A Hellion in Her Bed (6 page)

If Lake Ale fails, forty men will lose their employment.

He scowled. That wasn’t his concern. It wasn’t his job to
save every ailing brewery in the country. He’d have enough trouble saving this one.

This was precisely what he’d wanted to avoid—being drawn in to caring about something. He didn’t want to end up like Gran. She’d struggled to gain her daughter a fine marriage, and instead her son-in-law had made her daughter miserable. She’d worked for years to put Plumtree Brewery at the top, and in one moment, a decision made by Russians halfway around the world had thrust her and the family company into difficulty.

That’s what came of putting your heart into something. A man could do everything right, and Fate could still jerk the rug out from under him.

Now he had no choice. Though he’d been dealt a bad hand, he had to make the most of it. Plumtree must survive if his family was to survive, and it looked as if he was the only one who could make sure that it did.

No, it had to do more than survive—he had to make it stronger than before, so he could walk away at the end of the year without any guilt. So he could return to his life as a gambler, where his only risk was monetary, where he wasn’t tempted to care. Where he understood that life was unpredictable and nothing could be counted on.

Miss Lake would have to find another fool to back her and her brother’s risky scheme.

All I ask is that you present my proposal to your grandmother.

He snorted. Gran was even less likely to embrace the plan than he. But he’d promised the chit he would present it, so he would.

A knock came at his door, and he looked up to find his friend Giles Masters standing there.

With a smile, he jumped to his feet. “What the devil are you doing here?”

As a barrister of some renown, Masters spent his days arguing cases halfway across town.

“I’ve come to drag you away from all this,” Masters said with a sweep of his hand. “Your brother told me that you weren’t joining us for our whist game tonight, and that’s unacceptable.”

“You say that only because I’ve been losing lately, and you want to make some money off me for a change.”

Masters struck his chest in mock horror. “Can’t your oldest and dearest friend merely want you to join him in an evening of scintillating conversation and manly pursuits?”

“Is that what you call it?” Jarret eyed him askance. “The last time we gambled at one of Plumtree Brewery’s taverns, you and Gabe got drunk and competed to see who could fart the loudest. You won, as I recall. To the detriment of everyone in the room.”

“Ah, but I did it while being brilliantly witty. So there you have it—scintillating conversation and manly pursuits.” He waved his hand toward the door. “Now come along. Those of us who actually
need
to slave away during the daytime hours desire entertainment, and we won’t tolerate refusals from those like you who only dabble in a profession.”

For some reason, Jarret didn’t like being regarded as a dabbler. “Why play whist when we lack a fourth?” he said sourly. “And I hate to upset your apple cart, but even after Oliver returns from America, he may not join us at the tables very often. He’s turned into a sober married man, more’s the pity.”

Masters sighed. “Your brother and mine both. A good bachelor is hard to find. That’s why the rest of us must stick
together.” He grinned. “Besides, we
have
a fourth. Gabe convinced Pinter to join us.”

“Pinter! You mean the bloody fellow didn’t scowl and protest that cards are a frivolous pastime?”

“He’s not so bad, you know. He’s a good sport, and once in a while he even has a sense of humor. Come along, and you’ll see that for yourself.”

Jarret glanced at the piles of papers on the desk. He’d been poring over the books for days, and no great solution to the brewery’s problems had presented itself. Perhaps he could think better if he cleared his head. And how better than with a good game of cards, a few tankards of Plumtree’s best porter, and a tumble with a tavern maid?

Miss Lake swam into his mind, her pretty eyes beseeching him for help, and he cursed under his breath. He could talk to Gran in the morning.

Besides, he’d been planning to speak to the Bow Street Runner about tracking down the former Halstead Hall grooms. Might as well do it tonight. “All right. Lead on.”

A
NNABEL FOLLOWED
L
ORD
Jarret and his dark-haired companion from the brewery. Was the other fellow Lord Jarret’s brother, joining him to visit their grandmother? She was having a hard time keeping up with their long-legged strides without breaking into a run. Sometimes being short could be terribly inconvenient.

