The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (29 page)

“But how am I to trust you, Lucien?” The
question seemed to be dragged from her very soul, rasped past a
tight throat. “You have used me to wage a battle against Harrison.
You do so even now.”

For a moment, he simply absorbed the impact
of being confronted with the truth. “I am doing what I must.
Harming you was never my goal. You have to know that.”

“And yet, that is the result.” Her voice was
small and quiet. It should not have sliced him open like a blade.
But it did.

For a moment, the pain of it made him
reconsider. Could he find another way to punish Blackmore? A way
that did not involve Victoria? Could she simply be … his? His wife.
His angel. The mother of his children.

There is no other way. You have already
considered other strategies. No, if Blackmore is to answer for his
crimes at all, you must follow through. Or else accept failure.

For now, she needs me at her side. In time,
she will understand. She has to.

Fists clenching helplessly at his sides, he
watched as she moved to the library entrance, then turned slowly,
sadly to face him, her hand braced on the open door’s edge. “What
we desire most always comes at a price, Lucien. What you must
decide is whether it is worth it. I must do the same.” With those
simple, devastating words, the door gently closed.

And she was gone.

*~*~*

Chapter Twenty-Three

“
Violence seldom resolves problems without
spawning new ones. But men are inordinately fond of it, and I find
that an endless source of amusement.”
—The Dowager Marchioness
of Wallingham to her nephew after a particularly bad day at
Gentleman Jackson’s.

Behind an innocuous red door of a quiet brick
building in an obscure square off of St. James, Lucien stood
admiring one of London’s most sumptuous hells. Rather than the
hushed, understated luxury of White’s or Brooks’s, this place was a
masterpiece of ostentation: gilt-framed mirrors, chandeliers
dripping with crystal, silk-lined walls of deep jade, and wherever
possible, candles whose light reflected off ornate surfaces to
dazzling effect. In the center of the foyer stood a life-sized
statue of the goddess Fortuna—she was holding a cornucopia
overflowing with gold coins, a smiling siren luring men to their
doom.

To the left was the dining room where, rumor
had it, a French chef named Gaspard could serve a divine version of
any meal a man could imagine—and some he couldn’t. In front of him,
the grand staircase rose to the upper floor, where gaming rooms
were packed to the rafters with the dissolute, the unlucky, and the
tragically optimistic. The proprietor of Reaver’s wouldn’t have it
any other way.

“My lord, may I take your hat?” The quiet,
dark-skinned majordomo asked. Though the man spoke flawless English
and was dressed formally in a black tailcoat and trousers, gold
waistcoat, and white cravat, his exotic features bespoke perhaps
Turkish or Indian origins.

“No,” Lucien replied. “I don’t plan to stay
long. I am meeting with an old friend.”

The man bowed his head. “Very good, my lord.
Right this way.”

He had begun his search hours earlier with a
visit to the Marquess of Rutherford. The old man, while intent on
discussing the proposed purchase of his “damned fine” hunting
property, assured Lucien he hadn’t a clue where Viscount Chatham
might be, as “my son and I do not frequent the same establishments,
nor do we discuss such things.” From the Rutherford townhouse,
Lucien had ridden to St. James, where he combed every room at every
reputable club. Still nothing.

Only then did he move on to the less
respectable establishments. Reaver’s was the third he had entered,
and easily the most exclusive of the lot. It was not well known
outside of elite circles because few could afford the stakes.
Thousands of pounds were won and lost each day on a single turn of
a card or roll of dice. Not for the faint of heart or light of
pocket.

Presently, the majordomo led him up the
stairs to the primary gaming room. He swept open the doors and
gestured Lucien through into a bustling scene. The room was
opulently furnished, three large chandeliers casting brilliant
light upward onto a frescoed barrel ceiling and downward along
richly paneled walls. While the corridor had been quiet, this room
was filled with dozens of gentlemen, their voices scrambling over
each other in a boisterous din. Excited murmurs vied with sudden,
triumphant shouts as the men crowded around green baize tables to
watch their fortunes turn and tumble.

Scanning the crowd methodically, Lucien’s
gaze snagged on a lean, elegant hand playing idly with a stack of
chips at the faro table. The man himself was not visible, hidden
behind a pudgy, balding mass wearing too small a coat. But Lucien
would recognize the gesture anywhere.

