by Adele Clee
The thought of possessing Blackwater proved too enticing.
“Highest roll wins.” The words burst from the baron’s lips, though from the deep lines on his brow it had not been an easy task.
“Agreed.” Devlin inclined his head though wanted to jump up and punch the air. “We should remove our coats.”
“Our coats?” The baron’s mouth drew thin. “I am a gentleman who plays by the rules, Mr Drake, though I doubt the same could be said for you.”
“Which is why I shall remove my coat.” Devlin shrugged out of his black coat and handed the garment to Valentine. “Should there be any accusations of cheating, I would have to call that gentleman out. Having spent five years abroad, I would rather refrain from fleeing the country again so soon.”
All eyes in the room settled on Devlin. It was not the relaxed sight of a man in his shirtsleeves that drew their attention, but rather the bulging muscles straining against the fine lawn.
Bromfield removed his coat. His scrawny physique failed to draw the crowd’s attention. But anyone with the baron’s cunning was considered a worthy adversary.
A thick, clawing silence surrounded the table.
Bromfield reached for the polished wooden cup. “We will shake to see who rolls first.” Without pausing for thought, the baron rolled a nine.
Devlin used the opportunity to test his sleight of hand. For three years, he’d been perfecting the skill of knowing exactly how to claim the dice off the table, how to drop them into the cup in precisely the right way to achieve the desired result. Yes, he had made his fortune with Lord Greystone and their friends, buying and selling commodities. But he had doubled his wealth at the gaming tables.
Devlin shook the cup and cast the dice, pleased when he rolled a seven as planned.
The baron snorted. “When I claim Blackwater, I intend to raze the place to the ground.”
“When I claim your only daughter, I plan to treat her with the same kindness and respect she showed my brother.”
The baron cast icy daggers Devlin’s way. He grabbed the cup again, muttered to himself and shook the vessel too vigorously, too many times for there to be any skill involved. He released the dice, and they flew across the table, rolling and rolling until coming to a stop an inch from the edge.
“Ten,” someone shouted.
Bromfield’s lips curled into a sardonic grin. “Your turn to roll, Mr Drake, though it’s clear to see that the odds are against you. Oh, I can almost smell a Blackwater bonfire.”
“Only frightened men boast,” Devlin countered. “Confident men have nothing to prove.”
Devlin joked about there being nothing to do abroad other than gamble. The distraction gave him an opportunity to scoop the ivory cubes into his hand, shuffle them into the required position before dropping them into the cup.
Three short, sharp shakes and he emptied the vessel knowing that they would roll twice, no more.
Devlin did not look at the dice but kept his gaze focused on the baron. The shocked gasps from the crowd confirmed his success. Bromfield’s grin slipped, replaced by a look of horror. The baron gulped and tugged on the knot in his cravat.
“By God, Drake rolled a twelve,” Lord Criddle said, amazed.
Valentine stepped closer. “Never have I met a man with more luck than you. It seems you have won a wife, my friend.”
The sudden rush of elation was fleeting. Luck did not wrap its lithe legs around a man’s waist and promise to keep him warm at night. Luck did not profess love, did not rub the aches from one’s shoulders. Luck did not make a man feel glad to be alive.
“I demand someone inspects the dice,” the baron snapped.
“You have used the house dice,” Lord Criddle countered. “There is no trickery here. You lost, Bromfield, and must pay the debt.”
“You cannot expect a girl to marry a beast.” The baron dragged his hand down his face.
“Some consider me a devil,” Devlin countered. “Where your daughter is concerned, I shall strive to live up to my reputation.”
Bromfield growled and thumped the table. “But she will never agree.”
“Then her father will give me satisfaction some other way.”
“Failure to pay the debt will damage your reputation,” Valentine reminded the baron. Elegant fingers straightened the diamond pin in his cravat, brushed imagined dust from his coat sleeves. “I for one would not entertain a gentleman who is considered dishonourable.”
