A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2

by Laura Trentham

  “’Course not, my lady. We’ve tired of his complainin’ anyway.” A powerfully built man chuckled and waved Simon away before lifting an impossibly large rock into place.

  Simon was sullen and uncommunicative as they walked side by side toward the far end of the clearing. Minerva studied him out of the corner of her eyes. “Simon, I think you can safely lose the cravat and waistcoat, for goodness sake. There’s no one out here to impress, and you’ll be much more comfortable.”

  “I have never been put through such humiliation. Drummond made me shovel horse shit, Minerva, horse shit.” Simon’s voice escalated. Men glanced in their direction.

  “Simon, do be quiet. Someone has to clean up after the horses, and wasn’t Lord Drummond doing the same for a time?”

  “So he could witness my total degradation. It’s not worth it. Let’s sign him over your dowry.”

  Minerva grabbed his arm, her glove slipping through something gooey and brown. “Ugh…” She shook her hand in the air trying to fling off the muck, momentarily distracted. “Simon, are you insane? You would rather sentence me to spinsterhood or, even worse, marrying a man for his money rather than put in an honest day’s work? Granted it’s not the easiest and cleanest of work, but I think if you would quit complaining, Drummond won’t push so hard.”

  “Why did I let him in the game? Hampton told me it was a bad idea,” Simon said on a whine.

  “Hampton was there? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “’Course he was. He’s my friend, isn’t he? Drummond took all his money as well. I don’t see Hampton out here working off his debt. Drummond obviously hates me.”

  Minerva pulled off her mucky glove, her mind whirling. “Or perhaps he’s doing you a favor he didn’t think Hampton deserved.”

  “A favor? This is a favor? I’ve a good mind to walk away right now.” Simon’s defiant, churlish tone worried her.

  “I will literally strangle you if you do any such thing. Through your folly, we have no recourse. My entire future is at stake. And how will society treat you knowing you gambled my dowry away, little brother? Did you consider that? My work hasn’t been easy either. I’ve spent my time cleaning rooms, polishing silver and beating rugs. Do you think I enjoyed it?” Minerva refused to admit she had enjoyed it—just a little.

  He stayed mulishly silent, so she pressed on. “Please do as Lord Drummond commands you and, for goodness sake, be respectful. He holds our fortune in his hands.” Her tone was cajoling, her eyes imploring, begging his cooperation, but she recognized the surly set to his mouth.

  Lord Drummond was right. She hadn’t done Simon any favors. At the very least, he was spoiled and teetered on dissolute. Was it even possible to get her earnest, caring brother back?

  After leaving Simon at the rock wall, she galloped ahead of the groom. The wind dried the tears in her eyes and plucked her hair out of its braid. Back at the stable, Tom took her horse and thankfully didn’t comment on her appearance. Tears always splotched her fair skin.

  A quiet pall replaced the bustle of the morning. She crossed the marbled entryway on her way to the staircase, knowing she should seek out Mrs. Devlin for her next task but craving the solitude of her little room.

  “Lady Minerva? What an unexpected but most happy surprise.” A familiar male voice echoed off the marble.

  She turned slowly, feeling as if she’d been plopped into a nightmare. “Lord Stonewell. What are you doing here?”

  He strode toward her with a wide smile and took her bare hand, her dirty glove clutched in the other. Bowing, he pressed a lingering kiss against her skin. When he straightened, he didn’t drop her hand but held it between both of his. She resisted the urge to tug it back.

  “I met with Drummond about a possible investment. He’s gained a reputation for knowing which endeavors to back. If I can get his weight behind my new project, I’ll have men lined around the block to join.”

  “Did you succeed?” Her mind considered and discarded reasons for her presence at Wintermarsh, one more unbelievable than the last, but none as outlandish as the truth.

  “Not yet, but I’m hopeful. What brings you to Lord Drummond’s estate?”

  “I’m, well that is to say, we’re here because… Simon is here as well, and we’re planning to—”

  “The duke and his sister are waiting for the Mastersons. My sister, Lily, and Lady Minerva are great friends, you know.” Lord Drummond’s voice was full of dry amusement. He strolled across the parquet floor, his hands clasped behind his back. The humor crinkling his eyes disappeared the closer he drew.

