A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2

by Laura Trentham

  He arrived at Wintermarsh after the short winter’s daylight had long since faded. The darkness settled heavily, the moon blocked by the clouds spitting out wet snow. The dark house grew his worries.

  In the stables, Tom Donahue was busy blanketing the horses. They greeted each other warmly, informally shaking hands. Aries was in his stall, which boded well.

  “Is Drummond at home then?” Simon asked.

  Tom shook his head, his tongue clicking. “At his cabin.”

  Simon muttered a few heartfelt curses as he hurried to the house. He pounded on the door and stomped his feet against the cold. Cuthbertson finally cracked the door open and poked his face out.

  “Master Simon. I mean, Your Grace. Come in. Come in. Were we expecting you?” Cuthbertson ushered him in and took his coat.

  “It doesn’t matter what you call me, Bertie. This seems the only place where I’m not fawned over and treated like I’m separate from humanity. I don’t suppose you have a fire going anywhere. I can’t feel my fingers, my toes or my arse. The study, perhaps?”

  “Master Rafe isn’t here.” The butler pursed his lips, radiating disapproval.

  “So Tom informed me.”

  “Mrs. Devlin sends a footman with food, books and brandy out to the cabin every few days.” Bertie led him into the study and had a fire crackling in no time. Simon lit several tapers from the flames. A jumble of letters and papers piled over Rafe’s desk.

  “Dammit. I was afraid of this. No wonder he didn’t answer my letters. He’ll continue to wallow indefinitely unless something is done. I’ll sort this mess out tomorrow and then go talk some sense into the wounded miscreant.”

  Cuthbertson heaved a sigh. “That would be much appreciated, Master Simon. I’ll have Mrs. Devlin open up your old room, shall I?”

  “Thank you, Bertie.” Simon stared into the flames. The pile of papers on the desk worried him less than what he’d find in the cabin on the morrow.

  * * * * *

  Up at dawn, Simon waded through the missives, responding or filing if needed. He checked the ledgers. It would take several more days to get things back to a semblance of normal. Luckily, tenant needs were low in winter or the estate would be in even worse shape. He should take Rafe by the ear and force him to clean up the mess himself. How quickly their positions had shifted. He chuckled darkly.

  He would have worked through luncheon if Mrs. Devlin hadn’t come bustling into the study laden with all of Mrs. Potts specialties. He dug in with gusto clearing the tray in record time before returning his attention to clearing the desk.

  Finally, at dinnertime, Mrs. Devlin reappeared with a hamper. “Good luck, sir. You know the way?”

  “I can manage. You don’t think he’ll run me through, do you?” Simon joked.

  “I can’t say. Would you like me to find you a saber?” Her serious tone and expression jolted him.

  “Let’s hope that isn’t necessary.” His enormous tea was suddenly not sitting well.

  Simon found the cabin easily enough. He lifted up the heavy knocker and released it with a bang that echoed through the leafless trees.

  “Leave the hamper outside.” Rafe’s voice was gravelly, as if he hadn’t spoken in a long while.

  “Afraid that’s not possible, Drummond. You’ve a visitor, but I’m fresh out of calling cards to leave your butler.” Simon hoped his weak attempt at levity would get some acknowledgment.

  Rafe yanked the door open and examined Simon a moment before he turned around, leaving the door open. Simon gingerly took a step inside the small cabin, which was really one large room. One large room covered with an assortment of items from clothing strewn about to brandy bottles, some empty but most full, lining one wall. Books were everywhere, including stacked on the floor.

  “Charming, Drummond. I love what you’ve done with the place,” Simon intoned.

  “You’re welcome to leave. I certainly didn’t invite you.” He plopped back into a large armchair. A chess set was open on a side table, and Rafe ran his fingers over each piece. He picked up the white queen and rubbed his thumb over and over its length in a motion that seemed habitual.

  As an offer to sit didn’t seem to be forthcoming, Simon plucked a pair of breeches, a shirt and several books off one of the kitchen chairs. Debating what to do with the mess, he shrugged and dumped it all on the floor. Rafe didn’t complain, in fact, he didn’t spare Simon a glance, his attention fixed on the queen. Simon pulled the chair closer and sat down.

