by Aubrey Wynne
“Oh, I’m sorry. I heard a voice…” She reached out her hand to help him up, heat flooding her cheeks.
He pushed her hand aside and stood, brushing off the back of his coat. “To the devil, you blaggards. You couldn’t have waited one more minute?”
Fenella turned to see three young bucks emerge from the shrubbery, brushing leaves from their sleeves.
“Our apologies, Shelton,” said the first, laughing so hard he wiped at his eyes, “but when you moved her down a step…”
“Good God, man. No need to push up on your toes?” croaked a second.
“They-they’re friends of yours?” asked Fenella, dread forming in her belly like a heavy stone. “They knew you would be here?”
“Well, I suppose I’ve been found out.” Shelton smiled at her. “It was all in jest.”
“Kissing me was in jest?” she croaked as a wave of nausea made her mouth water. “All of your attention was-was a sham?” Oh, God. She was an addle pate. But what reason would he have to pretend he was interested in her? Tears burned her eyes as Fenella realized she’d been part of a ghastly joke. Anger and humiliation warred in her chest.
“You are despicable. How dare you call yourself a gentleman,” she hissed. “Why? Why would you do such a thing to me?”
“For fifty guineas, my dear. It was a wager I couldn’t pass up.” He scowled at his friends, then sighed. “Come now, tell me you have a sense of humor. You couldn’t possibly have thought I would truly… that I would want to…” His dark eyebrows shot up her considerable length, a cruel glint in his eyes. “Well, I suppose one could call it a life lesson, eh?”
Fenella picked up her dress and ran, their stabbing taunts echoing in her brain.
“Colossal doxy…”
“Cream-pot love…”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, fell onto her chest, and soaked the front of her dress. She sobbed and gasped, horrified that she had put herself in such a position. Her hands shook with rage, and she wished with all her heart she was a man. She would challenge the rake to a duel and shoot him dead at dawn.
But she wasn’t a man. She was exactly what the others whispered. An Amazonian. An outsider who would never find love. Her choice would be some lecherous old man or desperate debt-ridden peer who needed money. Or she could be a spinster.
Their laughter followed her as she ran, haunted her as she made her way to the terrace and found a shadowed corner to hide. As she wiped her face and tried to collect herself, her decision was made.
Spinster.
These hell-born babes of the beau monde had played their last trick on Fenella Franklin. With a shuddering breath, she smoothed back her hair, straightened her clothes, and went to plead with her mother for an early escape.
*
Sir Horace Franklin entered the gaming hell in Picadilly. A tall man, almost the same height as Franklin and in a neat but nondescript livery, escorted him along a narrow hall to a room in the bowels of the building. Removing his hat, he squinted while his steely eyes adjusted to the dim, hazy room. At first look, the décor seemed almost elegant, certainly of good quality and comfortable. A large chandelier hung in the center of the room, casting light from at least two dozen candles. Above, the panels of the high ceiling bore smoke and grime from countless nights of men crowded into a windowless room.
A shout or groan occasionally pierced the constant but muffled noise of the gamblers and spectators. A den of inequity where spoiled heirs of the nobility rubbed shoulders with wealthy merchant sons, gamblers, and tricksters. Men lost fortunes, estates, and worse at these tables. A cheer went up in a far corner, and Sir Horace spotted his prey.
“G’evenin’, Franklin. It’s a luvly night ta ruin a scoundrel,” said a deep voice, obviously from the East End. “The pigeon’s rollin’ dice now. ’Appy ta lure him inta a private game when ye’re ready.”
Sir Horace turned to the squat, unprepossessing man also known as Crockford the Shark. “He’s in Dun territory?”
“Aye, sir. Don’t think there’s a rope long enough ta pull ’im out, and the buggah shows no sign o’ slowin’ down. I s’pose ’e expects his father’ll pay off ’is vowels.” Crockford gave a laugh that sounded more like a grunt. He lowered his voice, placing a stubby finger alongside his large, crooked nose. “Shall we see if we can make ’im sweat?”
“By all means, my friend, by all means.” Sir Horace watched as Lord Shelton shot a fist into the air. “He seems to have won. Now would be a good time, Crocky. It appears he did well at the hazard table.”
