50 Ways to Ruin a Rake (17 page)

“A pistol then. I own a pistol.” A fine pair he'd won in a game of faro. He hadn't the slightest idea where they were at the moment, but he remembered winning them. “Or my grandfather's sword.”

She laughed, the sound rich and fine. How had he not seen how refined she was on every level? “You quite turn my head when you speak so romantically.”

“Really?”

She laughed a little louder. Then she sobered. “No silly, because I know you are teasing me. But I thank you for the effort. I feel…” She took a deep breath and turned her sparkling eyes to the room at large. “I feel alive, Trevor, and it's wonderful.”

“Then you should enjoy it. And like the besotted bridegroom, I will stand on the side and glower at any man who dares touch you.”

“They are only trying to pluck the feathers off, you know.”

“I know,” he growled. “And that makes it ten times worse.”

“Shall I tell you a secret?” she whispered as the gaggle of gentlemen began to surround her. Trevor had made sure to stop far enough away to have their conversation, but the blighters had moved to her.

“Please,” he said. Anything to distract him from how beautiful she was.

“There is a design on the gown underneath. The feathers are meant to flake away to show the colors and stitching below. The duchess predicted the pattern will be revealed by midnight.”

He gaped at her. Good God, did she not understand what that did to the male mind? To know that he is
supposed
to undress her? It would be quite the surprise tonight, but after that? Every man would be determined to destroy her gown whenever she appeared.

“I shall have to carry pistols and hire guards to protect you,” he said.

She simply laughed, too innocent to know that he was serious. “It's to make me exciting, and I must say, it's working. I feel like a mysterious package soon to be opened.”

Good God, he was going to have a word with the duchess. He was going to tell the woman to alter Mellie's gowns immediately. Dark, heavy fabrics and a hood from now on. Even knowing the idea was ridiculous, he couldn't help thinking it. And before he could think of anything charitable to say, he lost the chance. Men surrounded her on all sides, and she was smiling at her next dance partner. Sweet heaven, she was a success, and he was going to be a raving lunatic within the week.

“You always did have a good eye,” a familiar voice drawled in his ear.

Bloody hell. First his mother, now his father.

“No,” he said, hearing the regret in his voice. “I'm just lucky. I had no more idea that she was a beauty than anyone else.”

“So it was Eleanor who was the making of her?”

Trevor nodded, feeling ten times the fool.

“Good, then she'll be fine once you break it off.”

He jolted turning around to stare at his father. “We are engaged.”

The man gave him a sour expression. The one reserved for especially bad faro hands and miscreant sons. “Come along, Trevor. You need a drink.”

He was parched, but that didn't mean he would walk willingly into a tête-à-tête with his father. “I think I'll stay here and watch—”

“Your grandfather is in the card room. He thinks you might enjoy a few hands of loo.”

Trevor did laugh at that. He found loo to be a particularly vicious card game, especially when played by vicious people like his grandfather, the Duke of Timby. “Thank you, but I'm content here.”

His father sighed and weariness appeared on his suddenly haggard face. “Don't be childish, Trevor. I'm only trying to help. You will have this audience with him, and it's best if it's done in public.”

“Have you gone daft? This is not a conversation to be had in public.”

“On the contrary, the more people who know the true reason for your impetuous engagement, the easier on both you and the girl when it dissolves. This way when she cries off, she'll be seen as an honorable gel since you weren't truly engaged to her in the first place.”

Trevor ground his teeth. Damn the man for simply assuming the engagement would dissolve. “And why would you think—”

“Because I'm not an idiot,” his father all but hissed as he grabbed his son's elbow. “Once I heard about your grandfather's plan, I knew you would do something like this. It was a ridiculous gambit on his part. I told him so, but you know how impervious he is to any ideas but his own.”

“Father—”

“Just talk to the man. Do it in public—politely, of course—and let's get this resolved in the most equitable way for everyone.”

