Cheryl Holt (40 page)

Unable to stay away from the dicing tables, she was a regular customer at those seedy establishments that allowed women to play. “If you ever accost me again”—lest anyone passing by identify the name he was about to utter, he stuck his head inside the coach and whispered—“if you ever so much as speak Abigail Weston’s name to another person, I shall demand recompense on all your notes. You don’t have enough to pay, my dear. I’ll gladly have you tossed into the streets, and I won’t expend a single second worrying about your fate.”

“After all we meant to each other! How could you behave so despicably!”

He scoffed then stepped out of range. “It would be such a shame for you to lose your pretty house . . . your pretty clothes . . . your pretty things . . .”

His threat to her valued material possessions poked a hole in her smooth demeanor, and her true personality was revealed. “What do you care if others know about your little fling with her?” she implored bitterly. “Why is she so special? She was ashamed of her acquaintance with you! The little bitch couldn’t lower herself to say hello in a public place! I was with you! I witnessed all!”

The cut was an excellent one, digging brutally at his vulnerabilities, but he was an expert at hiding how thoroughly acrid articulations could wound. “Good-bye, Lady Newton.”

“She doesn’t deserve your loyalty!” Barbara shouted. “She doesn’t deserve you!” He took another step back, and she leaned out for a second, calming herself and attempting to seem more rational. “Don’t do this, James. We belong together!”

“Never, milady,” he declared evenly. “We’ve never belonged together.”

He started to walk away, and she shrilly called his name. Passersby had noticed their spat and were tarrying to watch. “Pull yourself together, madam!” he ordered, then he glared at her driver. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Aye, sir. You’d be Master James Stevens.”

He nodded. “This woman”—he gestured toward Barbara—“has been hanging ’round the front of my club. She’s pestering me and my customers. If I observe her in the neighborhood again, I’ll confiscate the rig and horse of the chap who brought her.” The man gulped in dismay. “Spread the word to the other drivers for me.”

“Will do, Cap’n,” the driver said. He flicked the reins and forced his way into the line of carriages, relieving James of Barbara’s unwelcome presence as quickly as traffic would permit. Many blocks later, she was still screeching epithets.

Disgusted and disturbed, he traveled the remaining distance to his club, used the back entrance, and headed to his private rooms. Already, business was thriving; employees were rushing past in the corridor, and he couldn’t help but wish that Michael had returned to London. If ever there was a night when he didn’t relish having to supervise the running of the games, this was it.

Without success, he tried shifting through paperwork but couldn’t concentrate. Staff members continually interrupted, seeking advice or asking questions. Surrendering to the inevitable, he went to the public rooms, where he arbitrated two disputes between customers, evicted a brawler, and removed a dealer who was having problems with a rude group of gamblers.

Discontented and out of sorts, he circled back to his office, poured himself a brandy, and relaxed in his chair with his feet up on his desk, savoring the amber liquor and wondering if his father might appear. Thinking about Edward caused him to think about Angela, then Michael, then Abby, then the whole sordid mess, which was asinine all the way around, but he got himself so immersed in the miserable loop that he didn’t heed the door until it was too late.

Since one never knew what might be occurring in his office, everyone was trained to knock first. It was an unbreakable rule, so one of his crew was in for a serious dressing-down. Irritably, he glanced across, and when he realized the identity of his guest, he nearly fell over in shock.

His half-brother, Charles Stevens, stood there, proud as you please, staring at him with a mixture of trepidation and offense. He was tall, thin, good-looking, with dark hair and eyes, and James recollected that he’d looked much the same when he was twenty.

“My name is Charles Stevens,” he said succinctly, introducing himself and offering a slight bow.

“Yes, I know,” James replied, struggling for composure, while frantically contemplating what could possibly have drawn the lad into the building against Edward’s explicit instructions. Edward had always contended that the prohibition was because he hadn’t wanted Charles to grow addicted to the games, but, James had also supposed, Edward had hoped to prevent any cultivation of familiarity with his two older, more world-weary brothers. “Won’t you come in?”

He entered and closed the door behind him.

