“Yes, yes, Lord Drummond.” Hampton scrambled to his knees and reached for the knife. Rafe covered the blade with the heel of his boot as Hampton’s fingertips grazed the handle.
“I think not. In case this little lesson didn’t sink in.” Rafe retrieved the knife.
Hampton didn’t argue, but hate twisted his lips. Rafe palmed the hilt and jabbed the blade toward Hampton in intimidation rather than real threat. The man jumped to his feet and clattered down the street.
Desperation drove men to folly, and Hampton was desperate enough to mount an ill-advised attack to gain back his losses. Rafe guessed Hampton wasn’t finished with the Duke of Bellingham either.
* * * * *
Lady Minerva Bellingham sought her desk with grasping hands, knees weakened by her brother’s words. She wished she were the swooning sort. Oblivion sounded wonderful, even if it were only a brief respite.
“You did what?” she whispered.
Simon slumped in a chair in her study, his Adam’s apple bobbing in either nervousness or from the effort involved in not casting up his accounts.
By all rights, the study should have been his, but her ridiculous, foolish younger brother had no interest in acting the duke…outside of the social obligations. So Minerva had invaded and conquered the masculine room. She’d banished the hunting pictures and paraphernalia to the attics, added a whimsical watercolor, crystal cut lamps and a rotating assortment of fresh flowers. Soft-yellow wall coverings and comfortable armchairs completed the transformation.
Usually, the room was her sanctuary, but not today. Today, it was her hell. Gaining her chair, she sank down. Her agitated gaze cast around the neatly organized papers and ledgers.
“This is an unmitigated disaster. How could you be so imbecilic?” Although her voice started in a whisper, it rose until the last insulting word rang in the quiet. Her anger offered a solid mast to cling to in the maelstrom.
Not that she expected a satisfying answer, but her brother’s casual shrug only fed her fury. With trembling fingers, she picked up the scrap of paper again. “This is my entire dowry, Simon.”
“Isn’t so bad, is it? Can’t you use your connections with Drummond’s sister or your feminine wiles to force him to forgive the debt like a gentleman?” Simon attempted a smile of boyish charm, but instead belched loudly and covered his mouth with fingers that emphasized his pasty face.
She closed her eyes and reached for a shred of sanity, feeling nearly as sick as Simon looked. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she said with exaggerated calmness, “Lord Drummond deemed me a poor influence on his sister and forbad me to associate with her ever again. Not that we abide by his absurd dictate, which is another black mark against me, no doubt. Does that sound like a man who might be swayed by my pretty compliments?”
With a grimace, Simon flipped the piece of parchment and tapped the faint writing on the other side. “I’m due to meet with him at eleven to discuss the transfer of funds.”
She pushed herself out of the chair, her mouth agape, double-checking the clock. “But it’s already half past nine.”
“I couldn’t drag myself out of bed any earlier.” He shifted in his chair and ran a hand through thick blond hair so similar to hers. “You must see I can’t go talk to him. I don’t know what I could sign over or where your dowry money is kept.”
She moved in front of Simon and propped her hip on the monstrous, dark oak desk used by generations of dukes. When and how had things gone so terribly wrong? Had their parents’ early death set him on this path? Was it the influence of his roguish Eton friends? Was it their isolated childhood?
Outwardly dutiful, Minerva had chafed under the strict rule of their tutor. At sixteen, she had insisted their solicitor-guardian dismiss the man. Simon had finished his education at Eton, and Minerva had blossomed with the freedom. She’d met with their ancient solicitor almost daily, acting as his secretary. He’d treated her like the child he’d never had and, proper or not, had indulged her strange notions.
Her mind had absorbed the intricacies of management and investment like rain on parched earth. Calculating risk and rates of return had been infinitely more satisfying than spending hours on useless embroidery. With his eyesight failing, he’d sought a younger man to take charge of the Bellingham estates, and Minerva had maneuvered for her choice, Maxwell Drake. A self-made man whose progressive opinions made him open to a partnership with her.
