Con felt a sense of floodwaters rising, crops withering, and fate closing a fist around Julianna’s hopes and dreams.
He hadn’t lost ground tonight, and he’d learned a great deal about his opponent. Retreat might be the wisest course, a chance to regroup…? Lucere and Starlingham could travel on without him, perhaps?
And have Leo sending pigeons in all directions.
“What do you have in mind?” Con asked.
“Congratulations are in order, Mr. Amadour. I’m about to announce my engagement to a certain young lady, and as it happens, the dowry she’ll bring to the union is the jewel in the crown of a potential mining empire. Mineral rights are the true wealth of Yorkshire, sir, and by combining my marital good fortune with a certain—”
Con casually worked his thumbnail under the label on the brandy bottle, when he wanted to bash his opponent over the head instead. Warren hadn’t even bothered to propose to Julianna. He’d simply made threats and taken advantage of her grief and lack of business acumen.
And now here was Julianna’s great ducal champion, without means, without allies, without a plan—
Con had Julianna’s love, though, and that was all he’d ever need. “You’re seeking investors,” Con said. “I need a place to invest my coin. Most interesting.”
“I thought you’d agree. Let’s call for a fresh deck, shall we? Our play is about to get interesting.”
Their play would turn disastrous if Con allowed a “fresh” deck of Warren’s choosing to be brought to the table. Calling Warren out abruptly loomed as a wonderful solution. The bastard was a cheating, lying disgrace who took advantage of widows, children, neighbors, and merchants.
Lucere and Starlingham might not approve, but they’d serve as Con’s seconds. Freddy would approve, as would Hector, Tiger, Quint, and even Mama.
“Warren, I don’t think a fresh deck will serve, not in the sense you mean.”
Something in Con’s voice, in the sheer menace of his tone, must have communicated itself to his opponent. Warren left off shuffling—or reacquainting himself with the tools of the immediate swindle.
“Perhaps we should just get on with the wagering, Mr. Amadour? I do admire a man of dispatch.”
“Dispatch, excellent choice of words.” For Con would love to dispatch this scoundrel.
“Or we can resume our discussions at another time,” Warren said, downing his brandy all at once. “If you’ve been traveling, you might want to seek your bed and consider the day’s developments. I could meet with you, say, Tuesday next, if you’re tarrying in the area?”
By Tuesday next, Con needed to be on his way to Scotland—or announcing his engagement. “That won’t serve either.”
Impatience flickered across Warren’s brow.
Con was reaching for his gloves, about to call a man out for the first time, when the door opened.
“Ah, exactly what a fellow hopes to find at the end of a long day’s journey.” Hector strutted in, followed by Quinton. “Good company, some fine spirits, and a bit of diversion over a deck of cards. Gentlemen, Lord Hector St. Bellan at your service.”
Hector?
And Quinton?
Warren was on his feet faster than Harold settled to his cobbler. “Lord Hector, good evening. Mr. Maurice Warren at your service, and this is Mr. Connor Amadour. Who would your companion be?”
Quint bowed. “Quinton St. Bellan. We had distant family in the area once upon a time and, on a lark, thought we’d pass through on our way to the grouse moors. Very pretty country, but… sheep and dales and dales and sheep, you know, followed by more dales and sheep. A hand of cards can look quite attractive by comparison. May we join you gentlemen?”
“You had family in the area?” Warren inquired carefully.
“A generation or two back,” Quint said, taking the seat to Warren’s right. “Farmers, from the distaff side of the family. Every ducal family has a distaff side or three. What are we playing?”
They were playing… some game, but Connor had never been happier to see his siblings. Bless Tiger, bless his brothers, bless all family who came to one another’s aid unasked.
“Whist,” Con said, “and I’m happy to partner you, Lord Quinton or Lord Hector. I’ve had the advantage of several hours’ play with Mr. Warren, so it seems only sporting that each pair include one of you, rather than allow familiars to side against you. I don’t suppose either of you travels with a deck of cards? Mr. Warren and I were about to call for a fresh set.”
