Authors: Danelle Harmon
The man nodded and obeyed.
Moments later they were in the mews,
surrounded by cold stone walls and the scent of hay and horses. The
big animals moved about, munching their feed in the gloom while the
rain beat down outside.
"Right," Gareth said, trying to study the
man in the shadowy darkness. "State your name and your business.
Now
."
The man bowed deeply, but there was
something in his manner that set Gareth's teeth on edge. Something
that marked him as an opportunist, a flatterer, a fellow who did
not know his place and aspired to one to which he was not born and
could never pretend to belong. "I am Jonathan Snelling, of
Swanthorpe Manor in Abingdon, Berkshire." He watched Gareth's face,
his eyes sly behind his overly-polite smile. "Perhaps you've heard
of it, my lord?"
Gareth allowed no evidence of his sudden
shock to pass over his face.
Swanthorpe Manor
. Of course
he'd heard of it. In fact, if history had played itself out
slightly differently than it had, he would know it quite well. The
estate, once part of the vast ducal holdings now owned by Lucien
and occupying many acres of good, fertile ground along the River
Thames, had been lost by his grandfather over a card table before
Gareth was even born. It had been years since he'd heard its name,
and the suspicion and distrust he already felt for this sneaking
dog of a fellow increased tenfold.
"You know I know it," he growled. "It once
belonged to my family, before my grandfather lost it gaming."
"Indeed. My uncle was the man playing cards
with your grandfather that night. When he died, Swanthorpe passed
to me."
Gareth eyed Snelling with fresh dislike.
"So. How did you know who I am? I've never seen you before in my
life."
The man shrugged. "Everyone who's anyone
knows of the de Montfortes, my lord. You and your brothers — not to
mention your friends — have cut quite a swath through London.
Besides, if I had any doubts about your identity, I had only to ask
Lavinia to confirm it. You can rest assured that is precisely what
I did."
Gareth tightened his grip on the sword, his
eyes narrowing. He did not trust this man, did not like him, did
not want him anywhere
near
his wife and daughter.
"Go on."
Snelling's eyes gleamed in the faint light,
and Gareth realized that he was studying him as keenly as he was
studying Snelling. "Tell me, Lord Gareth ... are you as good with
fine steel as you are with your fists?"
Gareth raised a brow. "Are you challenging
me?"
Snelling laughed. "Not at all, my lord.
Trust me, I wouldn't care to be on the receiving end of either your
fists or your sword. I was just thinking, that's all — thinking
that I could provide a man like you with a venue to turn that speed
and strength into sterling."
"I am afraid I don't understand."
"Two months ago, I saw you fight a duel with
Lord Lindsay in Hyde Park. And rumor has it that you're a bit down
on your luck right now."
"Is that so?" Gareth asked coldly, wondering
which of his so-called
friends
had let slip
that
information.
"Come now, my lord! Everyone in London has
ears, and a mutual acquaintance of ours — the Viscount Callowfield,
that is — overheard your friends discussing your fate down at your
club earlier this evening. I understand they even placed a few
wagers in the betting book about you. Oh, no need to look so angry,
my lord. Word does get around, you know!
"In any case, the man you knocked senseless
tonight — the big fellow, not the other one who happened to step
foolishly into the way — happens to work for me. I guess you could
say I rather ... well, own his contract. His services. Have you
been to the fights lately, Lord Gareth? If so, you'll know him as
Joe "The Slaughterer" Lumford, the undefeated king of the London
boxing scene." Snelling chuckled. "Undefeated, that is, until you
laid him out cold on Lavinia's carpet tonight. I say, what
ever
will poor Joe think when he comes to?"
Gareth said nothing, watching this man
distrustfully.
Snelling folded his arms. "Anyhow, I was
just thinking, that maybe you'd consider doing a few swordfights
for me. You know, a few county fairs, local matches, that sort of
thing. You'll draw big crowds. And you can make a
lot
of
blunt off this, I'll tell you that right now. Just to make it all
the more appealing, why, I'll make you an offer you can't refuse.
