by Jenna Jaxon
Still, almost a year after Father’s death, he’d managed to right the damage done by the thieving steward. That was something. His tendency toward wild gambling sprees, which he put down to his desire to clutch at his old life and deny the responsibilities of the new, must come to an end before he bankrupted what little he’d managed to save.
White’s was quiet this time of day and the best place to find his uncle. The coming interview would prove almost as, if not more, difficult than the one with Ainsley last evening. He hoped to God it would end more successfully—with a severe scolding and a promise of funds as soon as the banks opened.
He gave his hat and stick to Morton, the club’s newest butler, and finally spied Uncle Parminter, huddled in a comfortable-looking red leather chair reading The Times. His uncle, his father’s younger brother, had had the great good fortune to be rewarded ten years before by the then Prince Regent. He’d garnered the prince’s favor when he assumed the blame for a little contretemps that would’ve been most embarrassing to His Royal Highness had it come to the public’s attention. The grateful prince had waited a year, while Marcus’s uncle had sat in social exile, then created him first Viscount Parminter.
Although Marcus had always liked his uncle, recently he had come to dread their weekly meetings, in which Uncle Parminter informed him of the current crop of financial problems in their investment line. Today’s meeting, two days before the scheduled one, would likely be even less pleasant. As he approached his uncle, Marcus braced himself. The older gentleman’s dark, forbidding scowl made his heart sink.
“Good morning, uncle.” Marcus tried to infuse his greeting with the proper inflection of optimism without overplaying his hand.
“Huh.” Parminter glanced up from his paper, registered Marcus with a raised brow, and returned to perusing the financial section.
Damn. Just his luck the old boy was in a dour mood today. Marcus sat in the companion chair, a momentary bliss assailing him as the soft contours of the leather embraced his bottom. He might die of ecstasy in these chairs one day. He waited while his uncle folded his paper. The calm before the storm. “How are things on the Exchange today?”
Uncle Parminter fixed him with a doleful stare. “Disastrous, I tell you, disastrous.”
Marcus sank back in the chair, gathering his wits before asking, “What do you mean, uncle?”
“Weather, Haversham. Damned weather’ll ruin us yet.” He glared at Marcus as though holding his nephew responsible.
“Coffee, please.” Marcus had snared a passing waiter. “How so, uncle?”
“A typhoon in the South China Sea, a hurricane in the North Atlantic, and now a sudden blight in the South of France, all within the last two months, have sent our investments in tea, coffee, and wine plummeting.”
“God.” Marcus grasped the cup of coffee just set down before him and sipped, wishing it were brandy. His stomach clenched.
“According to Roberts down at the shipping office, the Valorous went down in the Atlantic in March with all hands and the season’s coffee crop from Turkey. Ten thousand pounds’ worth steeping in the ocean, plus the loss of life and the ship.” His uncle shook his head and stared at Marcus. “We might’ve been able to weather the one incident, although I don’t know how we’re going to replace the ship. Then I received a letter yesterday from Monsieur Martel. The grape crop is faring poorly so far this season due to some sort of blight or disease. The vines themselves are dying.” Uncle Parminter shuddered. “As far as wine production, that in itself won’t affect us for a year or so, but futures will be low and that will hurt us now.”
“You also mentioned a problem with the tea?” Good God. With all their investments hit at once, the timing for his request was particularly horrible.
“The ships haven’t been able to leave the port in Shanghai.” Uncle Parminter’s voice rose and his fist crashed onto the table, making his cup and saucer dance. “Received that message overland late last week, although I hope to God they’ve left by now. The letter was sent in March, saying the February sailing had been delayed due to a series of storms. So who knows when or if they will arrive?”
Marcus slumped in the suddenly uncomfortable chair. He was doomed. How could he tell his uncle about the £3,000 when their fortunes had just taken such a crippling turn for the worse? Dear Lord, how would he pay off Ainsley tomorrow if he couldn’t procure the funds from his uncle? The sinking feeling hit his stomach so hard it threatened to cast up his accounts. He breathed slowly, counting to ten. That sometimes helped.