For Quinton always traveled with his own cards, both to pass the time, and to prevent… mischief.
“My brother gifted me with a deck from France,” Quinton said. “Freddy’s the artistic sort, but it’s not a deck one can display before the ladies. While Lord Hector and I wash the dust of the road from our throats, I’ll have my man fetch it down to us.”
And just like that, the tables turned. Left to skill rather than cheating, Maurice Warren was soon losing badly. Hector didn’t help, for which Con was grateful. The cards were honest, and Con and Quint made an excellent team.
They did not cheat, they cooperated.
And they won… and won, and won… until Hector frowned at the scribblings made on a sheet of foolscap.
“I don’t mind telling you, Warren, we’ve about exhausted my immediate cash stores. Doesn’t do to keep much of the ready on one’s person when traveling the provinces. What say we get serious?”
Quinton sat back. “Your credit is good with me, Mr. Warren. One hears ceaselessly about the trustworthiness of the English gentry. Backbone of the nation, lifeblood of our economy, and all that. A note of hand is common between gentlemen of means where we come from.”
Con remained silent. His brothers had done a brilliant job of being themselves—young lords at loose ends, not as idle as they appeared, but hardly astute businessmen.
They were the best of brothers, though.
“As it happens,” Con said, “Mr. Warren and I were discussing an interesting situation before you gentlemen joined us. He has investment opportunities, and lo and behold, I have substantially more cash before me than when I started the evening.”
“Give Mr. Warren a chance to win it back,” Hector said. “Only sporting thing to do. Besides, these chairs are hard on a man’s backside, and the serving maids are glowering at us. I don’t fancy a glowering serving maid.”
More to the point, Julianna would be worrying.
“Win it back?” Quint scoffed. “Are we schoolboys playing for farthing points? My brother is a duke. I’d love to be able to tell him I won an interest in a mining venture at some rural outpost. What is the name of this town?”
This town was Connor’s new home.
“Lesser Puddlebury,” Warren said, eyes darting from Quinton to Hector to the calculations on Hector’s paper. Warren picked up the paper and studied the column of figures thereon.
“I own a mortgage,” he said slowly. “Badly overdue, ripe for collection, tenants barely scraping by. We’d be doing them a kindness to turn them out, in fact. And regardless of which of us foreclosed on this property, it would be a useful addition to my own mineral rights. Mr. Amadour and I were discussing such a venture earlier in the evening.”
In other words, Warren would allow even strangers to turn Julianna and the children out in hopes of keeping his mining prospects alive.
A manure pit was too good for such a man.
“I’ll wager you,” Con said. “My winnings for your mortgage. If the farm is failing as you say, then you’re the one being done a kindness, Warren. Nothing says there’s coal to be had, and legal proceedings can take forever if the judges are feeling contrary. I daresay their lordships might charm the law into signing a judgment of foreclosure more effectively than either you or I could.”
“Mining?” Hector mused, taking the sheet of figures from Warren. “I know many a younger son who’s done well with mining investments. Lord Quinton, shall we?”
“Another hand, but then I
must seek my bed. This brandy is not quite up to standards, and we’ll want to be on our way early. I’ve seen enough sheep and dales to last me into my dotage.”
But they hadn’t seen Con’s beloved, met the children, or admired the endless beauty of Julianna’s farm. Con looked forward to sharing all of that wealth with his brothers, and with Tiger, assuming she lurked above stairs in the inn’s best rooms.
The end of the evening was a work of ducal dispatch.
All Con needed to win the mortgage on Julianna’s farm was a steady focus on the cards. Con was lying about his identity, of course. He had played both with and against his brothers, but he was also telling the truth.
He was new to the area, had no expertise with mining, and did routinely make business investments on a much larger scale than Warren envisioned. Time to point that out to Uncle Leo, among other things.
And had Warren paid attention, he might have noticed the evidence of Con’s identity glinting on Con’s smallest finger all evening.
Con sat back as Hector gathered up the cards and tidied them into a stack. “An evening well spent, Mr. Warren, I thank you. You’re out one mortgage, but probably not much of a loss from where you’re sitting.”