Devlin had heard enough. It was time to bring the night’s proceedings to an end. He had an appointment to empty the port decanter for it was the only way he would sleep tonight. Moving to scrawl a few particulars onto a slip of paper, including a signed statement declaring no impediments to the marriage, he returned to the gaming table and threw it down.
“I expect to meet my bride tomorrow at noon. Bring her to Wimpole Street. You will arrange a special licence, or common if the archbishop refuses. You have proof of my consent.”
While it was usual for the groom to make the application, no man of God would grant a devil a licence to procreate. Despite his daughter’s failings, the baron commanded respect amongst his peers. Besides, Devlin refused to wait, refused to give Miss Bromfield an opportunity to flee.
“You expect me to force the girl?” the baron said, insolence abandoned.
“I expect you to honour the wager.” Devlin shrugged into his coat. “Do not attempt to make things difficult. Do not force me to do something you might live to regret. Your daughter will be my wife, or I shall ruin her name for good.”
Chapter Two
“The master didn’t ring for more tea,” Nora panted as she raced into the kitchen, her cheeks glowing berry-red. “Lord knows what’s happened between them this time, but Miss Bromfield threw a plate of eggs at the wall.”
Nora hurried off to the broom cupboard and returned with a brush and scuttle.
Juliet Duval slipped the dinner menus back between the pages of her ledger and closed the leather-bound book. “No doubt the baron has refused to increase her clothing allowance. We should be grateful it is only eggs. Last time it was the port decanter.”
“Oh, they’re not arguing about money but about some devil of a gentleman. Miss Bromfield thumped the table and shouted so loud it shook the chandelier.” The maid glanced back over her shoulder. “I’d best hurry as there’s no telling what she’ll do next.”
Juliet watched the maid scurry away, relieved she’d taken sanctuary in the kitchen. No one could control Hannah Bromfield when the lady was in a temper. And as the baron’s illegitimate daughter, Juliet often took the brunt of her half-sister’s rage and knew when to make herself scarce.
Scooping up the ledger and hugging it to her chest, Juliet went in search of Mrs Wendell. She found the housekeeper upstairs, hands clasped behind her back as she inspected the new maid’s ability to sweep and clean the grate.
Noticing Juliet waiting on the landing, Mrs Wendell instructed the maid to continue with her chores.
“I have the amendments to this week’s menus.” Juliet withdrew the list from her ledger and handed it to the housekeeper. “Miss Bromfield insists on celery sauce with her glazed lamb and refuses to entertain the guinea fowl.”
Mrs Wendell scanned the notes. “Is that what all the noise was about? I feared you might be in the midst of it again.” She patted Juliet’s upper arm with genuine affection.
The staff cared not that Juliet was born on the wrong side of the blanket and treated her more like family than Hannah or the baron ever had.
Baron Bromfield considered Juliet a useful inconvenience and had given her the task of assisting the housekeeper in the running of his home. She slept in the servants’ quarters. Ate in the kitchen. Wore the garb of the lower classes. The only time she left the house was to accompany Hannah on her endless shopping trips—someone had to help the footman carry the boxes.
“Oh, Miss Bromfield did more than shout when she demanded damson tart,” Juliet said wit
h amusement for her sister often behaved like a spoilt child. “She jabbed her finger as if it were a blade.” Juliet sighed. “I have no idea what they’re arguing about this time, and for my own sanity wish to keep it that way.”
Pity flashed in Mrs Wendell’s brown eyes. “You do well to remain so calm when they provoke you as they do.”
“Come not between the dragon and his wrath. Or so my mother used to say.”
“And never were wiser words spoken.”
Juliet’s chest swelled when she thought of the dainty lady with a huge heart. She was like her mother in so many ways—in frame, in height, had the same vibrant red colouring and sprinkling of freckles on her nose.
“My mother received her education on the stage. An education in life and Shakespeare.”
A sudden thud on the stairs captured their attention. Nora appeared, still flushed and breathless.