“Have a seat.” James gestured to one of the chairs. “This is not a social call.”

“Still, would you like a brandy?” He indicated his glass sitting in the center of the desk.

“No.”

“Very well.” Slowly and deliberately, he tipped the legs
of his chair to the floor, lowered his feet, and steadied himself for whatever disaster was about to present itself. “What can I do for you?”

“I demand to know”—Charles’s fury was barely suppressed—“what injury you committed against Lady Abigail Weston.”

Abby was the last topic James had expected Charles to raise. Vacillating, he kept his expression carefully blank while a thousand questions raced through his mind. What had Charles been told? What had he gleaned as gossip? What sorts of comments would Edward want James to provide? There was also Abby’s reputation to consider. Through close monitoring, he was certain that no rumors had slipped out, so discretion remained imperative.

He decided to let Charles take the lead until there were more facts on the table. “Why do you ask
me
about Lady Abigail?”

“Don’t play dumb. You were having an intimate affair with her.”

James didn’t acknowledge or deny the charge. The silence lengthened.

“What did you do?” Charles shouted.

James rose and rounded the desk, hoping to ease the lad’s distress while he stalled and grappled with untangling a suitable response. Obviously, his younger sibling had garnered some information—none of it good—and he would insist on explanations.

“Won’t you sit, Charles?”

“No!”

“All right,” he soothed, and he leaned a hip on the edge of the desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to seem unperturbed. “I’m extremely surprised to find you here. What brings you?”

“For the past two weeks, I’ve been striving to ascertain what transpired between our father and Jerald Weston, the Earl of Marbleton, that has precipitated the untimely termination of my courtship of Lady Caroline Weston.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t! You don’t
see
anything.” His fists clenched with hostility; his cheeks burned with rage. “I had learned, in confidence, some time ago, that Lady Abigail might be having an
affaire d’amour.. “

James stiffened. “Who spread such a vile rumor?”

“I would never say,” Charles remarked tersely. “Just today, however, I learned that you were involved in whatever had ensued in the Weston home, and in my pursuit of the details, I now have an answer. You compromised Lady Abigail, didn’t you? And Lord Marbleton uncovered your misdeed. ’Twas you who destroyed my chances with Caroline.”

To James’s great dismay, tears welled into Charles’s eyes, bald evidence of how much he loved the girl and was shattered by the turn of events.

James vividly recalled every excruciating word his father had recited during the tense carriage ride they’d endured after leaving the Weston mansion on that horrid day.

If you won’t think of yourself and your future happines
Edward had chided,
if you won’t think of Abigail and hers, perhaps you could think of Charles and what you’ve just done to your brother’s life.

Are you proud of yourself?
his father had goaded.

Charles, this prized son, who looked so much like James, but to whom he couldn’t even be introduced, had hovered over all of James’s musings since then. He truly, truly had not intended harm to anyone. Especially not his younger brother, who must now hate him as others did. The idea troubled him exceedingly.

“Yes,” he amazed himself by confirming, “I am completely responsible.”

“At least you’re man enough to admit it,” Charles noted scornfully. “Why haven’t you married Lady Abigail as duty and honor would require?”

“I had no desire to marry her,” James said quietly, for once putting the entire blame squarely on his own shoulders. Evidently, Charles hadn’t had the story related in any other fashion, so James opted to paint himself as the villain.

“I had always been told that you were a
bastard
, but that the designation had nothing to do with your birth status, but I hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now I am forced to concede that the label is too true. What leaves me curious, however”—he advanced until they were toe to toe and eye to eye—“is why Lord Marbleton hasn’t demanded satisfaction from you.”

“The subject never came up.” Showing absolutely no emotion, he added insolently, “Even if he’d thought to instigate a duel, he wouldn’t have obtained much redress. His aim isn’t that good.”

“Well,
mine
, I assure you, is excellent.”

Before James realized what he contemplated, Charles slapped him across the face, hard, with one of his leather riding gloves. James’s head snapped to the side; his cheek stung. “What the hell . . .”

“As Lady Abigail apparently has no champion to assist her,” Charles harshly pointed out, “I am more than happy to be the one who acts in her defense. Choose your seconds.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more
serious
in my life. We meet at dawn.”