“Perhaps not,” Warren said, helping himself to the last of the brandy. “I still have many fine ventures in train.”
Quint and Hector muttered good nights, though Hector paused at the door to wink at Con over Warren’s head. Con ignored him, lest he offer applause on an excellent and well-timed performance of fraternal loyalty.
Exquisitely timed, in fact.
“And in addition to all of your fine business opportunities,” Con said, “you’re in anticipation of holy matrimony. A man can’t contemplate a more worthy and rewarding venture than that.”
Warren grimaced. “She’s pretty, I’ll give her that, or she used to be. Going a bit… mature around the edges, though. Might have to look elsewhere, in fact.”
That grimace, even more than Warren’s lying, cheating, and stealing, offended Con on Julianna’s behalf. She’d worked damned hard for years, far harder than she ought, because Warren had been stealing from her.
“If you’re discussing Julianna St. Bellan,” Con said, gathering up his funds and Warren’s note of hand, “which would be extremely ill-bred of you, then please be informed that the lady would under no circumstances accept a proposal of marriage from you, for she has already accepted my suit.”
He rose, needing to put distance between him and Warren before he did violence to the man.
“Your suit?” Warren peered up at Con. “Who the devil are you to be proposing to Yorkshire farm widows?”
“I’m the man who just prevented you from making good on a despicable swindle,” Con said. “Mrs. St. Bellan will anticipate receipt of any and all documents purporting to be notes, mortgages, or encumbrances on her property not later than noon tomorrow. Those documents had best withstand the closest scrutiny by the best solicitors at the command of her ducal relations, some of whom joined you at cards in this very room.
“I noticed,” Con went on, “you did not call her situation to their attention when you had the chance, though the lady is much in need of her family’s support. You are a disgrace, Warren, and if I were you, I’d take a repairing lease on the Continent before the mine’s creditors get word you’re rolled up.”
Which they would as soon as Con could put pen and ducal seal to paper.
The bottle hit the table with a thunk as Warren pushed to his feet.
“You can’t know my financial situation, Mr. Amadour. I’m not rolled up. I have… prospects, and my associates understand that business means risk, not like farm crops that come in year after another. Business partners will see a fellow over a bad patch, extend him a bit of credit. Nobody turns his back on Maurice Warren without regretting it.”
Righteous certainty backed Warren’s statement, as if seven hundred years of breeding and reputation stood behind him, or seven hundred years of arrogance, rather than fortunate birth, greed, and lack of honor.
Con picked up his hat and gloves. “I am relieved to say, Mr. Warren, and I will happily report to my fiancée, that I pity you. Miss Roberta wanted me to knock you into the manure pit, and well you deserve it. I’ve learned something, though.”
“Begone, sir, and have the wench bring me a fresh bottle on your way out.”
“I do not take orders from felons, Warren, and Horty’s manure pit is pure gold compared to your company. Manure makes the crops grow, while you are a pestilence who’d best make travel plans while he still can.”
Con sauntered out, tired but jubilant, only to find Hector and Quint waiting for him in the common.
“I love you,” Con said before either brother could set down his drink. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart, and I love you both. I love Tiger, and Freddy too. I love Horty, MacTavish, and the children, of course—very much. Please do not leave the area without paying a call on Julianna St. Bellan. I warn you, you will be stuffed with the best cobbler you’ve ever eaten.”
He hugged his brothers, kissed each one on the cheek, then dashed into the cool night air and half ran the entire distance back to the farm.
* * *
“Damned thing is a forgery,” Lord Hector said, passing Maurice Warren’s so-called promissory note over to Lord Quinton. “That’s the sloppiest description of a piece of agricultural property I’ve ever seen.”
“Uncle Hector said damned,” Roberta bellowed from that same fellow’s lap.
“Sometimes,” Julianna replied, “the word takes on its literary meaning.” Such as when the signature on the note bore no resemblance to John St. Bellan’s handwriting. “Would anybody like more lemonade?”