  “I thought I’d find you foxed.”

  “I dried myself out a few of weeks ago. The liquor didn’t seem to help.”

  Simon pretended to pick a piece of lint off his jacket but studied Rafe from the veil of his lashes. “I didn’t think anyone could look more miserable than Minerva, but I’d say you’ve got her soundly beat. She’s at least trying.”

  Rafe’s head shot up. “Is she unwell? Tell me.” A modicum of emotion made its way into his voice, which cracked with worry.

  “With the same illness afflicting you, I dare say.” Their gazes clashed.

  Rafe couldn’t hold his stare and looked back down. “Did she send you?”

  “Of course not. She would flay me if she knew I was here. Pride is the only thing sustaining her,” Simon said with honesty.

  Rafe’s jaw clenched. “Then…she’s not with child?”

  Simon’s eyes flared and his jaw went slack. Covering his mouth, he hoped Rafe hadn’t noticed his shock. It wasn’t outrage but opportunity that made his mind race. “So you ruined her. I could call you out for it.”

  “You should, I’m a bastard.”

  “Perhaps this explains her imminent acceptance of Lord Stonewell’s offer. Perhaps she’s increasing and needs a father for her babe.”

  “She would dare pass my child as another man’s?” He’d gained Rafe’s full attention, and the anger was real. Anger was a good start.

  Simon stroked his jaw, treading carefully with his words. “Why do you care? You haven’t come for her or fought for her. You’ve sent no word whatsoever.”

  “Why the devil would she want me? So I can kill another man for her? So I can completely lose myself in rage and hurt her again?”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “If I had your skills, I would have ripped Hampton’s arms off and shoved them down his throat. I wouldn’t have given him another chance. Knocking her down was an accident. One she readily forgave you for by the way. She blamed the tree more than you. Lord knows, the woman has a sharp tongue that can drive a man to his breaking point. To my knowledge, you’ve never laid an angry hand on her.”

  Rafe’s jaw worked back and forth, and he clutched the chess queen so tightly Simon wouldn’t be surprised if it turned to dust. The silence stretched.

  Simon looped back to answer Rafe’s first question. “I assume she wants you because she’s madly in love with you.”

  “How could she love me? The things I’ve done and seen.” Rafe sounded pained.

  “Have you considered she loves you because of the things you’ve been through and not in spite of them? You’re complicated. Well, so is she.”

  “I’m damaged.”

  “Aren’t we all in our own ways? Minerva didn’t seem to think you were beyond redemption.” Simon sighed. “She didn’t want to leave, you know. She wanted to march out here and talk sense into you. Perhaps I should have let her. I expected you to sulk a few days and then come and get her. For God’s sake, I’ve never seen her as happy as she was this fall. The way she looked at you…it was downright uncomfortable for a brother.”

  Rafe grunted.

  “And the looks you sent her would set the bloody place on fire. I had certainly entertained hopes.” Simon waved his hands around.

  “She’s too good for me.” Rafe sank farther down into his chair.

  “Probably.” Simon leaned f
orward, trying to gain Rafe’s focus again. “Does Stonewell deserve her as a wife then? In his bed? Bearing his children?”

  Rafe sprang forward in the chair, causing Simon to rock back in his. “He doesn’t deserve to hold her hand. He’s like the rest of them and will never be faithful. Moreover, he’s quite possibly the most boring man alive. He’ll expect her to become some model of lady-like pursuits. It would crush her spirit. Is that what she wants, dammit?”

  Simon shook his head. “Drummond, you’ve been like a brother to me. I can never express the gratitude I feel for the good sense and honor you forced onto me.” He paused to let the compliment sink in. “But, and I say this with the utmost respect, you are a total and complete idiot. And a coward to boot. Even I recognize women like her are rare. She chose you. You are what she wants, you bloody fool.”

  Rafe harrumphed, but his fist had opened, and he stared at the chess piece lying in his palm.

  Simon could see him weakening and pressed forward. “You say you don’t deserve her, but what I see is a man with faults, true, but a man of honor and strength. Someone I only aspire to be. If you don’t go to London now, you’ll lose her forever and spend the rest of your lonely, miserable life regretting it.”

