What a Rogue Desires (12 page)

David read on, his fury growing in tandem with his sense of humiliation and loathing. Bentley admitted to spying on the duke of Exeter by means of a maid in the duke’s household. Stafford had discovered the maid passed information to a tailor’s assistant named Slocum, who in turn worked for an Irishman named Fergal Rourke, a so-called “family man” who ran a ring of thieves and pickpockets. Rourke was dead—David knew that, having seen Marcus shoot the man himself—but several of his criminal cohorts had been arrested with Bentley. Their confessions implicated Bentley in everything from petty thievery to murder, concluding with the planned usurpation of Marcus’s title.

The papers fell from David’s hands unnoticed to the desk. So Bentley had schemed to see David arrested and transported for counterfeiting whilst plotting to murder Marcus. It was nothing David hadn’t already assumed and suspected, but he and Marcus had never really talked about it. Marcus had simply seemed to let the matter go after they left the dilapidated harbor house where Bentley had tried to kill them both. David had nursed his multiple injuries and ailments, and Marcus had planned an elaborate wedding trip for his bride.

Had there ever been a bigger fool? David ran his hands over his head, digging his fingers into the tense muscles at the base of his skull. It wasn’t bad enough to fall into a counterfeiter’s scheme. Oh, no, he danced like a puppet on strings for his own cousin, who knew him well enough to use his every weakness and vice against him. Bentley was a villain, but David had made himself an easy tool in the hands of the villain. For all he knew, Bentley had been waiting and watching for years, planning exactly when to spring the trap that David would walk right into.

He shoved away from the desk and lurched to his feet. For a moment he stood there, breathing hard, bracing his hands on the desk while the damning words danced before his eyes on the papers scattered in front of him: counterfeiting—plot to murder—transported—spies—tailor’s assistant—other persons unknown to Bow Street…With a curse he swept everything back into the black leather book and jammed it onto the shelf. He knew it was true—reading more wouldn’t serve any purpose. David looked around, suddenly stifled by his brother’s house, his brother’s study, his brother’s ability to walk away from that debacle and build a happy life with his new bride. Whatever Marcus had done, his conscience was clear. It was David’s that was rotted and black.

He walked straight out of the house, barely pausing to take his hat and gloves. For some time David walked, with no destination in mind, but hoping the exercise would relieve the ache in his head. He didn’t know how to escape his sins, nor why they had recently begun to weigh so heavily on his soul. It seemed that he hadn’t felt them accumulating for years, and now they had settled on his shoulders in one crushing load overnight. It was almost more than he could bear.

After quite some time he found himself outside White’s. Dusk had fallen while he walked. He looked at the brightly lit windows with bleak eyes. Perhaps oblivion was the answer, at least for tonight. He mounted the steps and went in, seeking nothing more than a quiet corner to drink himself into a blind, forgetful stupor.

He told a footman to bring him a bottle of wine, and he went in search of a secluded seat. The club was filled, though, and he was beginning to despair in his search when he saw one, just past the betting books.

Standing in his way was a cluster of men. As David approached, some of them noticed him. More than one face broke into a curious smile as he came nearer. “Good evening,” said David, giving a brief nod. There were several acquaintances of his in the group.

The smiles grew larger. “Good evening,” one man drawled, standing aside and sweeping an arm toward the books. “Come to see the latest wagers?” David hesitated, on the brink of saying no. He only wanted to drink, and drink and drink. He wasn’t in a sporting state of mind at the moment. But there was something odd here. Everyone seemed to be watching him with a great deal of unwarranted interest. He summoned up an attitude of careless disinterest, and walked up to the podium where the betting books lay, spread open and ready for additional wagers to be entered.

But this page was full. The wagers dated from weeks previous. He started to turn the page, until his own initials caught his eye. Then again, and again. His name featured in many—nearly all—of the wagers written there.

Capt. Evans bets Mr. Melvill fifty pounds to twenty pounds that Lord D. R. will be in custody of Bow Street within the month. Sir H. T. bets Mr. R. T. one hundred pounds to fifty that D. R. will lose the Exeter fortune at the gaming tables. Mr. Grentham bets Mr. Thomson twenty pounds that Lord B. will call out D. R….twenty pounds to ten pounds that Sir W. A. will call out D. R…. twenty pounds to fifteen pounds that Lord M will call out D. R…. five hundred pounds to two hundred pounds that the duke of E. returns from abroad to find himself destitute.