Connor’s siblings had come out to the farm bearing gifts. Lady Antigone traveled with her own stores of fresh fruit, Lord Quinton had already performed a few card tricks for the children, and Lord Hector had brought a colorful picture book of exotic birds that the boys were paging through in a rapt huddle on the porch steps.
“Stay where you are, Julianna,” Lady Antigone said, rising from the chair Connor had brought out for her. “I’ll fetch the pitcher.”
This gathering had started in Julianna’s guest parlor, a space in which she’d set foot only to dust in recent years, then moved out to the porch. The children were looking as dazed and pleased with life as MacTavish and Maud did, albeit for different reasons.
“This is a da—right pretty patch of ground.” Lord Quinton sat tailor fashion on the floor, his lemonade balanced on his knee. “A pretty part of the world.”
“The winters can be a challenge,” Julianna said. And how odd to think she might not spend the winter here.
“I’ll keep you warm,” Connor murmured, but not quietly enough to escape the notice of his siblings. He sat beside Julianna on the swing, the cushions having been given up to his brothers. With his family looking on, he’d taken a firm hold of Julianna’s hand.
She wore Connor’s signet ring in place of another token to be chosen when they had access to Edinburgh’s jewelers, though Julianna would always treasure this simple ornament the most. For several hours last evening, in the privacy of the best guest room, that ring had been all she’d worn.
And a smile too, of course.
She was still smiling, and might never stop.
“I don’t understand something,” she said, over the general merriment. “How did you three discern Connor’s location in Lesser Puddlebury?”
“Antigone got the idea of seeing who picked up her reply to Con’s letter,” Hector said, brushing a hand over Roberta’s crown. “We hared about Yorkshire, following MacTavish as he visited every pawnshop in the city, until Hector simply asked a shop owner if he knew the direction of the big Scot who’d parted with some lovely clothing. The shop owner knew MacTavish from some darts tournament or other, and so out to the countryside, we came.”
“We asked about at the Puddlebury inn,” Quinton said. “Heard t
here was a regular game of cards in progress in the best parlor, and the players included a swell answering to Con’s description, though the fellow hadn’t even taken a room at the inn. The rest was the best lark I’ve had in ages.”
“The best timing you’ve had in ages,” Connor said. “I cannot thank you all enough for coming to my rescue. I was ready to call Warren out.”
Lords Quinton and Hector found it necessary to study the roses, which were in particularly good form on this lovely summer morning. Lady Antigone studied her oldest brother.
“You’ve done nothing but look after us, Connor. We’ve been spoiling for a chance to return the gesture, but you never ask for anything. You manage Uncle Leo, mitigate Mama’s excesses, keep Freddy from jail, dance with the wallflowers… we’ve been remiss, not looking after you too.”
Con stroked his fingers over Julianna’s knuckles. “I’ve been remiss then too, but having seen the error of my ways, I will impose on all of you regularly. I can promise you this, too. When Leo and I are done rearranging the ducal finances, you will have your own funds, and I want neither to hear nor speak of what you do with them, unless you invite my opinion.”
“Even Freddy?” Antigone asked.
“Especially Freddy,” Con said. “I strongly suspect half his adventures were an effort to keep me from growing too much like Uncle Leo.”
The talk wandered on, the boys getting into an argument about the plumage of peafowl, into which debate Connor’s siblings entered with high spirits.
“They are pleased for you,” Julianna said, beneath Lord Quinton’s fanciful insults to Lord Hector’s judgment.
“They are relieved, as am I. I think this is what my father would have wanted me to see to first, the protection of my family’s… heart, and yet, I let it slip from my view.”
“John St. Bellan would thank you for seeing to the protection of his family’s heart too,” Julianna said, laying her head on Connor’s shoulder. Foiling Maurice Warren’s greed had settled some aspect of Julianna’s grief at last—the guilt perhaps, the sense of having been let down by her late husband and wanting to resent him for it. John had never borrowed a penny against the farm, Julianna was now certain of that.
Dukes In Disguise Page 11
