A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords Book 2)

by Adele Clee

The baron froze.

  It took a few seconds for him to gather his composure and paste his usual arrogant smirk. “Your housekeeper refused to return those foolish letters Hannah wrote. You cannot blame a man for taking advantage of an opportunity.”

  “That was three years ago.” It took every ounce of willpower Devlin possessed not to put an immediate end to the baron’s antics. Not to end the man’s life as quickly as one snuffed out a candle. “What makes you think my brother kept them?”

  “Ambrose told him the letters were here,” Juliet said. Her palm was hot and clammy as she gripped Devlin’s hand. “And the baron told me earlier that the letters were too incriminating to destroy.”

  The baron slammed the desk drawer shut and sneered. “I should have known you were not to be trusted.”

  Devlin felt the slight tremble in Juliet’s hand. Thoughts of leaping over the old desk and ramming his fist into the baron’s face pushed to the fore. But for once in his life, violence would not help to solve this matter.

  Unable to satisfy the ravaging hunger for revenge, Devlin opened his mouth to deliver a scathing reprimand, but Juliet spoke first.

  “I am loyal to my husband, to the man who has taken better care of me than you have done these last six years.” Her voice broke, but she did not shed a single tear. “I am loyal to the man who will father my children, children who will know what it means to be loved by their parents.”

  The words touched Devlin like nothing else before.

  The image of him surrounded by little ones tugging on his hand, begging for his attention, infused his mind and body with an intense euphoria. Juliet was right. When Devlin hated he did so with a bloodthirsty hunger to rival the devil’s. But when he loved, it was with a deep, abiding passion.

  “What is it with the Drake men?” The baron’s words dragged Devlin from his reverie. Contempt radiated from every fibre of the lord’s being. “Hannah was like a dog with a bone, wouldn’t let go of the notion that Ambrose might change his mind, might agree to marry her despite his thorough disrespect.”

  For once the baron spoke honestly about his daughter’s failings. Was this really about something Miss Bromfield had written in a note? Had Biggs lied about looking for old letters merely to appease them?

  “So you admit it was Ambrose who made the decision not to marry,” Devlin said, his tone revealing the depth of his loathing for the gentleman currently sitting in his chair.

  The sound of grinding teeth reached Devlin’s ears.

  “You may as well tell the truth,” Juliet said. “I overheard their conversation in the garden. Hannah sobbed. Ambrose seemed composed, stoic even.”

  “Stoic? The heartless bastard offered to compensate her for the upset.” Bromfield shot up out of the chair, braced his hands on the desk and glared at them with such menace. “As if money might mend a broken heart, might wash away the stain left by his blatant disregard.”

  Unperturbed by the baron’s threatening countenance, Devlin straightened to his full height. “That is how things work in the ton.” And Ambrose was a man who followed the rules, pandered to the matrons, obeyed society’s edicts. “Did he not do your daughter a courtesy? Was she not permitted to say she ended the betrothal?”

  Bromfield snorted. “Everyone knows Hannah has a lively temper. People would have drawn their own conclusions. Your brother ruined any chance she had of making a decent match.”

  Perhaps that was why the lady had taken to wandering the corridors in her night-rail, looking to trap a wealthy husband. The only thing the foolish chit was likely to achieve was total ruination.

  “Was it your daughter’s vulgar attitude that forced my brother to change his mind?” Goading the baron brought Devlin immense satisfaction. “Did he consider her unrefined manners beneath him?”

  Oh, that comment certainly hit the mark.

  “Beneath him!” Bromfield raged. Even in the dim light, Devlin could see that the man’s cheeks burned red. “I’m a peer of the bloody realm, your brother a mere mister.”

  “And so Hannah wrote to him, slandered his good name,” Juliet said, pressing the baron for answers, too. The tension in the air reached fever pitch. “She made up those vile stories about his preferences in the bedchamber for she hoped it might add credence to the lie that she ended the betrothal.”

  “Of course she made it up,” Bromfield blurted. “The girl was desperate. And I supported her decision. In a society such as ours, reputation is everything.”