Putting on a mask of calm determination, he said, “Bad luck comes in threes, they always say, and we seemed to have proved them right. At least the estates are still producing well, I assure you.” If the crops failed this fall, they’d be ruined for certain. “So what’s to be done, uncle?”
Uncle Parminter studied him then shrugged. “I’d suggest you begin searching for a rich wife.” He picked up the paper again. “You’re not the first peer to do so. No shame in it.”
Marcus swallowed, though a bitter taste clung to his tongue. “I had thought of that.” He nodded as if agreeing. “There are several good prospects this Season.”
“Huh.” His uncle readjusted his newspaper a third time. “Then you’d best start dancing attendance on them in quick order. When the ton hears of our financial woes, you won’t be able to procure a dance with an heiress, much less her hand in marriage.”
Except for one. Marcus stifled a groan. “Is there no other way out?”
“I daresay you could look into a new line of investments.” Parminter folded the paper and laid it on the table. He continued to tap it with his fingers, the rattle of the sheets like a cold wind. “I hear from Lord Hamilton that Lord Finley’s returned from America full of tales about a bond investment that just paid off magnificently. He and Finley are putting together some capital for another such venture. If you’ve got the chinks at the moment, they may take you in as a third investor.” His uncle scowled until his brows hovered over his nose. “I suppose you have no ready money, Haversham? All mine is tied up in this blasted shipping venture.”
Ready money. The phrase sparked a memory of a conversation with Ainsley once as they’d been passing a counting house.
“Don’t get yourself involved with these fellows, Haversham.” He had sneered and nodded toward a narrow doorway. Over the worn, dark brown door hung a thin sign that read, Messrs. John Dear & Company. “They’ve always got the ready for you—for a price. But be damn sure you pay them back on the dot.” Ainsley had grinned and winked. “Otherwise old John King will act worse than Shylock and take your pound of flesh.”
Marcus had tried to laugh it off. “Merchant of Venice, as I recall. Act 4, isn’t it?”
“Yes, though with this lot, I’d watch my back. King would just as soon take it out of your hide as not.” His friend had not sounded as if he jested, and Marcus had heard other, similar tales regarding Mr. King being a stickler for punctuality in the payment of debts. Ever after, he’d avoided Three Kings Court.
Marcus had no ready money; however, he did have Abbey Park, a small unentailed estate in the southwest corner of Cornwall. A pretty prospect and profitable enough. It could be sold for a tidy profit, had he the months it would take to find a likely buyer. King might be willing to take the property as security for a loan in a much shorter period of time. If the worst happened and the investment failed, at least he’d only lose a pound of flesh rather than his soul as he would do should he marry Miss Locke.
“As it happens, I may be able to lay my hands on a couple of thousand if the investment indeed offers results in a matter of weeks.” Marcus stroked his chin, hoping to God he looked thoughtful. “But I’m afraid I’ve not been introduced to Lord Finley.”
“Hamilton can introduce you.” Uncle Parminter nodded briefly at the portly gentleman in the corner. “Finley comes here almost every evening, though I’ve not met the man. Tonight is Hamilton’s whist night, so he should be able to
accommodate you.” Uncle Parminter gave him a keen look, but nodded. “Well, if you can reap the benefits of the scheme, you’ll have my gratitude, Haversham.”
Marcus rose, resolve thick in his veins. He’d best get over to Ainsley’s and ask for a bit of time. He was certain his friend would see reason when he heard about the financial disasters that had befallen him.
On the way to Locke Terrace, he’d stop at John King’s and start that process along, then back tonight to scrape acquaintance with Lord Finley. It would be a dashed busy evening but hopefully with better luck than last night’s.
* * * *
“So you’ve decided to marry Kate? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” Ainsley poured tots of whisky into a pair of cut crystal tumblers and handed one to Marcus. “You are unable to pay your debts?”