Sprawled in a corner chair, his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, Drake observed their familial drama play out in his usual taciturn manner. He tapped a silent rhythm on the velvet chair arm, and his hooded gaze shifted between them, missing nothing. She trusted Drake and relied on his objectivity. All she could focus on was her brother’s irresponsibility. The reality of the financial debacle was overwhelming.
She held her hands up. “What in the world are we to do? The estates are entailed, and the majority of our funds are tied up in the tea plantation. If we pull out now, we’ll take an enormous loss. My dowry is the only accessible means of payment.”
Drake levered himself up and loomed over Simon. “Tell me again how much you lost, Your Grace.”
Minerva rolled her eyes. There was no love lost between her flippant brother and the dour Scot. If only Drake would mask his disdain.
Pride straightened Simon’s spine and forced his chin out. “Twenty thousand, three hundred and ten pounds.”
Upon hearing the sum in conjunction with his attitude, she opened her mouth to unleash another diatribe but just as quickly clamped it shut with such force pain radiated through her jaw. What was the use? Simon crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head back as if the ceiling held the answers to their problems.
Drake pulled out one of their ledgers and opened it on the desk. He ran a finger down a column of numbers. “The wisest course of action would be to arrange a payment plan with Drummond. Offer him half your dowry, my lady, and then negotiate to pay the rest over…three years, should do it.”
Half her dowry? Once word spread Simon had gambled away half her dowry, how many invitations would get lost in transit? How many indirect cuts should she expect while out walking or riding in Hyde Park? Drake didn’t understand the fickle, intemperate nature of the ton. It would delight in her humiliation and downfall more than most.
As a duke’s sister with a large marriage settlement, she enjoyed a certain power in Society. Even so, the whispers had reached her—cold fish, ice princess, heartless, disagreeable. Never to her face. To her face, they were full of pandering compliments. It had taken a long, painful season for her skin to thicken, but the hypocritical nature of Society had eventually stopped troubling her. And there were some—Lily Masterson, Rafe Drummond’s sister, in particular—whom she counted as true friends.
“Is there no other choice?” She tried to massage the lump out of her throat.
“You could offer him your entire dowry…and your hand in marriage,” Drake said with his usual black humor.
Her small puff of laughter sprung her mind free of its debilitating distress. “Do you think half is reasonable? I’m not sure how this sort of arrangement is typically handled.” Ignoring Simon, who still stared defiantly at the ceiling, she chewed on a fingernail.
“Lord Drummond is not in need of funds. His estates are well run, and he’s not usually a gambler. In fact, he’s rarely in town, preferring to reside at his country estate…perhaps for obvious reasons,” Drake said with a hint of empathy as he limped to lean against the mantle. He too had been injured in service to the Crown.
“That was it.” Simon thumped his knee with his fist. “That hideous scar distracted my play. I’m sure I would have won if I could have stopped staring at his gruesome face.”
The look she shot her brother caused him to sink even farther into the cushioned chair as if her gaze physically wounded him. “I’m sure Lord Drummond�
�s scar caused you to lose. It certainly wasn’t the fact you are a horrific loo player, and it had positively nothing to do with the bottle of brandy you guzzled before the game.”
Minerva slammed the ledger shut, and Simon jumped and gave her his full attention. “For pity’s sake, take responsibility for your actions and don’t blame a man who served his country while you were here whoring, drinking and gambling.”
Simon inhaled sharply and rose. “Ladies do not speak in such a fashion. I’m a duke, don’t forget.”
Rage vibrated her entire body. “You are my little brother, and if I could, I’d take you across my knee and spank your bottom until it was red.” She took several deep breaths, but her nerves remained frazzled. “Leave me now, but I expect you to stay in this house until I return with news. You had better hope it’s good, or there’s an estate in Northumberland that could use some hands-on attention.”