Slowly, deliberately, David turned the page. His ears buzzed, almost but not quite drowning out the malicious whispers behind him. He pretended to read the next page, and the one after, though his vision was blurred and his hand couldn’t seem to unclench from a fist. He was a laughingstock, among men whose sins outnumbered even his own. He was an object of scorn to his own class, to those who had gone along on his debauched jaunt through life and been pleased to let him pay for it. David would rather have had the cut direct from every single one of them. He turned to go.

“Nothing to add, Reece?” asked one man, Henry Trevenham, making little attempt to hide his smirk. David could have put a sword through his heart; Trev had once been a friend of his, and they’d lost and won fortunes together at the hazard tables. Trev’s hands were no whiter than his own.

David looked at him for a long moment, until Trev’s mouth tightened and he stood a little straighter. “No,” said David. “Should I?”

“Quite a number of wagers you might take a stake in,” he prodded. “You always were one for the wagers.” A muffled snicker went around the group.

Somehow, David brought a slight smile to his face. “Oh? I must have overlooked any of interest.” He made a show of turning back to the book. “Ah. Here we are. The duke of E…. Could that be old Elkington?”

Trev’s smile was hard and cold now. “Why, no,” he said, affecting surprise. “I do believe it’s your own brother, Exeter. He’s gone off and left the reins of the estate in your hands, hasn’t he?” It was more accusation than question. David forced his hands to relax, and didn’t let them curl into fists and pummel the blighter’s face to a pulp. He rested one elbow on the edge of the podium and tried to keep his expression neutral.

“He has.”

His lack of anger seemed to incite Trev, as well as the others. George Evans stepped forward. “I must have overlooked that one. Here, let me make my wager.” David watched as Evans scribbled in the book, wagering that the duke of E. would indeed be left destitute. He didn’t even bother filling in another name, leaving that blank. “Have you come to give us a report on your progress in emptying the coffers?”

David raised one eyebrow. “They’re far from empty. If these wagers refer to my brother, I should warn you gentlemen you’re heading for a loss.”

“It would be a loss well worth it to ruin you,” charged one man bitterly. “Because of you, Bow Street suspected us all of counterfeiting!” His voice dropped and he spat the last word out as if it fouled his mouth. “Not a man among us will ever receive you again. Not a man will ever sit at a table with you again, nor take your wagers. You are finished, I tell you, for ruining our good names and sullying our reputations!” A hiss of agreement rose from his companions.

David straightened to his full height, taking advantage of the few extra inches he had on the man to look down on his accuser. “And here I thought passing your bastard off on old Melchester was the ruination of your good name.” The man’s mouth dropped open in slack surprise, and David smiled thinly. “Lady Melchester is so indiscreet in her boudoir.” He hadn’t actually gone to bed with Lady Melchester, although she had tried to lure him there—sleeping with another man’s wife who was pregnant by yet a different man was just too much for even David. He raised his voice a little, so each and every one of the hypocrites could hear him. “If any man here blames me for his troubles, let him consider this: not everyone of my acquaintance was suspected. Why were you singled out? Could it be that they made a list of the most depraved gamesters in London, and it had nothing to do with your acquaintance with me? I certainly never accused anyone of counterfeiting.”

“Exeter was shadowing us,” snarled Trev. “All of us! He gambled like—like—”

“Like you did?” David asked coolly. “A lapse on his part, for certain. But perhaps I mistook your meaning. Did you mean to suggest Marcus accused you?”

They muttered among each other, no one wanting to accuse Marcus of anything.

“Then I bid you all good evening.” David began to walk away, then stopped and turned back. “Good Lord—don’t let me forget to enter my wager.” With a flourish he signed his name under the last wager, taking the bet Evans has just entered for one pound. “That looks like a rum bet to me,” he said, replacing the pen and facing the men with a lazy grin. “Destitute? Come, now; really.” Shaking his head, he strolled away, past the scowling faces of his one-time companions in mischief, away from their self-righteous outrage and lies and even worse, the truths they spoke. It felt as if his body were operating on a different level, unrelated to his mind and spirit. It took everything he had to walk leisurely away, when he really wanted to punch someone, upset the tables, and throw things.