  Rafe closed his eyes, an internal battle raging in the silence. Simon let it. When Rafe opened them, he was intent. “I said terrible hurtful things to her. What can I do to win her back? Will you advise me?”

  The hum of relief in his head made him dizzy. “I would be more than happy to help. I already have a plan—a grand gesture. However, I’d suggest the first order of business is…a bath. Drummond, you stink.”

  * * * * *

  Rafe spent his last night at the cabin cleaning up his mess while rolling Simon’s plan around his head. He had a week until Viscount Marchant’s ball. Simon would ensure Minerva attended. The cream of the ton wasn’t yet in London, which meant less stares for Rafe to bear. His stomach fluttered with both nerves and excitement. No matter what happened, he would at least see her one more time.

  The next morning, he strode through Wintermarsh’s front door, his boots clacking on the marble. Bertie and Mrs. Devlin came running from different directions.

  “A bath, Mrs. Devlin. Immediately.” For once, his two outspoken servants had nothing to say, their expressions of disbelief nearly identical.

  While he waited for the bath, Rafe composed a carefully worded letter to Lily. A twinge of doubt wormed its way in, but Simon was entirely correct—if he didn’t try to win Minerva’s hand, he would be worthless the rest of his days.

  Two footmen brought up a tub, followed by several maids bearing pitchers of steaming water. Once he was alone, he sank down as far as possible into the water and scrubbed the past weeks of grime off his body. After dressing in clean breeches, he stuck his head out the door. “Mrs. Devlin, I require your services!”

  She came up the stairs with her usual energy. “Master Rafe. Bellowing in the house. Indecently clad. You’ve been in your own company for far too long.” Although she twitched her skirts in supposed annoyance, her lips curled in a smile.

  “Right you are. I apologize most heartily for everything I’ve put you through over the past weeks, but I must beg a favor. I need my hair trimmed. Could you oblige me?” Rafe handed her a comb and scissors.

  “I suppose. I used to cut Mr. Devlin’s hair. How would you like it?”

  “I don’t care. Something pleasing to a woman, I suppose.”

  “Any particular woman, might I ask?”

  Rafe sat and looked at her over his shoulder. “Do you need to ask?”

  Mrs. Devlin wore a cat-that-caught-the-mouse smile. “No, I don’t believe I do.” The pile of hair on the floor grew as she worked. “There, now. You look quite dashing, if I say so myself. What next?”

  Rafe ran a hand through his hair, the strands skimming through his fingers. “Next, a shave, but I prefer to do that myself. Thank you, Mrs. Devlin. Could you have Tom ready Aries? I’m leaving for London as soon as I’m finished here.”

  “Certainly.” Mrs. Devlin backed out of the room and closed the door.

  He had spent months avoiding his reflection. He grew a beard partly because he couldn’t bear to shave himself every morning. But his scar didn’t bother Minerva, so why should it bother him? Studying his reflection, he could see past the scar to the man he once was and the man he was now.

  After hacking at his whiskers with the scissors, he sharpened the blade of his razor, softened the remaining hair with warm water and applied the lather. Then, he systematically removed the mask he had grown over the past year.

  Rubbing a hand along his smooth jaw, he looked almost unrecognizable. The planes of his face were clearly defined, the cleft in his chin visible once again. He tentatively tried a smile and hoped Minerva would still find him attractive. God, Simon was right. He was a fool.

  He packed a few items and left the room with a final glance to his bed. He trotted down the stairs, ignoring the servants who stopped their work to stare. Only Minerva’s opinion mattered. Simon leaned in the study door, looking him up and down.

  “Grand gesture, indeed. Minerva isn’t going to know what hit her. You’re looking quite handsome.” Holding up both hands, palms out, he added, “I mean that as a manly sort of compliment, of course. Don’t get any ideas.” Simon winked, a boyish half-grin on his face.

  “I’ll see you at the ball, won’t I?” Rafe cursed the nerves roiling his stomach.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Simon said, still grinning like a monkey. “I’ll finish up here and be back in London in plenty of time.”