“You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.” His eyes widened, and his mouth hung open.
“Couldn’t what? Mete out a spanking or a banishment? Don’t test me. Now get out of my sight.” She pointed to the study door.
His jaw clenched but no protest was forthcoming. She really had no authority to banish him, but by God, she would try her damnedest to remove him from London’s licentious influence. Simon stalked out, eyeing Drake with unvarnished contempt.
“I believe my days in the Bellingham employ are numbered.” Drake pulled at his lower lip, his gaze on the empty doorway.
“Don’t even think about leaving. I’m not sure what I would do without you.” She laid an imploring hand on his arm. “I’m sure Simon will come around and see the merits of keeping you in place as an advisor. He knows nothing of the estates and investments. I can’t handle him alone.”
Her desperation softened his usually stern features. “I won’t desert you, but I’ve already stayed in London longer than I intended. Anyway, you’ll eventually marry—”
Minerva snorted. “Not without a dowry, I won’t.”
His lips twitched, as close to a smile as he came. “You will. I see the flowers and cards that arrive daily. You could have your pick of gentlemen. And, when you do, you’ll no longer need me to act as your proxy, which is how it should be.”
After three years in society without finding a gentleman who interested her past a dance or two, she wasn’t as confident. In truth, the stinging loss of her dowry wasn’t about societal acceptance or finding a suitable man to marry, but about having the choice not to marry. That money would have reverted to her control when she turned thirty years of age, allowing her relative freedom.
“What about the here and now? Do you think I should insist Simon go face his reckoning?” She smoothed her hair back, doubting herself once again where her brother was concerned. Why couldn’t he act logically and predictably like a row of sums?
“It depends on your aim. If you want to humiliate him, by all means, send him to Lord Drummond. If you want to preserve as much of your dowry as possible and keep the investments intact, it will be far better for you to negotiate the provisions.”
Her spine stiffened with a huge breath, the decision thrust upon her. “I must change. Would you call for the carriage?”
He murmured an assent, and she started up the staircase on feeble legs, attempting to rub the start of a throbbing headache away. The blue silk with the matching pelisse? It was the most flattering and revealed a hint of bosom. On the other hand, her dove-gray extended to her neck and exuded nothing but business. No, definitely the blue. She needed as many weapons as possible in her arsenal. She would do whatever was necessary to fix the mess, including employing her feminine wiles.
Chapter Two
Minerva dragged herself up the Drummond front steps as if on the way to the gallows to deliver her final words. In a dream-like state, she watched her disembodied hand pull the bell cord. In a blink, the butler announced her into Lord Drummond’s study. The rustle of her blue silk skirts as she stepped inside offered the only sound of greeting.
The warm, civilized, book-filled room surprised her. The master of the study, on the other hand, shot ice into her veins from his large armchair. Polished boots with dirt and grass embedded in the tread were propped on the desk. Even in a slouch, tension radiated from his body.
She forced herself to stay rooted while he examined her from head to toe. Her trembles would betray her sickening nerves, and she refused to give him the satisfaction. She needed every ounce of courage she could muster—even if it was all for show—but with each passing moment, his insolent study raised her anxiety another notch.
Rafe Drummond was a fearsome sight. While some might think the lined scar that ran from his brow into his beard imparted that impression, for her, it was his eyes. The swirled blue and gray coronas reminded her of a dangerous ocean, ready to pulverize dissenters.
Sleek, expressive brows overset his stormy eyes. A black ribbon tied back wavy, dark brown hair, much too long for current fashion. Although, she suspected he didn’t cow to society’s expectations in any way. An escaped piece brushed a sharp cheekbone. A crook marred a blade of a nose, and his mouth, the corners pulled down in displeasure, looked hard, unyielding. Undisguisable by the beard, his chin jutted prominently, lending him a stubborn, overly aggressive look.