“Chatham,” he muttered under his breath, a
wave of heated anger warring with satisfaction at having finally
found his quarry. He rounded a set of chairs to approach the
viscount from behind. Reclining indolently in his seat, Chatham
appeared at ease, but as Lucien drew alongside, he could see subtle
signs of strain around his mouth and eyes.

“Still charging headlong for disaster, I
see.”

Chatham’s fingers paused, hovered. It was the
only acknowledgement of Lucien’s presence. The dealer called the
final turn.

Lucien continued in a low, bored voice. “If
you wished me to end you, you had only to say so.”

A fresh pile of chips was shoved toward
Chatham as the bets were settled. He pushed away from the table and
stood to face Lucien. “Am I to guess what you’re nattering on
about?”

Stepping closer, Lucien tilted his head and
gave a slow smile. “Perhaps you should ask your mother. Or your
benefactress.”

Chatham’s dark brows drew together over
turquoise eyes, their contrast with his paper-white complexion
somewhat startling. “Look, Atherbourne, if your intent is to
provoke me into a duel or something equally tedious, you’ve got the
wrong chap. I am rarely awake at dawn, and if it happens that I am,
the last place I would be is forty paces from you.” He grinned.
“You are pretty, but not that pretty.”

Someone cleared his throat pointedly. An
older gentleman, tall and whiskered, nodded at Chatham’s vacated
seat. “Beg pardon. Are you to play another round?”

Signaling to a club employee, who promptly
exchanged chips for pounds, Chatham pocketed his take and clapped
the man’s shoulder. “Have at it, Sir Giles.”

Lucien trailed Chatham as the viscount
blithely turned and began weaving through the crowd to the doorway.
As they exited into the corridor, Lucien gripped Chatham’s
sharp-boned shoulder and shoved. Hard. It caused the other man to
spin sideways until they faced one another.

For a moment, black fire blazed from inside
turquoise eyes, and Chatham’s lean frame took on a fighter’s
posture—aggressive, provoked. A heartbeat later, the starch left as
though it had never been, his expression resuming its customary
devil-may-care cynicism.

Interesting,
Lucien thought. For all
his vices and hedonism, Benedict Chatham was always in command of
himself. Always. This reaction was yet another sign that the future
Marquess of Rutherford was wearing at the seams.
So much the
better.

“You have gone too far this time, Chatham. I
do not know what demon has hold of you, but you will soon learn the
depth of your error.”

Chatham shrugged. “So call me out.”

Lucien stood silent, gauging the lord’s
expression.

“No?” The other man smiled slowly, but his
eyes were empty. Cold. He gestured toward the stairs. “Then might I
suggest the venison. Monsieur Gaspard serves it with an
otherworldly truffle sauce.” His eyes flared with mocking drama.
“Positively transporting.”

Lucien eyed the man in disgust. “What the
bloody hell happened to you, Ben? I know it’s been a few
years—”

“Try ten.”

“—but you’ve crawled so deep inside the
bottle that every shred of dignity is lost. Good God, man, I don’t
even recognize you.”

Chatham sneered. “Then we are alike in that
regard, are we not? You have crawled so deep inside your wife’s …
charms that I am surprised you do not wear her as a hat.”

Rage thundered through him, exploding in his
chest at the insolent vulgarity coming out of Chatham’s mouth. Even
as he spoke the last word, Lucien’s fist rammed into his jaw with a
satisfying crack. The sheer force of the facer caused the viscount
to reel back, thudding against the far wall. It was far from enough
for Lucien’s liking.

Unfortunately, the commotion drew attention
from a pair of outsized bruisers positioned just inside the doors
of the gaming room, clearly employees of the club. “No fighting,
milords,” the taller one said, his accent purely east Londoner.
“Reaver’s rules. Iffen ye wants a brawl, take it elsewhere.”

Lucien’s gaze remained locked on Chatham, who
continued to stare back at him with deadly calm. “That can be
arranged,” he said softly. “Gentleman Jackson’s. If you would care
to reclaim what remains of your manhood.”