It didn’t help that there were men and boys with advertising boards everywhere, blocking her view. And she kept having to resist the urge to gaze at the wonders she was rushing past—the enticing millineries filled with the latest fashions in bonnets, the print shops with their outrageous and colorful
displays, and the vendors hawking mouthwatering sausages or ornaments for fire stoves or even cures for syphilis.

She blushed as she passed the latter.
That
wasn’t something she saw on the streets of Burton.

It took the gentlemen fifteen minutes to reach their destination. When it turned out to be a tavern, she halted in front of it, incensed. So much for Lord Jarret’s promise! She should have known a man like that wouldn’t do as he said.

Unless they were just stopping in for a drink before they visited their grandmother? That was possible. The tavern bore a sign that read, “We sell Plumtree Brewery’s best,” and a company tavern would be a logical choice for the grandsons of the owner to have a drink, would it not?

Now she had to decide: Wait out here until they came back out? Or go in?

Waiting wasn’t a good plan. Night was falling, and London was notorious for its footpads. But she couldn’t give up her chance to learn Mrs. Plumtree’s whereabouts.

Fortunately, it was early enough that the people entering the tavern tended to be workmen and couples seeking a quick supper. She’d be less noticeable now than at any other time. So she walked in and took a table near Lord Jarret’s. She kept her head down and ordered a meal, figuring that would allow her more time to linger.

But before the food came, two more gentlemen joined Lord Jarret’s party. Clearly this wasn’t a casual drink between brothers. When they called for a pitcher and broke out the cards, she knew precisely what it was. A night on the town.

God rot Lord Jarret! He clearly had no intention whatsoever of speaking to his grandmother about her proposal. Now what should she do?

An hour, a kidney pie, and a pint later, she still hadn’t
decided what to do. But she’d gleaned some information.

The dark-haired man wasn’t Lord Jarret’s brother, but an old friend named Masters, who was apparently also a man of rank. Lord Jarret’s actual brother was the man with the golden-brown hair, Lord Gabriel, who enjoyed tormenting the other two with frequent allusions to their advanced age.

The fourth man, whom they called Pinter, was a black-haired, raspy-voiced fellow with a quiet, almost somber manner. Though he didn’t share their joviality, he occasionally made a dry remark that appeared to startle them. She couldn’t tell if he was their friend or just along for the ride. He didn’t seem to have any sort of rank. He was also the only one who didn’t flirt outrageously with the tavern maids.

As best she could tell, Lord Jarret and his brother had been winning fairly steadily. The other two men were grumbling about it.

Curious to see what their game was, she rose and passed as close to the table as she dared. They were playing whist. She lingered near Lord Jarret long enough to see that he was quite good, which was probably why he and his brother were winning.

The man named Masters called for another pitcher of ale. “What happened to your losing streak, Jarret?” he complained as he threw down his cards.

A smug smile touched the lord’s lips. “You and Pinter don’t present much of a contest.”

“I beg your pardon,” Pinter said, “but I’ve had the devil’s worst hands. Even skill can’t trump bad luck.”

“That’s as good an excuse as any,” Lord Jarret taunted him. “What’s yours, Masters? Shall we up the stakes, give you a chance to win your money back? I need a good challenge.”

“Oh, yes, let’s up the stakes, big brother,” Lord Gabriel said
cheerily. “Seeing as how you’ve regained your touch and all.”

Too bad she couldn’t join them. She knew exactly what stakes
she’d
ask for. She’d been playing cards with her family all her life, starting with her parents and Hugh, then adding Geordie and Sissy after she’d left home and Geordie had grown old enough to grasp the rules. Although they hadn’t played much recently because of Hugh’s …

Tears stung her eyes. Curse Hugh for his weakness. She missed her sweet big brother. He hadn’t been himself in some time. Though she suspected she knew why he’d begun drinking so heavily, it didn’t make it any better.

Pinter tossed down his cards. “If you up the stakes, I’m out. The magistrate’s office doesn’t pay me enough to gamble like you lords.”

“Do you think we barristers have money to burn?” Masters grumbled. “I assure you, we do not.”

“But you have a rich brother to cover your losses,” Pinter pointed out.

