Book 2 > Once Upon A Rogue Series
London, England
The Year of Our Lord 1820
Nathaniel Ellison, Marquess of Deering, the fifth Duke of Scarsdale tried to block out the annoying noise flowing from his crowded ballroom into the sanctuary of his billiard room. He gripped his billiard stick and took aim, but it was no use. The second the stick connected with the ball, he knew he was too far to the left.
A deep chuckle erupted from the candlelit corner where his friend Philip De Vere, Earl of Harthorne, reclined in a leather chair sipping on his brandy and waiting to play the winner of the game. “I’ve never seen you miss a shot, Scarsdale.”
Nathan smirked in Harthorne’s direction. He didn’t mind the jibing. It was a long-standing, good-natured tradition. “You’ve never seen me give a ball, either. Did you think you knew everything about me?”
“Hardly,” Harthorne replied, amusement lacing his tone. “For example, I would have sworn you would never invite the ton into your home, but then you astonished me by agreeing to my sister’s request to host a ball here. How did Amelia talk you into this?”
“Sweetly,” Nathan replied. He didn’t care to admit that her story about the plight of London’s orphans had affected him in such an unusual way. It had made him feel compelled to help, and he rarely felt compelled to do anything.
Nathan’s cousin, Ellison, brushed past him to stand in front of the billiard table. He drained his third brandy of the night before speaking. “If you two are done chitchatting,” he slurred, “I’d like to take my turn, so I can wrap up besting you.”
Nathan swept his hand toward their game as he stepped back. “By all means, give it your best shot.” Ellison was always churlish when he drank too much.
As Ellison leaned awkwardly over the table to line up his stick, Nathan’s unwavering and long-established guilt drew his gaze to his cousin’s bad leg, which often made balancing difficult for Ellison. When Nathan looked up, narrowed brown eyes met his, and Ellison curled his lip back from his teeth.
Damnation. Nathan fought to suppress his annoyance. The crowd in his home had already obliterated his patience, not that there had been much of it in the first place. He was in no mood for one of Ellison’s drunken tirades, but he’d put up with it. The price was nothing compared to what Ellison endured every day with his maimed leg, thanks to Nathan. Nothing had been the same since he’d wrecked the carriage they’d “borrowed” from Nathan’s father so long ago and crushed Ellison’s leg in the accident.
“Shelve your tedious, never-ending guilt, Scarsdale,” Ellison growled before turning and taking his shot. The clank of balls hitting and missing their targets filled the room.
From the corner, Harthorne clapped his hands. “Bravo, Ellison. This little game has shown me I’m not the worst billiards player I know,” he teased.
Nathan watched as Ellison gripped the billiard stick so tight that his knuckles turned white. Hell and damn. He could feel the heat of Ellison’s mounting ire.
As Harthorne rose and strolled toward them, Nathan tried to give his friend a warning look, but the moment Harthorne spoke again, Nathan realized the warning had gone undetected. “Until tonight I thought I was the only one who missed such easy shots,” Harthorne said as he clasped Ellison on the shoulder and grinned. “I admit I’m glad to have company in not being an expert billiards player like Scarsdale and my sister’s husband, Aversley.”
“That’s enough, Harthorne,” Nathan interjected. Ellison looked as if he was on the verge of exploding with his now red-mottled coloring.
Harthorne’s eyes widened in belated realization, and he hastily nodded his agreement, but Ellison slammed the billiard stick on the table and scowled at Nathan. “I don’t need a defender, Scarsdale. God knows where you developed that loathsome trait. Your father certainly never defended you.”
Nathan stiffened at the mention of his deceased father and at the idea that Ellison might think Nathan gave a damn that his father had never taken up for him against his mother’s harsh treatment. He may have cared at one point, but he had ceased to give a damn long before his parents perished in the carriage accident twelve years ago.
“You’re inebriated,” Nathan clipped.
Ellison swayed, even as he shook his head in denial. “I can beat you at billiards most every time, even with this bad leg, and you damn well know it.” His sharp words rang in the room.
It was on the tip of Nathan’s tongue to flay his cousin for his crass behavior, but then Ellison grabbed his leg with a wince, and guilt slammed Nathan straight in the chest once again. You did that to him, his inner voice reminded him. Slowly and with the casual air of one who seemed to be contemplating the assertion, Nathan twirled the billiard stick with his fingers as he stared at his cousin and, in truth, debated exactly what to say to soothe Ellison without him knowing it.
“You can beat me when I’m distracted,” he drawled, allowing a bit of the conceitedness everyone expected from him to tinge his tone. Truthfully, Ellison had never won against him of his own accord, but Nathan would take the secret to his grave. Stepping around Ellison and briefly meeting Harthorne’s knowing gaze, Nathan took his shot and purposely missed.
Ellison laughed as he swept back the platinum hair that had been hanging in front his eyes and repositioned himself to shoot. The balls clanked together, and Ellison came up grinning as he motioned to the table. The ball he’d been aiming for disappeared into the appropriate hole. “If only my mother would consider her crippled son besting the Golden Duke time and again in billiards an accomplishment, I feel certain she would regard me with the fondness with which she holds you.”
