Rakes and Roses (Proper Romance Regency)

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Please do not think I am holding your inheritance as a reason not to help Mr. Stillman. I am only making certain I know the full situation before I make my decision.

  He has also said you have refused to pay off his debts, something I applaud as, in my experience, a man who knows his accounts will be paid has no reason to think of the consequences of his choices. I would like confirmation that you are truly finished attempting to save him from his poor choices.

  I have asked my messenger to wait for your response as time is of the essence.

  Sincerely,

  Lord Damion

  Elliott read the letter a second time before leaving the room in search of his wife, Amelia.

  He found her in the kitchen making bread, a task she insisted on continuing a few times a week despite the glares she received from the cook each time she darkened the kitchen flagstones. Mrs. Galloway had already had to make space for Mohammed, the cook Elliott had brought back from India, who prepared most of Elliott’s dinners, and now she had to allow Amelia to make bread. She showed her displeasure at having her domain invaded in every sharp movement as she chopped vegetables for a meal for the servants. To Elliott’s delight, Amelia quite liked the Indian fare that had ruined him for bland English food—though he still enjoyed a good English breakfast every morning and tea every afternoon. Nothing could compete with Mrs. Galloway’s treacle tarts and lemon buns.

  Elliott centered his attention on Amelia. “Ah, there’s my countess.”

  Amelia looked up from the dough and gave him a wry smile as she pummeled the mass. “My lord,” she said with as much derision as possible. But there was a smile there, and he winked to acknowledge it. She was not entirely comfortable with her rise in station since their marriage four months ago and seemed to feel it necessary to act put out by the formalities. He knew, however, that she did not mind having the best pew at church or a carriage at her disposal any time she liked.

  “I’ve received a letter regarding Harry. Shall I read it to you?”

  “Yes, please,” she said, waving a flour-covered hand his way.

  Amelia had not been supportive of the marriage campaign Elliott had devised to help his family rise to their potential when she first learned of it, but a great deal had changed since then.

  Julia, Amelia’s daughter who had married his nephew and heir, Peter, was expecting a child. And Timothy now lived with his bride of six months in Somerset, having quickly developed a fondness for sailing and sea bathing. He wrote the most effusive letters to Amelia and Elliott every month and planned to bring his new wife to Howard House for Christmastide.

  Amelia sometimes pointed out that the joy his nephews had found in love was despite the campaign, but Elliott would remind her that the campaign had played a significant role in each courtship all the same. She argued her position less and less as time went on and she better understood Elliott’s concern for his remaining unmarried nieces and nephews.

  He was not sharing this letter with Amelia for her own sake, however, but rather because he found it nearly impossible to make a decision without asking her opinion now that it was available to him. Even when they did not agree, the debate would bring him clarity that influenced his decision for the better. He’d been the lone head of his family for more than thirty years. To have a partner was manna from heaven.

  Elliott cleared his throat and read the letter while Amelia’s kneading slowed, then stopped.

  “How very odd,” she said when he finished.

  “Yes. I’m not sure what to think of it.”

  “There’s no request for money, so I don’t see why you should be unsettled, aside from the fact that Harry is often unsettling.”

  Elliott nodded. Harry had written him last month—after nearly a year of silence—and all but demanded that Elliott step in and save him. It had been harder to say “No” than Harry would ever understand.

  Amelia returned to her bread. “I’m relieved he’s found what seems to be a good option and that he’s been honest with her about the inheritance. Perhaps this is the beginning of some positive changes in his life.”

  Elliott stared at his wife. “‘Her’?”

  “Well, yes, surely you can see that Lord Damion is a woman.” She waved toward the letter. “Her turns of phrase are very feminine.”

  Elliott looked back to the letter. “For the life of me, I have no idea what you mean.”

  Amelia smiled gently. “You read the letter without consideration that it could be a woman, while I—as soon as it said nom de plume—immediately suspected the possibility. That is the trouble with men: they think they know everything from the start and therefore miss the most obvious of clues. Surely you noticed she could have said what needed to be said with half the words she chose to use. Very much a female trait as well, saying more than is necessary, though I prefer to think of it as an expansion of ideas.”

  “I’ve not time for your female superiority on this, Amelia,” Elliott said dryly, though he had to admit her suggestion made sense. But it was also impossible. Women did not lend money to wicked young men down on their luck and backed into corners. “There is a messenger waiting for my response. What is the right course?”

  “I think you should confirm the details of the inheritance so that Lord Damion will know Harry will not be able to sweep some half-witted woman off her feet and land himself with thirty thousand pounds to clear his debts.”

  “You see no reason why I should not tell this . . . person such details?”

  Amelia stopped kneading and cocked her head in his direction. “Your goal has always been to help Harry, and I believe your confirmation that you will not undo the good this woman is trying to accomplish would be the right course. If you do not give her that information, she may not help Harry. And it sounds like he needs the help and that this help will encourage what you want for him—respectability and a change of course.”