  Now she did snatch her hand from Stonewell and hid it in her skirts. Lord Drummond stopped next to Stonewell, and Minerva couldn’t help but compare the two men.

  Rafe Drummond dwarfed the other man in both size and personality. He was a jungle cat to Stonewell’s house cat. Stonewell was handsome enough, but next to Drummond’s flagrant masculinity, he seemed almost effeminate.

  “Yes, your sister caused quite the stir last Season,” Stonewell said.

  “What the devil are you implying, Stonewell?”

  “Only that she was quite an original and much admired for her wit.” Stonewell cleared his throat and tried to smile, fingering the cuffs of his jacket. He turned to Minerva once again. “Drummond has invited me to stay for dinner. Perhaps we can discuss what you thought of the latest Royal Academy exhibition. I saw you from a distance, but it was such a crush, I never had the chance to pay my respects.”

  Her throat had closed to a pinhole. Her gaze bounced back and forth between the two men. “I, well, I’m not sure, I’m rather tired—”

  “Ready yourself and meet us in the drawing room for drinks in an hour.” Lord Drummond’s voice brooked no argument, and one look at his face told her she should consider this part of her duties.

  She retreated to her room. Perhaps the evening would be a pleasant reminder of London and a break from her work. The dread crawling through her body and sending her stomach scurrying for cover portended a different outcome.

  Chapter Six

  Rafe paced the drawing room, waiting for Minerva and that dolt Lord Stonewell. He’d dressed in black breeches and frockcoat with a gray and silver waistcoat. He’d ripped off his neck cloth and thrown it on the rug of his room, mainly out of sheer orneriness. He hadn’t wanted Stonewell to stay for dinner in the first place. However, the man hadn’t taken the hint, and Rafe couldn’t avoid issuing an invitation without sounding churlish.

  After Stonewell had spotted Minerva, dinner was a foregone conclusion. Stupidly, he’d forgotten what a small world the ton really was. Of course Minerva and Stonewell were acquainted. Perhaps even more than acquainted by the overly effusive greeting Stonewell had bestowed on her bare hand. The need to plant a fist squarely in Stonewell’s pleasantly handsome, unblemished face had nearly overwhelmed him.

  Lord Stonewell entered the drawing room with a murmured greeting.

  “Help yourself, Stonewell.” Rafe gestured toward the sideboard.

  After pouring himself a glass of brandy, he joined Rafe to peer out into the darkened gardens. Every few seconds, Stonewell glanced at the drawing room doors and rocked on his feet. He broke the increasingly oppressive silence. “So, Drummond, how long will Lady Minerva stay cloistered at Wintermarsh?”

  “For as long as she wants. Why do you ask?” Rafe knew perfectly well why the blighter asked. Stonewell was casting his net for Minerva. And why wouldn’t he? She was beautiful and smart and, if she managed to keep it away from Simon, favored with a sizable dowry to boot.

  “To be frank, I find Lady Minerva exceedingly charming and lovely, not to mention quite rich. I’m fast approaching thirty. Time to think of producing an heir, I would say.”

  “You’re interested in breeding her?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t put it that way or imply—”

  �
��It’s her money you’re more interested in then?”

  Stonewell smoothed his intricately tied cravat. “She’s an intelligent, beautiful woman. Any man would be lucky to gain her for a wife.”

  Dammit, the man sounded like a true gentleman. He tried to dislike Stonewell but had a difficult time hating a man so bland and uninspiring and nice. He would just have to try harder.

  Minerva rapped, gaining their attention. She had enlisted help. There was no way she had laced herself into the low-cut blue silk gown. His gaze lingered on the lovely swell of bosom it exposed. Her hair, which he was used to seeing in a braided rope with soft, escaped tendrils, was twisted and pinned in a tight knot on the back of her head. He didn’t like it. She looked icy and cold, and Rafe was fast learning she was anything but.

  “You look lovely, Lady Minerva.” Stonewell scurried over like a dog seeking a pat, bending low and kissing her hand, holding it longer than Rafe deemed appropriate.