“Stop being a stick in the mud,” Masters said. “I told Jarret you were a good sport. Are you going to make a liar out of me? If you quit, I’ll have to quit, too, and I’ll have no chance to win my money back.”

“Not my problem.” Pinter drained his tankard and set it down with every appearance of being done.

Annabel quickly stepped forward and lowered the hood of the cloak. “I’m happy to take his place.”

Did she imagine it, or had the entire room gone completely still?

Lord Jarret’s eyes narrowed on her. “Miss Lake. Fancy seeing
you
here.”

She hid her trembling hands in the pockets of her cloak.
“I’d even be willing to up the stakes, if Lord Jarret would play for something that really matters.”

Lord Gabriel glanced from her to his brother, then broke into a grin. “Do enlighten us, madam. What is it you’d like to play for?”

With a scrape of his chair, Lord Jarret stood. “If you’ll excuse us for a moment, gentlemen …” Grabbing her by the arm, he hustled her out into the hall.

As she jerked free of him, he said, “What in the hell do you think you’re up to now, Miss Lake?”

She met his furious gaze steadily. “The same thing as earlier. I want your help. I’m willing to play cards to get it.”

“Women like you don’t belong in a tavern.”

“You know nothing about women like me. All you know is this frivolous life of gambling and drinking and wenching.” He was just like Hugh had become, selfish and irresponsible. “You couldn’t even stay away from it long enough to speak to your grandmother on Lake Ale’s behalf !”

“You were
following me
?” he said, his voice incredulous. “Have you lost your mind? This part of London is a dangerous place for—”

“Oh, spare me your concern. It’s as insincere as your promises.”

His expression grew stony as he crossed his arms over his chest. “For your information, I plan to speak to Gran in the morning.”

“You told
me
to return in the morning, remember? And I daresay that after drinking with your friends all night, you’d have forgotten your promise. If you haven’t already.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “So you decided to gain my compliance by gambling with me?”

“Why not? I play cards very well. Your friend Pinter seems determined to leave, and you did say you wanted a challenge.”

“I suppose you want to play for something having to do with your scheme regarding Lake Ale.”

“Yes. I want your agreement that Plumtree Brewery will help us. That’s all.”

He glared at her. “All? You have no idea what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking you to help me save my brother’s brewery. Of course, you would probably rather see a competitor fail.”

“Don’t be absurd. I don’t care about some half-pint brewery in Burton. Plumtree is five times the size of Lake Ale.”

“Which means you have no reason to refuse us your help.”

A grim smile crossed his lips. “What if I win? What do
I
get out of this little high-stakes game?”

She slowly slipped her mother’s ring off her finger, fighting not to show how much it meant to her. “This. It’s solid gold with rubies and diamonds. It’s worth at least two hundred pounds. That should make it worth your while.”

He uttered a mirthless laugh. “A ring. You think that’s equivalent.”

“It’s a lucky ring,” she said, desperate to make him agree to the game. “Whatever brew I make while wearing it comes out splendid.”

“I’m sure that adds to the ring’s value tenfold,” he said sarcastically.

He was
so
annoying. “Fine, if you’re afraid to play whist with me …”

His eyes turned the same cobalt blue that she’d noticed earlier when he was tasting her ale. “So you think you can best me at whist, do you?”

“Absolutely,” she said, though she wasn’t at all sure. But she had to try.

He stepped closer, until he loomed over her like some giant in a circus. “The only way I’ll agree to your wager is if we make it more personal.”

She swallowed. “Personal?”

“The match will be between us—two-handed whist. The first one to win two out of three games wins the match and the wager.”

“Very well.”

“I’m not finished. If you win, Plumtree Brewery will join Lake Ale in getting into the India market.” A sinful smile curved up his lips. “But if
I
win, you warm my bed tonight.”

J
arret could tell he’d shocked her. Good. The woman needed some sense knocked into her. If his sisters had attempted something like this, he would have locked them up and thrown away the key.

Follow him through the streets of London alone at night? Sit in a tavern with no protection? Challenge him to cards? The woman was too reckless for her own good. Fetching and desirable, but reckless as the very devil.