We'll split the proceeds fifty-fifty, and I'll give you and your
family free room and board at Swanthorpe. What do you say, young
man? Sound like a good deal, eh?"
"You're out of your mind!" Juliet cried.
But Gareth had gone very still. He stared at
Snelling, so shocked and insulted by this outrageous suggestion
that for a moment words failed him. Finally he gave an incredulous
little laugh. "You insult me, sir, by even suggesting such a thing.
Gentlemen do
not
engage in swordplay for money, but only for
the settling of affairs of honor!"
"Sixty-forty, then, and use of the Dower
House at Swanthorpe."
"The devil take you, I will not stoop to
such vulgarity!" Gareth cried angrily. "If I thought you were a
gentleman and therefore worth challenging, I'd call you out myself
for even suggesting such a thing to me!"
"I am a businessman, nothing more. But you
take some time, my lord; have a think about it," Snelling said
affably, clapping Gareth across the shoulders before reaching into
his pocket and drawing something out. "Here —" he grinned and held
the object out — "take my card."
Gareth did not accept the card. He did not
even look at it. Instead, he regarded Snelling as he might a
particularly disagreeable piece of offal, then turned and sheathed
his sword.
"If you are not away from here by the time I
turn around, Snelling, I am going to make what I did to your
fighter look trivial compared to what I shall do to you."
Snelling held up his hands in truce, then
tossed the card into the straw at Gareth's feet.
"A good night to you, then," he said,
pleasantly, and with a sly, private grin, turned and left, waving
casually over his shoulder before disappearing into the rainy
darkness.
"The nerve of that rogue!" Gareth cried.
"What bloody cheek! Does he think me some dancing bear at a
traveling show, to be exhibited for money? What in God's name is
this world coming to!"
But Juliet was handing him back his pistol.
"Never mind him," she said, as practical as ever. But Gareth
noticed that her face was very white, her mouth tense. "We have a
bigger problem. A much bigger problem."
"Yes, we need to find a place to stay for
the night."
"Worse." She held out his surtout. "The
envelope containing the money the duke and Perry gave us? The one
we tucked in this pocket?"
Gareth felt everything inside of him stop.
He stared at her, knowing what she was going to say before the
words even left her mouth.
"I think it must've fallen out while we were
running from Snelling. God help us, Gareth, it's gone."
Chapter 21
"What do you mean it's gone?"
"I just looked through both pockets, Gareth
— it isn't here."
He swore softly and checked the pockets
himself, even turning them inside out. She was correct; the
envelope of money was lost. Grim-faced, he took her arm and turned
back in the direction from which they had come. They backtracked
through the rainy streets, desperately searching the cobbles, the
pavements, the puddles. They looked down the alleyways; they even
went all the way back to the brothel.
Nothing.
"That's it, then. It's gone. We're in a fine
mess now," Gareth muttered, ranning a hand through his wet hair.
"Damn it, Juliet, why didn't you mind the thing more
carefully?"
"I thought the pocket was buttoned!"
"It doesn't
have
a button!"
"Well, how did I know that? Besides, there's
no use getting angry with me,
you're
the one who put it
there!"
"And
you're
the one so worried about
money — you'd think that such a person would safeguard it a little
better when it's entrusted to them!"
They stood there in the pouring rain,
getting more and more wet, panicky, and angry. Finally, Juliet drew
a heavy breath and said through her teeth, "That's it then, Gareth.
We
have
to go to de Montforte House, whether you like it or
not."
"No."
"For God's sake, would you please be
reasonable? We have no money, no place to go, and we're standing
here getting soaked; we don't have a choice!"
"No.
You
have a choice.
I
will
not stay there."
"Fine, then — I've made my choice!"
"What?"
"I want you to take Charlotte and me there
at once!"
