The Smithfield Bargain: A Regency Romance (The Wolfe Family Book 1)

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  “I guess I’ve got as many lives as that old tom, although I used one up that day.”

  “As long as having nine lives is the only thing you share with an old tom. I do not wish this family shamed by your amorous antics, MacKinnon.”

  With a laugh, James asked, “Do I look able to participate in such adventures with my arm held close to my body like a trussed grouse?”

  A knock on the door forestalled the duke’s answer, disappointing James, because he had been anxious to hear how the old man would answer. When he turned to see who stood in the door, his breath caught.

  Romayne’s golden hair lay loose about her shoulders. Her wine red wrapper, which was nearly the shade of her tempting lips, was cinched to accent the narrow line of her waist and the curves above it. As she walked toward them, the scent of her favorite perfume billowed around him, a muted invitation to delights he dreamed of during those few hours he could find sleep.

  “What are you doing out of bed?” the duke asked sharply.

  “I feel well enough to be up.” She answered her grandfather, but her eyes still held his, sending him back in time to the moment when he had been about to bring her into his arms in the carriage.

  “You bumped your head hard, child. Clearly you cannot see the sense of staying in your room unless you are properly clothed.”

  “Grandfather, you and James are family.”

  “You need not remind me of that,” he grumbled. “You may as well return to your rest. MacKinnon and I are on our way to the club.”

  James hid his surprise better than Romayne at the unforeseen statement. His first suspicions were confirmed. The duke had something he wanted to discuss with him. Something important, something His Grace did not wish his granddaughter to hear.

  “Coming, MacKinnon?” the duke asked. He stamped to the door, pausing only long enough to kiss his granddaughter’s cheek.

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  As he walked past Romayne, James slid his unhurt arm around her waist. The taste of her lips was even more luscious than he recalled.

  “Be careful,” she whispered as she had the day of the accident.

  “I shall, dearie. I know an enemy when I see one.”

  “Coming, MacKinnon?” bellowed the duke. “Or do I need to wait on you all day?”

  James chuckled as he hurried down the stairs in the duke’s wake. This discussion might not be an easy one, but it was sure to be interesting and loud.

  The black carriage stopped before a building made of pale yellow brick. A row of pilasters marched along the upper floors, their bases surrounded by an iron railing. James did not need to see an address to know that they had arrived at 60 St. James and Brooks’s Club. The building was familiar even to those beyond the ton.

  Following the duke through the door into the entry hall on the ground floor, he noted the obsequious welcome afforded Westhampton. The duke stopped at the bottom of the leisurely curving staircase with its elaborate railing and accepted the admiration that he saw as befitting his title. Looking at the arches on the upper floor where busts of prestigious members were arrayed to impress the uninitiated, James hid his smile. He was as out of place in this club as a fox among the chickens. If he was so self-deluded as to apply for membership, he would be blackballed with alacrity—with the first black ball being dropped into the voting box, he collected, by the duke himself.

  James bowed his head in a greeting to the members who were curious about him. When he saw their eyes widen as his Scottish accent betrayed his origins, he smiled. Westhampton had not brought him to Brooks’s to shock the members. James waited with rare patience to determine what the old man planned. Whatever the duke plotted was sure to bring more despair to Romayne, and James intended to provide a bulwark to her grandfather’s good intentions. She had suffered enough already.

  As aimless conversations wandered about him, he thought of Romayne’s sorrowful face when she saw him leaving with her grandfather. It was the first time he had spoken with her today. He had risen to have breakfast while she was still in her bed. Not asleep, he was certain. After he had retired to the dressing room and his uncomfortable pallet last night, he had listened to her tossing in her bed for more than an hour.

  He sighed. He had been a fool not to accept her offer of a separate bedchamber. There was no sense in keeping up pretenses when Ellen might be the only one in the household who was unaware of the fact that Mr. and Mrs. MacKinnon did not share the same bed. With his own room, he would be able to resist the temptation of Romayne’s sweet charms as he recalled the reasons why he had entered into this marriage.