  “He could get married, inherit the means he needs to have a respectable life, and not need this Lord Damion’s intercession at all.”

  “If he is truly so far in debt, then he is in no position to marry. But he might be in a position to think about it if he can get himself back on a straighter path. Tell her what she wants to know, and then pray that Harry is learning from all of this.”

  Elliott kept to himself that he was additionally uncomfortable sharing financial information with a woman. Amelia would not take that well, but was a woman capable of understanding the intricacies of finance and society well enough to be a lender of this caliber? And was it really a woman at all? Amelia could very well be seeing more than was really there. He knew better than to say any of that out loud, however.

  Elliott returned to his study and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from his desk drawer.

  Lord Damion,

  I shall confirm what I am comfortable. I have indeed cut Harry off and will not pay any of his additional debts precisely because of what you expressed in your letter—as long as he knows that someone else will cover his debts, he will keep incurring them.

  I have also created inheritances for all of my nieces and nephews regarding securing a quality match. Should he make an acceptable marriage with a woman of high birth, he shall come into an inheritance, but it is not a cash asset. The enterprise he would gain will require him to educate himself in management and apply himself to something of value and purpose. The goal of this inheritance is to offer him financial security and create an opportunity for his children, should he have any.

  I do not know what to make of your position in this, but I shall not interfere. Harry is more intelligent than he has ever cared to appreciate, and he has incredible potential that I hope he will discover within himself. Should the topic arise, please let Harry know that I care deeply for him and hope one day that he and I can heal the breach between us. My unwillingness to financially support my nephew’s vices has nothing to do with my love for him.

  Sincerely,

  Lord Howardsford

&nb
sp; Elliott reread his words, uncomfortable with how much he was revealing and yet assured that he’d been both honest and circumspect.

  He took the letter to the messenger, a young man holding the reins of a rented horse; he’d have had to make a few different exchanges if he’d come straight from London. The man thanked him, put the response in his satchel, and swung himself into the saddle.

  Godspeed, Elliott thought before turning back to his house. Elliott’s greatest hope was to one day sit at a table filled with the people he loved with no animosity between them. That dream would never be complete if Harry were not at that table, but the power to make that happen was in Harry’s hands, not Elliott’s.

  At four o’clock Monday morning, after a restless night, Harry slipped out of the servants’ entrance and made his way through the sleepy streets of London. He looked over his shoulder continually, terrified of being followed, and avoided the coal vendors and street sweepers, who were already about their business in the dark morning.

  When he reached the Waterloo Bridge, the meeting place stipulated in Mr. Gordon’s invitation, a man was already there. He was bearded, slight, and dressed in the clothes of a common man. Lord Damion in disguise?

  The man pushed away from the wall and approached him. There were too many lines around his eyes for him to be a nobleman playing a part. “Mr. Harry Stillman?”

  Harry did not answer right away. What if this was one of Malcolm’s men? “Who are you?”

  The man smiled as though he’d expected Harry’s distrust, revealing a broken eyetooth. He held out a piece of cream-colored paper like that used for the letters Mr. Gordon had been sending.

  Mr. Stillman,

  Jack will take you to the meeting place with Lord Damion. You can trust him.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. G.R. Gordon

  Jack waited until Harry had refolded the letter, then began walking toward Covent Garden without looking to see if Harry followed, though he did. Harry’s heartbeat sounded in his ears with every step. Jack led him first along main streets, then side streets, and eventually cut through alleyways, looping and turning until Harry lost his bearings.

  Finally, they reached a door tucked in an alleyway somewhere east of Drury Lane, Harry thought. The streets weren’t like the East Side locations of the best—or worst—gaming hells, but neither did the shops and offices cater to the upper crust. Was there such a thing as a middle crust?

  Jack produced a key and unlocked the door, waving Harry to enter.

  Harry ducked beneath the lintel, then straightened to his full height in a narrow kitchen thick with the smell of old smoke, fresh pork, and ripe beer. A single lamp on a sideboard cast flickering shadows on pots and knives hanging on the walls, which did nothing to settle Harry’s nerves.

  “This way,” Jack said as he walked through the cramped space toward another door.

  Harry followed the man into the interior of a pub set with tables and chairs made of dark wood. Front windows had been greased to keep people on the street from looking inside. It was exactly the type of establishment that would run a moderate gaming hell in the basement for those patrons who knew how to gain entrance. Harry wondered for a moment if all this effort could be an elaborate way to introduce Harry to a private gaming establishment where he could be given the chance to earn enough to pay off his debt. The instant hunger for the chance reminded him of Ward’s comment that winnings were not wages.

  Jack led Harry to a single chair set at a small table placed beneath a sconce on the wall—the only light in the room. On the table was a pencil and a sharpening blade. No paper.

  “What of a chair for Lord Damion?”

  Jack smirked and then leaned into the paneled wall, rapping three times in quick succession with his fist.