“Oh-ho, I’ve seen that set to yer jaw, and it’s ne’er a good sign.” He peered up at the baronet. “Let’s ’ave a bit o’ fun, shall we?”
Crockford was an enigma that terrified the ton. A formidable and successful chap of humble birth who had made a fortune off dandies with money to burn and arrogance in abundance. Franklin had met the fishmonger on the docks and had appreciated the man’s implacable determination. A business genius, Crockford now owned one of the most popular and infamous gaming hells in Picadilly. He had an amazing ability to calculate the odds in a race or game with uncanny speed yet appear the lackwit to the unsuspecting upper-class. Never cheating the aristocracy out of their money, he instead offered games of chance that maintained the illusion one had control over the results, though the outcome was always heavily weighted. His ambition of gaining an establishment in St. James would rattle the beau monde if they knew.
“Remember, I want the estate. His father will pay off any cash debts, but he won’t be able to buy back the property.” Sir Horace took in the smug features of the viscount’s young face, the haughty demeanor that said he was entitled to whatever he wanted. That would soon change.
“You’ve already paid out more’n the price o’ the estate to maneuver such a clever scheme. I don’t think I’d ’ave come up with a better’n meself. ‘Appy to oblige and g’luck.”
Two hours later, Sir Horace sat in a small room, a small pile of markers next to him. He wiped his forehead again, feigning a worrisome expression. Only two players remained at the table.
Shelton moved his last peg on the cribbage board and gave his opponent a smug, sloppy smile, eyes glazed with too much smoke and blue ruin. “Well, it ssseems I’ve beat you again, sssir.” He stood. “I believe you’re brrrought to point, non plllus!” His chums sniggered and slapped him on the back, causing him to weave and grab the chair for support.
“Crockford! Please, could you extend my credit?” Franklin gave the proprietor a pleading look and once again wiped his forehead. “I’ll be dished if I don’t recuperate some of my losses. Especially after…”
“It’s agin’ my better judgment, but I’ve been in low wa’er meself. We do ’ave a ’istory, you and me.” He nodded to a doorman, who came forward with a notebook.
Sir Horace scratched his name in the book. “My lord, will you give me the chance to recoup a portion of my losses? I beg you, show some mercy on an old man.”
Shelton gave a crooked smile and waved off his friends’ warnings. “There’s a hhhorse I’ve been eyeing at Nnnewmarket.” He fell heavily back into the chair, his eyes squinting at his challenger. “Do I know yyyou?”
“I’m sure we’ve met about town. We travel in some of the same circles,” Franklin answered smoothly. He set the pegs to rights again and looked up with a smile. “Shall we?”
Both players pulled a card from the deck, a king in Sir Horace’s hand and a five in Shelton’s. The older man dealt the cards, each chose two, and set them on the dealer’s side of the table. Shelton cut the remaining deck, and Sir Horace turned over the first card. A jack.
“Two for nibs,” said a spectator.
An hour later, the viscount wiped at his own brow. His slurred words had disappeared as his losses mounted and sobriety returned along with self-righteous anger. “Good sir, could you extend my credit, please?”
“I’m ’fraid that’s no’ possible, m’lord. Yer in the River Tick already, an’ I can
’t go agin’ me own rules.” Crockford spread out his hands, his tone placating and apologetic. “D’ye ’ave any property, per’aps?”
“I won’t be bested, by God, by a bloody merchant.” He ran a hand over his dark hair, black eyes glittering with fury. “Will you take a vowel for a small estate I own in the South?”
A slow smile turned up Sir Horace’s face. “Well, I suppose if I must.” Satisfaction eased the loathing in his chest as the worthless pup dealt the cards. Nothing more than an egotistical peep-o-day boy, taking what he wanted and the hell with anyone else. Retribution would be in this next game.
As the pegs moved around the board and the deal passed back and forth, Shelton’s white knuckles showed his frustration as he gripped his remaining cards. His jaw clenched, and Sir Horace watched the tick in his eye as the viscount swallowed.
“I need a drink! Can I get a bloody drink? I spend enough blasted money in this hell-hole!” His fist went down as Franklin laid down another card.