Marcus gulped the amber liquid, the burn welcome in his stomach. He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, wishing for more. “No, I merely don’t have the funds at the moment. My uncle had very bad news from abroad. One ship delayed, another foundered, and a grape crop half dead. The last is the greatest blow to my heart, although all three taken together has proven disastrous for our capital.”
“Then marrying my sister will solve all your problems.” Ainsley beamed at him, making Marcus cringe.
“The financial ones surely.” He shook his head and held out the tumbler again. “On a more personal level, I fear it would not serve, Ainsley. Much as I would like to call you brother, I do not think Miss Locke and I would suit.” He raised a hand to stave off his friend’s certain objection. “If we had some hope of an amicable regard for one another, I’d consider it. But I swear I don’t know which of us would kill the other first.”
To his surprise, his friend laughed. “I can imagine the two of you at each other’s throats, literally.” He smiled, a glint in his eye. “I can also see you in a somewhat more amicable pose.” Ainsley raised his eyebrows before downing his drink. “I watched you dance the waltz last night.” His eyes narrowed. “I saw you pressed against her in a very inappropriate manner.”
Marcus met the steel gray eyes staring at him. Oh, hell and damnation. His attempt to teach that woman a lesson would get them leg-shackled yet.
“I am certain you meant no disrespect.”
“My God, Ainsley! She stomped on my foot.” Marcus pulled at his cravat, which had suddenly cut his air supply. “I stumbled and fell against her for the briefest moment. No one else saw.”
“How do you know that?” Ainsley continued to stare at him, the slightest glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
“Because there’s been no hint of scandal bandied about the ton today. Not a jot, else I’d have heard, I’m sure. One’s friends are always the most eager to inform you when disaster looms.” If he could only convince himself of that. It was barely noon.
“No, there hasn’t been any talk,” Ainsley agreed and relaxed into a chair. “More’s the pity. I could have demanded satisfaction or have you marry Kate on the spot.” He chuckled and tipped more whiskey into their glasses. “Might have worked too, if Lady Morris had seen you. She bays like a hound after a fox. Everyone would have noticed.”
“You fiendish wretch.” Marcus slumped in his seat, holding his glass like a lifeline. “I should run you through for giving me such a start.”
“Wrong century, old chap. These days even pistols at dawn are passé. You will have to settle for a game of cards, winner take all.”
“We did that last evening, if you recall.” Marcus grumbled. “You want to deliver the coup de grâce?”
“I assume you’re going to Mr. King?” Ainsley sighed and shook his head then tossed the contents of the glass down his throat. “I hate to see you caught up in his clutches.”
“I’m assured of a good return on an investment, Ainsley. It will work out.” Marcus sipped slowly, his steady hands a feat of magic.
“And if you are disappointed in this investment?” His friend’s gaze followed his every move. “Marcus, I meant what I said that day in Three Kings Court. King will extract his pound of flesh, make no mistake of that.”
“I will be on my guard, I promise you. I have a fondness for my heart and any other stray parts he might wish to remove as payment.” Breathing normally for the first time that night, Marcus stretched his legs and nodded to his empty tumbler. “I’d appreciate another, if you don’t mind. My heart’s had a bit of a shock it’s still recovering from.”
“Gladly.” His host poured a generous amount into his glass then paused, stopper in one hand, decanter in the other. “What’s the investment you have such high hopes for? I might wish to jump aboard if it sounds lucrative enough.”
Marcus raised his glass, careful to avoid his friend’s eyes. “Not sure just yet.”
“Not sure what the investment is?” Ainsley’s words slowed with each syllable. He set his empty glass on the table with a crash. “You don’t know where this money you’ve all but risked your life to obtain is going? What the hell are you about, Marcus?”
“I’m meeting Lord Finley tonight. My uncle assures me the man can turn the money around quick as quick and then all is Bob.”
