If the Viscount Falls (2 page)

“Perhaps he would if you reasoned with him.” She gestured across the ballroom, and Dom spotted his elder brother standing among his cronies. “It's him you should talk to privately. I don't know exactly what happened between you, but—”

“No, you don't,” he clipped out. “Jane does, and that's enough.” Well, most of it, anyway. There were certain aspects he dared not tell even her.

“She says that George behaved badly,” Nancy persisted. “So if you would just explain to people what he did, perhaps everyone wouldn't be suggesting all these awful things
you
did to cause your falling-out.”

His fingers curled into fists. “Like what?”

She colored. “I don't know—that you were too friendly with your late father's . . . mistress and by-blows. That George didn't approve, so your father refused to give you an inheritance.”

That was bad, but not as damaging as the truth. Father had added a codicil to his will on his deathbed in the presence of George and their half brother, Tristan Bonnaud. George had been so angry over it, he'd burned
the thing the moment Father perished. And Tristan had been so angry over
that
that he'd stolen the horse left to him in the codicil.

Then Dom had found himself in the unenviable position of having to protect Tristan from George's attempt to have him hanged. George had made Dom choose: Give Tristan over or lose everything.

It had been no choice at all. Dom would do it again, except that in losing everything he had essentially lost Jane, too. And not even revealing the truth publicly would change that.

Because while Dom couldn't prove the burning of the codicil, George could damned well prove the horse theft. The arse had kept quiet about it so far, but if Dom broke his silence, George would surely retaliate by hinting that Dom was somehow involved. Then Dom's benefactor, Jackson Pinter, would have no choice but to dismiss Dom from the post as Bow Street runner that the man had generously offered. And Dom would not only lack money, he'd lack a means of earning any.

So he was stuck with the gossip, stuck with his lowered station, stuck with no future. And there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. Except make sure that Jane wasn't equally stuck.

He'd already suffered much because Father and George had neglected to do what was right. He refused to be like them. “It's precisely because of the gossip that Jane must break with me. She'll be seen as sensible. And I won't be any worse off than I already am.”

“Perhaps if you just gave yourself time to get on your
feet. You couldn't marry Jane right now even if you wanted to,” Nancy reminded him. “Papa already said you had to wait until she comes of age. And by then—”

“By then, I will
still
be nobody, damn it!”

Nancy blinked.

Good God, his new life was already changing him; a gentleman never cursed in front of a lady.

“Forgive me,” he went on, “but clearly you don't understand what my future holds. In four months as a runner, I've earned a mere twenty pounds.”

She gasped. Twenty pounds was probably two weeks' pin money for her.

“Sixty pounds a year will barely support
me
,” he went on, “much less a wife and a family.”

“But with Jane's dowry—”

“By the terms of her father's will, if she marries anyone other than a gentleman of means before she turns thirty-five, the money goes to some cousin of hers. Only after thirty-five can she access her fortune without restriction.”

“
You're
a gentlem—” Nancy caught herself. “Well, you were born and bred a gentleman of means, anyway. Besides, Jane's father set up that will to protect her from fortune hunters.”

“In society's eyes,
I
am a fortune hunter. I have nothing to offer an heiress and everything to gain from one.”

A troubled look crossed Nancy's face. “Papa knows better.”

“It doesn't matter. He already made it clear that his hands are tied by the terms of the will. So if I marry
her now, she loses her fortune. My measly income will scarcely enable us to survive. And that's assuming I succeed in my new profession, which is by no means certain. Even if I do, I'll never be able to afford servants or a carriage or any of the comforts she's accustomed to.”

His voice turned grim. “There will be no opera performances for her to attend, no concerts, no pianoforte for her to play.” Oddly enough, that was what he missed most about his former life—the ease with which he could hear excellent music. Now he was reduced to drinking up the strains of whatever spilled out into the street from the drawing rooms of Mayfair.