“That’s thirty-one, I believe,” said Franklin with only a hint of the gloat that washed over him. “Let’s see what the crib has for me.” As the extra cards were tallied and added to Sir Horace’s score, the peg moved past the 121 hole.
“By Christ,” said one of the viscount’s party, “he’s triple-skunked you. Rotten luck.”
“I’m afraid I must quit while I’m ahead, my lord.” A delicate clearing of the throat. “Crockford, could we settle up now?” Franklin looked at the proprietor.
The viscount put on a charming smile. Horace wondered if it was the same smile that had beguiled his daughter. “Certainly you have time for one more game. The night is young.”
Sir Horace shook his head and yawned. “I’m afraid not. I must get home to my wife and daughters—”
“I demand you give me an opportunity to win back that estate. As a gentleman, it is the least you can do.” He sneered, his fine features distorted with contempt. “If you are a gentleman. Or let me owe you for the value of the estate. My father always makes good on the vowels.”
“Fathers. Always looking out for their offspring.” Sir Horace nodded. “I do understand your concern. If memory serves me correctly, it’s not a large piece of property. However, it does have sentimental value to your family, does it not?”
A look of relief washed over the viscount’s face, and his mocking smile returned. In a voice dripping with honey, he continued, “Yes, you do recognize the situation I’m in. It would be quite embarrassing to lose it. You see, it was originally the family seat centuries ago. So, what is your price, Sir Horace… I don’t believe we were properly introduced.”
As a father, he fancied throttling the bloody scoundrel until his face mottled red and his eyes bulged out. As a businessman and a baronet, he knew the significance of this loss. It would be much more uncomfortable and of a much longer duration than any physical pain. The rake would have licked his wounds and continued along his malicious path. There were plenty like him in London. Never giving a thought to those they hurt, so long as they achieved whatever pleasure they desired. Though he took no great joy in assuming Shelton’s property, this unlicked cub would learn there were consequences for one’s actions.
“My name is Sir Horace Franklin. And yes, embarrassment can be quite devastating. My poor daughter—Fenella—recently experienced quite a humiliation.” He waited, grimly enjoying the slow change of expressions that flashed over the young man’s face.
“You-you…” Shelton turned and lunged toward Crockford, trying to snatch the paper from his hand. The club owner stepped back, his hand and the document high in the air, extended toward Sir Horace.
“Now, m’lord. That’s no’ very proper, is it?” purred the proprietor. “Why don’t you save yerself what dignity you may ’ave left? The earl won’t like ’earing ’is son don’t ’onor his debts, now would e’? And all these wi’nesses.”
Franklin took the vowels from his friend and placed them inside his coat. He patted the pocket and gave the devastated buck a cold smile. “I suppose one could call it a life lesson, eh?”
Chapter One
Tempers, Tantrums, and Delicate Diplomacy
Late March
MacNaughton Castle
Near Dunderave in the Highlands
Lachlan MacNaughton kept his clenched fists hidden in the folds of his plaid as his grandfather settled the present dispute over the sale of some sheep. The veins in Craigg’s crooked, bulbous nose turned bright blue, the man’s anger growing. He had a reputation as a drunken bully who kicked dogs and beat his women, and now the no-good chancer was hoping to profit off his neighbor’s misfortune. The rogue needed a good skelping, and Lachlan would love to be the one to knock some sense into the man.
“I’m telling ye, MacNaughton, I willna stand for it.”
“Craigg, I understand yer reasoning. But it’s no’ MacDunn’s fault that disease swept through the flocks.” Calum MacNaughton let out a loud breath. As chief of several clans, including the Craiggs and MacDunns, it fell on him to settle disputes between members. His hand ran over the coal black hair dotted with gray. “We need to come to an understanding that is fair for both of ye. Swapping out MacDunn’s best ewe for a wee lambie isna an even trade. Why will ye no’ take the money?”
“It’s my right to ask for another beastie as recompense.” Craigg waved a fist at MacDunn. “Ye’d clipe to the chief and have him fight yer battles instead of settling it mon to mon, eh?”
The other man bristled at the insult, his face turning the same color as his hair, and took a step forward. “Why, ye little piece of cow dung.”
