A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (3 page)

"You what!"

“I’ll not have it, my own son ringing a peal over my head.” The voice was querulous, its tone wound even tighter by the goodly amount of port the Earl had already consumed. He reached for the bottle as he spoke, but the Viscount knocked it from his hand. The glass shattered on hitting the floor, spreading a dark stain the color of newly spilled blood across the unswept wood. Both men watched it begin to seep toward the threadbare Aubusson carpet beneath the desk. “Now look what you’ve made me do. That piece was bought by your grandfather and now it will be ruined.”

“Ruined? You dare talk of Linsley heritage as if it actually meant anything to you?” Marquand knelt down and removed a handkerchief from his pocket. “Shall I remind you that until six months ago this carpet graced the library of Hadley Hall, until you lost that estate to Strickley at the roulette table—or was it faro?” With a ragged sigh he set to blotting up the sticky liquid. “I am heartily sick of always having to clean up after you, Father.”

To the Viscount’s vague surprise, his father reacted not with the usual, voluble show of indignation at having his judgment questioned, but rather collapsed in a nearby chair, his lower lip trembling.

“I have stood by while the family fortune carefully built up by our forebears has been bled dry by your profligate habits, voicing only the most moderate of suggestions as to how to keep from utter ruin,” he continued. “And on more than one occasion it has been the savings from my own prudent investments that have bailed you out of the River Tick, at no small cost to several . . . projects that meant a great deal to me.”

The Earl of Chittenden hung his head.

“In return, you made me a solemn promise.” Marquand’s voice couldn’t help but rise several notches. “You promised never to wager the Hall on your cursed games, Father. That you chose to throw away your money and the rest of your considerable lands was not something I begrudged, as long as you left Woolsey Hall untouched. But now that you have broken that pledge and lost it all on the turn of a card—”

“But I didn’t,” whispered the Earl.

The Viscount’s lips compressed in some contempt. “Ah, forgive me—was it the rattle of the dice instead?” he said with cutting sarcasm. “You may find such nuances of some importance, but I do not—”

“Not dice either, Adrian, I . . . didn’t break my promise. Not exactly.”

“I tell you, I care as little for your play with semantics as for your other games, Father. The cold fact is that Woolsey Hall is lost—”

“But it isn’t! N—not yet.”

His son turned to stare at him. “What is that supposed to mean? You just were telling me how you wagered it to the Marquess of Hertford in some desperate attempt to recoup yet another round of losses.”

The Earl brought his hand to his brow. “I did, but it is not what you think. The Hall is not yet lost, it is pledged, not on a game of chance, but rather one of . . . skill.”

Marquand’s eyes pressed close. “Good Lord. And what skills do you imagine you possess, other than becoming foxed in the blink of an eye or frittering away a fortune?”

“N—none.”

The answer was barely audible and the Viscount couldn’t help but catch the welling of tears in his father’s eyes before the Earl bent to take his head between his hands. For some reason, it shook him more than he cared to admit.

“God knows, I have been a sad failure as the head of this family, and an even worse hand at being a parent.” The Earl’s frail fingers raked through his graying hair. “The only thing of any real value I have done is to . . . produce you. But even for that I fear I deserve little credit, for you quite obviously did not inherit your good sense or excellent character from me.”

Marquand found his anger slowly evaporating, just like the spill on the floor. Instead, his father’s poignant revelations filled him with an aching sadness.

“I can hardly blame you for holding me in disgust,” he went on in a shaky voice. “I’ve given you precious little reason to think otherwise. If you want to know the truth, I think even worse of myself than you do.” He looked up, remorse etched on his still handsome features. “I’ve tried. God help me, I’ve tried to act with some restraint. I don’t know why I am just not capable of behaving in a rational manner. But there it is. This time, perhaps it would be best to let me suffer the consequences of my own foolish actions. Surely I cannot be much more of a disgrace to you than I already am, no matter what the tattlemongers choose to say about me refusing to honor a bet.”

The Viscount gave a harried sigh and began to pace before the meager fire. “I’ve managed to pull you out of the suds before, so I imagine I will be able to figure out something this time around as well.” His mouth quirked upward in spite of the situation. “Indeed, there is another rather important reason I would prefer to avoid any egregious scandal at the moment. You see, I have just become betrothed and would rather not give my intended’s father reason to cry off. He was skeptical enough of the connection without creating further cause for concern.”