Muscular and huge in every direction, he exuded a masculine virility that ton dandies played at. She’d always felt…well, feminine around him. For a woman used to bossing men hither and yon, his strength was strangely appealing.
His comportment, however, was abominable. A welcome indignation rose at his blatant, seated perusal, steadying her quivering knees and fluttery hands. Finally, so slowly it had to be deliberate, his boots thudded to the floor. He rose and gestured her to the armchair across from the desk.
She fussily arranged her skirts, not sure how to begin the interview. Once reseated, he swung his boots back on the desk and trailed his forefinger down his scar. The man was a foreign language. Was he angry? Surprised? Pleased to see her? Probably not the latter. She stifled an inappropriate, nervous giggle.
“I expected your brother, my lady. Is he behind your skirts, perhaps?” His voice was rife with sarcasm.
Fisting her hands so tightly fingernails bit through her thin, lace gloves to score her palm, she forced an even voice. “I am acting on the duke’s behalf. I understand he was involved in a high-stakes game last night whilst in his cups, and you fleeced him of a large sum of money.”
“Fleeced him, did I? Believe me, I tried to convince him to stop playing, but the young whelp refused. And, let me tell you, he would have lost even sober. He’s a horrendous player.” He weaved a surprising amount of lazy amusement in his insult.
Off balance, she smoothed her hair. “What’s done is done, I suppose. I’m here to discuss repayment.”
“Interesting. What are you proposing?” He arched his legs gracefully to the floor and leaned over the desk. Lacing his fingers, he pinned her with steely eyes.
The sudden intensity startled her. Weren’t his lashes unusually long for a man? “Well…I…” Heat suffused her body, making her wish for a fan.
“Did you bring a bank note?” Both his eyebrows rose while his gaze coasted over her face.
“I…that is…no.” Jabbing a finger to emphasize her negative response, she grabbed at the frayed threads of her rehearsed offer with profound relief. “I hoped you would accept half the money now, and we would repay the rest over the course of three years.”
“Are you telling me you don’t have the available funds? Is the duke in the dun with others?” His eyebrows arched higher.
For pity’s sake, what if Simon had vowels all over town? The grim possibility had her patting the prickly, hot skin of her forehead. “I don’t think so.”
“If he isn’t yet, he soon will be.” The prediction was delivered somberly.
All she could do was stay t
he course. “The money is tied up in investments. If I withdraw now, I’ll take an enormous loss. Given time, I’ll be able to pay you with the dividends.”
“I’ll take a loss, I’ll pay. You’re doing the duke a disservice if you constantly clean up his messes. If I agree, will your brother turn a new leaf? If I were a betting man—” his lips quirked, “—my guess is he could be in the same predicament tonight, but to someone not willing to be as generous. Tell me, why didn’t he come this morning?” He pressed steepled fingers to his mouth.
Her gaze drifted to his large hands—rough, callused, capable hands. They reflected a man well acquainted with hard work. A few thin white scars ran over the tanned backs dotted with dark hair. Her stomach spun as if she were falling off a cliff, and her mind blanked once again.
He cleared his throat. The rumble tossed her back in the moment. “I-I manage the estates and investments. Simon’s still young and doesn’t know where our money has been allocated.”
“He’s twenty, isn’t he? You can’t be much older than that. Two and twenty, perhaps?” His brow furrowed.
She nodded reluctantly.
“How long have you been handling the estate business?”
“I started learning the ins and outs when I was sixteen and took it over entirely at nineteen with the help of my man of affairs.” Minerva worried her bottom lip with her teeth, knowing the path his thoughts tread was a dangerous one for her. His cold eyes sparked with a heat that sucked the moisture from her mouth and forced her tongue out to run over her lips.
“My point is your brother is quite old enough to take on a responsibility you have handled since you were nineteen. In fact, you should have handed over the reins already.” His voice had dropped and roughened. “It’s quite unseemly for a lady to be involved in business.”
A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2 Page 2