“He’s got more honor in his little toe than ye were born with.” Lachlan took a step toward the fuming clansman and grabbed a fistful of Craigg’s plaid. “Perhaps we can work it out another way. I’ll break yer nose again and straighten it for ye this time.”
Craigg’s fingers stretched toward the dagger in his stocking. The Scottish deerhound at Calum’s feet gave a low growl. The rough gray coat bristled along his neckline as the voices rose. Pinning back the soft triangular ears, Black Angus bared his teeth.
“Fuirich!” The MacNaughton commanded the dog as his arm slammed between the two clansmen. The dog and men froze. He pinned cold blue eyes on one man, then the other, and finally on his grandson. “There’ll be no fighting today. We’ll have a peaceful conclusion, or I’ll be the one doling out the consequences.”
“Sounds like the best solution to me,” mumbled Lachlan under his breath. He was rewarded with another glower from Craigg.
“Weel, I’m no’ settling for cash. I want the livestock, and he doesna have it.” A malicious grin turned up Craigg’s mouth, his stained teeth slick as he spit at the ground between them. “So, we seem to be at an impasse, even for the great MacNaughton.”
Calum smiled coldly and shook his head. “Will ye never learn, mon?”
Lachlan knew that look. His grandfather had a solution, and Craigg was not going to like it. It eased the tightness in his own chest.
Calum turned to MacDunn. “I’ll sell you one of my lambs for the price Craigg paid. He’ll have a lamb, and I’ll have the cash. Agreed?”
“Much appreciated, Calum.” MacDunn nodded, then turned and held out his hand to Craigg. “Will ye agree to the chief’s terms? Is it a bargain, then?”
Craigg clenched his jaw and frowned at each face in the small circle. “MacDunn’s son stole a rooster just last year, and ye’ll take his side? When yer grandson, Ian, is married to a Craigg?”
“It was a dare by one of yer sons, and we brought the scrawny foul back,” groused MacDunn. “He’s been punished for his lack of good sense.”
Craigg spit at the ground again. “That’s what I think of yer punishment for thieves.”
“The MacNaughton has made a decision, and we’ll all abide by it.” Lachlan crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet, glaring at the man. “Give me a reason, ye howlin eejit. Just one reason.”
The slu
mp of Craigg’s shoulders indicated his concession. Too cowardly to go against another man in a fair fight, he held out his arm, stiff and hostile, and sealed the agreement.
“If ye try to start anything with MacDunn,” Calum warned the unhappy man, “I’ll send Lachlan to resolve it. And ye’ll have no one to blame but yerself.”
Craigg gave no response as his sullen eyes studied the spring grass beneath his feet.
“Let’s have a swallow, then, and leave friends.” Calum pulled a flask from his kilt, tipped back his head, and took a drink. He passed it to MacDunn, who did the same and handed it to Lachlan. When Lachlan offered it to Craigg, the man refused with a shake of his head.
“If ye dinna take a swallow, ye stinking shite, I’ll force it down yer scrawny throat,” Lachlan whispered, with a smile on his face. “Let’s try again.”
This time Craigg accepted the flask, but his scowl was anything but friendly.
“That’s better.” Lachlan took back the flask, secured the cork, and tossed it to Calum. “Shall we depart, Grandda?”
Calum and Lachlan rode back to MacNaughton Castle, both eager to be home after a long day. The deerhound trotted alongside the horses. Hot bread, hare stew, and some fine whisky would be waiting for them.
“Ye showed some good restraint back there,” said Calum. “I thought yer fist would find Craigg’s face near the end.” He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out two oatcakes, handing one to Lachlan. “I ken ye whispered something to get him to drink the whisky, but I’ll no’ ask ye what.”
“I dinna have the patience for the likes of Ross Craigg. If ye’d left it to me and Black Angus”—he nodded at the hound—“we’d have settled it with fewer words and been home by now.”
“There’s more to negotiations than intimidation. Ye dinna want to mimic Ross Craigg and force others to do yer will. Ye need them to agree with ye so all parties are satisfied. It’s how ye earn the respect of all.”
Lachlan crunched on the oatcake. “I wasna born with the temperament for chief. I wouldna have cared if both parties thought it was fair or no’. Besides, Craigg didna look so content. And ye’ve cracked a few skulls in yer time, Grandda.”