His father essayed a real smile through his guilt. “Why, I wish you happy, son. And hope that you don’t make as much a hash of it as I have done. But you won’t. Too much common sense in that bonebox of yours. May I ask who the lucky lady is?”

“Lady Honoria Dunster.”

“Hylton’s chit? A Diamond of the First Water,” he said with frank approval. “Real diamonds are rare in our little world of paste and false sparkle. And all the more precious for it. No doubt she brings a plump dowry as well, though it seems to me the lady is making quite the better of the match.” He cleared his throat. “Er, have you set a date?”

“Not as yet, but it is my understanding that the family wishes to wait at least until the Little Season.”

The Earl looked vastly relieved. “So, ah, there is no reason why you cannot . . . travel in the next few months?”

The smile, however faint, disappeared from Marquand’s face. “And why would I want to do that?”

“Well, you see, there is the matter of the, er, test of skill with Hertford. As luck would have it, it is to take place in Scotland—”

“Scotland?”

“Er, yes.” Out of habit, Chittenden reached for the bottle that was no longer there, then a sheepish expression stole over his features as his hand fell back to his side. “And it’s—well, it’s rather important that you be there.”

Marquand felt a stirring of unease. “I think you had best explain just exactly what it is you have wagered, Father.”

There were several moments of silence as the Earl tugged at a comer of his waistcoat. “No doubt I was a greater idiot than usual to sit down at the gaming table with the damn fellow, who never seems to have a run of bad luck—”

“Ha! Luck indeed! An experienced gamester such as yourself should know enough to suspect such it is more than luck.”

The Earl paled. “You think he . . . cheats?”

“I have no proof of it, but I have heard enough about his so-called luck that I should never be tempted to engage in any sort of dealing with the fellow.”

There was a moment of awkward silence as Chittenden shifted in his chair. “Well, as to that . . .”

“Indeed, whatever possessed you to think you might best him in a physical challenge?” continued his son. “You must have been more thoroughly jug-bitten than usual to have had such windmills in your head.”

“You may be sure that even in my deepest cups, I never imagined that I could match him in any test of skill.” He swallowed hard several times before going on. “No, I’m afraid that it is you that are pledged to meet him in a sporting match.”

"Me!”

The Earl winced at the volume of the yelp, than gave a nod.

“You must be a candidate for Bedlam, to think I would ever be a willing participant in any of your wagers!” Marquand began to pace the floor, restraining the urge to kick each piece of furniture that he passed. After a moment, his brows furrowed in consternation as he considered his father’s words. “And even if I was, I cannot quite understand why Hertford would offer such a challenge. As you say, he rarely engages in any endeavor where the odds are not stacked in his favor.” He drew a deep breath and went on in a low voice, as if to himself, “It doesn’t make sense. Surely he must be aware that I am accorded to be more than adequate with a pistol or the ribbons or my fives.”

He paused by the mantel and picked up a small miniature framed in silver. Staring at the earnest young face depicted there, it struck him that even as a child he had felt the weight of the world on his small shoulders. The only times he had felt truly carefree as a boy was romping through the stately rooms of the Hall, or running through its magnificent grounds. Aside from the solitary dreams that had flowered there, he had, for the most part, had precious little to smile about.

Well, it was certainly not going to begin now, he thought with some resignation. Though resentment and anger still welled within his breast, it was tempered by a grudging forgiveness for the past. On catching a glimpse of what lay behind the excesses and the bravado, it seemed as if the old man had suffered nearly as much from all the pain he had inflicted on the rest of his family. It was impossible to feel hate, only a pinch of sadness at a life that must, at bottom, be as empty as the glass that stood by the trembling fingers.

The Earl’s gaze was focused on the small painting as well. “You were always the strong one, Adrian, even as a lad,” he whispered, a tentative smile ghosting over his lips. “I have always been so proud of you, though I could rarely express it.” He bowed his head. “I’m . . . sorry. I had no right to entangle you in a snare of my own making. Perhaps I can convince Hertford to reconsider and accept another hand of cards. This time, I swear I shall come to table sober and be on guard for any—”

“No!”