Someone laid a hand on his arm as he walked back through the club; he brushed it away, his vision narrowed to the door. If he could only make it out of here without losing his grip on his composure, it seemed, he would be all right. He would survive this—somehow. He would redeem himself—somehow. But how on earth he would manage either, David couldn’t guess.

At the door, a servant caught up to him. “Your wine, sir,” said the man breathlessly, presenting his tray with the wine David had ordered earlier. David lifted the glass, drained it in one draught, and then lifted the bottle. “Er…Shall I pour for you, my lord?” asked the startled waiter, but David waved him off. He slapped his hat on his head and walked out of the club, the bottle of wine snug in his grip. Again he turned and walked blindly, and as he walked he drank.

Two hours later the bottle was empty. His steps were dragging. David knew he was limping, but he didn’t have the strength of mind or body to hide it. The burgundy had dulled his mind but not the despair he felt. Instead of raging about being betrayed by his own blood cousin or cut by rogues who never cared what he did until it threatened their own facades of respectability, all he wanted to do was forget. Wine had been as good a method of forgetting his troubles as David had ever found. He turned homeward, the bottle hanging from his fingertips.

Bannet met him at the door. “Good evening, sir,” he said, taking David’s hat as if his master came home every night lame and drunk. Perhaps he did, David thought sluggishly, and was simply too foolish to realize it.

“Here go.” David handed him the empty wine bottle and stripped off his gloves. One of them turned inside out, and he dropped it on the floor. “Bring another bottle, would you?”

Bannet took the bottle. “Yes, sir. Will you take madam her dinner now?”

Madam. David swayed on his feet, remembering. He should tell Bannet to take Vivian her dinner. Lord knew he wasn’t fit company for anyone tonight. “All right,” he grumbled, stumping up the stairs.

Vivian heard the scrape in the lock and shoved the little book of poetry under the mattress. At last, David was here. She was hungry, but she was also looking forward to his visit. Her spirits lifted in anticipation. She scrambled to her feet, but the door didn’t swing open as usual. Instead there was a muffled curse, some more scraping, and then a hard rattle of the latch.

She drew back a step, instinctively wiping any expression from her face. She knew those sounds. He was drunk, he was, and while Vivian had no idea what to expect, her experiences with Flynn warned her it wouldn’t be good.

The door swung open, so hard it banged against the wall. David stood in the doorway, the tray in his unsteady hands. His eyes wandered around the room until he found her. “Dinner, m’dear,” he mumbled, then stepped into the room. He closed the door by kicking it with his boot heel, and Vivian flinched as it slammed shut. He winced, hobbling across the room to set down the tray with a loud clank. “Eat up,” he told her, and collapsed into the chair with a grimace.

She stayed where she was. “You’re cup-shot.”

He produced another bottle from the pocket of his greatcoat, which he still wore. “Yes, I am.” He twisted out the cork and tipped it over a glass. “And getting more so every moment, love.”

He didn’t look like a dangerous drunk, like Flynn. He looked rather like a sad drunk, his head hanging forward as he watched the wine pour into the glass. Cautiously she moved forward. “Why?”

“Because I am a pathetic louse of a man,” he replied, and tossed back half his glass. He waved one hand. “Come, eat. I shan’t add to my sins by starving you.”

“Why are you getting drunk and drunker?” She ignored his invitation to eat.

“I prefer it to being sober.”

Vivian threw him a suspicious look. Since she’d never yet seen him drunk, that didn’t sound true. “Why’s that?”

He swirled the wine around his glass. “It helps one to forget, my dear.”

She raised her eyebrows. “And what do you have to forget? Did your last fancy meal turn your stomach?”

His shoulders lifted with a sigh. “It’s nothing you would understand. Don’t let it trouble you.”

Vivian stared at him for a moment. She ought to let him stew in whatever misery he’d undoubtedly brought on himself. She had no reason to feel any pity for him, and she didn’t. Really, she didn’t. It was pure idle curiosity that made her want to know why he was sitting here, drinking himself senseless, staring at the fire with no trace of the daring energy and damnable charm she’d always seen before. He looked…empty. “I suppose that’s because you’re a fancy gentleman and have troubles no one like me could ever imagine. The cook burned your dinner, or the tailor sewed your drawers too small.”