“I’m not the Golden Duke, and you are not a cripple. And you know as well as I do that Aunt Harriet’s esteem is not for me but for my title and the esteem it brings her with all her simpering friends.”
“So true,” Ellison agreed with a lopsided grin, becoming suddenly affable, as was his typical pattern when he drank. Ellison leaned down beside Nathan as he stared blindly at the balls. His cousin’s pudgy face appeared inches from his. “You are a daunting duke, if not golden, and one with a fierce scowl on his face at the moment. There are several easy shots here, yet you are staring as if you don’t see one.”
Nathan shrugged. “I suppose I don’t have the keen eye you do.”
“And I suppose you do.”
“Do you?” Nathan drawled.
“Indeed. Do you know what else I suppose?”
“I can’t say that I do, but I suspect by your serious expression that you are going to enlighten me.”
Ellison was the one scowling now. “I propose you are throwing the game and allowing me to win.”
“You said propose not suppose. The words carry different meanings.” Nathan parried the truth with drivel, a trick he’d learned long ago from his father when dealing with one of his mother’s moods.
“Don’t try to distract me, Scarsdale. Are you letting me win the games we play?”
“You give me too much credit,” Nathan said. “I’m not nearly that generous or kind.”
“I don’t think so, either, but if you miss scoring this next point, I’m going to know you have been mollycoddling me. And the only creatures I’ve ever seen you mollycoddle are lame dogs. Therefore, I will know you think of me much in the same light as you do that old three-legged hound you rescued some time back. What was his name?”
“His name is Duke,” Nathan replied as he decided what shot to take. It would be simple enough to beat Ellison, though he hated to do it. Obviously, his attempt to help his cousin had backfired.
Nathan moved his stick, tilted his head perfectly to line his shot, and ceased breathing. As the stick slid forward, a shrill, earsplitting sound cut through the background noise of the ballroom music, and Nathan lurched, recognizing Miss Benson’s obnoxious laughter at once. His stick jerked, the cue hitting the ball too far to the left, and his point was lost. Slowly, he turned his head as he stood and tried to think of a reasonable explanation for missing such an easy shot, but when he met Ellison’s accusing stare he snapped his jaw shut at the futility of the endeavor.
Ellison’s gaze fell toward his shoes as his fingers traced a line over the billiard table. “It’s good to know what you really think of me,” he said, so low Nathan almost missed the pitiful words.
Irritation flared in Nathan’s chest, but he tamped it down. “Bollocks. You had to see me lose control of my stick just now when Miss Benson snickered so loudly.”
“I did not,” Ellison insisted in a mutinous tone.
“I saw you,” Harthorne assured in his usual helpful way.
“Woo-hoo, Your Grace, are you in there?” Miss Benson called from the other side of the door.
Bloody, bloody hell. He was in no mood to deal with the chit. “A moment, gentlemen, if you please,” he said before setting down his cue and striding toward the door. No doubt Miss Benson was loitering in the hope of trapping him alone and somehow maneuvering him into marriage. How the lady could conjure so much false hope from one dance of pity more than a year ago baffled Nathan.
Jesus. Did that make him a sappy defender of the downtrodden as Ellison had accused?
That would mean he allowed emotion to rule him, and he certainly did not. No, that had been a momentary slip when he’d rescued her from the wallflower line. It had never happened before, and he would not allow it to happen again.
His own father was a sterling example of the tragedy that could strike a man who let emotions rule him. His father had fancied himself in love with Nathan’s mother, and the poor devil had paid for the weakness the rest of his beleaguered life, married to a woman who, for years, was an unpredictable tempest until she settled into permanent frostiness. Nathan had paid, too, until he’d realized her affection was unattainable. But his father had continued to want her love, despite everything, and she would never give it to him. Not really. She’d give snatches of it, and then she’d become angry and snatch it right back. And her actions eventually drove Nathan’s father away from both of them.
Nathan clutched the door, angry he’d let the memory surface. He could see Miss Benson’s long, pointy nose and spectacled eyes as she peered at him from the opening in the ajar door. With a sigh, he swung it open, but before she could even attempt to enter his private domain, he gently took her elbow and maneuvered her into the corridor. “Miss Benson?”
“Your Grace, imagine finding you here!”
“Yes, it’s quite the leap of the imagination,” he drawled.
She blushed ever so lightly and tugged on one of her tight brown curls. “Your house is enormous,” she gushed. “I became lost trying to find the terrace.”
“Ah, quite understandable,” he lied, his cheek twitching. “It’s located directly off the ballroom and outside.”
She batted her eyes and smiled as if she did not understand how ridiculous she appeared. “Do you mind showing me the way?”
“Ah, I wish I could, but I’ve important business that cannot wait. Follow this corridor back the way you came and one of my many servants will guide you the rest of the way.”
