyes.

  Gabriel had wanted him. Chosen him.

  He had thought perhaps—No, he had wanted to believe that was the case. But the proof set before his own eyes, the words Gabriel had spoken, every time Gabriel had evaded a question or disappeared for days on end, had kept the doubts firmly in place. Kept the prospect of crushing disappointment too close at hand. And he well knew what that sort of disappointment felt like.

  Yet to hear from Gabriel himself that all along it had been Anthony he had wanted. Anthony he’d chosen. That the feeling in the pit of his stomach, in the depths of his soul, had not, in fact, been wrong. That feeling they were destined to be together, his heart’s recognition that Gabriel was the one for him...

  There was a scrape of chair legs against the floorboards. “There is a matter I should discuss with...my butler. Should not take long.”

  “It’s all right, Pelham. You don’t need to leave.” Anthony appreciated his friend’s sentiment, though. “I just...needed a moment, that was all.” He dropped his hands to his lap. “I’ve taken it.” His attempt at one of his usual deprecating smiles, however, was a complete and utter failure.

  Pelham settled back in his chair.

  “Though...could you read it once more? I need to commit it to memory.” He didn’t want to forget a line, not even so much as a single word. And his mind had been a mix of racing back to every instance mentioned in the contents and frozen with shock during Pelham’s first reading. Definitely not a state conducive to memorization.

  With a
concerned nod, Pelham picked the letter back up and did as requested. “‘Dear Anthony—My apologies for not relaying...’”

  Closing his eyes, Anthony focused all of his attention on his friend’s voice, temporarily blocking out the riot of emotions swirling within him. Focused all of his being on stamping Pelham’s words into his dim-witted brain.

  “‘...Holds my brightest—each day I spent with you. —Gabriel.’” A moment of silence, a rustle of paper. “You knew about the debts.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

  Anthony opened his eyes. “Not the debts exactly, but I came to suspect he’d developed a problem with gambling, especially after your Mr. Morgan reported he had found him in a gambling hell on the East Side and that he had taken up lodgings at an inn close to it. Thank you again, by the way, for the use of Mr. Morgan’s services,” Anthony added. “Gabriel would disappear for days. I tried to let him tell me of his own accord, then I gave him a few nudges—”

  “Ah, your nudges.”

  “They were not nearly as effective on him as they were on you. I tried questioning him, but he either had an answer at the ready or pushed me off. So I confronted him. It did not end well.”

  “Sounds as though it was the best thing you could have done for him. When a man becomes overly fond of gambling or drink, he can allow it to lead him to his grave. Thankfully, he has you. Sometimes one needs to be confronted, to be forced to see oneself for who one is, in order to recognize perhaps a change is needed.” Pelham let out a huff. “And yes, I speak from experience. I wasn’t overly fond of a vice, but rather, this desk.”

  “So you should not have had your nose in that ledger?”

  “I only had it open for a quarter of an hour,” Pelham said, a distinct defensive edge leaching into his voice. “I was bored. He’s occupied this evening and I had nothing better to do with myself.”

  Anthony pointedly glanced about the study, to the shelves upon shelves filled with books.

  Pelham sighed, one of those sighs of defeat. “Yes, they were an option, one I will exercise on the next occasion when I find myself lacking any means of occupation.” He made a pointed glance of his own, to the letter on his desk. “Though I believe we have more important matters to discuss than my delinquency.”

  “I am happy for you, though. Your recent ex-houseguest is clearly very good for you.”

  For a brief moment, Pelham’s expression softened, the edges of his mouth lifting in a hint of a smile. “He is indeed.”

  By God, the man was besotted. And the state suited him quite well.

  Anthony could only hope sometime soon he would have cause to have such a content smile curving his own mouth.

  Pelham cleared his throat. “I would hazard a guess,” he continued, turning the subject back to the matter at hand, “that the debts Tilden referred to are more than considerable if he is letting his property go to who I can only assume is the holder of his debts. He said he is turning it over, not selling it.”

  “I agree. They must be of a significant magnitude. Yet to my knowledge, he came down to London in September. Only two months to amass such debts.”

  “One can throw down hundreds of pounds on a single wager. If he didn’t begin with a fortune, and if he was at the tables frequently, then I can easily see how he could find himself in his current predicament.”

  “He’s a middle son from a good family. Well-to-do, but not wealthy. From what he told me, his home and property in Derbyshire are decent but not grand, and came to him through his marriage.”

  Anthony’s heart went out to Gabriel. It must be hurting him tremendously to have to give up his land. Whenever Anthony had asked about his life in Derbyshire, the only instances where Gabriel hadn’t donned a flat, guarded expression was when he’d talked about his property. The improvements he had made, the gains in his yields. He was a country gentleman to his soul, his tie to the English countryside stamped into his bones. And now he was preparing to hand over his land to another.

  Glancing down to the letter, Pelham shook his head. “‘Decent but not grand’ does not seem on par with considerable. Of course, it depends on Tilden’s definition of considerable.”