  A portion of the wall set in the center of a square of wainscoting slid back, opening a space about four inches by ten inches just above the tabletop. A piece of paper was immediately slid through the opening.

  Harry looked from the paper to Jack. “What is this? I was expecting to meet with Lord Damion.”

  “This is your meeting,” Jack said, smiling and nodding at the paper. “Every communication with Lord Damion is writ. When all’s done and said, you’ll sign the sheets as contract between ya both.” Then he turned and walked back through the door to the kitchen without another word.

  Harry considered going after him—this was beginning to feel overly theatric—but instead turned back to the paper, waiting half in the wall and half out. He sat in the chair and hesitantly took hold of the paper, which was then released from the other side. As soon as he pulled the paper clear of the gap, the door snapped shut, making Harry jump, then look around to make sure no one had observed his reaction. His nerves were so tightly wound it was a wonder he hadn’t squealed out loud at the sharp sound.

  He pulled the paper closer so he could read the scrawled words written in black pencil across the top of the sheet.

  This meeting is an opportunity for us to finalize the details of our transaction. All communication will be written between us so there is no question as to what has been agreed upon.

  Do you confirm you are Harry Stillman, only son of Horace Stillman and Jane Mayfield?

  Mr. Gordon had told Harry that his situation would be investigated, but it was eerie to see his parents’ names on this page when he had not shared that information. He used the pencil to confirm the information was correct.

  As soon as he set the pencil down, the partition opened. Harry put the paper into the slot, and it was taken quickly. The door slid closed with a snap. He’d need to be careful to keep from getting cut by the paper. He could hear the faint scratching of the pencil from the other side of the wall.

  Harry and Ward had already deduced that Lord Damion was a nobleman; only a noble could have enough money and still need to protect his reputation from work such as this. In Harry’s experience, noblemen were not as enterprising as this Lord Damion, but perhaps that was all the more reason for him to hide his identity. Harry imagined a middle-aged man with a paunchy belly and too much time on his hands. Orchestrating this covert meeting was likely a spot of excitement in an otherwise dull life. What would it be like to be so wealthy that you could have this type of hobby?

  And yet “hobby” was not the right description. Though there were certainly profits being made, the extent to which Lord Damion had already gone in order to ensure Harry a secure future was beyond mere financial motivation or entertainment. Harry and Ward had wondered if the man behind the Lord Damion façade was someone they knew, someone from the ton who held extravagant parties and wore the finest clothes. Except Harry didn’t know the ton anymore. He hadn’t existed in that world for a long time.

  The slot opened, and the paper was pushed through. Harry took hold, aware of the moment Lord Damion released his corner from the other side, and the door closed immediately.

  Confirm that you have come to this meeting in hopes of repaying your debts to seven separate creditors totaling a sum of forty-two hundred pounds, which you are otherwise unable to pay. Pass the statements you have brought with you through the portal with this confirmation.

  Harry extracted the paper statements Ward had collected last week and smoothed them out on the table. Harry’s curiosity was growing in equal proportion to his optimism that Lord Damion really would save him. This was all too precise—and too strange—to be a joke.

  Please confirm that you, Mr. Stillman, own a property by the name of Falconridge in Norfolk, four hundred and eleven acres with an estate house and a number of outbuildings, including eight tenant houses. This estate is entailed on the next male heir in your family line and has no mortgages or liens attached, though there is surveying work to be conducted regarding whether or not there is a parcel that can be portioned off for sale in order to pay off your debt, which will soon be owed only to me.

  The exchange continued, Lord Damion confirming all of Harry’s debts and assets he had revealed to Mr. Gordon
in the week’s letters. Harry had also divulged his marriage inheritance from Uncle Elliott and confirmed it in the exchange. The idea of marriage still made his stomach unsteady, but he had only one year to raise the necessary funds to pay off Lord Damion, so he had not dismissed the possibility that he may have to take advantage of that opportunity. So help him, after he had put all this misery behind him, he would never touch another set of dice no matter how strongly the hunger begged for satisfaction.

  The single paper was covered on both sides before Harry was told to sign and date it. Once he’d returned it to the other side of the wall, a fresh piece was sent through and the conversation continued. Lord Damion did not leave a single detail open to interpretation, instead spelling out each step and expectation to ensure no future claim of ignorance or misunderstanding.

  Midway through the second sheet of communication, Lord Damion left the slide open after taking the paper. Harry lowered his head in an attempt to get a look at his benefactor. He saw red leather gloves and black cuffs before the door was snapped shut.

  Red gloves, he mused, thinking of Hopkins. Was Lord Damion also a fop?

  Another half an hour passed, during which Lord Damion explained his terms, which were almost exactly what Hopkins’s had been: Remove from London for six months, write letters of apology—to be posted by Mr. Gordon after review—to anyone he had cheated, hurt, or taken advantage of, no additional debts, no gambling, limit drinking to social levels. Payment in full, plus five percent interest, due one year from today or Harry would sell his country estate to Lord Damion for five hundred pounds.