Barbara Metzger (6 page)

“If you won’t direct me to another moneylender, could you help me find someone who buys hair?”

* * * *

“Hair? The dog is your hair? I mean, you have your hair in the basket?” Lord Mayne knew he was blathering. He couldn’t help himself. That glorious red-gold shade, that sun-kissed honey fire, was her hair? He collapsed unawares into the chair. Brassy Pekingese? What addlepate thought that?

Sydney took the chair opposite, ignoring its missing arm and her host’s lack of courtesy in not offering her a seat. One had to make allowances for the lower orders. After all, one should hot expect polished manners from a usurer, nor from a madman for that matter. So far Sydney could not decide which he was, hostile barbarian or befuddled lack-wit, sitting there now with his mouth hanging open. At least he seemed more disposed to assist her. Subtly, she thought, she used her foot to nudge the bag of weapons closer to her side of the desk, then started to lift her veil. “May I?” she asked.

“Oh, please do.” The viscount gave himself a mental shake to recall his surroundings. “That is, suit yourself.” Still, he held his breath. That gorgeous, vibrant mane could not belong to a shriveled old hag. Life could not be so cruel.

“You’re ... you’re ...” He couldn’t say
exquisite,
he couldn’t say
ravishing.
One simply didn’t to a young lady one hadn’t even been introduced to. Hell, he couldn’t have said anything at all, not past the lump in his throat. Forrest thought of how she would have looked with a cloud of that hair floating over her warm, glowing skin, highlighting the golden flecks in her greenish eyes, and he nearly moaned out loud. Enough for a small dog, the hair would have come well over her shoulders, maybe to her waist, veiling her—oh, God. Not that she wasn’t adorable as she was, with shaggy curls like a halo framing her lovely face. The curls gave her a pixieish look, a fresh, young innocence. “My God, you’re a child!”

Sydney raised her chin. “I am eighteen, Mr. Randall.”

“Eighteen?” Now the viscount did groan. “At eighteen females who look like you shouldn’t be allowed out of the house without an armed guard! And where do you go, missy, leaving your sturdy footman outside, but into a nest of thieves?”

Oh, dear, Sydney thought, he was getting angry again. “Please, Mr. Randall, I only need—”

“You need a better haircut.” Forrest almost bit his tongue for saying that. What he was going to say was “You need a spanking,” which only sent his rattled brain reeling in another direction. He compromised with: “You need a keeper. And I am not Randall, for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, I am sorry.” And Sydney was sorry their conversation had to end; she was finding this man a fascinating study, almost like a new species. “Could I speak with Mr. Randall?”

“He’s, ah, tied up at the moment. I’m Mayne.”

Sydney bowed slightly in her seat. “How do you do, Mr. Mean, er, Mayne. I am Miss—”

He held his hand up. “No names, please. The walls have ears, you know.” He also knew that deuced door was partly open.

Sydney nodded wisely, humoring the man. He was obviously dicked in the nob. She could hear grunts and thuds coming from the connecting room as well as he.

“Newlyweds next door.” He shrugged, then almost blushed at her blank look. Gads, he wasn’t used to such innocence. Which reminded him again of the hobble the chit had nearly landed in, a little lamb prancing into the wolves’ lair. “Miss, ah, miss, I am sure you think your situation is dire, but coming here is not the solution.”

Sydney was confused. “If you can’t go to a moneylender for a loan, where can you go?”

Forrest dragged his hands through his hair again. He vowed never to introduce this featherbrain to his mother. “Let us start over again, shall we? Has no one warned you that moneylenders are unscrupulous?”

She nodded, and he looked pleased. “Has no one warned you that you end up paying, and paying again, far more than you borrow?”

She nodded once more. Mr. Mayne seemed almost pleasant now.

“And finally, has no one warned you that moneylenders are the last resort of even hardened gamblers?” He was positively grinning, a lovely boyish grin despite the rumpled, battered look. He had nice eyes too, she thought, May-sky blue and not the least bit shifty. Why had no one warned her that moneylenders could be such handsome rogues?

Chapter 6

Cads and Collateral

“But I only need a thousand pounds, Mr. Mayne.”

