Trouble at the Wedding (2 page)

Chapter One

New York City

Seven days earlier . . .

E
veryone in society knew Christian Du Quesne, the Duke of Scarborough, didn't have a heart. A block of ice, perhaps, or a steel plate of armor, or even a powerful pumping muscle used to circulate the blood. But a heart? A romantic thing that yearned and loved and broke? No. Christian had lost any such organ years ago, and much to the chagrin of the ladies, he had no interest in acquiring a new one.

Christian, had he been questioned on the topic, would have disagreed, at least on this particular evening. He had a heart. In fact, he had five of them, three in his hand, and two face-up on a green felt table at New York's notorious House with the Bronze Door—five hearts in perfect, beautiful, absolutely ripping numerical sequence.

He couldn't have asked for a better night to be blessed by good luck. This was a no-limit, open-stakes table with a pair of very wealthy men, and he was deuced low on cash these days. Still, to the other two gentlemen at the table, he might just as easily have been holding a motley assortment of rubbish, so coolly disinterested was his expression.

Hiram J. Burke, railway magnate, millionaire, inveterate gambler, and the man who had invited Christian to join the game this evening, had an ace on the table, but unless it was part of a royal flush, Christian's straight flush would take the pot.

“Call,” he said, reaching for chips. “And raise five thousand more.”

The bet passed to the third man at the table, Arthur Ransom, a wealthy attorney whose only client was his even more wealthy niece. Ransom, who had a florid, benignant face and a thick, drawling Mississippi accent, raised an eyebrow, but he did not raise the stakes. “Call.”

Christian raised the stakes again as the dealer went around for the draw, tossing chips worth ten thousand dollars into the pot, a bet that earned him a hard stare from Hiram.

“That must be one helluva hand you've got, Your Grace,” he murmured, tapping his finger thoughtfully atop the stack of chips before him, a stack that was quite a bit smaller than it had been at the start of the evening.

Christian offered a noncommittal shrug and nothing more.

“I don't think you'll be gettin' any hints out of this fella with that steely stare o' yours, Hiram,” Mr. Ransom said. “Englishmen are cool as cucumbers. Believe me, I know,” he added, making a wry face as he tossed his cards into the muck. “Fold.”

Hiram straightened in his chair. “Maybe you're right, Arthur, but I've got one helluva hand myself. In fact, Your Grace,” he added, returning his attention to Christian, “I think my hand is better than yours. Call, and raise another ten thousand.”

Christian knew the hand was his. All he had to do to claim the winnings was see the bet, but he hesitated, appreciating that there was more at stake here than a round of poker. Some men were not of a mind to discuss business after being defeated at cards, and business was the reason he was here. Perhaps he should fold and let Hiram win the pot. No, he decided. He was enough of a gambler to bank on the notion that Hiram wasn't the sort to sulk over a lost round of cards. “I'll see you,” he said and matched the bet.

“Four aces,” Hiram said, grinning as he fanned out the three aces in his hand beside the one on the table. But his triumph was short-lived.

“Straight flush,” Christian said, laying down his own cards. “Queen high.”

Hiram stared at the cards for a moment, but then, much to Christian's relief, he laughed. “Four aces, the best hand of my life, and I can't even win the hand.” Still laughing, he sat back in his chair, shaking his head in good-natured disbelief. “You are one lucky son of a bitch, Your Grace.”

Christian knew being lucky at cards wasn't enough. Thanks to the massive amount of debt his profligate elder brother had managed to accumulate before his death, Christian was not only the newest Duke of Scarborough, he was also required to find a more lucrative and stable way of earning an income than cards. How ironic, he thought as he raked in his winnings, that Andrew had always been regarded as the good son, yet had managed to spend a fortune into oblivion with nothing to show for it, while Christian, who had made quite a good living off his gambling over the years, was still considered by many in the family to be the black sheep.

Still, he was the duke now, and could no longer afford to gamble for his living. He'd arrived in America yesterday with one purpose in view: to forge connections with men who knew how to make money, prepared to offer his own British connections in exchange, in the hope that investment opportunities would follow. Drinks at the Oak Room and an introduction to Hiram through a mutual acquaintance had led to what was proving to be a very lucrative evening for Christian.

