Ashlyn Macnamara (3 page)

Revelstoke knew him too well, damn the man. “How’s the horse-breeding business going?”

“It’s flourishing.” He nodded toward the pastoral scene just beyond the window. “Ask Julia to show you about the place later, and you’ll see all the improvements we’ve made with the profits. But you’re no more interested in acquiring a horse than you are in attending a house party.”

George snatched up his glass for a fortifying drink. “I was wondering, since you’re doing so well, if it was possible to spot me a loan.”

Revelstoke tore his attention away from the window. “How much do you need?”

Another mouthful. His last. “Five thousand pounds.”

Revelstoke spit out his brandy. “Five thousand? Good God, man. What makes you think I can afford to hand you that sort of blunt?”

“Could you see your way clear to lending me a thousand, say, or five hundred?”

“I daresay you stand a better chance, yes.” He marched back to the sideboard in search of the cut-glass decanter. “But what on earth have you been up to that you need those kinds of funds?”

George studied the pattern in the Axminster carpeting. “This and that. I may have got myself in a bit too deep at cards, on top of everything else.”

Revelstoke eyed his freshly poured glass before slowly setting it aside. “Dare I ask what everything else comprises?”

George shrugged. “A mistress whose tastes run to the expensive, mostly. She insisted on a fairly fashionable address, and I’ve fallen behind on the rent.”

Revelstoke fixed his gaze on George. “Don’t you think it’s time you gave up that sort of living and settled down?”

George stared at the ceiling beams. Dark and heavy, like the rest of the room. “Oh no. Don’t you start, too. Bad enough my mother’s planning on throwing every eligible young miss in attendance in my direction, I don’t need you waxing poetic on the virtues of married life. Besides, you can’t tell me keeping a wife and child isn’t any less expensive than keeping a mistress.”

“But it is. No need to maintain separate addresses, for one thing. No need to staff two houses.”

George wagged his head from side to side. “You’ve come over all practical since you became leg-shackled. It’s downright boring.”

“With the right woman—”

“There you go, sounding like my mother again. I will be the first to commend you on your excellent taste in brides. At least you had the foresight to choose one with wit and cleverness. I’m afraid there aren’t many others like your Julia, though. You’ll have to understand this mere mortal doesn’t possess your luck in that department.”

Revelstoke rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just being absurd.”

“Absurd or not, a betrothal is not going to solve my financial problems. Not unless you’ve invited an heiress or two who might be willing to overlook my long list of shortcomings.” He paused just long enough to allow Revelstoke to reply, knowing full well his friend didn’t
maintain the proper social connections to attract such an heiress.

In the face of Revelstoke’s silence, he went on. “Since no heiresses seem to be in the offing, you might tell me which gentlemen among your guests might be persuaded to play a few hands of whist.”

“Have you learned nothing at all from your current predicament?” Revelstoke pushed his glass away. “You’re in trouble because you played a few hands too many. Another game isn’t going to get you out. It may even put you in deeper.”

“Then how do you propose I get my hands on five thousand? I need blunt and soon.”

A line etched itself between Revelstoke’s brows. “This is about more than a demanding mistress.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because if that were your only problem, you’d hand her her
congé
and be done with it. So perhaps you tell me the real reason you need so much money, and I’ll consider a small loan.”

“You’re right.” George took the decanter and topped off Revelstoke’s glass before pouring himself another measure. Talking about that night inevitably called visions of an old school friend to mind. One who had been in far worse straits than George—straits narrow enough to drive a man to put a pistol in his mouth and pull the trigger. At the memory, George shuddered. “Do you remember Summersby?”

Revelstoke paused, glass halfway to his lips. “I heard. Damned tragedy, that.”

“Do you know why he did it?” When Revelstoke shook his head, George went on. “Creditors hounding him. He got in too deep and couldn’t pay.”

“And him with a wife and young child.” Revelstoke shook his head once more, this time in censure. “This is the sort of thing I mean. You get in too far—”

“The debts aren’t mine,” George cut in. “They’re Summersby’s. I mean to pay every last one. No reason his family should suffer. They’ve been through enough.”

Revelstoke set his glass aside with a clunk and clapped George on the shoulder. “Commendable of you. Never thought I’d say this, but it’s noble.”

“Hardly.” George let out a harsh bark. Some other man might have thought it laughter, but Revelstoke knew him too well to mistake the sound. It was pain, pure and simple. “I mean to ruin every last one of them, starting with the Earl of Redditch.”

Revelstoke let out a low whistle. “Summersby involved himself with that crowd?”

“Unfortunately.” While he might be one of the wealthier men of the
ton
, Richard Marshall, the Earl of Redditch, could seemingly never get his hands on enough blunt. If a man fell afoul of him at the card table, the earl called on the entire family’s power to ensure repayment of any debt. And that was precisely where Summersby dug his hole too deep.

“You might be aiming a bit too high there. If you came here with the intention of meeting him, I’m afraid that family is too well connected for the likes of us.”

George had suspected as much. “No matter. If you can spot me some funds, I can work on turning them into more. That way when I go back to Town, I’ll be ready for the bastards.”

“I’m afraid you’re in for some difficulty there.” Revelstoke clapped him on the shoulder once more. “Julia’s father, you see. She doesn’t want him tempted, so she’s asked me to let all the gentlemen know she’s prohibited deep play for the duration of the party.”

CHAPTER TWO

G
EORGE STALKED
down the path bisecting beds of trailing flowers and shrubs. No deep play. Ridiculous, but he might have guessed. Julia’s father had nearly ruined his family four years ago with his debts. Well, George would find a way around the restriction, if he could interest anybody—preferably someone with deep pockets—in a few hands of piquet. They could retreat to the nearby village.