  Rafe noticed she didn’t pull away though. Not as she had done to him countless times. A simmering anger built. He stalked to the sideboard and poured himself an unhealthy amount of brandy, sloshing it over the rim of the glass.

  Stonewell led her to the nearest settee and joined her, his knee bumping hers. She didn’t shift away from him. Indeed, she angled toward him to answer questions about the art exhibition. Rafe took a large swallow and the burn of the liquor settled deep in his stomach, feeding the demons.

  They were a perfect example of the finest match of the ton. Stonewell was dark, where Minerva was blonde. He had regular, even features and was tall and trim, an outdoorsman. Intelligent, charming, a full head of hair—he seemed a decent fellow all around. In short, Rafe couldn’t stand the bastard and wondered how he would keep from garroting the man at dinner.

  Minerva cut her gaze to Lord Drummond, who stood with a hip propped against the sideboard taking huge swallows from his glass. Had Stonewell intercepted the murderous looks Drummond shot in their direction? They had seemed on decent terms in the entry hall. Had something happened in the interim?

  With her usually well-ordered mind ransacked, she found it difficult to concentrate on Stonewell’s attempts at conversation. If she wanted to stay out of the gossip mill, she needed to first find and then keep her wits about her.

  “Will your brother be joining us, Lady Minerva?” Stonewell asked.

  She grimaced at the question and looked to Drummond.

  “He’s not feeling well and told me to pass on his sincere apologies.” Lord Drummond didn’t sound the least bit sympathetic.

  Minerva sighed. “Yes, he’s been under the weather for a few days now. Probably why you didn’t run into him earlier.”

  “Goodness, does he need a physician? I have a friend not far from here that we could summon,” Stonewell said with true worry in his voice.

  “Not necessary, my lord. He’ll be up and about in no time, I’m sure. It’s his…” She blanked for a moment.

  “Stomach.”

  “Head.”

  She and Drummond spoke on top of each other. Stonewell’s brow crinkled, and he cocked his head.

  “His upset stomach is making his head hurt. Are you and the duke well acquainted then, Stonewell?” Drummond took another large swallow, his penetrating, predatory gaze never leaving the other man.

  Stonewell shifted on the settee, and his thigh tensed. “Only marginally. We’ve sat at the same gaming table a few times.”

  “Have you? And did you find the young duke to be a capable player?” Drummond’s eyes sparked with malicious intent.

  Minerva sent Lord Drummond her look. This was hardly the time to be talking about gaming and debts, for goodness sake. Stonewell wasn’t an idiot and might even come to the correct conclusion.

  Rafe’s lips twitched around his brandy glass, intercepting what should have withered him on the spot. He quaffed the remainder of his drink and poured another.

  Stonewell shot her a small smile. “The duke’s young yet. He’ll turn into a fine player, I’m sure.”

  “Ha,” Drummond barked before she had a chance to answer. “He’s abysmal, especially when he’s drunk.”

  “That’s something you know quite a lot about, isn’t it, Lord Drummond?” Unable to tolerate another second, she popped off the settee and stared him down. Proprieties be damned.

  Stonewell’s mouth opened and closed a few times, his gaze ricocheting between them. Blessedly, Cuthbertson opened the door and announced dinner.

  The tension travelled with them from drawing room to dining room, making the meal the most uncomfortable Minerva had ever sat though. Unfortunately, just when she thought the torture was ending, the footman placed a blackberry tart on her plate. She grimly attacked it, unable to enjoy the delicious treat due to the thinly veiled animosity aimed from the head of the table.

  Rafe Drummond’s hooded eyes regarded her steadily, a finger circling the rim of what had to be his fourth or fifth brandy. Across the table, Stonewell manfully kept the conversation light and moving forward. She tried to help him, but the cutting interjections from Drummond made it impossible.

  “There appears to be a storm brewing, and it’s getting rather late, isn’t it Drummond?” Stonewell looked at Minerva. “It might behoove me to throw myself on your hospitality. Perhaps we can conclude our business tomorrow.”

  Minerva was unaware of the atmospheric conditions outside, but there was surely a wicked wind blowing inside. Amazed at Stonewell’s bravery, or perhaps stupidity, she shrank in her seat and dropped her fork to her plate. The clatter echoed.