“You'd soon find this cash back in your pocket, Mr. Burke,” he said as he stacked his winnings in front of him, “if you would allow me to buy shares in that new transatlantic telephone company of yours.”

“How'd you hear about that? The shares haven't even been offered yet.”

Christian smiled. “I do have some connections here already, Mr. Burke.”

“Your sister, you mean? She was married to Roger Shaw, wasn't she? The architect?”

“She was, yes. And she manages to learn all the latest news here in New York, despite the fact that she is a widow now and spends most of her time in Paris.”

“She's here now, I understand?” He paused, tilting his head to give Christian a thoughtful look. “And she probably has your social calendar completely filled with engagements already?”

Christian paused, considering, knowing he had to tread carefully. “Actually, no. My primary purpose in coming to New York is not social, but business.”

Hiram gave a rather awkward laugh, tugging at one ear. “I see. When you accepted my invitation to play cards this evening, I'd hoped . . .”

Hiram paused, but there was no need for him to finish. Christian already knew what Hiram Burke's hopes had been, but his interest was in transatlantic telephone lines, not transatlantic matrimony.

“Alas, my goal is to forge business connections, Mr. Burke, and to perhaps discover some worthwhile investments. This company you're starting up seems just the sort of thing in which I'm interested. It sounds like an exciting opportunity.”

“It would be.” Hiram paused, meeting Christian's eyes across the table. “For the right man.”

The inference was clear, but though he had no intention of providing Hiram's daughter, Fanny, with a duchess's coronet, he hoped to engage Hiram as a possible business ally. But before he could offer a reply that emphasized his desirability as an investor rather than his suitability as a son-in-law, another voice entered the conversation.

“At the card tables again, Du Quesne?” a pedantic, distinctly British voice entered the conversation. “Why am I not surprised?”

Christian looked up, and the sight of the man by his elbow rather dimmed his spirits. Like himself, the Earl of Rumsford was a British peer, they'd both gone to Eton and on to Oxford, and they both happened to be visiting America at the same time, but any common ground between the two men ended there.

Christian was a dark-haired descendant of Norman nobles and Irish peasants, with a caustic sense of humor and no reverence whatsoever for his newly acquired title. He'd been wild as a boy and was still a bit wild as a man, and he knew, when he had occasion to look in the mirror, that the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and at the edges of his mouth showed many nights of whiskey and cards. Too many nights, perhaps.

A greater contrast to Rumsford could not be imagined. The earl had pale green eyes, fair hair, and a face widely described as handsome—that is, if one ignored the weak chin. Rumsford also possessed an inflated sense of his own importance and a superior little smile, two traits Christian had always found annoying as hell.

Rumsford, he knew, had a similarly low opinion of him, and by tacit agreement, the two men avoided each other as much as possible. Thanks to Christian's aversion to the proper, respectable circles Rumsford moved in, avoiding each other wasn't usually difficult. He'd never have thought to encounter the earl here, in an illegal New York gaming club. Still, nothing for it but to be civil.

“By Jove, it's old Rummy,” he greeted, donning a careless smile and a jaunty air. “What a small world it is.”

“Du Quesne.” Rumsford gave him a bow, then turned toward the other two men at the table, and Christian thought there was a fleeting hint of surprise in Rumsford's expression as he glanced at Ransom. But it was gone in a moment. “Good evening, Arthur,” he said pleasantly.

“Lord Rumsford,” Ransom responded, sounding much less inclined to be pleasant. He glanced at Christian, then back again. “So, you two Brits know each other?”

“School days,” Christian explained. “Eton and Oxford, you know. We rowed on the same team. Been a long time since then, eh, Rummy? Fancy meeting up here, of all places.”

Rumsford turned to him, his thin lips curving in that damnable smirk of his. “Our last encounter was the Derby. You were placing a sizable bet on an outsider. The horse lost, as I recall. Interesting how every time I see you, you seem to be gambling, Du Quesne,” he said with a little laugh.

