Secrets of a Wedding Night

by Valerie Bowman

  “And what did you tell him?” She could tell Medford was holding his breath.

  She smoothed her skirts. “That’s why I’m here. I must answer to my first offer of marriage before I answer to the second.”

  Medford squared his shoulders. “And your answer, to me, is … no?”

  She stared at her hands folded in her lap so serenely, completely belying her inner turmoil. “I’m sorry, James. So sorry.” A lump formed in her throat.

  His voice was soft. “That’s the first time you ever called me ‘James.’ Did you know that?”

  She intertwined her fingers and squeezed. “Please believe I never would have purposely hurt you. But we don’t love each other. You know that. I’ve taken advantage of your friendship too much already. I couldn’t allow you to shackle yourself to me for all eternity.”

  Medford shook his head. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Countess.” He paused. “Or shall it be Marchioness?” A wry half-smile appeared on his lips.

  Lily winced again. “I do owe you an explanation. I should have answered your proposal that day at the house party.”

  “You’re entertaining Colton’s proposal, aren’t you?”

  “It’s complicated. I cannot explain it to you because…” She bit her lip. “I don’t understand it myself.”

  Medford’s handsome face was a cold mask.

  “There’s something else.” Lily shut her eyes briefly. “James, I … I cannot write the second pamphlet.”

  The skin around his eyes crinkled. He reached out and squeezed her hand. “I know, Lily. I knew that the moment I’d heard the rumor that you’d married him.”

  She hung her head. “I’m sorry.”

  Medford stood and paced away from her, his arms folded behind his back. “I’m worried for you, Lily. You don’t know him as you think you do. There are rumors about him. Ugly rumors.”

  She swallowed. “I know. He’s a gambler. I’ve known that for years.”

  Medford turned to face her, an intent look in his eye. “He’s playing in a tournament tonight. A large, illegal tournament in the Rookery. No decent gentleman would engage in such a game. His opponent is a fellow named Gilbert Winfrey. The man is known as the Lord of the Underworld. Colton’s rubbing elbows with the vermin of the streets. This is the man you’re considering marrying.”

  Lily wrapped her arms around her middle. She spoke slowly. “I knew he was playing in a tournament. The rest does not surprise me.”

  Medford shoved a hand through his normally perfect hair. “That is the type of life you wish for yourself? The type of husband you would choose over me?” A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  “James, please,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands.

  Medford took a deep breath. “My apologies for upsetting you, Lily. It’s just that…” He took a deep breath. “There is something else.”

  A stab of fear streaked through her chest. She looked up at him. “What is it?”

  His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “They say Colton is harboring his by-blow at his country estate. A five-year-old boy named Justin.”

  Lily clutched at the arm of her chair. A by-blow? A five-year-old by-blow? Her chest was in a vise. “No. That cannot be true. Who told you such a thing?” But the name Justin conjured a memory. Master Justin, from the letter she’d glimpsed in Devon’s room.

  Medford dropped his hands to his sides. He moved to where she sat and knelt beside her, his eyes searching her face. “The rumors have been rampant since your supposed elopement. All anyone can talk about is you and Colton.” He sneered the last word. “Lily, I’m afraid for you. If you were to marry him, you may be a widow again sooner than you think. They say Gilbert Winfrey is favored to win, but the man never plays fair. If Devon wins, he may end up on the wrong side of a knife. Don’t marry him, Lily.”

  Lily shuddered. She couldn’t utter any words. None of them would make it past her dry lips. The gambling was awful enough, but now she must fear for Devon’s life? What other secrets was he hiding from her? She might not really want to know, but she had to find out.

  She squeezed Medford’s hand. “I must go, James. Thank you for everything. You’re a dear friend.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Lily arrived at Devon’s town house a quarter of an hour later. She leaped down the carriage steps and hurried into the house. Taking a deep breath, she dashed up the stairs to Devon’s bedchamber and flung open the door.