Trevor had no choice but to agree or cause a scene. It was a hard choice given his already foul temper, but his father was right. Best do this now and in a way that required some sort of restraint. So with a last look at Mellie, who was currently enjoying a dance with a handsome future earl, he followed his father as they maneuvered their way to the card room.

It was slow going. Every few feet someone wanted to congratulate him on his engagement. Only a few were truly happy for him. Most wanted gossip. They tried every conversational gambit they knew to get salacious details of his courtship out of him. But as he'd already been playing this game for two weeks, raising anticipation for tonight, he was able to deflect everyone with an expansive gesture toward Mellie and the words, “I am a lucky man.”

Eventually, they made it through the ballroom and into the parlor for gentlemen to play cards. The duke dominated the largest table and had one of his fellow septarians on either side. Two other seats were occupied by his father's friends. Trevor's own friends were too smart to sit at a table with these cutthroats.

“There you are, my boy,” his grandfather boomed. “Been waiting for you to grow tired of that nonsense out there and join the men. Eddie, get up. Let my grandson have your seat at the table.”

“No thank you, Your Grace,” Trevor tried, but Baron Edwin Waite had already risen from his seat. “Please sit down. I haven't the funds right now to cover your stake.” He turned his gaze on his grandfather. “I'm a bit to let right now since someone has refused to pay his vowels.” His meaning was clear. He'd applied several times to his grandfather's man of affairs for the money owed him due to his engagement. Each time, he had been refused.

Meanwhile, the baron visibly started. “Refused to pay. The blackguard! Give me his name. I'll be sure to see him banned from all the London tables.”

“Hmmm,” he mused. “What do you think, grandfather? Should I tell the blackguard's name?”

“Don't be ridiculous. You don't possess any vowels from anyone. Everyone knows you don't gamble.”

That wasn't exactly true. His whole venture with Mellie was one huge gamble, but the duke was correct. He'd always thought money bet on a turn of a card was a waste of time. “Gentlemen wagers happen all the time, grandfather. And only a blighter would cheat on such a thing.”

“Quite right,” said the baron. “I'm feeling rather parched. Wouldn't have sat down at all, but your grandfather insisted. Here's a thought. Trevor, play my stake, and we'll split the winnings. We all know I'm bollocks at loo.”

That was certainly true, and so with an internal sigh, Trevor took the baron's seat. But something happened as he settled into the chair. Something dark and angry that had been brewing for a while bubbled up. It was probably Mellie's influence. Once he'd accepted all the machinations of the peerage as the normal course of affairs, but now he saw them in a different light. He saw that it was pure maliciousness—and greed—that had his grandfather putting the affable baron at the table. And meanness in dismissing the man so cavalierly.

So he turned and touched the baron's sleeve. “How much has my grandfather taken you for tonight?”

“What? Oh. Well, I should know better than to sit at the table with him. But I can't dance anymore. Gout, you know. So what is a man to do to pass the time while his gels enjoy themselves?”

Trevor thought back. The baron had a daughter he was launching this year. He made a mental note to spread a kind word around about the girl. “Get something to drink. I'll be sure to get your money back.”

The man gave a hearty laugh. “That's kind, but don't worry. I don't stake what I can't lose.”

Which made him a smart man. But it didn't lessen his grandfather's maliciousness. Or Trevor's intention to win back every penny of what the baron had lost.

So he settled into his chair and nodded at the dealer. Trevor's father, it seemed, was not to be given a seat, so his pater hovered nearby looking anxious. Just as well. The man was miserable at both mathematics and the understanding of one's opponents, which made five-card loo a terrible game for him.

Meanwhile, Grandfather's best friend began the opening salvo. “Tell me about this gel you've brought tonight.”

“Miss Smithson is my fiancée and a brilliant woman on a variety of different subjects.”

“I don't doubt that in the least,” the man responded with a lascivious sneer. “I myself love a mistress with a variety of talents.”

The others at the table chuckled, but Trevor kept his expression cold as he looked at his hand. “Insult my fiancée again, and I will challenge you. Your hand isn't so steady anymore, my lord. That would make you terrible with a blade and even worse with a pistol.”