Nancy chewed on her lower lip. “Jane does enjoy her sonatas.”

“And her waltzes and reels. If she marries me, there will be no dancing. She won't be able to attend balls. She'll have to leave society entirely.”

“How dreadful!” Nancy cast a worried glance through the open doors into the ballroom. “But she could come to parties at our house.”

“To be shunned by her friends? Do you really think your parents would invite a runner's wife and risk the gossip? Would you happily chat with Jane in front of your suitors, knowing that being seen with her would damage your own marriage prospects?”

Given how she blanched, that hadn't occurred to her. “Well, I-I . . . don't know . . .”

“That's assuming she'd have time to visit you,” he said coldly, pressing his case. If he could persuade Nancy, she might persuade Jane. “With no servants,
Jane would have to keep house for us, something she's never done a day in her life.”

“Dear me, that's true. Although she has—”

“I'll be gone for days on end doing investigations, while she is banished from good society and left alone in my one-room lodgings in Spitalfields.” The thought of his fair Jane forced to live in that slum chilled his heart. “And what if I'm killed in the pursuit of some criminal?”

“Heavens, is your work really so very dangerous?”

“More than you think.” More than he'd expected, too. “And if I died, she'd be left alone, impoverished and exiled, with no one to turn to.”

“She would hate that.” Nancy looked downcast. “All the same, I would never abandon Jane.”

“Wouldn't you? What if your future husband didn't wish you to take in your poor relation? What if your father was dead? We can't predict what might happen.”

“Stop it! You're making it all sound so awful!”

“Because it
is
.” He fixed her with a sharp stare. “Nothing lies before me but years of clawing my way up into a position where I can afford a wife.”

“Oh, Dom,” she moaned.

“If she waits until I'm financially secure enough to marry her, she'll be waiting a long time. And if I fail to succeed, she'll have sacrificed her youth for naught.”

He gazed past her to where Edwin Barlow was saying something that made Jane smile. Dom fought the irrational urge to march over and punch Blakeborough's heir in the nose. “But if she jilts me, the whole
world is before her. Her dowry is enough to tempt any gentleman, and her amiable character and her sweetness and her—”

God, how could he stand the thought of losing her to another?

He gritted his teeth. Better that than to watch her become beaten down through years of hard living and worry for him. Or worse, watching her grow to hate him for tearing her away from everything she held dear. Watching their hard life snuff the light from her eyes, drain the animation from her face . . .

No, he must give her up while he still could, while she was young enough to find someone new. It was the only way.

“Don't you see? She should marry someone like Blakeborough's heir, a man with a future. Or even his brother. Barlow is a midshipman in the navy, isn't he?”

“Yes.” Nancy's gaze flicked admiringly over Samuel Barlow's uniform. “But she won't marry him, either. She won't give you up, and not just because she loves you. She already told me she would find it dishonorable to abandon you simply because you've fallen on hard times. It would go against her principles.”

He was quite familiar with Jane's principles, which mirrored his own. But hers hadn't been forged in the cruel fires of experience. His had. “There must be a way to convince her.”

“You'd have to show yourself to be a man of awful character—a thief or a murderer . . . or an adulterer, which is silly, since you're not married.”

An ugly thought wormed its way into his consciousness. “I don't need to be married to betray Jane's trust. If she thought I was intimately involved with another woman—”

“Dominick Manton! Don't even suggest such a dreadful thing!”

“But it would work, wouldn't it?”

“I suppose.” An anxious expression crossed her brow. “Do you mean you would take up with some soiled dove?”

“Of course not,” he said impatiently. “Unless Jane actually witnessed me entering a brothel, which would be impossible to arrange, she would never believe any rumors of such a dalliance. She knows my character too well for that.”

Nancy sniffed. “I doubt she would believe rumors of your dallying with a respectable woman, either.”

“If she witnessed it herself, she'd have to.” He slanted a glance at Nancy. “If Jane actually caught me pressing my attentions on some rich heiress, she might be persuaded to think me desperate enough to go after a woman with money.”

