Marquand’s mouth tightened ever so slightly. “I’ve had quite enough of loose threads—and loose screws—in my life. Believe me, I shall welcome the sort of order and predictability you allude to. Furthermore, it shall be a pleasure to become part of a family that is a pattern card of propriety.”
“Hylton is a pompous ass! If he is a stickler for propriety, it is not out of principle but because he lacks the imagination to act in any other way.”
“Trust me, Tony, the last thing I desire in my future family is imagination or uniqueness.”
His friend muttered something unintelligible under his breath. He, too, gazed moodily into the flames for a bit before tossing back the contents of his glass. “I know how difficult it has been for you over the years. Your father and mother possess a certain, er, exuberant charm, but—”
“Charm is not exactly the adjective that comes to mind,” said Marquand, with some bitterness. “Oh, of course they could be charming. And witty. And gay. But as a child I did not find it charming in the least when my parents would fly into one of their raging fits of temper, hurling the Staffordshire figurines at each other—or at me. Nor was it charming when the fires could not be lit and every bloody room was as cold as a witch’s tit because Father had gambled away all his ready blunt.” He ran his hand through his thick dark locks in the first overt show of emotion. “I was no doubt one of the few boys who found life at Eton a respite from home. Whatever the hardships and rigors, at least one knew what to expect there.”
“I know,” said Ellington softly. “I haven’t forgotten the time you returned for Michaelmas term with your arm in a sling and a bad cut on your brow. It is a wonder you ever bothered to go back to the Hall after that.”
“I didn’t hate him, you know. I knew he didn’t mean it. The drinking actually stopped for quite some time after that unfortunate accident.” The Viscount shrugged, as if the memory did not cause his insides to constrict in a tight knot. “Besides, my parents might have destroyed each other, but they didn’t destroy my love for Woolsey Hall. I love every stone and bit of mortar, every creak in its floors, every layer of beeswax and lemon oil on the patinaed woodwork, every quirky mark left by generations of Linsleys. And most of all, I love the lands, the undulations of the meadows, the stately trees lining the drive, the woods thick with oak and elm. Long ago, I made a promise to myself that I would restore it to the glory it deserves. I mean to keep that promise.”
Ellington blinked at the sudden show of passion in the Viscount’s voice. He shifted in his chair and took another sip of his champagne. “Do you love Miss Dunster as well?” he asked abruptly.
The Viscount’s face became stony again. “What has that to do with it?”
“Quite a bit, I should think. If you wish to avoid the pyrotechnics of your father and mother’s match, perhaps it would do well to choose someone for whom you can have a real regard. Not to speak of someone who might share your same . . . interests.”
There was a short, mirthless laugh. “Good Lord, don’t tell me you are turning into a blathering romantic! One would almost think you’ve been stealing a peek at those ridiculous offerings your sister buys from Minerva Press.”
Ellington flushed slightly, but refused to be lured into a discussion of a different sort. “You haven’t answered my question, Adrian.”
Marquand was silent long enough that his friend thought he didn’t mean to give a reply. Indeed, the Viscount settled deeper into the leather wing chair and appeared to forget the other man’s very existence, so engrossed was he in watching the myriad of tiny bubbles burst in a series of tiny explosions on the surface of his drink. Finally he set the glass aside without a taste. “We both know that marriage is a practical alliance, one that can work quite well if the parties involved act with discretion and abide by the rules. Miss Dunster and I shall each get what we desire. She shall be a countess, gaining one of the oldest and most respected titles in the land, while I shall have a polished wife of impeccable breeding and flawless manners, one who will never give cause for any scandal to attach itself to the Linsley name.” He drew in a deep breath. “Indeed, we are both agreed. We are an ideal match.”
“How admirable, Adrian.” A tinge of sarcasm colored his friend’s words. “I can see you have given perhaps the most important decision in your life the sort of rational, dispassionate consideration it deserves.” There was a brief pause as he reached for the bottle to refill his glass. “Remind me to take you with me next time I need to choose a new style of coat at Weston’s or purchase a hunter at Tattersall’s.”