“How many times must I tell you?” Mrs Wendell chided in an authoritative tone. “No running on the stairs. You’re liable to twist an ankle and then where will we be?”
Nora nodded. “I’m sorry, Mrs Wendell, it’s just his lordship wants to see Miss Duval in the dining room, right away.”
Juliet resisted the urge to close her eyes and groan. Whenever Hannah was in danger of losing an argument, she sought to deflect their father’s wrath.
“I shall be right down, Nora.”
Mrs Wendell waited for Nora to leave before placing her hand on Juliet’s arm. “With any luck, Miss Bromfield will soon marry, and then we shall all find peace.”
“Peace?” Juliet smiled though inside she was closing down the hatches, darting about to reinforce the gates. No one could hurt her once she’d bolstered her defences. “Knowing of Miss Bromfield’s predilection for cruelty, she will insist I go with her.”
A heavy stillness hung in the air outside the dining room. Juliet lingered in the hall and tried to gauge the mood beyond the door. The argument had dissolved into a disturbing silence.
It did not bode well.
Gathering her courage, Juliet rapped on the door twice and awaited her father’s reply.
“Come.”
With trepidation, Juliet entered the dining room.
Her father sat at the head of the long mahogany table. Rather than take her place at the baron’s right, Hannah sat at the opposite end for she insisted she had earned the privilege. The baron agreed merely as a ploy to keep the girl out of arm’s reach.
“Come in, Juliet, and close the door.” Her father waited for her to obey and then beckoned her forward. “I’ll not bandy words,” he said, looking her squarely in the eye. “I know you’re a girl who likes straight talking.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Juliet never called him Papa. Many times, she had whispered the word silently in her mind but was not permitted to let it escape her lips.
“I fear I have been remiss in my duties to you as a father,” the baron said, although his indifferent tone conveyed a complete lack of remorse. “The circumstances of your birth made it somewhat difficult. But the time has come to make amends.”
A mild sense of panic sprung to life in Juliet’s chest.
Six years she had lived in the baron’s household, and not once had he openly acknowledged his parental responsibilities. Yes, during the time she lived with her mother, he had paid for her governess, for music lessons but not dancing for what need had she to see the inside of a ballroom? He had provided food and shelter after her mother’s death had left her destitute. But this sudden interest in her well-being had flown over Juliet’s defensive wall like a fireball from a trebuchet.
“I need nothing from you but the simple things,” she replied calmly but imagined crouching and covering her head while waiting for the impact of this unexpected attack.
The simple things?
The impoverished found nothing simple about securing food and a warm bed for the night.
Hannah scanned Juliet’s plain brown dress and sniggered. “How can anyone possibly be content to wear that old rag? Would you not like to dress in fine gowns, have rubies gracing your throat, diamonds dangling from your earlobes?”
Juliet considered her sister’s elegant appearance. Every strand of hair was swept up in an immaculate coiffure—for Hannah refused to wear a cap regardless of the time of day. Her skin was a pure creamy-white, unblemished by the sun’s rays. Her pale pink dress spoke of sophistication rather than the simplicity other ladies required from their morning wear. Hannah did not waste her time reading or writing letters, and so comfort was not a requirement.
“Why would I wish for fripperies when I spend my days below stairs?” Juliet said though it was not a complaint.
“Well, your circumstances are about to change.” Hannah’s smug grin stretched from ear to ear. “You can say goodbye to dear Mrs Wendell for you will no longer serve us in this house.”
The blood drained from Juliet’s face.
Surely they were not planning to throw her out.
But then had her father not said he wished to compensate for his lack of attention? Was he to elevate her from the status of servant to daughter? Lord, no. The thought of spending her days in Hannah’s company sent an icy shiver from her neck to her navel.
“Why must things change? I am more than happy with my current situation.” Juliet swallowed down her apprehension. She loved her small room in the basement. She could read until the early hours, sing to her heart’s content, and Hannah never ventured below stairs.