  Devon was still there. He hadn’t left for his tournament yet. She closed her eyes briefly and let out her pent-up breath. He was safe. For now.

  She moved into the room, watching him. He was putting the finishing touches on his cravat. He inclined his head toward her when she appeared behind him in the looking glass.

  He gave her a sly grin. “Made your decision and couldn’t wait to tell me?”

  Lily approached him slowly with her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Who is Justin?”

  Devon pulled the cravat tight and turned to her, his face blank. “Where did you hear that name?”

  Her voice shook. “Lord Medford told me. Justin is your by-blow, isn’t he? From five years ago? That’s why you left me.”

  Devon’s nostrils flared. “I do not particularly care for that term. Justin is my son.”

  “He’s the reason you left?”

  He nodded. Once.

  “And his mother?” She squeezed her middle so tightly it hurt.

  “My former mistress.”

  She closed her eyes, willing herself to ask the questions she didn’t want to know the answers to. “Did you love her?”

  “No. But I love Justin more than my own life.”

  She tossed her hands in the air. “What else aren’t you telling me, Devon?”

  He turned to face her head-on. He took two steps toward her, reached out, and ran his hands up and down her arms. “I can understand you’re upset, Lily, and I will tell you everything you want to know, but it must wait.”

  Lily shook her head. “I’ve waited long enough.”

  Devon squeezed her arms softly and looked her in the eye. “You must trust me, just for tonight. I promise I will explain everything tomorrow.”

  Lily pulled away from him. She paced the floor, her arms crossed over her middle again. “You’re going? To that tournament of scoundrels? Really?”

  “Did Medford tell you that too?” he scoffed. “Yes. I must go.”

  Lily swallowed. Medford’s words flashed across her brain. “If you were to marry him, you may be a widow again sooner than you think. He may end up on the wrong side of a knife.”

  She turned to Devon, her voice trembling, knowing their entire future would be decided in the next moment. “Devon, I cannot marry you unless you promise never to gamble again. Promise me you won’t play in the tournament tonight.”

  Devon expelled his breath. Moving over to her, he reached out and traced his thumb along her cheekbone. “Lily,” he whispered softly. “That is the one promise I cannot make.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, God, she couldn’t bear it. She loved him. She did. And she couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to him … but she also couldn’t bear marrying him and then losing him. No. She couldn’t love this man and keep her heart constantly in peril.

  She nodded toward the door. “Go if you must,” she whispered brokenly. “But I won’t be here when you return. I’m going to Northumberland.”

  Devon’s voice was even, measured, but fire sparked in his dark eyes. “Things are not what they seem. You must trust me.”

  Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks, but she fought them back. “I cannot.” Her voice cracked.

  A tic leaped in Devon’s jaw. “After everything that’s happened, why won’t you trust me?”

  Lily hugged her arms around herself, squeezing her nails into her flesh. Hard. “You’ve kept your son a secret from me all this time. What other secrets do you have, Devon? I cannot be the wife of a penniless gambler.
”

  He stiffened and moved behind her. His harsh whisper fell on her neck and made her want him and made her hate herself for wanting him. His voice was flat. “Money is that important to you? Then it seems we both must do what we both must do.”

  Thank God her back was toward him so he wouldn’t see the tears welling in her eyes.

  She had lived her entire life controlled by men. She couldn’t do it anymore. She must take charge of her own destiny and if that meant living apart from him, so be it.

  No. Money wasn’t the only thing that mattered in the world, but without it how could they feed themselves? How could they keep Annie safe? Devon’s credit would run out eventually. Lily had spent her childhood worried about her parents’ fortunes amid her own father’s gambling debts. How could Devon ever understand how much it frightened her to be at the whim of an addiction?

  She squeezed her arms around her middle and tried to keep her voice from shaking. “Good-bye, Devon.”

  Devon moved past her toward the door and Lily waited until she could no longer hear the clip of his boots on the stairs before she slumped to the floor. She could not, would not, allow a man to play havoc with her emotions again. If she married Devon, she would be giving him the keys to her heart with no guarantees. She had to leave. She must go.