  Then he might be able to think more clearly and find some answers to his quandaries before both the traitor and Romayne’s life were gone.

  “Come with me, MacKinnon,” the duke ordered, interrupting one of the other men in mid-sentence. “We can have a pleasant chat in the candidate’s waiting room. As I am sure you know, because you are not a member, the Great Subscription room is closed to you.”

  “That is no quare gunk, Your Grace.” He smiled when the old man regarded him with bafflement, but offered no explanation. Let the duke think what he wished. James doubted if he would guess that the words meant he was not disappointed to be denied entrance to the club. He had never aspired to becoming a member of this priggish association, although he had heard others speak of what they would do if they were fortunate enough to gain entrance to its private rooms.

  The chamber they entered was cozy by the standards of the grand club. Past the chairs, which had been arranged for conversation on the sedate rug, the duke walked toward the far side of the room. He chose one which allowed him a view of the foyer.

  As James selected another of the padded chairs, a waiter appeared with a tray topped by a bottle of brandy and two glasses. The man silently served them, then disappeared. The duke paid him no more attention than he did the paintings on the wall or the elegant chandelier in the center of the ceiling.

  “This is where a gentleman comes to drink,” the duke said as he raised his glass.

  James sipped the brandy, which was far smoother than the cheap liquor he had swallowed at The Three Stags. “Your words suggest that you were privy to the conversation Romayne and I had before we left on our ride.”

  “Conversation?” The old man snorted. “Do you usually speak to my granddaughter at such a volume?”

  James chuckled as he relaxed against the back of the leather chair which squeaked beneath him. “Your Grace, I recall my discussion with your granddaughter that day very well. To own the truth, I spoke lower than usual through most of what I was want-witted enough to think was a private conversation. I shall not ask why Grange told you that I raised my voice to Romayne.”

  “Grange has a propensity for exaggerating.”

  “So I have seen.” James was not astonished that the duke did not deny that he had set the abigail to eavesdropping. “Her concern for Romayne’s reputation led, in part, to our wedding.”

  The duke sat forward, his eyes narrowing. “What are your plans? Do you intend to take Romayne back to that heathen land with you?”

  “We have made no plans to return to Scotland.” He chose his words warily, for the duke’s changed posture told him that the old man was about to discuss the true purpose of James’s invitation to Brooks’s.

  Resting his elbow on his chair, the duke smiled. “So you anticipate finding a home at Westhampton Hall? Mayhap Romayne has failed to tell you that the Hall goes upon my passing to her aunt.”

  “I had no idea Romayne had any living relatives other than you.”

  “I doubt if Romayne recalls that her father had a sister, for her aunt was gone from Westhampton Hall before Romayne was born. My daughter Stella is an unfortunate blight on my past.” He shrugged as if the matter was of the least concern, but sorrow tainted his voice. “She married foolishly, and I disowned both her and her rakehell husband. However, she remains my daughter, and she and her daughter are heir to the Hall. A distant c
ousin of Romayne’s will be given the title when I do them all a favor and snuff and toddle off to my grave. If you had hoped to marry an heiress, you miscalculated. She receives nothing from my estate.”

  James smiled. “She has her share in that investment scheme you made in her name.”

  “Yes.” The duke pyramided his fingers in front of his nose. “However, that is not what I wished to speak to you of today.”

  “What topic concerns you, Your Grace?”

  “My granddaughter, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you, MacKinnon.”

  “Of course,” he said again.

  Footsteps sounded behind him. James scowled when he saw Montcrief swaggering toward them as if he was the master of the club. He heard the duke curse under his breath and knew that whatever Westhampton had been about to say would be forgotten until Montcrief left.

  “Ah, Montcrief, what an unexpected surprise!” The duke’s delight was so obviously feigned that James was startled that Montcrief did not take offense.

  Montcrief smiled as he shook the white-haired man’s hand. That expression wavered when he turned to James. “I had not guessed that you had decided to alter your habits from your low haunts to Brooks’s.”

