Yankee Earl (7 page)

      
“I say, dash it all, but it is good to see you again, Jason.” Roger beamed as he drew the lady at his side forward. “May I present m'wife, Garnet. Never thought I'd be so happy leg-shackled, but I am.”

      
Garnet Dalbert made her curtsy, smiling up at Jason. She had a plain face with a weak double chin and a little shapeless nose, but her eyes shone with keen intelligence when she spoke. “I'm given to understand that you were a shipbuilder in America, m'lord.”

      
“Yes, in Baltimore.”

      
“Those sharp-built ships can maneuver circles about our lumbering scows,” she replied.

      
“You are familiar with Baltimore clippers, then?” he asked with surprise. In spite of her execrable taste in clothing, she seemed quite knowledgeable.

      
“Garnet owns a shipping line in Gravesend. Runs it herself, right well. She'll talk all night of tall masts and topsails,” Roger interjected with an indulgent chuckle.

      
“Really, that is splendid. There is nothing so enjoyable as discussing one's occupation with another who has the wit and the will to work,” Jason replied, casting a swift glance Rachel's way. He was pleased to see the barb strike home.

      
Without waiting for her rejoinder, he asked Mistress Dalbert to dance as the orchestra played a country reel, leaving Rachel with his cousin Roger. Good chap, Roger, but a bit of a bore, he thought as he and Garnet discussed the fine points of ship construction and the deplorable effects the war was having on trade between England and the Continent as well as with her former colonies.

      
As he and the plump little matron talked, he could feel Rachel's eyes following him from across the room. For some damnable reason, he could not rid himself of the thought of peeling that sheer peach silk from her lush body. Forcing the distracting image aside, he decided that a visit to one of the city's better bawdy houses was in order at the end of this disastrous evening. Surely a good bit-o’-muslin could make him forget about bedding a hellion like Rachel Fairchild.

      
In spite of his resolve, when he returned Garnet to her adoring husband, he could not help watching from the corner of his eye as his nearly betrothed danced with a young baron. Roger droned on about the stag he had taken the previous winter and what a splendid trophy it made on his study wall while Jason made appropriate nods of agreement, even though his mind was focused utterly on Rachel.

      
As soon as the quadrille was over, she returned to his side. When she approached, her cheeks were flushed and her hazel-green eyes glowed with pleasure. From the dance?...or was she anticipating what was to come at the stroke of twelve?
The little witch.
He'd bet anything it was the latter.

      
“Let's keep the gossips off balance, Countess.” Without giving her a chance to say anything, Jason reached out and swept her into the waltz as the orchestra began playing again.

      
“Are all Americans such impulsively ill-mannered louts, or is it just you?” Although her tone dripped disdain, she found herself matching her steps to his with increasing pleasure as they spun about the floor.

      
“Ah, but, Countess, I am no longer American,” he countered.

      
“But still an ill-mannered lout,” she shot back.

      
Jason threw back his head and laughed, then replied, “But now an English ill-mannered lout, remember?”

      
“As if anyone in the ton could forget that,” she replied. “When the announcement was made that Cargrave had petitioned for his Yankee grandson to be named his heir, half of London thought he'd taken leave of his senses. I'm amazed it has come to pass.”

      
“I wondered myself if Grandfather could get away with his scheme, but things appear to be working out smoothly.”

      
The marquess is a most powerful man, accustomed to getting what he wants.”

      
“You mean he's utterly ruthless and will use any means, fair or foul, to get his way,” he corrected.

      
“You say that, yet I detect a fondness for him in spite of the blackmail.”

      
He looked down at her appraisingly as the waltz ended. “Are you such a shrewd judge of human nature, Countess?”

      
She met his eyes steadily. “Yes, I do believe I am.”

      
“Aside from my lack of manners, how would you judge me?”

      
She appeared to consider this while they made their way to the refreshment table. “Reckless at times. Stubborn always. Loyal to your friends, I suppose, else you would not have agreed to your grandfather's terms for freeing your crew,” she added grudgingly.

      
“I appreciate your honesty.” His expression was wry as he offered her a glass of champagne.

      
Rachel took the delicate crystal and sipped while eyeing him with amusement. She could feel those around them watching with avid curiosity and felt her blood race in a peculiar way. Normally, she detested being on display, having the gossips speculate about poor Harleigh's eldest, that hoyden who preferred horses to men.

      
But this man is different.
Where on earth had that thought come from? Rachel almost choked on her wine. Jason Beaumont affected her in ways no other man ever had. If she were not so strongly opposed to marriage and the end of a way of life she loved, she might actually have accepted his suit…but then she sternly reminded herself that he had not paid suit. He possessed as little interest in marriage as she.

      
They danced several times more as the evening wore on, a shocking breach of social decorum, adding to the speculation about a match. Both were careful to say nothing that might betray their plans.

      
At midnight Cargrave and Harleigh made their way to the center of the room and the orchestra played a fanfare. The crowd fell silent as the marquess prepared to speak.

      
“It is with great pride and pleasure that my old friend Viscount Harleigh and I announce the betrothal of his daughter, the Honorable Miss Rachel Fairchild, and my grandson, the Earl of Falconridge.” He and Harleigh raised their glasses in celebration as the crowd broke into polite, if astonished, applause.

      
A babel of soft murmuring and tittering laughter filled the room as everyone's eyes swept in the direction of the young couple, who were standing near the wide arched doorway to the main foyer. Jason could see the look of smug accomplishment lighting his grandfather's face. He turned toward Rachel and whispered something.