His grandfather's eyes narrowed. “And yet she dresses in feathers that fall off.”

Trevor smiled, his darker emotions easing slightly at the memory of Mellie. “She does have her own unique style.”

“No doubt,” returned his grandfather.

“Athletic?” the friend said with a laugh. “Or does she practice something more exotic? With those feathers—”

“I believe I just won your stake, Lord Barr,” Trevor interrupted.

The man blinked, then looked at the huge pile of chits before him. Trevor laid down his hand, winning the modest pot, but not the markers in front of the man. Didn't matter. Trevor kept his eyes steady and his voice cold.

“Your choice, my lord. Your stake now, or we meet pistols at dawn.”

Lord Barr reared back. “You can't be serious.”

“Shall I start a rumor that your wife is…athletic? No, no one would believe that.” The woman weighed as much as a small cow. “Your granddaughter then. I shall provide details. I've visited her brother, you know. Had plenty of time—”

“You will cease this nonsense!” growled his grandfather. And it was a growl filled with phlegmy vehemence.

At this point, Trevor would usually laugh off the whole thing as a joke. It was a delicate balance with the oldest generation. The threat of a duel was enough to make his point. The laughter now would allow Lord Barr to maintain his pride. And then all would go back to normal, hopefully with fewer jokes about his fiancée's possible skills.

But he wasn't in the mood to let anyone off, much less a seventy-year-old roué who thought he could insult whomever he wanted with impunity.

“I did warn him,” Trevor said. He pulled out his gloves from his pocket. “Shall I slap you? Whom would you have as your second? I assure you, my grandfather won't rise from bed before eleven. He wouldn't bestir himself at dawn even for you.”

And by saying that, he pointed out that his grandfather had been using Lord Barr just as clearly as he'd used Baron Waite.

“Your move, Lord Barr.”

He could see the man's mind work, see the knit in his brow as he tallied up his level of sins. First off, he'd insulted a man's fiancée, even after a warning. That would put him on the wrong side of the gentleman's code, especially since they had an audience here. Second, he knew that in the court of
ton
gossip, he was not nearly as well loved as Trevor. That came from being his grandfather's friend. They were known to be cruel at times. Third, and this was most telling, he loved his daughter and doted on his granddaughter. The girl was probably the only person in his life that he valued over the duke. Given that, the outcome was entirely predictable.

He pushed his chips over to Trevor. “I apologize for my rudeness. Must be the brandy.”

“I would think it's the company you keep, but by all means, blame the French drink.”

Lord Barr didn't answer as he bowed to the table at large and withdrew. Meanwhile, Trevor's grandfather narrowed his eyes.

“You'll regret that.”

“No, I don't think I will. Your deal.”

The man took up the cards, his aged hands still able to deal with crisp efficiency. “You've become impertinent, Trevor. Your manners are common, and your judgment questionable. Even so, that girl is beneath you.”

“Terribly sorry that your memory is flagging, Grandfather. Nothing to be ashamed of. It comes with age. But with the ducal estate at risk, you really need to leave matters to father and your man of affairs. You've been bungling lately, and you know it.”

Trevor's words were beyond the pale. They were not only rude, but they hit at every aging man's most vulnerable spot. But since even Trevor couldn't threaten to skewer his grandfather in a duel, all he could do was make his point in another fashion. Especially as this next hand did not go to his grandfather, but the other crony. Trevor managed to keep a portion of the pot, but only barely.

And then his grandfather leaped to his usual form of attack with Trevor. “I'll have you cut off,” he hissed. From a growl to a hiss. Trevor was making progress.

“You already have, sir. How unfortunate that the estate is entailed, and you would have to disown my father to disown me. And then where would the title go upon your demise? Did you ever legitimize your French bastard?”

“How dare you!”

“Ah, I thought not.”

His grandfather won that hand. He might be furious, but he still remembered his cards. Trevor was looed, but that was inevitable in this game.