“You have no assurances whatsoever that this business will come right in the end.” Ainsley put a hand on Marcus’s arm. “Why don’t you at least give my sister a chance? If your investment comes through, then by all means pay the debt and be done. But if it doesn’t, you’ll be able to recoup your losses and get a wife into the bargain.” He released Marcus’s arm and grinned. “Who knows but you might find you actually like Kate.”
“I could almost think she put you up to this just to have the opportunity to devil me.” Marcus ran his finger around the rim of the glass, producing a dull hum. He was leaving a lot to chance. At this point, he’d not even met Finley. Anything could go wrong, and in their current state of luck, most likely would. “All right,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I’ll woo Miss Locke as best I can on the slight possibility that my investment will founder. Though I suspect there is less possibility of that than of your sister actually accepting my suit.”
Ainsley broke out into a sickening “I told you so” grin. “Just make sure she doesn’t discover I’m behind this in any way or she will refuse you out of hand. She’s contrary that way.”
“You might have mentioned that one little flaw before I agreed,” Marcus said with a sigh.
The Season had scarcely begun and he could predict it would be an excruciating eight weeks. If only he lived to tell the tale.
Chapter 6
Lady Carrolton’s London abode had the dubious distinction of being the smallest townhome in Mayfair. No matter what she did to disguise it—including a wall of mirrors on one side of the ballroom—it was still a tight squeeze when accommodating more than six couples. Marcus would’ve chosen a bigger establishment himself, in a somewhat less fashionable neighborhood, rather than suffocate his guests. To some people, however, address was everything.
This evening it appeared the entire ton had turned out. People crowded the sides of the dance floor, which looked to be the size of a good parlor rug. Throngs of people milled through the house, so closely packed he could barely fight his way through, blazing a path for his sister, Letitia, and Aunt Alexandra.
They settled at last in a corner under a sconce, the room hot as blazes without the addition of the flame’s heat, but his sister felt more comfortable in an out-of-the-way spot. So he mopped his brow with an already sodden handkerchief and kept an eye out for Miss Locke.
He’d made his peace, such as it was, with the situation. The introduction to Finley had been made the night before, but both Finley and Hamilton had regretfully informed him the investment deal had already taken place. Which left Marcus with no time to find another viable venture and no other options save one. Now he stood determined to woo Miss Locke and win her favor. A daunting task, perhaps, but he’d be as pleasant as he could and try to keep control of his tongue and temper. He feared he’d be a candi
date for sainthood before it was all over, most saints being martyred in gruesome ways before their deaths.
The crowd by the door stirred as people made way for Viscount Ainsley, followed immediately by his sister.
Marcus held his breath.
The woman looked stunning tonight, he’d give her that. If they did end up married, she would make a brilliant countess. Her gown of blue muslin shimmered in the dancing candlelight, the cloth shot through with metallic silver, giving Miss Locke a luster he’d not noticed before. Her neck had a regal arch to it, her auburn hair coiled high on her head, adorned with a circlet of silver flowers, like a crown. And her face—wreathed in smiles as she spoke to acquaintances, made his heart stutter. Lord, if only her temper matched her exquisite exterior, he’d be brought to his knees here and now.
That being far from the case, Marcus breathed deeply, affected what he hoped was a pleasing smile, and plunged across the dance floor toward her. He kept his gaze on her brother, hoping Ainsley would suggest they dance, as every word he’d practiced just for this moment had dropped out of his head like ninepins falling.
“Ah, Haversham.” Ainsley bowed, looking smug, the dirty devil. “Good to see you this evening. Did you have a productive day? Those investments you spoke of looking into went well?” He managed to keep a straight face, but his eyebrows rose to new heights.
“Good evening, Ainsley.” The scathing glare he shot at the viscount would’ve killed him on the spot had it been an arrow. He turned and bowed to the ravishing woman he could scarcely take his eyes off. “Miss Locke, delighted to see you.”
“And to see you as well, my lord.”
Her silken tone brought Marcus up short. Instead of answering his friend, he trained all his attention on the lovely woman at his side.