A slight tightening of the jaw was the only reaction from Marquand.
“Sorry,” mumbled Ellington after a moment. “That was uncalled for. It’s just that, as you said, we have been in each other’s pocket since we were in leading strings. So although you choose to appear as cool and immovable as one of those Greek statues you place in your designs, I know that beneath the facade you present to the rest of the world beats a real heart, one that feels flesh and blood emotion. One has only to look at your . . . work to see that.” He cleared his throat. “Hell’s teeth, Adrian, you deserve more than a block of stone for a wife, no matter how flawless the exterior appears. I cannot believe you will be happy with such a spiritless match.” “Flesh and blood emotion?” A mocking smile twisted Marquand’s lips. “Oh, I have seen just what that can result in. The Linsley coffers are nigh empty, the lands— what are left of them—have been stripped bare, and my estimable parents vie with each other as to who can engage in the most scandalous affairs. You would have me risk my own future on something as ephemeral as love?” If anything, his tone had become even more sardonic. “Believing in love is equally as dangerous as trusting in luck.” His voice hardened into a steely growl. “I have seen quite enough to know that both those ladies are nothing but fickle temptresses, waiting to destroy any man who thinks he can win at their game.”
“Both entail chance, if that is what you mean, but perhaps you must be willing to hazard some risks in life to reap the rewards.”
“That sounds just like one of my father’s platitudes! However, when it comes to my life, I don’t intend to leave anything to chance.” There was a brief ripple of emotion in the Viscount’s eyes before a flat calm returned. “You see, despite all that my father has frittered away, I have made him swear by all that is holy that no matter how pressed, he would never stake Woolsey Hall on the turn of a card or roll of dice.” His fingers twisted at the gold signet ring on his pinkie and a smile of grim satisfaction played on his lips. “And such precaution on my part is about to pay off. In spades. Not because of luck, but because of meticulous planning and disciplined perseverance.” He paused to take up his glass once again. “Actually, I have another reason to raise a toast. You know that for the past six months I have been working devilishly hard on securing a certain job—well, I’ve just found out that my proposal has been chosen over all the others.”
For the first time that evening, Ellington’s eyes lit with real enthusiasm. “By Jove, that’s wonderful news! Such an important commission will almost certainly guarantee a successful future in the field. Why, with Devonshire’s backing, you may even be able, in due time, to let the truth come out.”
“Let us not celebrate too soon—I must still come up with the actual plan,” warned Marquand, but he could not hide the note of satisfaction in his voice. “But if all goes as designed, the Hall will soon belong to me outright, for I have a proposal for my father as well. And when it does, I mean for it to have the Countess it deserves.” His gaze once again strayed to the crackling fire. “So you see, you have no need to feel concern for my happiness, Tony. Believe me, I have considered everything very carefully and have taken into account all contingencies. I am well satisfied with my plans for the future.”
“And your intended? I take it she is aware of what you do and has no objection to it? After all, she will be allying herself with a husband whose activities can hardly be deemed . . . conventional.�
��
For the first time, the Viscount betrayed a crack in his composure. A hint of color rose to his lean cheeks and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Er, well, not yet. I shall, of course, make everything known to her in good time. But I assure you, it will not be an issue. I have taken a good deal of care to protect my true identity and there is no reason to think the ton will ever learn the truth unless I choose to reveal it.”
“Hmmph.” His friend looked at him askance. “Subterfuge and secrets between the two of you? Hardly an auspicious beginning to a lifetime together.”
Marquand’s color deepened. “I assure you, I am keeping nothing meaningful from Miss Dunster. And as for her”—he paused to give a short laugh—“why, you cannot seriously think that she is harboring any dark
secrets.”