  “Thank you, Bellingham—” Rafe tried to continue, but only gestured vaguely, “—for everything.”

  “Of course, Drummond. I hope to call you brother soon enough.” Simon held his hand out for a shake, but Rafe pulled him in for a hug, slapping him on the back.

  “Aries is ready,” Bertie intoned solemnly, but a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. He handed Rafe his hat and greatcoat. “We all wish you the very best luck, my lord.”

  Without another word, Rafe galloped for London.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I’ve already accepted for us both.” Simon pushed into her room and stared her down with an imitation of her own cutting look. It didn’t take.

  “Then you can tell them I’m not feeling well.” Minerva kept her voice falsely sweet.

  He turned cajoling. “Minerva, I would appreciate your attendance by my side. For political reasons. I need the support of my own family on the cusp of something so momentous.”

  “The cusp of what? What are you prattling on about?” All she wanted was to curl up with a good book and a dinner tray. She didn’t want to put on a brave face and make inane small talk at Marchant’s ball with people she cared nothing about.

  “Lord Wellsey is considering me for a committee assignment in Parliament the next term. It would be quite a coup, being so young and all.” Simon picked at a string hanging from his waistcoat.

  She gasped. “That’s wonderful.”

  He pulled her wardrobe door open and riffled, pulling out a dress of blue shot with silver adornments. Undoubtedly beautiful, the dress had been stuffed to the back of her wardrobe, the colors a painful reminder of Rafe’s eyes.

  “Not that one, Simon.” She took the garment out of his hands and tried to tuck it away, but he wouldn’t allow it.

  “Yes, this one. You’ll look magnificent.” He put both hands on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. “Trust me, please. I need you looking your best tonight.”

  Several hours later, she sat at the Marchant ball in her resplendent finery, bored to tears. Simon hobnobbed across the room, and she listened with half an ear to Miss Cecilia Randolph blather on. “I would faint dead away if Lord Drummond approached me for a dance. You spent the fall at his country hous
e, didn’t you? Was he an ogre?”

  Her heart constricted every time someone said his name. “Not an ogre, no. Why in the world would he approach you? He hardly ever leaves the country, and when he is in London, he doesn’t venture out to socialize with the beau monde.”

  “Well—” Miss Randolph leaned in conspiratorially, “—confidentially speaking, of course, my papa heard from Viscount Marchant that Lord Drummond requested an invitation for tonight. He may be seeking a wife, but who would want to live in the country all year and have to face him across the breakfast table. Although, he stands to inherit an earldom and is quite rich. Perhaps I’ll consider him after all.” She tapped her fan on her lips, mulling the idea.

  Minerva’s eyes narrowed on Miss Cecelia Randolph. Rafe would eat her alive, and if he didn’t, Minerva would rip every hair out of the girl’s head one at a time. Her heart raced with the possibility, however remote, that Rafe might actually make an appearance. She popped out of the chair, her restless legs demanding movement.

  “Here comes Lord Stonewell, Lady Minerva.” Miss Randolph sighed. “You’re so lucky.”

  Stonewell did indeed approach with a smile on his face. Minerva pasted on a smile of welcome in return. His warm eyes made her uncomfortable. They wanted things she wasn’t sure she could ever give again.

  “Lady Minerva, I believe it’s my dance.”

  “I believe you are correct, Lord Stonewell.”

  Stonewell bowed over her hand and led her to the middle of the floor. He really was a nice man and had been a true friend. Given the slightest encouragement, he would offer marriage.

  There were certainly worse choices. True, their conversations were uninspiring, and she wasn’t remotely attracted to him. When she had mentioned her interest in financial matters, Stonewell had chuckled, obviously humoring her wild notions. Could she bring herself to share his bed? Perhaps she could tolerate him long enough to bear him an heir. Then she could encourage him to take a mistress.

  No doubt, he would make her give up her little project. She’d decided to devote herself to help women find financial freedom. Many war widows possessed a small inheritance and no wish to re-marry. She had formed a small group of like-minded widows. Now she only needed a trustworthy man to help handle the actual investments for them.