He didn’t think to correct her about his title. The determined little baggage must be the only female in London not conversant with his office, income, and expectations, and some devil in him wished to keep her that way. As infuriatingly pig-headed as the chit was, at least she wasn’t simpering and toadying up to him. Besides, there were more important misconceptions to remedy. He thought he could depend on the stalwart-seeming footman to see they were not interrupted.

“A thousand pounds? That’s a great deal of money, you know.” It fairly boggled his mind to consider what she could have done to require such a sum. Unfortunately, simply by being where she was the wench proved nothing was too preposterous for Miss Sydney Lattimore. Ridiculous name for a girl anyway. But “A thousand pounds?”

“I really wish you would stop treating me like a wayward child, Mr. Mayne. I do know what I am about.” His raised brows expressed skepticism. “I haven’t undertaken this move lightly, I can assure you,” she went on, determined to erase that patronizing half smile. “I do know it’s not at all the thing for a young female to conduct such business, and I did have sense enough to wear Mama’s old mourning clothes so no one would recognize me. But my circumstances absolutely require such funds.”

“And you couldn’t go to your father or brother or banker for aid, like any proper female?”

“I do not have any of those,” she said quietly, bravely, bringing a pang of ... something to the viscount’s heart. He prayed it wasn’t knight-errantry.

“You must have some family, someone.”

“Of course I do, that’s why I need the loan. I have a plan.”

The viscount didn’t doubt it for a moment. He steepled his hands and prepared to be entertained. Miss Lattimore didn’t disappoint him. Her plan was no more mercenary than that of any mama planning to fire her darling off in society, hoping to land a prize in the marriage mart.

“So you see, if Winnie weds Baron Scoville—oh, no names. If my sister marries a certain warm gentleman, then we can repay the loan and not have to worry about the future.”

So it was Scoville the sisters had in their sights. The baron was rich and wellborn, a worthy target, the viscount believed, if too proper by half for his, Forrest’s, own liking. The self-righteous prig was never going to ally himself to any penniless nobody from a havey-cavey household though; he held his own value too dear. “Barons can generally look as high as they wish for a bride, you know,” Forrest said, trying to be polite.

Sydney lifted her straight little nose anyway. “The La—we are not to be despised, sir. Mother’s brother was an earl and my grandfather is a very well-respected military gentleman. We do have some connections; what we don’t have is the wherewithal to take advantage of them. Besides, the baron has already paid my sister particular attention.”

General Lattimore, by George. So the chit was quality. She just might pull it off. Especially if ... “Is your sister as pretty as you?”

Sydney laughed, showing enchanting dimples. “Me? Oh, no, Winifred is beautiful! And she is sweet and kind and always behaves properly and knows just what to say even to the most boring curate. She does exquisite needlework and has a pleasing voice. We’ve never had a pianoforte, but I am certain Winnie would excel at it. She’s—”

“A perfect paragon,” the viscount interrupted, “who would make a delightful wife for any man, especially a rich one. You have convinced me. How do you propose to convince the mark—er, the man?”

Miss Lattimore did not need to reflect on the matter; she had it all worked out. She smiled again, and something about those dimples and the sparkle in her eyes made Forrest forget to listen to her rambling recitation about dresses and receptions and music lessons. “For the polite world seems to feel a lady should be musical. I do not see why myself, if she has so many other accomplishments, but the baron never fails to compliment my cousins on their playing. I am certain Winnie can do as well.”

Sydney was satisfied that she had presented her case in a reasonable, mature fashion. She would have been furious to know the viscount hadn’t heard a word. He was too worried about his own urge to go slay all of Miss Lattimore’s dragons. No, that kind of chivalry was dead and well-buried. He would not get involved, not past warning the maiden to stay out of the paths of firebreathers.

“Have you considered what would happen if you borrow the money, rig your sister out like a fashion plate, and still do not bring the baron up to scratch? How would you repay the loan, considering it will be far higher than when you started, due to the exorbitant interest rates?”

Sydney chewed on her lower lip, adorably. The viscount bit his. “You are still thinking about the Motthavens,” she said.

He wasn’t, not at all. “The, ah, cents-per-centers feel strongly about getting their blunt back.”

“Of course you do, you couldn’t stay in business else. I do have other strings to my bow. There are other men, of course. They might not have as deep pockets as the baron, but I feel certain they would repay the debt to have Winnie as their bride. Moreover, I do not intend to use the full thousand pounds on Winnie’s clothes. It would hardly cover a court dress, for one thing, though we do not aim so high. Naturally you wouldn’t know about such matters.”