  Bile bubbled in Devlin’s throat. Conflicting emotions raced through his body. Anger burned in his chest when he thought of the humiliation his brother had suffered. People in high society were too judgemental. Relief settled in his chest, too. The lewd tales were nothing but spiteful lies.

  But that did not answer the question about the baron’s hunt for private letters, or why Ambrose happened to be walking across the common before dawn.

  “Then as a peer of the realm, I wonder what people will say when they discover you’ve stooped so low as to rummage in a gentleman’s private desk.” Devlin released Juliet’s hand and stalked to meet the baron. He, too, braced his hands on the polished surface, leant forward and looked Bromfield in the eye. “You’ll tell me what the hell your daughter wrote in those letters. Else I shall have no hesitation in beating the information out of you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” The man’s nostrils flared, and his eyes bulged as he scanned the breadth of Devlin’s chest.

  “Wouldn’t I? There are enough witnesses here to claim you provoked me. There are enough witnesses to say you were caught stealing.”

  The baron’s lip curled up in disdain. “Your friends are heathens. There’s not a gentleman in the ton who would believe them,” he said, but his quivering chin belied his arrogant countenance.

  Devlin decided to apply a little more pressure.

  “Lord Valentine has an unblemished reputation,” Devlin said with a wicked grin. “But you’re right. I am a heathen and will think nothing of putting an end to your meddling.” Devlin cast him his blackest stare. “Now tell me what the bloody hell your daughter wrote in those letters.”

  The baron blinked rapidly.

  Devlin could feel his control slipping. He reached over the desk and grabbed the baron by his fancy cravat, ready to throttle the last breath from his lungs.

  “Let go, I say.” The baron clasped Devlin’s hand, tried to loosen his grip. “I cannot … damn it … I cannot breathe.”

  “Good. Now tell me what I want to know.” Devlin shook the man violently. “Tell me.”

  “That stupid girl mentioned the duel in the last letter she wrote to him.” The words flew out of the baron’s mouth, though he seemed shocked to have uttered them. As Devlin relaxed his grip, the baron closed his eyes and shook his head. “That stupid girl cannot hold her own water let alone her tongue.”

  The tension in the air abated as Devlin released Bromfield and the weary lord fell back into the chair.

  “What duel?” Devlin asked, though one did not need Aristotle’s intelligence to piece the events together.

  “After your brother’s dishonourable conduct, I did the only thing I could.” Bromfield dragged his hand down his face and sighed. “I challenged Ambrose Drake to a duel on Wimbledon Common. It was a matter of seeking satisfaction. Of letting him know I am not a man to cross. Neither of us had any intention of firing the damn pistol.”

  The room seemed to sway. A cloud of confusion filled Devlin’s mind. Even the most sane and logical man would struggle to make sense of the conflicting tales.

  “But I was told Ambrose died from a head injury, conducive to either having fallen or being hit over the head with a heavy object.” A cudgel was a footpad’s weapon of choice.

  An image of the scene flashed into Devlin’s mind. He had spent many sleepless nights abroad punishing himself for not being there for his brother. He had imagined pools of blood. Vacant eyes staring at the heavens. A body, blue with the chill of death.


  A gentle hand on his back drew Devlin to the present, and he turned to find Juliet at his side. The compassion in her eyes touched him deeply, gave him the strength to probe the baron further.

  Devlin swallowed to clear the lump in his throat. “And so you want the letters your daughter wrote because they incriminate you in my brother’s murder?”

  The baron would have no option but to flee the country if evidence of the duel came to light. If the authorities caught him before he left London, the lord might well hang. And the discovery would lend credence should anyone suspect that it was Ambrose who chose not to marry.

  The look of resignation in Bromfield’s eyes told Devlin he was correct in his assumption. “The injuries suggest you did not shoot my brother. Did you lose your temper and hit him with your pistol? Did you bribe his second to keep silent?”

  “Ambrose Drake was dead when we arrived. The stubborn fool refused to name a second. Had he taken a man with him no doubt he might have fought off the footpads who attacked him for his purse.”