Brimming with consternation, James balanced on the balls of his feet, distending to his full height, finding that he was two or three inches taller than Charles. Needing occasion to reflect and process, he casually moved to the sideboard and refilled his brandy.

“Don’t be absurd,” he urged. “I’ll not meet you at dawn or at any other time.”

“I’m not surprised that you refuse,” Charles declared. “A man who would ruin a woman such as Lady Abigail, and then have no compunction to rectify his conduct, clearly has no sense of decency. Perhaps you’re simply a coward.”

James sighed dolefully. “You don’t know anything about me to make such claims.”

“Your repudiation of my challenge provides the necessary indication.”

“I could no more murder you than I could our father.”

“Why are you so certain,” Charles taunted caustically, “that your aim would be superior to mine?”

“I’m a marksman, Charles.”

“So am I.”

“I could never raise a weapon against you. No matter my feelings, no matter the particulars. I can’t credit that you’d even ask me to consider it.”

“Is that your final decision?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Fine”—Charles nodded amicably, a strange, fiery gleam in his eye—“then I shall kill you here and now.”

He reached under his cloak and retrieved a pistol. The barrel was long, black, and highly polished, the handle a pearl color with fancy scrollwork carved into it. The weapon looked heavy, expensive, loaded, and leveled with deadly purpose.

“Are you mad?” James was astounded and dismayed. Leaving nothing to chance, he reacted quickly, tossing his drink in Charles’s face as he leapt to the side and grabbed Charles’s wrist. He squeezed tightly, driving the barrel down toward the floor, and they battled, but Charles was strong as an ox, limber and wiry, and he wouldn’t relinquish his grip. James began to worry that he’d have to break Charles’s arm in order to compel him to release his hold.

“Let go!” he commanded.

“Never!”

“Let go!” he repeated, yanking strenuously, and he ultimately managed to wrestle it away without its discharging. “Sit down!” he decreed, and when his brother didn’t comply, he shoved him toward a chair. “I’m not asking you; I’m telling you! Sit!”

Warily scrutinizing Charles, he stalked around the desk, opened a drawer, and locked the gun inside. “For pity’s sake, you could have shot me!”

“I wish I had!” the younger man contended, then his legs folded, and he slid into the chair and perched on the edge. More tears swarmed. “Lord Marbleton is supposed to announce Caroline’s engagement tomorrow afternoon. I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done.”

He choked out the last, and a few tears overflowed. As he swiped at them, James observed his suffering, and the ice encasing his heart started to melt.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or Lady Caroline. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“What about Abby?” Charles inquired quietly but not angrily. Leveling the gun had quashed his bravado; only anguish remained.

“She didn’t want to marry me, Charles. I would have made her so miserable. She knew better.”

Apparently this was a twist that had never occurred to Charles. “You proposed, then?”

“She said marriage to me”—he gave a self-deprecating grimace—“would be a
terrible
mistake.”

“Those were her exact words?”

“Aye.”

“Well, now that I’ve met you”—one corner of his mouth lifted in a hint of the familiar Stevens smile—“I’d say she had the right of it.”

“She did,” James agreed, totally serious.

Suddenly embarrassed, Charles stared down at his hands as though they belonged to someone else. “I don’t think I could have pulled the trigger.”

“I’m glad.”

Charles shifted uncomfortably, then asked mournfully, “What am I to do, James? Lord Marbleton is preparing to wed my Caroline to another, and I never even got to tell her good-bye.”

“Does she know why your visits were curtailed?”

“I don’t know what she was informed,” Charles said woefully, “but once Lord Marbleton proclaims her betrothal, there will be no method of rectifying the situation.”

“Unfortunately, you’re correct,” James concurred dejectedly,
oddly feeling the lad’s anguish as his own and yearning to do something—anything!—to help. He was immensely unsettled by these powerful sensations of wanting—to be close, to be liked, to win the boy’s regard. They were new and strange, and he didn’t care for them at all, because he perceived that they would encourage him to risk impetuous action on Charles’s behalf.