The viscount knew all too well about dressmakers’ bills and the costs of entertaining. A thousand pounds was not nearly enough for a chit’s presentation Season. His sisters’ balls had each cost more than that for one night’s show. He passed over Miss Lattimore’s assumption of his ignorance of the ton and focused on the convolutions of her great plan. “So that I might be clear on all the details,” he asked, “precisely how, then, do you intend to outfit the sacrificial virgin?”

Sydney resented his sneering expression and high-handed tones. “My good man,” she replied in Aunt Harriet’s most haughty manner, “I shall use a portion of the money on
my sister,
and invest the rest. My earnings shall be enough to see us through the Season, and yes, even repay the loan if Winnie cannot like any of her suitors. There is no question of a sacrifice.”

The chit continued to amaze him. “Do you mean,” he practically shouted, “that you intend to borrow money at twenty percent or higher and invest it in what? Consols or such? At less than five? No one could be so crack-brained!”

“I’ll have you know that I have ways of doubling my money, sirrah. That is fifty percent!”

“It is a hundred percent, you widgeon! That’s why women should never handle money. You—”

“You made me nervous by shouting,” she said quietly, accusingly.

Damn. She wasn’t the only one rattled, if he could yell at a slip of a girl. “I apologize. Pray tell, though, if you have such a sure way to capitalize on an investment, why don’t you take it to a bank? They are always eager for new ventures. They give fair rates of interest and plenty of advice.”

She did not sound quite as smug. “It is not that kind of investment. I intend to wager on an exhibition of fisticuffs.”

Sam Odum’s club must have done more damage than the viscount knew; this had to be a fevered dream wherein a budding incomparable could spout the most skitter-witted nonsense with the serene confidence of a duchess. He really tried not to shout this time. His voice came out more a hoarse croak: “You’re going to gamble your future on a mill?”

“Put like that, it does sound foolish, but it’s not just any mill, er, match. There is a boxer, a Hollander, who has established a certain reputation and therefore high odds. My footman, Wally, is scheduled to take him on in a few weeks, and we have every confidence of Wally’s victory.” Sydney was on firm ground now that she had the usurer’s attention. She should have saved her breath about Winnie and the baron and gone right to the boxing with a man like Mr. Mayne. One look at him, his broad shoulders and well-muscled legs, should have told her he’d be more absorbed in fisticuffs than fashion. Perhaps his line of business even required a degree of skill in the sport. “No one in Little— where we lived has ever been able to beat Wally, and he’s been training especially hard now. He’ll win.”

Viscount Mayne was indeed a follower of the Fancy. “Do you mean the Dutch champion they call the Oak? I heard he was to fight again soon. And Wally’s the big fellow outside? He might have a chance if he’s as good as you say. The Oak has gone to fat, I’ve heard.”

“No, that’s Willy outside, Wally’s twin. Willy can’t box; he has a glass jaw.”

Forrest sighed. “Don’t you know anything about defense? The fellow is there to protect you; you don’t tell the enemy about his weaknesses.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you were my enemy. I thought we were simply discussing a loan.”

“Right, the loan. Well, Miss, ah, miss, what would you put down as collateral?”

“Collateral?”

“Yes, you know, as guarantee for the loan. Loans are often secured with a mortgage, the title to a piece of property, a race horse or even a piece of jewelry. Something of equal value that the lender gets to keep if the loan is not satisfied.”

“Oh, but I intend to repay every farthing.”

“They all do, the pigeons Randall plucks. You see, no one is going to issue an unsecured loan to a schoolgirl.”

“I am
not
a schoolgirl! And that’s gammon, for my maid Annemarie said gentlemen write out vouchers all the time for loans, on their word of honor alone.”

“Precisely. Gentlemen. On their word of honor.”

Instead of becoming discouraged, Miss Lattimore got angry. “I have as much honor as any man. I’ll have you know my family name has never been touched by ignominy, and it never shall in my lifetime. I resent any implication to the contrary, Mr. Mayne, especially coming from one in your position. Why, I’d sooner trust my word to repay a loan than I would yours not to cheat me on the terms. So there.” And she pounded the chair arm for emphasis the way the general did, and nearly fell off her seat when the arm wasn’t there. The dastard was grinning.