  “It was my intention from the onset of my sojourn to see as much of London as possible,” James replied smoothly.

  “And which do you find more to your liking? I suppose a lush ken with its shabbaroons lolling in every corner is more to your liking than this place.”

  “You seem to have quite the intimate knowledge of such low taverns.”

  Bristling, Montcrief flushed. “I repeat only what I have heard.”

  “The fate of a gabble-monger.” He signaled to the waiter. As the man compliantly refilled his glass, James added, “I have learned through experience that it is better to sample the pleasures of life than to be satisfied with the mere telling of another’s life.”

  When Montcrief’s hands fisted at his sides, James smiled with satisfaction. The young fool had comprehended the meaning of his words.

  Bradley Montcrief was no gentleman. Although he played his part in the social whirl of the Season, he had sought financial assistance from the moneylenders in the seedy sections of London when he had depleted the generosity of his friends along St. James’s Street. That was not a crime, but Montcrief’s pleasure in playing the lord among the conveyancers and swindlers of London’s dreariest streets had been related over and over by the patrons of the tumbledown taverns that Cameron had visited.

  “Are you a member of Brooks’s, Montcrief?” he continued.

  Again the blond man colored. “I have not had the honor of being offered membership.”

  James hid his grin behind his glass as he noted the duke’s amusement. Apparently Westhampton already had blackballed one potential suitor for his granddaughter.

  “Sit down, Montcrief, if you don’t have the decency to leave us to our conversation,” ordered the old man abruptly. “We have no interest in straining our necks while looking up at your ugly countenance.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Montcrief fired another furious glare at James, acting as if he had spoken the slur.

  As soon as the blond man sat in a chair facing James and the duke, Westhampton said, “You will remain quiet, Montcrief, while I complete my business with my grandson-in-law. I wish to make you an offer, James.”

  “An offer, Your Grace?” He almost laughed at the duke’s abrupt use of his given name. It indicated a change in the relationship between them, but it would not be for the better.

  “I shall be forthright, for I have seen that you embrace honesty in your unsubtle speech. Every man has his price, and I want you to know that I am willing to pay whatever yours is to arrange for you to take leave of my granddaughter’s life.”

  James hooked a thumb toward Montcrief. “So you can marry her to him? Have you developed a sudden affection for a man you banished from Westhampton Hall when you thought he would marry Romayne so he could get his hands on the very money you accuse me of desiring? Or do you plan to wed her to Newman?”

  “None of that will be your concern.”

  “True.” Settling one foot on the opposite knee, he tapped his glass as he said, “Nor, do I suppose, that I should find myself solicitous of her happiness when she is married to another.”

  The duke smiled. “I thought you would be a reasonable man. I have heard that the Scots know the value of a shilling.”

  “And the value of its more precious cousin, the guinea.”

  Cocking his bushy brows, the old man’s eyes drilled into James. “Name your price.”

  “I would as lief hear what you wish to offer. Then we can negotiate.” As he held up his glass for another serving of the brandy, he laughed. “You may have heard as well Your Grace, that we Scots enjoy bargaining as much as anything else in this life.” He smiled with triumph as he glanced at Montcrief. “Or I should say nearly as much as anything else in this life.”

  “Enough!” snapped Westhampton. “I am waiting for your answer. What will it cost me to have this marriage come to a quiet end?”

  Leaning back in his chair again, James smiled. “Why don’t you call for a bottle of something a bit more festive than brandy, Your Grace, while we discuss this? I am sure you shall name a price that will be satisfactory to both of us.”

  Romayne wandered from room to room of the town house on Grosvenor Square ignoring the pain in her head. That her grandfather had offered an invitation for James to join him at his club disturbed her. Grandfather had refused to sponsor Bradley for membership. She wished she could believe the duke was accepting James as a member of the family, but that was idiocy. Since they had arrived in London, her grandfather had said no more than a dozen civil words to her husband.