  “Consider our business concluded. The answer is an unmitigated no.” Drummond stood and placed his fisted hands on the table. “Therefore, there’s no reason for you to stay. There’s a comfortable inn back up the London road or an even more comfortable one in Lipton. Take your pick.”

  Stonewell tried to modulate his voice but sounded affronted nonetheless. “May I ask why your answer is no? It’s a sound venture.”

  “It doesn’t fit with my other investments.”

  “But surely you’re looking to expand—”

  Drummond pounded a fist on the table. Dinnerware rattled. “Stonewell, I don’t like you. I don’t want to invest with you. I don’t want you in my home. It’s time for you to depart. Bertie!”

  At Rafe’s bellow, the butler glided into the room. “Yes, Lord Drummond?”

  “Have Tom bring Lord Stonewell’s horse around, please.” Drummond never took his gaze off the other man. Minerva was torn between anger and trepidation.

  Stonewell rose to leave, tossing his napkin on his half-finished tart. Minerva mimicked his actions. At the very least, she intended to see him out the door. Someone had to act civilized, and it certainly wasn’t going to be the lord of the manor.

  “Where are you going?” Drummond asked with a dangerous edge, moving to lean against the doorjamb. An ogre they’d have to pass to exit to safety.

  “I’m going to see my friend safely away, Lord Drummond, if you’ll excuse me.”

  He looked as if he might stop her, and she was angry enough to raise her brows, daring him to try. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he made no move. Sweeping around him in a flurry of silk, she stalked to the front door, Stonewell on her heels. Bertie opened the door, his head down as if embarrassed by his master’s behavior.

  A gusty wind whipped her skirts about her legs and tugged pieces of her hair free of the tight chignon Jenny had managed earlier. Dark clouds obscured the moon, and Minerva could smell the storm coming from the south. Poor Stonewell was sure to get drenched before making it to either inn.

  “Minerva… May I call you Minerva?” Stonewell took her hand and held it in a warm clasp.

  “Of course, you may,” she said in appeasement for the dreadful dinner he’d endured.

  “Minerva, I’m not sure what has prompted your v
isit with Drummond, but I assure you I would be happy to escort you and your brother back to London at your earliest convenience. You can always travel back here with Mrs. Masterson.”

  He really was a nice gentleman. Handsome, charming, urbane. Completely compatible with her lifestyle. He would never raise his voice, their children would be comely and well behaved and she would never want for anything.

  Except…

  The wind carried his scent, and she leaned closer, nearly burying her nose in his nape. He startled but then smiled and squeezed her hand.

  Nothing. She couldn’t muster the smallest iota of desire for the man.

  He smelled pleasant enough. He’d bathed recently and had applied an agreeable cologne. However, no frisson of awareness zipped down her spine. Her stomach stayed firmly in place. No mind-numbing wave of need overtook her. She studied their hands. His was large but soft and well-manicured. Used to holding cards, a quill, the reins of a horse on occasion. Disentangling them, she stepped back with a hint of regret.

  “I appreciate the kind offer, but Lord Drummond has been a perfectly affable host, and Mrs. Masterson will be arriving any day now. Simon and I are enjoying the country air.”

  “Yes, affable is the first word that comes to mind when thinking of Drummond,” Stonewell said dryly with a glance to the door.

  She smothered a laugh. “He can be a bit gruff, I’ll give you that, but we’re being well taken care of, I assure you.” Tom approached with Stonewell’s handsome bay gelding.

  “If you find yourself in need, don’t hesitate to send word. I’ll be here within a day, Minerva.”

  She tucked an escaped piece of hair behind her ear, flummoxed at the kind offer and what it implied. “Thank you, sir. I’ll bear that in mind. Have a safe journey back to London.”

  Stonewell regarded her a moment, looking as if he wanted to say more. She didn’t want to hear more, was loath to hurt him, so she stepped even farther back, her fingers curled around her arms. He released a gusty sigh, tipped his hat and rode away in a flurry of horse hooves. The beginnings of a headache brewed, and she wanted only to collapse in bed.