Having been elevated to his ducal title only a few months earlier, Christian was sometimes still addressed by his surname. It was not an uncommon mistake, and one he usually allowed to pass without comment, for etiquette was one of those things he really didn't give a damn about. But then his mind flashed back to early days at school, and how Rummy had been one of those to belittle him for his French name, his Irish grandmother, and the fact that he was only the
second
son of a duke. Since Rummy was such a stickler about these things, Christian decided to make an exception to his usual rule.

“It's Scarborough, nowadays, old chap,” he corrected lightly. “Duke of.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing the other man grimace at his own faux pas. “Of course. Forgive me, Scarborough, and please accept my condolences on your brother's passing. You must be . . .” He paused, glancing at the poker table. “You must be shattered with grief.”

Christian kept his amiable expression firmly in place. “Quite.”

“So,” Hiram said, turning to Rumsford, “what brings you out on the town tonight, my lord? Celebrating, are you?”

“Celebrating?” Christian echoed. “What's the occasion?”

The other three looked at him in some surprise. “Don't you know?” Hiram asked him. “Lord Rumsford here's engaged to be married to Miss Annabel Wheaton.” He gave a nod toward Ransom. “Arthur's niece.”

Christian vaguely remembered hearing his sister mention Rumsford's engagement in her last letter to him, but since he and the earl were none too fond of each other, he hadn't found the other man's impending nuptials particularly interesting news. Baffling, perhaps, that some young woman would agree to spend her entire future life with a poor stick like Rummy, but not interesting. What did interest him was the lack of enthusiasm about the match displayed by Ransom.

He turned toward the earl and raised his glass in salute. “My felicitations, Rumsford,” he said, and took a hefty swallow of whiskey. “To you and Miss Wheaton.”

Arthur Ransom jerked rather abruptly to his feet. “I need a drink,” he muttered, and started toward the bar at the opposite end of the room.

There was a moment of awkward silence no one seemed inclined to break. After a moment, Hiram gave a cough and stood up. “I could use a drink myself,” he said, and clapped Christian on the shoulder. “About those shares, Your Grace, I'll be bringing my wife and daughter to England in May. Perhaps we can talk more about it then.”

“Of course,” he said politely, but as he watched Hiram walk away, he suspected there would be nothing to talk about, not only because he avoided London during the season like the plague, but also because those shares were clearly reserved for Fanny's marriage settlement, and that was a business deal Christian would never make. Not again.

He picked up his glass and took a drink of whiskey as he turned to Rumsford, who, for some unfathomable reason, seemed inclined to linger. “Care to join the game, Rumsford?” he invited out of sheer politeness, heartily relieved when Rumsford declined.

“Thank you, no,” he said with an anemic smile. “I'm not like you, I'm afraid. I've no talent for gambling.”

Christian couldn't help laughing at that. “Then what are you doing in a gaming club?”

Rumsford gave a quick glance toward the bar across the room where Arthur and Hiram were standing, and then, to Christian's surprise, he leaned closer in a confidential manner. “There are . . . other distractions here, Scarborough,” he murmured, and his gaze lifted to the ceiling, excitement reddening his pale cheeks, that arrogant smile curving his mouth.

Christian raised an eyebrow, studying the other man's flushed face and almost adolescent excitement. He was no saint, God knew, but bedding a courtesan in a gambling club just before one's own wedding was a notion that offended even his jaded sensibilities about matrimony.

He hadn't been the best of husbands, perhaps, but he had been faithful, though he doubted Evie would find much consolation in that fact, were she still alive.

At the thought of his wife, Christian's throat suddenly felt dry, and he downed another swallow of whiskey, forcing himself to don a smile. “So that's why you're here, eh?” He gave the other man a wink, one man of the world to another. “One last fling before the big day, eh?”

Rumsford winked back. “I didn't say it was my last.”

They laughed together in man-of-the-world fashion, but Christian's laughter died the moment Rumsford walked away.

“Some things never change,” he muttered under his breath, watching as the earl turned his head for one more furtive glance at Arthur before slipping out of the room to seek the feminine companionship upstairs. “All these years, and you're still an ass.”