There was a long pause before Ellington raised his glass in slow salute. “Well then, let us cry friends and say no more on the subject. You know that as your closest friend I only wish the best for you, Adrian, but it seems you have everything worked out, down to the last nail ...” A sigh, eloquent in its skepticism, sounded, followed by a further mutter. “I just hope it isn’t sealing your own coffin.” He swirled what remained of his champagne, then downed it in one gulp. “I shall forbear saying that I wish you luck, knowing your sentiments on that subject, and merely repeat that I wish you happy.” Under his breath, he couldn’t help but add, “However, to achieve that, I fear that you are going to need more of luck’s help than you think.”
Chapter Two
"You what!"
“I’ll not have it, my own son ringing a peal over my head.” The voice was querulous, its tone wound even tighter by the goodly amount of port the Earl had already consumed. He reached for the bottle as he spoke, but the Viscount knocked it from his hand. The glass shattered on hitting the floor, spreading a dark stain the color of newly spilled blood across the unswept wood. Both men watched it begin to seep toward the threadbare Aubusson carpet beneath the desk. “Now look what you’ve made me do. That piece was bought by your grandfather and now it will be ruined.”
“Ruined? You dare talk of Linsley heritage as if it actually meant anything to you?” Marquand knelt down and removed a handkerchief from his pocket. “Shall I remind you that until six months ago this carpet graced the library of Hadley Hall, until you lost that estate to Strickley at the roulette table—or was it faro?” With a ragged sigh he set to blotting up the sticky liquid. “I am heartily sick of always having to clean up after you, Father.”
To the Viscount’s vague surprise, his father reacted not with the usual, voluble show of indignation at having his judgment questioned, but rather collapsed in a nearby chair, his lower lip trembling.
“I have stood by while the family fortune carefully built up by our forebears has been bled dry by your profligate habits, voicing only the most moderate of suggestions as to how to keep from utter ruin,” he continued. “And on more than one occasion it has been the savings from my own prudent investments that have bailed you out of the River Tick, at no small cost to several . . . projects that meant a great deal to me.”
The Earl of Chittenden hung his head.
“In return, you made me a solemn promise.” Marquand’s voice couldn’t help but rise several notches. “You promised never to wager the Hall on your cursed games, Father. That you chose to throw away your money and the rest of your considerable lands was not something I begrudged, as long as you left Woolsey Hall untouched. But now that you have broken that pledge and lost it all on the turn of a card—”
“But I didn’t,” whispered the Earl.
The Viscount’s lips compressed in some contempt. “Ah, forgive me—was it the rattle of the dice instead?” he said with cutting sarcasm. “You may find such nuances of some importance, but I do not—”
“Not dice either, Adrian, I . . . didn’t break my promise. Not exactly.”
“I tell you, I care as little for your play with semantics as for your other games, Father. The cold fact is that Woolsey Hall is lost—”
“But it isn’t! N—not yet.”
His son turned to stare at him. “What is that supposed to mean? You just were telling me how you wagered it to the Marquess of Hertford in some desperate attempt to recoup yet another round of losses.”
The Earl brought his hand to his brow. “I did, but it is not what you think. The Hall is not yet lost, it is pledged, not on a game of chance, but rather one of . . . skill.”
Marquand’s eyes pressed close. “Good Lord. And what skills do you imagine you possess, other than becoming foxed in the blink of an eye or frittering away a fortune?”
“N—none.”
The answer was barely audible and the Viscount couldn’t help but catch the welling of tears in his father’s eyes before the Earl bent to take his head between his hands. For some reason, it shook him more than he cared to admit.
“God knows, I have been a sad failure as the head of this family, and an even worse hand at being a parent.” The Earl’s frail fingers raked through his graying hair. “The only thing of any real value I have done is to . . . produce you. But even for that I fear I deserve little credit, for you quite obviously did not inherit your good sense or excellent character from me.”
Marquand found his anger slowly evaporating, just like the spill on the floor. Instead, his father’s poignant revelations filled him with an aching sadness.