  Entering the book room at the back of the house, she walked to the windows which looked out over the garden. She did not see the first blossoms of spring, for anguish blinded her. Everything was falling apart. Grandfather was acting oddly. Grange could not hide her distaste that Romayne had allowed herself to visit such a low tavern. Bradley was being even more beastly than James.

  James …

  Tears blurred the garden. Except for the kiss he had given her as he left, which she knew had been to rile her grandfather, he had treated her with the chasteness of a brother since the accident. She appreciated his concern for her well-being, but she craved his arms around her, holding her close as his kisses shut out the troubles surrounding them.

  His warnings echoed in her head. Someone wished to kill her? She dared not believe that, although James had never been false with her. When she had sought out Cameron this morning to discover what he could tell her, he had said she must ask Major MacKinnon. His loyalty was commendable, but exasperating.

  The door opened, jarring her from her misery. Romayne sighed when Grange entered the room, Dora following like a shadow. The two had become inseparable as they prowled the house, trying to keep track of everyone’s business.

  “You should have been at the couturière’s shop more than an hour past!” gasped Grange in lieu of a greeting. “Madame sent a lad to ask if you were still feeling too ill to call on her. I went to your room to tell you that, but here you are. How do you feel?”

  “I am better. I simply forgot the appointment.” I was too busy wondering if James could be right about the danger.

  Grange’s worry became a frown. “Think how vexed she will be when she discovers you have forgotten.”

  “Yes,” added Aunt Dora in quick succession, “and think how that will affect the quality of the gowns she shall make for Ellen. Although Lord Culver may present his suit to James any day, for he was so taken with Ellen, she must maintain a certain level of fashion until she is wed.”

  “Nonsense!” Romayne rubbed her forehead wearily. “Madame LaBombard is a lady of integrity. She would not let a single missed appointment color her thinking.”

  “You must think of someone o
ther than yourself,” Grange chided.

  Dora added, “You must think of Ellen. She must—”

  Romayne raised her hands. “Be quiet! Both of you!” When the old women regarded her as if she had sprouted horns, she went on, “I missed an appointment with the modiste. That is hardly a crime worthy of sending me to Tyburn to kick the clouds from the end of a noose. I shall address a note to Madame to apologize. She shall be neither offended nor outraged, for I daresay that I am not the first nor shall I be the last to fail to arrive at a specific time. If she is offended, there are other seamstresses in London. I shall not have my life dictated by a couturière. Nor shall I have my life prescribed by you. Now, I trust you can find someone else to irritate and some other place to do it.”

  “Lady Romayne!”

  “Grange, I never have had to give you an order, and I would prefer not having to do so today. I advise you as well to rethink your incessant listening at doors.”

  “I have never—”

  “Do not be false with me.” Romayne shook her head sadly. “Do you think I didn’t see your shadow when you lurked in the hallway when James came to ask me to go with him in the carriage the day of the accident? I bid you good afternoon.”

  Pretending to look out the window, she used the panes as a mirror to watch the old women glance at one another before they left the room in a huff. The door closed loudly, and her shoulders sagged.

  She listened to the tall-case clock chiming in the foyer. James and Grandfather had been gone for only an hour. If her grandfather stayed at Brooks’s as he usually did, she could not expect them home soon. She must find something to pass the time. Going to the bookshelves, she looked at the books behind the walls of glass.

  She selected a book at random and sat on a gold settee to read it. Opening to the frontispiece, she stared at the etched drawing and the words opposite it. None of it made any sense, for the letters swarmed together in front of her tear-filled eyes. She turned the pages, searching for something to offer her solace.

  The latch rattled. Romayne clutched her hands on the book as she fought not to shout that Grange had better have a dashed good excuse for intruding again. Her exasperation vanished as she met Ellen’s despairing eyes. When Ellen closed the door, then, after hesitating, locked it, Romayne tried to silence the horror that wanted to explode within her. Ellen’s action suggested more trouble was brewing.