  For a moment last night, when Devon had asked her to marry him, she’d thought she’d had what she’d always wanted. Now she knew she had nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 33

  Devon stared out the window into the darkness as the carriage rattled closer to the Rookery. Jordan Holloway sat across from him. Whatever temporary lunacy had overtaken Devon when he’d thought he could marry Lily was over now. Thank God.

  Lily had issued him an ultimatum. Ultimatums had never sat well with him. Defeating Winfrey, regaining his signet ring, those were two things he’d promised his father and he would not break that promise. If he did, he’d be just like his bloody father.

  Yes, he could have explained everything to Lily, told her why he had to go, but she’d immediately thought the worst of him. She didn’t trust him. And trust was something he demanded in a partner.

  So be it. She could have her perfect Medford.

  Devon pounded his fist against the side of the coach.

  “Can’t wait to get at Winfrey, eh?” Jordan asked.

  His friend’s words shook Devon from his thoughts. His reply came through clenched teeth. “I’m ready to get this bloody well over with, that’s what I am.” He pulled on his gloves.

  Jordan nodded. “I’m glad I’ll be there with you. There’s sure to be trouble. How did your father manage all those years without Winfrey harming him?”

  Devon’s laugh was humorless. “Quite simple. My father never won. As long as he was giving Winfrey money and not taking it, he was quite safe. It’s the same reason I’ve been safe up to now.”

  “But your father expected you to win eventually. He must have known he’d be placing you in danger if you challenged Winfrey and beat him.”

  A humorless smile this time. “Make no mistake. My father never put people ahead of money a day in his life.”

  When the coach pulled to a stop in front of a rotting storefront in the Rookery, Devon stretched his legs and took another deep breath.

  “Ready?” Jordan asked.

  “As I expect to be,” Devon replied.

  “My eyes will be open. Don’t worry.” Jordan pulled on his cloak.

  They descended the steps of the coach and treaded over refuse in the muddy, wet street to make their way to the front of the establishment. Raucous music spilled forth from the creaky, haphazard door. Street urchins ran up to them and tugged on their coats.

  “Please, guv’na, please. Can ye spare a shillin’?” one small boy begged.

  Devon glanced down at the children and swallowed. They were all scraggly and unkempt. Not to mention they looked half-starved. He considered their plights. The children of the dead or unwanted. One was a small boy with dark hair. He looked to be no more than Justin’s age. Devon swallowed again. It was only blind luck that Justin had been parented by someone who took him in, gave him an education, actually claimed him. Some of these children were no doubt the products of affairs with mistresses, as Justin was. Devon pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and tossed a pound to each small hand.

  Beside him, Jordan shook his head. “You’re only encouraging them.” But Devon noted with a wry smile that Jordan had pulled money from his own cloak and tossed it to the children, even as he continued to shake his head.

  The two men continued past the urchins and pushed their way through the door that barely clung to its frame, supported only by rusty hinges. The smell that hit him overwhelmed Devon. He pressed the back of his hand to his nose. Rotting food lay scattered on the floor, drunken men urinated in the corners, and the stench of unwashed bodies surrounded him.

  “Quaint,” Jordan said, stepping over a pile of refuse as they advanced toward the large table in the dark, dank back of the place. A gnarly assortment of ne’er-do-wells already inhabited most of the rickety chairs surrounding the table. Gilbert Winfrey sat at the head of the table, a grimy king surveying his dirty kingdom.

  Devon winced. How had his father been able to stand this? Abide this company? Be a part of this? Not only was gambling a disgusting habit that ruined lives and families, it also made false friends out of the most unlikely of compatriots. It just proved what a sickness his father had, the complete addiction to gambling that had taken over his life and ripped everything from him, including his own son.