“You’re to be married,” the baron blurted. “To a … to a gentleman with distinguished bloodlines. There. Let it be known that I do consider your welfare.”
The words hit Juliet like the slash of a whip though shock prevented her from feeling the sting straightaway.
“M-married?” It was the only word she could form.
“Indeed,” her father replied, “that is what most young girls aspire to.”
Hannah brought her napkin to her mouth and tittered. “Well, those girls without fortune. Some of us can afford to be choosy.”
While Juliet stood there dumbfounded, the baron sipped his coffee and Hannah slathered butter on her toast as if neither had a care in the world.
Juliet cleared her throat. “Do I not get a say in the matter?”
“A say?” Her father frowned. “A say! As your legal guardian, I am well within my rights to decide for you.”
Suspicion flared.
The baron was so ashamed of his extramarital liaison he refused to acknowledge Juliet publicly. So why arrange a marriage to a gentleman when clearly he would have to explain the nature of his relationship to the bride?
“May I ask whom I am to marry?”
“Have I not already told you?” the baron snapped. “The gentleman is more than an acceptable match for you, my dear.”
“Even if he is an odious beast.” Hannah snorted.
“A beast?” Juliet prayed Hannah was teasing. No doubt her sister had a hand in picking the suitor. “Is he old and grouchy, then?”
Not that it mattered. She would have to dissuade her father from such a ridiculous notion. Perhaps she could run away. But where would she go? If they had paid her for her domestic services, then she might have ferreted away a few shillings.
“I believe the gentleman is twenty-five or thereabouts.” The baron pushed aside his plate, steepled his fingers in front of his chest and studied her with a level of scrutiny that almost made her knees buckle. “Though I will not lie, he is rather a huge fellow, and the match will look frightfully odd.”
Huge? No doubt he had a paunch large enough to act as a tea tray.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” Hannah said with her usual air of superiority. “When he sees you he’s bound to change his mind, which is exactly what Papa hopes.”
“Not necessarily,” the baron corrected. A sly grin graced his thin mouth. “It would serve me well to have an ally in Drake’s household.”
“Mr Drake?” Juliet said with some confusion. Was this some
sort of game for their amusement? The gentleman had been dead for three years. “But Mr Drake is no longer with us.”
No, the poor fellow had been attacked by footpads on Wimbledon Common. And while many questioned why a man of such prominence would wander the wilds at night, a witness had come forward to suggest nefarious motives.
“We are not speaking about that revolting letch,” Hannah chided.
Ambrose Drake had not been revolting when Hannah accepted his marriage proposal. He had not been revolting when Juliet spied them sharing a passionate kiss in the garden.
Hannah shivered visibly. “I always knew there was something strange about Ambrose Drake, though I did not expect him to have such a fondness for gentlemen.”
“Enough, Hannah. I will not have you speak of such obscenities around the dining table.” The baron met Juliet’s gaze. “You’re marrying his younger brother, Devlin Drake.”
Devlin Drake?
Juliet clasped her hands in front of her as she fought the urge to drop to her knees and beg for clemency. They expected her to marry a man whose name bore a striking similarity to Satan’s? They expected her to marry a man who must surely hold a grievance against her half-sister. After all, Hannah had sat with her friends in the drawing room and slandered Ambrose Drake in the vilest way possible.
“And Mr Drake has agreed to the match?” Juliet couldn’t understand why any man would want to marry the illegitimate daughter with elfin features when they might offer for the legitimate beauty.
The baron shuffled uncomfortably in his chair.
“Mr Drake won you on the throw of the dice,” Hannah said in a tone brimming with excited mockery.
“He won me?” Good Lord. The shocking revelation left her aghast. “In a bet?”
“Well, Mr Drake believes he has won my hand, but Papa would never permit me to marry such a brute.” Hannah clapped her hands. “Oh, isn’t it marvellous? I can just picture the disappointment on his face.”