      
A shocked gasp ricocheted through the assembly when she replied by dumping her glass of champagne over his head and stalking furiously from the room. Jason watched her departure for an instant, then turned back to the now hushed crowd. Wiping his face with a handkerchief, he smiled stiffly. Then Jason Beaumont, sixth Earl of Falconridge, made a formal bow and quit the room.

      
An expression of abject horror whitened the viscount's face. Jason did not pause long enough to see the marquess' slow grin.

* * * *

      
The smell of tobacco and gin blended with the smoke from poorly trimmed candlewicks that cast their flickering light around the crowded gaming hell. Rough looking men with broken noses and missing pieces of ears presided over the green baize tables scattered around the large, low-ceilinged room. Faro. Whist. Macao. Hazard. Whatever game of chance a sporting blood wished, Wheatie offered. Cold-eyed professional gamblers played alongside rowdy young toffs from the better part of town. The laughter of garishly dressed females punctuated the low murmur of men placing bets.

      
Drum had brought Jason here after the debacle at the ball earlier that evening. The little dandy insisted that it would take his friend's mind off his troubles and related how he and Alex Blackthorne had met at Wheatie’s tables. The aura of danger appealed to Jason. He gambled recklessly, with Drum watching his back and rationing the amount of blue ruin he consumed. Always lucky at cards, Beaumont found himself winning steadily before the night was over. But the pile of blunt on the table in front of him did nothing to assuage his restlessness.

      
“I'm becoming afflicted with what you English call the Lombard fever,” he said to Drum.

      
“Tis nearly dawn,” his companion replied, studying the whites of Jason's eyes, which by this time resembled red ink on a bankruptcy ledger. Several of the gamesters around the table muttered about the American toff quitting while he was so far ahead, but one quelling look from Drummond made them subside in surly acquiescence.

      
Stuffing several guineas into the cleavage of his blond companion's gown, Jason whispered, “With thanks for bringing me luck.”

      
“Aw, luv, if you goes 'ome wi' me, I promise yer luck ain't goin' ta run out anytime soon,” she cooed, brushing her large white breasts against his arm.

      
He shook his head. “Sorry, Ginnie,” he said, hoping that was her name. It was late, and he was well on his way to being foxed. Besides, in addition to giving him luck that wouldn't “run out anytime soon,” he suspected that if he went with her, the wench would probably give him something else that wouldn't “run out anytime soon.” One night with Venus, a lifetime with mercury!

      
“Let us depart, then,” Drum interjected, taking his much larger charge's arm. He was used to squiring brash young foreigners about the dangerous haunts of London.

      
Shortly they were on the narrow, dark street in front of Wheatie's, ready to walk until they could find a jarvey to take them home. Hack drivers seldom ventured into such dangerous parts of the city. It proved to be a long and sobering walk. As they neared the more civilized confines of the West End, Drum described how his friend Joss' fighting dog had once knocked Alex Blackthorne across a marble foyer, riding his chest like a sled. Jason threw back his head to laugh just as a shot whistled past his nose.

      
Instantly both men crouched, weapons drawn as they moved quickly into the shadows.

      
“A near thing, that,” Drum whispered, his eyes scouring the dark alleyway. “Be still. There may be another lurking,” he cautioned.

      
“He'll get away—and I'm bloody tired of being used for target practice,” Jason replied, shaking off his friend's hand and running toward the alley.

      
“Little wonder your ship was all but shot out from under you,” Drum murmured softly. He had his Egg pistol in one hand and a deadly sword cane in the other.

      
Within moments, it became clear that the attacker had escaped into a warren of old buildings housing several hundred of the city's poorest inhabitants. They made their way back to more familiar territory, where Jason flagged down a jarvey and gave directions to Drum's lodgings.

      
The little dandy was not to be deterred from learning about the earlier attempt on Jason's life in the country. “It would appear you have made an enemy who wants to see you dead.”

      
“Forrestal already tried that, if you recall. I don't kill so easily.”

      
“Ah, yes, Etherington's heir. He might be the one hiring these assassins. I did a bit of looking into his affairs after your duel. You were right in assuming that he staged the confrontation at the Haymarket Room.”

      
“Whatever for?” Jason asked, perplexed, leaning back against the musty-smelling squabs of the coach.

      
“Well, you know how far in dun territory Forrestal is,” Drum said with relish. “Since his creditors have become rather persistent of late, most particularly those who own his gaming vowels, he's been casting about for a way out. Man's obviously quite desperate. Set his sights on marrying an heiress.”

      
There was something in Drum's tone that brought Jason's heavy eyelids wide open once again. “An heiress...has he any particular one in mind?”

      
Drum's thin lips curved in an elegant smile. “Why, none other than your very own dearly beloved Miss Fairchild.”

      
“And she refused, I take it?”

      
“Didn't even get to the gel. He approached her father, but the viscount had already set his mind to the match with his old friend Cargrave's heir. Told Forrestal that the matter of his daughter's future—and her very considerable fortune—had already been arranged.”

      
Jason stroked the beard beginning to bristle his jaw. “So, you think he'd try to get rid of me so that he could resume his suit for Rachel?”

      
“She has quite a reputation as an irascible ape-leader now. If you were not there to come up to scratch, her father would be rather desperate. Might figure he could do worse than make an alliance with the heir to a dukedom.”