  “Are you concerned the property might not be enough to cover the debts?”

  “I cannot say with any certainty, as I do not know the details. But based on what he indicates in his letter, I would say the holder is not a respectable banking institution.”

  ...I thought it best I remove myself from London.

  The line from the letter passed through Anthony’s head.

  “The black eye. He said he was accosted by footpads a couple of nights prior, handed over his watch and the few pounds in his pocket. But I hadn’t seen him with the watch in weeks.”

  “When did this happen?” Pelham asked, his gaze sharpening.

  “He showed up on my doorstep with the black eye the night before our argument.”

  “He was lying about how he got that bruise.”

  “Obviously. He lied to me quite frequently.”

  The hurt in Anthony’s tone must have come through more than clear, for Pelham said, “You should not take it as a slight against you. He would have lied to anyone about it. No man would want to admit he had landed himself in such a circumstance, especially to one he cares for.”

  “Is that supposed to be some sort of consolation?”

  “No. Yes.” Pelham gave his head a short shake. “Perhaps merely a comment to consider. And he likely sold the watch weeks ago and did not want to admit it. But one thing is for certain—you need to proceed with caution. He has already been attacked once. Per his own words, he decided it best to remove himself from London.”

  There was a click of a knob. Anthony looked over his shoulder. Slight of build and elegantly dressed, a young man paused one step into the study. “My apologies. I wasn’t aware you had a guest,” his said, voice holding the distinct note of the country and not that of Town.

  “No need to apologize. Do come in.” Pelham stood, that besotted smile touching the edges of his lips, the heavy concern from a moment ago gone. “Card game end early tonight?”

  The young man, whom Anthony could only assume was Pelham’s mysterious lover, nodded and shut the door behind him. He glanced to Anthony, gave him a polite nod to recognize his presence then answered his lover’s question. “Mr. Dalton had a bit too much brandy, and Mr. Jenkins thought it best to escort him home. Left one of the whist tables short, so the remainder of us departed early.”

  “Mr. Dalton’s overindulgence is my good fortune.” Pelham looked to Anthony. “Rawling, this is Mr. Tristan Walsh, the reason I thanked you for those persistent nudges. Tristan, this is Anthony Hawkins, Viscount Rawling, my good friend from London.”

  Getting to his feet, Anthony stuck out his hand to Tristan. The ginger-blond hair was now short but... It had been over a year ago, yet there was no way one forgot someone who possessed such beauty. Too much beauty for Anthony’s taste. “Yes. We’ve met.”

  “You have?” Max’s voice turned to ice.

  Anthony’s stomach sank.

  Hell and damnation, he should have kept his mouth shut. “We only met on one occasion. Some time ago,” he added, hoping to diffuse the situation before his lapse created a rift between Pelham and his lover.

  Unfortunately, those hopes were quickly dashed.

  Pelham’s attention snapped to Tristan. “You told me you were not acquainted with any Rawling or Anthony or any man who bore his description.”

  “I told you I did not recall any such man.” Tristan cast a quick apologetic glance to Anthony. “No insult intended.”

  “None taken.” He didn’t consider himself a particularly memorable man, and they had only spent a short time together at Rubicon’s. One night, less than an hour. As far as available activities at brothels went, they ha
dn’t done that much together either. He looked to Pelham. “We didn’t...” He gestured to fill the void, uncertain if saying what they hadn’t done would further incite Pelham’s jealousy or calm it. Hell, he should just say it, if for no other reason than to ensure no misunderstandings. “I haven’t had him beneath me. We didn’t do that.”

  Pelham’s piercing dark gaze didn’t leave his lover. “Then I can only imagine what he did do to you.”

  Anthony somehow kept the groan inside. No, Pelham, don’t imagine that. The last thing any man wanted was an image of his lover sucking another man’s cock.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Tristan gave his head a shake. Disappointment and pain were written all over his beautiful features. “I can’t change the things I’ve done, Max, when I worked at that house. I wish I could, but I can’t. And you can’t claim ignorance of those activities either, so please don’t shove them before me now. All that should matter is that I’m with you, and only you.”

  Those words hung between Tristan and Pelham. The air in the study fairly vibrated with tension.

  It was past time for Anthony to make himself scarce. Tomorrow, he’d apologize to Pelham for opening his damned mouth. Now, though, he needed to leave the two alone. “It’s been a long day, what with the journey here and all. If it’s not a bother, I’ll just ask a footman to show me up to a guest room, and we can continue our discussion in the morning.” He grabbed his bag and crossed to the door.

  As Anthony made to shut the study door behind him, Pelham’s voice just brushed his ear, the tone soft and gentle and filled with contrition, a tone he’d never heard from the duke before.

  “I’m sorry. I’m an arse.”

  That particular worry lifted from Anthony’s chest. The two men would be all right.

  Yet as he made his way to the entrance hall to seek a footman, the other worry, the larger worry, the one labeled Gabriel, remained firmly in place.