  All the air in the room seemed to dissipate. He could almost feel Ambrose’s presence fading as his life ebbed away. “And your second can verify this?” Devlin would have been his brother’s second had he been at home.

  “Mr Middle, my man of business, acted on my behalf,” the baron informed.

  Of course he did.

  Juliet slipped her small hand into Devlin’s and squeezed. “But I don’t understand,” she said. “A witness came forward to say he had seen Ambrose meeting a male lover on the common.”

  The baron grumbled under his breath. “A witness I paid in an attempt to save Hannah’s reputation.”

  “God damn!” Devlin cried. “You’ve led us on a merry dance this last week. You’re a conniving, devious bastard who will happily ruin another man’s reputation to save your own.”

  Devlin thought back to the threats made by Biggs. How easy would it be to loosen a wheel, to saw through the axel on Bromfield’s travelling chariot? How easy would it be to snap the baron’s neck and blame it on his horse?

  “You should leave this house and take Hannah with you.” Juliet’s calm voice broke through the chaos wreaking havoc with Devlin’s mind. “Leave now, before my husband takes vengeance for the cruel way you treated his brother.”

  Devlin couldn’t breathe.

  He couldn’t blink.

  He could barely see a foot in front of him.

  “Get out!” Juliet cried when the baron failed to respond. “And never darken our door again.”

  The baron rose slowly from the chair and skirted around the desk as if being careful not to disturb a deadly predator. When he reached the door, he turned back. “If you find Hannah’s letters, I hope you will see fit to return them.”

  Good God. Were there no limits to man’s effrontery?

  “Get out,” Devlin repeated, his tone as cold and bitter as a Siberian wind.

  Still fraught with an oppressive tension, the room felt stifling. An intense relief should have settled in Devlin’s bones. Now he knew what had happened to Ambrose. The consensus had always leaned to the notion that he’d been attacked by footpads. Had a vicious assault taken place? Had Ambrose fallen and hit his head? Devlin would never know. But something about the baron’s story rang true.

  Juliet’s dainty hand came up to cup his face. “I’m so sorry, Devlin. My father is a cruel man. I only wish I could do something to make things right again.”

  He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Ambrose’s fate was written long before we met. There is nothing anyone can do to change that.”

  “No,” she said in a soft whisper. Water welled in her eyes. “I hate to see you in pain. All I want for us is peace, but …” Her words faded yet he got the distinct impression there was so much more she wanted to say.

  “What is it, Juliet? Tell me. Do not keep me in the dark.” He would rather hear the truth than feigned words of comfort or lies.

  A frustrated sigh breezed from her lips. “While I believe the baron’s story about the duel, about Ambrose’s fate, and the reason for telling their spiteful tales, something bothers me.”

  Devlin took a moment to examine his own feelings. His stomach churned. The hairs on his nape prickled with apprehension. Every instinct told him their battle was far from over.

  “Do your concerns have anything to do with what we learnt from Mr Biggs?”

  Her eyes widened. “Yes. How did you know?”

  Devlin shrugged. “Because my heart tells me something is amiss, despite the fact my mind is trying its utmost to convince me the matter is closed.”

  “I saw the way Mr Biggs examined the letter. When I informed him it was a letter from Hannah to Ambrose, he screwed it up into a ball and discarded it without a second thought.”

  “And you’re wondering why he would do that if that was the letter the baron sought?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Then Bromfield wants letters written to my grandmother, just as Biggs suggested.”

  “What other explanation is there?”

  Devlin considered dragging the baron back to the study, torturing him until he told them the truth. But the man was rotten to the core, and he wanted him far away from Blackwater, far away from Juliet.

  “Then our search for the missing letters has only just begun.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Through the window in the study, Juliet watched her father’s chariot charge down the drive at breakneck speed. Behind her, Devlin sat deep in conversation with Dariell, who had witnessed the baron storm from the room and mount the stairs as if the end of the world were nigh.