  “Ah, Colton, there ye are,” Winfrey said. He swept out his hand and offered Devon a seat at the opposite end of the table. Devon watched the men with narrowed eyes. There was the usual group of suspects, a stomach-turning assortment of men who had also allowed the game to rob them of everything. It was tragic, really. Heart-wrenching. But these men were doing this to themselves, and had no one else to blame. Devon thought of their wives and children at home, the people depending on these men who would be forever disappointed.

  His thoughts turned to Lily. She thought she would be one of them if they had married. She had so little faith in him, she refused to wait and listen to his explanation. She’d jilted him again.

  Devon sat at the table and Jordan took a seat several paces behind him along the wall with the other spectators.

  “I believe we’re all here now,” Winfrey announced. “Let the gaming commence.” He smiled his crooked-tooth smile. “The first bet be fifty pounds.” He tossed a voucher on the table.

  “The game is faro, laddies,” Winfrey said to the table as a whole, “and McGee ’ere is the banker. We’re all o’ us punters tonight. Including ’is ’igh-and-mighty lor’ship ’ere.”

  Devon ignored the jibe and watched as the cards were shuffled by a questionable-looking man with an even more questionable moustache. Devon eyed McGee carefully. Then his gaze slid to the cards. Dirty and torn, they looked like they’d been plucked from the trash heap.

  Devon raised a brow. “Isn’t it customary to use a new pack?”

  “It’s me lucky pack,” Winfrey sneered.

  Devon narrowed his eyes. “Lucky? Or stacked? If that banker’s box is rigged, I’ll know it.”

  Winfrey spat on the ground. “Careful, yer lordship, ye don’t want ta end up wit a knife in yer belly for calling me a cheat.”

  Devon returned his cold gaze. “Then. Don’t. Cheat.”

  “Would ye prefer another banker, yer lordship?” His ratlike eyes narrowed.

  “Yes.” Devon looked him straight in the eye. “I would.”

  Winfrey nodded and spat again. “Yer the banker now, Monty.”

  A hulking man lumbered up and took over. He gathered up the filthy stack and shuffled the cards again.

  Devon watched the deal carefully. His years of gaming had taught him much and he knew when he was being cheated, when the sleight of a hand pulled a card from the bottom of the pack. Whether Winfrey w
ould risk cheating on the first deal or whether he planned to lull his victims into a sense of security, Devon didn’t know, but the cards in the banker’s pack appeared to have been shuffled fairly. This time, at least.

  “Care fer a drink, yer lordship?” Winfrey asked, eyeing Devon carefully.

  “No,” Devon clipped. “Something tells me keeping my wits about me will be most important tonight.”

  Winfrey growled again but nodded to a servant to bring drinks to the entire table. Soon, ale mugs were plopped in front of each player. Devon ignored his.

  “’Ave a pint, Lord Ashbourne?” Winfrey called to Jordan.

  “No, thank you,” Jordan replied coolly. “Nothing could entice me to partake of anything served in this establishment. As charming as it is, my health is of great concern to me.”

  Winfrey grunted at Jordan’s response and turned back to the game. He tossed some checks on the table. The other men eyed them carefully and placed their bets.

  “My checks,” Devon said, tossing his on the table.

  The banker moved the spade layouts on the board. The players each placed their stakes. Winfrey placed fifty pounds’ worth of checks on the king at the top of the layout.

  The pack was placed faceup in the dealer’s box.

  “Ah, and first we burn off the soda,” Winfrey said, pulling the first card off the top of the pack and discarding it. It revealed the next card, the jack of hearts. The banker’s card.

  “The losing card,” Winfrey announced, pointing to the banker’s box.

  Monty placed it on the right side of the banker’s card. Then he placed the next card, the player’s card, the four of spades, on the left. “The winning card,” Winfrey called.

  Devon watched the man sitting to Monty’s right. He was the case keeper and would ensure the banker wasn’t palming the cards. But Devon had no such issue. His mind kept the numbers inside in perfect order, and for every two played, he would know what was left, what was still in play.

  And he would win.

  * * *