“I can hardly blame you for holding me in disgust,” he went on in a shaky voice. “I’ve given you precious little reason to think otherwise. If you want to know the truth, I think even worse of myself than you do.” He looked up, remorse etched on his still handsome features. “I’ve tried. God help me, I’ve tried to act with some restraint. I don’t know why I am just not capable of behaving in a rational manner. But there it is. This time, perhaps it would be best to let me suffer the consequences of my own foolish actions. Surely I cannot be much more of a disgrace to you than I already am, no matter what the tattlemongers choose to say about me refusing to honor a bet.”
The Viscount gave a harried sigh and began to pace before the meager fire. “I’ve managed to pull you out of the suds before, so I imagine I will be able to figure out something this time around as well.” His mouth quirked upward in spite of the situation. “Indeed, there is another rather important reason I would prefer to avoid any egregious scandal at the moment. You see, I have just become betrothed and would rather not give my intended’s father reason to cry off. He was skeptical enough of the connection without creating further cause for concern.”
His father essayed a real smile through his guilt. “Why, I wish you happy, son. And hope that you don’t make as much a hash of it as I have done. But you won’t. Too much common sense in that bonebox of yours. May I ask who the lucky lady is?”
“Lady Honoria Dunster.”
“Hylton’s chit? A Diamond of the First Water,” he said with frank approval. “Real diamonds are rare in our little world of paste and false sparkle. And all the more precious for it. No doubt she brings a plump dowry as well, though it seems to me the lady is making quite the better of the match.” He cleared his throat. “Er, have you set a date?”
“Not as yet, but it is my understanding that the family wishes to wait at least until the Little Season.”
The Earl looked vastly relieved. “So, ah, there is no reason why you cannot . . . travel in the next few months?”
The smile, however faint, disappeared from Marquand’s face. “And why would I want to do that?”
“Well, you see, there is the matter of the, er, test of skill with Hertford. As luck would have it, it is to take place in Scotland—”
“Scotland?”
“Er, yes.” Out of habit, Chittenden reached for the bottle that was no longer there, then a sheepish expression stole over his features as his hand fell back to his side. “And it’s—well, it’s rather important that you be there.”
Marquand felt a stirring of unease. �
�I think you had best explain just exactly what it is you have wagered, Father.”
There were several moments of silence as the Earl tugged at a comer of his waistcoat. “No doubt I was a greater idiot than usual to sit down at the gaming table with the damn fellow, who never seems to have a run of bad luck—”
“Ha! Luck indeed! An experienced gamester such as yourself should know enough to suspect such it is more than luck.”
The Earl paled. “You think he . . . cheats?”
“I have no proof of it, but I have heard enough about his so-called luck that I should never be tempted to engage in any sort of dealing with the fellow.”
There was a moment of awkward silence as Chittenden shifted in his chair. “Well, as to that . . .”
“Indeed, whatever possessed you to think you might best him in a physical challenge?” continued his son. “You must have been more thoroughly jug-bitten than usual to have had such windmills in your head.”
“You may be sure that even in my deepest cups, I never imagined that I could match him in any test of skill.” He swallowed hard several times before going on. “No, I’m afraid that it is you that are pledged to meet him in a sporting match.”
"Me!”
The Earl winced at the volume of the yelp, than gave a nod.
“You must be a candidate for Bedlam, to think I would ever be a willing participant in any of your wagers!” Marquand began to pace the floor, restraining the urge to kick each piece of furniture that he passed. After a moment, his brows furrowed in consternation as he considered his father’s words. “And even if I was, I cannot quite understand why Hertford would offer such a challenge. As you say, he rarely engages in any endeavor where the odds are not stacked in his favor.” He drew a deep breath and went on in a low voice, as if to himself, “It doesn’t make sense. Surely he must be aware that I am accorded to be more than adequate with a pistol or the ribbons or my fives.”
A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) Page 2