  For fear of what Devlin might do to the baron or Hannah should they say anything untoward, Juliet had persuaded him to remain in the study. One could not trust a word that left the baron’s mouth, and so it was pointless pressing him for more information.

  Even so, she believed her father had challenged Ambrose to a duel. It made perfect sense. Explained why a man of Ambrose’s ilk would wander the common at an unreasonable hour.

  “The baron, he is a devious character,” Dariell said. “Of that, there is no doubt. But when a man lives for his reputation, he does not commit murder.”

  Devlin snorted. “So you believe his story, believe that Ambrose died at the hands of footpads?”

  “Was his watch not recovered from the pawnbrokers? Did the trail not lead to a man suspected of a spate of thefts?”

  “A man who conveniently disappeared.”

  “Disappeared, or fled to escape the hangman’s noose?”

  The tension in the air pressed down on Juliet’s shoulders. It was her father who had unwittingly caused Ambrose’s death, her sister’s vicious lies that forced Devlin to seek revenge. She had to do something to ease her husband’s pain. Dwelling on the past was of no use to anyone.

  Juliet turned to Devlin. “It is easy to invent stories to account for unanswered questions. But are our efforts not better served focusing on what we can achieve now?”

  “Indeed.” Dariell smiled. “I could not have phrased it better, madame.”

  Pride filled Juliet’s chest. Mr Dariell had a way of instilling confidence, of enhancing a person’s sense of worth.

  “Neither of us can shake the feeling that there is more to this than we first imagined.” Juliet crossed the room to her husband’s side and placed her hand on his shoulder. “We must look to our intuition to guide us now.”

  “Come. You must move your thoughts out of your head,” Dariell said in the tone of a wise mystic. He beckoned her to the empty chair next to Devlin. “You must listen to your heart.” He sucked in a long breath and closed his eyes. “When you breathe deeply and shift your focus, what does your heart tell you?”

  Devlin glanced at Juliet and arched a brow. “Believe it or not it does work.”

  She shrugged in response and came to sit in the chair beside him. Holding back a chuckle, she waited for Devlin to close his eyes, for him to slow his breathing b
efore doing the same.

  It took a few attempts to ignore the voice in her head, a voice that repeated what they already knew, that seemed to take immense pleasure from confusing matters. But as she focused on her breathing, a cloak of calmness settled around her shoulders. A deeper intelligence spoke to her then, an intelligence that said but one word—Ambrose.

  “It all comes back to your brother,” she whispered. Juliet opened her eyes to find Dariell watching them, to find a tear clinging to the corner of Devlin’s eye.

  Devlin’s eyes sprang open. He swallowed numerous times, blinked away the tear and gritted his teeth. “I felt my brother, too.”

  “Good.” Dariell pressed his hands together in prayer. “Now, correct me if I am wrong, but this all began with an offer of marriage, no?”

  “I suppose it did,” Devlin replied.

  “Then we must assume Ambrose had a reason to offer for Miss Bromfield. Was it for her connections, her dowry? Was it for love?”

  Juliet recalled the couple’s intimate encounters in the garden. They had appeared like two people in lust as opposed to love. If Ambrose had truly loved Hannah, nothing would have prevented the marriage.

  “Ambrose did not need her money.” Devlin sounded affronted at the prospect. “And a family with our lineage is already well connected.”

  Juliet couldn’t help but touch her husband’s arm. “And while I witnessed them locked in many passionate clinches, they did not share the soul-deep connection that speaks of true love.”

  As the words left her lips, it was as if her love for Devlin multiplied inside her body, pushing and pressing for freedom, until she could no longer contain the powerful sensation. Now was not the time to tell him, but the energy radiated from her, spilling out into the room.

  Perhaps Devlin felt it, too, for he took her hand in his and held it as if he had no intention of ever letting go.

  “So what was his reason for offering for the lady?” Dariell asked.

  Silence ensued.

  After a brief time, Devlin said, “Ambrose can only have offered out of a sense of duty. He wanted sons, enough to secure the Drake name for generations. He doubted my ability to shoulder the responsibility should it fall to me.”