Chittenden fell silent.

“If Woolsey Hall is at stake, I prefer to trust to my own skills to wrest it free from Hertford’s grasp. But on one condition, Father.”

“Only name it.”

“If I win, you will sell the Hall to me.”

“Sell!” The Earl made as if to rise from his chair. “Even I am not such a dastard as to make you pay for what will rightfully be yours anyway when I shuffle off this mortal coil. Consider it yours.”

Marquand shook his head. “I have no intention of helping you meet your Maker, nor of asking you to give up such an asset as Woolsey Hall without recompense. I would be as guilty of manipulation as Hertford for taking it from you in such a manner. So I am making you a business proposition, Father. It is the only way I can, in good conscience, permit it to be done.”

The Earl thought for several moments. “Very well, if it must be as you say, I imagine that you need for me to name a price.”

Marquand’s fingers tightened around the small frame. “It will, naturally, have to be a goodly sum, considering the value of such a fine estate.

“Naturally.”

“I cannot think of where you might get that kind of blunt,” persisted his father. “I’m well aware of how paltry an inheritance was left to you by your grandfather.” He hesitated for a fraction. “Just as I well know that you have never frequented the gaming establishments or other even less savory hells where money might be made. And however plump in the pocket Hylton is, I doubt his daughter’s dowry will cover such a large expense.”

A cynical smile played on the Viscount’s lips. “Not gaming, no. But I’m afraid I have been engaged in another pursuit that would be considered by many a far worse vice for a gentleman, though I’ve been quite discreet about it. Suffice it to say that I think I shall manage to meet your terms, so long as they are not unduly high.” The Earl looked as if to say more, then bit off the words and began to drum his fingers on the table. “Well, then if you insist, here is what I propose,” he said after a lengthy pause. “If you win at Hertford’s game, you will redeem not only Woolsey Hall but all the other vowels in his possession. They are, I regret to say, considerable. And by all rights, they will belong to you for the victory—”

“I don’t want them—”

It was Chittenden’s turn to interrupt. “I have a modicum of pride too,” he said with some emotion. “If you will not accept Woolsey Hall from me outright, than I certainly won’t allow you to wipe the slate clean of my debts. And since I will never take a farthing from you to buy your own birthright, we are at a stalemate. Unless you agree to the terms I suggest.”

“Which are?”

“You may return my vowels to me in exchange for the Hall.”

“An even trade?” Marquand’s hand came up to rub at his jaw as he considered his father’s suggestion.

“Think of it as the business proposal you wish it to be. You will be paid for your efforts, that’s all. It is a reasonable solution.”

The Viscount replaced the picture on the mantel and resumed his pacing.

“And fair, more than fair. To me, at least,” continued his father. “Perhaps I might find the sense to take better care of my holdings,” he added softly. “You would be doing me a great favor, Adrian, though I have little right to expect it. What say you? Do we have a deal?” Marquand’s breath came out in a harried sigh. “I suppose we do.”

“Well, at least I feel I have made one good bargain in my life.”

“That has yet to be decided,” cautioned the Viscount. He made another turn, then stopped to take up the poker and give the dying embers a good jab. “So what is it to be?” he asked dryly. “Sabers at dawn? Pistols at twenty paces? You still have not told me just what I must do to win this damn wager.”

“Oh, nothing so dangerous as that,” replied the Earl with forced heartiness.

“Well then, what? And why in the name of Hades must I travel to Scotland to do it?”

Chittenden toyed with the loose ends of his cravat. “Well, er, it is a tad out of the ordinary . . .”

“Are we to test our prowess on the grouse moor? Stalk roe deer in the Highlands? Race curricles along Hadrian’s wall?”

“Actually you are to play a round of golf. At St. Andrews.”

“Golf! Hell’s teeth, I’ve never played golf!” exclaimed Marquand. “And what the devil is a ‘round’ of it?” “Dunno. But it’s a game that involves hitting a ball with a stick—how difficult can that be?” reasoned his father. “You’re a dab hand at cricket. You’ll master it in a trice.”