Pea gravel crunched beneath his Hessians, but not loud enough to drown out the infernal racket coming from the ballroom. Catherine hit yet another off note, and the keening jangled through his brain.

He didn’t even bother wincing anymore. The action was fruitless. Once his sisters started rehearsing, the best remedy for the pain was a large bottle of brandy, preferably taken in Wales. If he set off walking now, he might arrive in Cardiff in a week or two, but that wouldn’t solve his financial woes.

A carriage hound, white with black spots, ambled toward him for a sniff. George scratched the beast’s neck absently while more musical atrocities assaulted his ears. The dog let out a plaintive whine.

Damn it all, was nowhere safe? If he didn’t escape soon, his head would begin pounding worse than if he’d drunk several bottles of Whitechapel gin the previous
evening. Another false note, and the hound threw back its head and howled.

“I know how you feel, old boy,” George muttered.

He raised his fingers to his temples and rubbed. God, he needed to get away. Already the pulse-like current was throbbing in his head, faint for now, but it would not remain so for long. The floral-scented air did nothing to hold off the next twinge. He strode off at a faster pace.

The garden ended abruptly at a high hedge. On its other side, mares grazed in the middle of rolling pastureland while their foals nipped at each other and kicked up their heels in raucous circles. He followed the hedge to the cliff where a path wound its way down to a sheltered cove.

There, at least, the roar and hiss of the surf would cut off the caterwauling from the house. There, he might find a touch of peace for a few hours if he was fast enough to forestall a vicious megrim.

His booted feet had just reached the flat strand of pebbles when he saw them. Sunlight glinted off a pair of golden heads. A child, a small boy of no more than six, ran through the waves, squealing when the cold water lapped at his bare toes. A young woman strolled in his wake. Her watchful eyes belied the ease of her gait.

A sharp gust off the Channel seized her bonnet. With a cry, she grabbed for it, long fingers curling around the brim at the last moment before the wind snatched it. After a fruitless attempt to secure the flimsy bit of straw to her head, she left it to straggle down her back by its ribbons. Her hair blew free of its bindings in long, tattered curls. Like the child, her feet were bare, and the damp hems of her skirts flapped about her ankles.

George caught his breath. He shouldn’t stare, but he couldn’t help it. When she laughed at the boy’s antics, the sound tolled like the pure note of a church bell on a frosty winter morning. The echoes might carry for miles through
crisp air. They fell on his beleaguered ears like a healing balm.

The boy trotted into the surf, letting the waves chase him, while his sister—she couldn’t be anything else, she was so young—stood back, ever mindful. The set of her shoulders betrayed a readiness to act.

The pair still hadn’t noted George’s presence, and he held back, sensing he’d somehow crashed in on an unguarded moment. No young lady would want a gentleman to catch her unshod, her hair unpinned and her bonnet dangling. Who was he to spoil the moment by forcing her to adopt the formality a stranger’s presence required?

Not only a stranger, but a man, and she was hardly chaperoned.

He really ought to return to the main house, but the prospect of enduring his sisters’ performance kept his feet planted on the spot. Here, the air was blessedly free of false notes and the only screeching a child’s joyful cries.

A child, hang it all. A child, such as Lucy was carrying. The thought pounded through his head like the cacophony of his sisters’ singing. It jangled and clashed. He’d never asked to become a father. He wasn’t ready, damn it. What would he do with another soul who looked to him for support, for guidance, for protection? He hadn’t the slightest idea how to be a father. He’d never had a proper example.

A shout drew his attention back to the boy—a different kind of shout, infused with fear, rather than joy. The young woman’s cry followed, its plaintive note drowned in the surf’s roar.

The child’s sodden head bobbed on the surface for a moment before disappearing. He’d run too far. A wave had caught him.

George didn’t pause to consider. He didn’t even bother
with his boots. He pelted across the strand, the pebbles rolling beneath his feet, and plunged into the surf. The water’s icy grip numbed his legs on contact. His chest constricted, and he fought to gulp in air. Now was no time to freeze. He must go on. Must reach the child.

There. The boy’s head surfaced, blond hair darkened and waterlogged and falling into eyes round with fear.

George dived, reached, grabbed at nothing but cold water. On the second attempt, his fingers brushed something solid—a tiny hand. He grabbed for it and hauled the boy upright. The child took one look at him and clawed at his topcoat.

“Easy there, son. I’ve got you.” Somehow he forced the words between chattering teeth.

The boy put his arms around George’s neck and clung as he struggled back toward solid ground. Wave followed wave; each one reached for him in an attempt to drag them both under. The need to keep hold of a quivering body prevented him from using his arms in the fight. The ground melted beneath his feet, threatening to topple him at every footstep and leave him to the mercy of the sea.

The young lady fought her way to his side. They faced each other, waist-deep in the waves, while he gulped in air and she reached for the boy. Her dark eyes stood in stark contrast to the whiteness of her face. They hardened, caught somewhere between a glare and fear.

“Give him here,” she said, hard and abrupt. Dismissive.

Well. The least she could do was thank him for ruining a perfectly good pair of trousers in freezing saltwater so he could rescue her brother.

“Certainly … miss.” A wave crashed into him, thrusting him forward. He lunged to catch his balance and knocked her aside. In another breath, he righted himself. “As soon as we’re on shore, I’d be happy to.”

On closer view, she was older than she first appeared. Her face gave the illusion of a younger woman—drawn on delicate lines to a pointed chin, it appeared almost fairy-like.

He shook his head. Imagine, such a fanciful idea, especially now that her brows had lowered to a full-on glare that emphasized a twin set of lines above her nose. They were etched deeply enough to put her beyond the age of a schoolroom miss. Her soaked bodice accentuated curves more generous than he’d first thought. Lovely, firm, round curves.