“But how could she see you with an heiress when you don't even go out into society anymore?”

He stared hard at her. “It would have to be an heiress who was in on the plan. Who understood what I was trying to do and knew the importance of it.”

Nancy caught his stare and froze. “Me?” At his terse nod, she said, “Oh no, Dom, I could never . . . Jane would never forgive me!”

“She would if she thought I was forcing a kiss on you. If you were protesting. We could make it seem as if I'd cornered you and was trying to seduce you.”

“No!” Nancy stared off into the ballroom, her lower lip trembling. “No, it would destroy her.”

An ache rose in his chest. Ruthlessly he ignored it. “For a time, she would be . . . hurt. But she'd get over it. She'd rail against me, and you'd support her outrage with your own, and eventually she'd come to see herself as better off without me.”

“Good Lord, Dom. Is there no other way?”

“I can see none. We must use Jane's fixed principles against her. It's for her own good.”

“I doubt she would see it that way,” Nancy mumbled.

“But surely
you
do.”

She sighed. “Yes. Still, it shan't be easy. I'll need someone to help me. Jane will get suspicious if I tell her to meet me in the library, and then you're there kissing me.”

“True. But whomever you find must not drag anyone else into it. We don't want to inadvertently spawn rumors that would ruin
you
. Whomever you choose must keep the truth of it secret once the deed is done, or it will all be for naught. ”

She paced the terrace. “Samuel Barlow will do. He fancies me—or so he says, not that I believe a word of it.” She gave a dismissive wave belied by her coquettish smile. “He's a shameless flirt.”

So was she, from all accounts. Dom searched her face. “Are you hoping he'll marry you?”

“Good heavens, no!” Her laugh rang false. “Samuel
is only eighteen; he certainly isn't ready to set up house. Besides, can you imagine me married to a sailor I only got to see once every great while? I think not. I want a husband who will make me the toast of London, not the toast of some dirty wardroom.”

“Very sensible.”

And typically shallow, though not surprising. Nancy's father had pots of money, all of which had been settled on her. She could easily catch a high-ranking husband. She needn't marry a mere midshipman.

“Do you think Barlow would help us?” Dom asked.

“Of course. I can get him to do whatever I want.” She sobered. “If you're sure about this, that is.”

Dom scanned the ballroom for Jane. She stood alone now, drumming her fingers on a table in a decidedly unladylike fashion. He could practically hear the rhythm, feel it beat in his blood the way
she
beat in his blood.

A soft, absent smile crossed her face, the one she always got when listening to a new piece of music, and the familiarity of it stabbed deep into his heart. Could he really do this? Make her hate him? Make her cut him out of her life forever?

“Dom?” Nancy prodded. “Is this really what you want?”

He numbed himself to the pain. “No.” It would never be what he wanted. “But it has to be done.”

♦ ♦ ♦

A
N HOUR LATER
, Jane Vernon was surprised when Samuel Barlow asked her to waltz. While his siblings
Edwin and Yvette were grand friends of Jane's, Samuel rarely paid her any attention, saving his flirtations for Nancy.

Jane didn't mind that. She was used to being eclipsed by her older cousin, whose golden curls, fine bosom, and flawless skin captivated every fellow who entered her orbit.

Not that Jane remained entirely unnoticed. She'd had an admirer or two, despite her deplorable plethora of freckles and unmanageable red hair. But around Nancy, Jane had felt like a clay pot beside a Wedgwood vase.

Until Dom.

Jane's pulse leapt at the thought of her handsome fiancé.
He
saw her as Wedgwood. He might be quiet and enigmatic, but his eyes lit up whenever he spotted her. A woman could always trust a man's eyes. Although lately . . .

Lately,
everything
was a problem. After being disinherited, Dom had retreated into himself. He kept talking about how she was too good for him now, how she would lose everything if they married.