He stared at her, his nostrils flaring with
ire, his whole manner one of stiff affront. And then he took her
arm and brought them back to the mews, where he saddled Crusader
and led them all back out into the rain. It beat down, cold,
driving, merciless. Charlotte, growing damp despite her protective
covering, began to cry.
Tension mounted. Neither spoke. Tempers
simmered, barely banked beneath set, angry faces.
"Are we almost there?"
"Another five minutes," Gareth replied
tersely. God help him, he'd had enough — of responsibility, of
problems, of having to think too much. In short, of everything that
had happened since he'd spoken the words "I will." Is
this
what marriage was all about?
He took them straight to Lucien's town
house, standing in all its imposing splendor behind a tall,
wrought-iron fence. He shoved the gates open and marched Juliet up
the steps, barely coming to a stop before pounding his fist on the
door.
It was opened by Harris, the duke's
impeccably dressed butler.
"My lord!"
"Harris, this is my wife and daughter. They
will be staying here until I can return for them. Good night."
"Gareth!" Juliet cried angrily. "You can't
just leave us here!"
"You wanted to come here, and so I've
brought you."
"You can't just go off like this!"
"Juliet, I am
not
going to stand here
arguing with you!"
"But what about you?"
"What about me?"
"Where will
you
go, then?"
"Does it bloody matter?"
"Yes!"
"I don't know," he muttered. Retrieving his
damp surtout from her, he turned away, storming back through the
rain toward where Crusader waited just beyond the iron fence.
He never looked back.
~~~~
They were safe.
It was all he could do not to send Crusader
galloping off down the street in relief. The weight of the world
had been lifted from his shoulders and he had his life back, if
only temporarily. No wife, no baby, no responsibility,
nothing
. It was wonderful! It was liberating! It was ...
strange. And with every stride that Crusader put behind them,
Gareth grew more and more confused, not knowing whether to
celebrate his newfound freedom — as was his first impulse — or
drown the weird and underlying sense of loss that went with it in a
bottle of whiskey. Normally, he would've rejoiced. But now ... now,
as his anger began to abate (maybe it really
was
his fault
they'd lost the money; after all, he
had
been the one to put
it in the pocket) and Crusader carried him farther and farther away
from his wife and daughter, he wasn't so sure. He felt empty,
confused, and almost a little lost without them.
What the devil was the matter with him?
He slowed the horse to a walk. The wind
flung a sheet of rain into his face as he turned the corner and
made his way through Hanover Square. He pulled his tricorn low,
watching the water spout from its peaked front in a little stream
that splashed the pommel of the saddle and raced down the dark,
drenched leather. Steam, and the strong scent of horse, rose from
Crusader's wet hide as the big hunter moved easily beneath him.
What a godawful, hellish night.
He went south, uncertain where to go, what
to do. He was wet, miserable, and cold, and his momentary relief
(he could not quite call it euphoria) at having no one to worry
about save himself was already fading. He tried to resurrect it. No
use. He considered going to his club on St. James but decided on
second thought that that might not be such a good idea. Soaked,
unshaven, and looking like the worst sort of riff-raff, he was in
no shape to rub elbows with the elegant gentlemen at White's.
Besides, he had no money.
No money
.
Fear snaked through him, and for the first
time, the extreme gravity of the situation hit him.
He had no money!
What was he going to do?
He could ask his friends if they could lend
him something, but that idea came with its own dead ends. For one
thing, he had no idea where any of the Den members were. For
another, most of them weren't in any better a financial state than
he was, save Perry, who — unlike the others — had come into his
inheritance and therefore had blunt to burn.
Perry. Yes, he'd seek him out. Good old
Perry would help him.
He turned Crusader down St. James toward
White's. The street was wet and shiny with rain, the windows of the
various clubs glowing a warm and welcoming gold through the sheets
of water pouring out of the black sky. He looked at them wistfully.
How he longed to go inside his own, to shed his drenched clothes
and spend the night drying out before the fire, but he wouldn't be
caught dead inside, looking the way he did. It was embarrassing
enough just to have to walk up the steps to inquire after his
friend.