Chatham snorted. “Haven’t had any complaints
in that regard. Besides which, I have no intention of wasting yet
more of my time with you.” With that, he shoved himself away from
the wall and headed for the stairs.

Following closely on his heels, Lucien gave
the bastard a verbal jab he hoped would penetrate the fog of
drunkenness keeping the old Benedict Chatham imprisoned, provided
that man still existed, which was questionable. “Yes, I’m sure Mrs.
Knightley would not bother to complain about you. Likely she would
have cut you off long ago if she were not getting her money’s
worth.”

Chatham flinched visibly and halted three
steps short of the marble floor. Lucien thought he had him then,
but the man shook his head, loosened his suddenly tight fists, and
continued on as though he did not want to tear Lucien limb from
limb. Fortunately, it was obvious he did, and it would only take a
bit more prodding to send him over the edge.

The majordomo reappeared as if by magic,
holding out Chatham’s hat and walking stick. “Shaw. You have
impeccable timing, my good man,” Chatham said with false joviality,
taking the items from the dark-skinned servant. “Have my horse
brought ’round, would you?”

“Mine as well,” Lucien murmured.

Shaw bowed and replied, “Right away, my
lords.”

Apparently determined to ignore Lucien’s
presence, Chatham wasted no time in crossing to the door and
stepping out onto the cobblestones. But Lucien did not give up so
easily. “I suppose one could understand your wretched lies about
me,” he mused, keeping pace. “Considering the disgrace of your
‘arrangement’ with Mrs. Knightley, you would have to find some way
of deflecting attention away from yourself.”

The other man said nothing, but his hand
twisted on the knob of his walking stick. It tapped against the
cobblestones in an uneven rhythm. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-ta-tap.

“However,” Lucien said softly, drawing closer
to Chatham’s side so he could not possibly ignore him. “When it is
my
wife
who bears the consequences of such brazenly false
rumors, I’m afraid I must answer with some forcefulness.”

Finally, Chatham raised a brow and looked at
Lucien. “Pardon me, was Mrs. Knightley not your mistress?” The
sarcasm made Lucien want to choke the bastard. “Oh, but I would
have sworn she was. She does have rather startling fondness for
your … let me see. Ah, yes, ‘vigor,’ I believe she called it.
Difficult to gain such appreciation for goods one hasn’t yet
sampled.”

His eyes narrowed on the man, who
nonchalantly donned his hat and gave it a tap with his cane. Damn
it, he needed to shut Chatham up for good, and that meant reminding
the insolent wastrel of the secrets Chatham, himself, did not want
revealed. Lucien drew within inches, his voice going low. “She was
my mistress.
Was.
But at least I was never her whore.”

The attack he had been waiting for came with
sudden, bruising force. Chatham’s cane sailed into his gut with a
sickening
whump,
bending him in half for a moment as he
struggled to breathe. But the heir to the Marquess of Rutherford
didn’t stop there. He followed Lucien’s stumbling trail, slamming
his fist into his ribs with first his right, then his left. Blast,
the man’s reflexes were quick for someone constantly in his
cups.

It did not last long. Chatham was frayed,
thin, and weakened, his mind faster than most men, but slowed and
dulled from its customary sharpness by too much drink and too
little dignity. Lucien backed away and studied his adversary,
slowly circling, letting the grinding pain of the blows to his
midsection absorb and echo until it became background. Chatham’s
eyes were a turquoise blaze, his jaw reddened by Lucien’s earlier
hit. He clearly wanted to fight. But he was breathing heavily, his
shoulders slumping, his cane rattling to the ground.
Pathetic.

“You bloody hypocrite,” Chatham spat, his
full hatred of Lucien twisting his features. “The
wife
you
claim to defend married you because you groped her before the
entire ton and ruined her chances at a better match. Do not preach
to me of honor. You have none.”

Lucien stopped, watching as pieces of his old
friend—albeit warped by bitterness and dissolution—reassembled in
front of him. No more cold disaffection. No more casual sarcasm.
Just pure, wild fury.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Chatham raved.
“Lucien Wyatt always gets what he wants. Ballocks. I could toss you
into a pile of horse shit, and you’d come out with the fucking
crown jewels.” He threw his arms wide, shaking his head up at the
gray sky in wonderment. “It’s a bloody miracle!”