“But—”
“Off you go,” he ordered and gave her an encouraging nudge. When she didn’t move, he gave her the look Amelia had told him was rather daunting. “Your mother would be quite displeased to know you’ve become lost. She’s a stickler for staying on the correct path, I hear.”
Miss Benson gasped. “You won’t tell her?”
“Not if you go immediately.”
Miss Benson nodded, shot him a look of extreme longing that made him wish for the hundredth time that he’d never danced with her, and then she turned on her heel and fled.
As he watched to make sure she did indeed depart Amelia came around the corner with her husband—and Nathan’s closest, and once wisest, friend—at her side, where the poor fool had stayed since becoming shackled by marriage and dull-witted by love. As they strolled toward Nathan, staring into each other’s eyes and oblivious of their surroundings, he first thought about how amazing it was that they did not trip. His second thought was that he felt sorry for Aversley. One day, likely sooner than later, Amelia would crush that heart his friend had so foolishly given her. Nathan had a flash of guilt for helping Amelia win Aversley, but how could he have known the man would turn to putty in her hands? Before Amelia, Aversley had been just as averse to the notion of love as Nathan was.
When it appeared the couple might walk right into him, he cleared his throat, and they glanced toward him in unison. Amelia did not offer her usual lovely smile as greeting. Instead, she scowled at him. “Scarsdale, as the host of the ball, you really should be out amongst your guests and not secluded in the billiard room.”
Nathan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “I’m not secluded. My cousin and your brother are with me. I made it perfectly clear to you that I would host the ball but not linger amongst the guests.”
“Botheration,” Amelia grumbled. “All the trouble I went to help you and you refuse to cooperate!”
“Help me?” He raised an eyebrow at her, a suspicion forming, fueled by the smirk on Aversley’s face. Nathan furrowed his brow. “I was under the impression, given what you told me, that I was helping you raise money to fund a shelter for homeless children.”
Amelia nibbled on her lip as a blush stole over her cheeks. “You were. I mean, you are. But I confess I had hoped to help you meet a nice lady tonight.”
“I know plenty of nice ladies,” he taunted.
Amelia pursed her lips. “Not those kinds of ladies, who you really cannot call ‘ladies’ at all. I’m speaking of the kind who want to give you more than their bodies for pay.”
“Who says I pay?” Amelia was the only lady he would ever banter with this way. She was his closest friend’s wife, yes, but she was different. She was a lady all the way through, but she could joke, laugh, and exchange barbs with razor-sharp wit. And she did it better than most gentlemen could.
“Do be serious,” she scolded. “You know perfectly well I’m referring to you meeting a lady with whom you could fall in love.”
Before Nathan could respond, Aversley spoke. “I told Amelia it would take more than a ball in your home to bring you out of your cave.”
Nathan frowned. “My what?”
“Your refuge, Scarsdale,” Amelia said, then scooted around him, dragging her husband with her.
“Where are you going?” Nathan demanded.
“To hold my brother accountable,” she retorted, barging into the billiard room.
When he entered the room after her, he motioned between his cousin and Amelia, whom she had not met yet as Ellison had been in Bath for the last year getting treatments on his leg. “May I present my cousin, Mr. Hughbert Ellison. Ellison, this is the Duchess of Aversley, and you already know her lesser half.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ellison,” Amelia said before glaring at her brother. “Honestly, Philip. Your only job was to ensure Scarsdale stayed at the ball.”
“He is at the ball, sister dear.”
“Being ensconced in the billiard room does not count as being present at the ball,” she complained. “How is he supposed to meet a nice lady in here with you?”
Nathan caught Aversley’s gaze and shot him a glare for going along with his wife’s ridiculous ploy. Aversley simply splayed his hands as if he’d been helpless to do otherwise. Shaking his head, Nathan strolled over to the sidebar and poured himself three fingers of brandy while Amelia harangued her brother and Harthorne tried to deflect his sister’s irritation. Nathan could intervene, but it served Harthorne right for trying to dupe him.
As he was about to put the lid back on the crystal decanter, Harthorne gave him a pleading look. Nathan poured a second glass, then strode toward the arguing siblings and handed the drink to Harthorne before facing Amelia. “When I want to find a lady to marry, I’ll simply announce my intention. I assure you plenty of greedy debutantes will trip over one another to marry me for my money and titles, so you can quit worrying that I will die alone.”
Amelia arched her eyebrows high as her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I have no doubt you’re correct, though it baffles the mind, really, why women would be such nitwits as to marry a man who clearly does not yet understand what it means to love someone.”
“I understand perfectly what it means,” he corrected. “I simply want no part of it.”
“You don’t mean that!” Amelia exclaimed.
“I never say things I don’t mean, Amelia. Ask your husband.”
She turned to Aversley and he nodded. “Sad, but true.”
“Setting that little fact aside,” she huffed, “I’m not worried you’ll die alone, I’m worried you will spend your life lonely.”
“I do not get lonely,” he replied.
She frowned. “You’ve been telling yourself that lie for so long now that you have convinced yourself it’s the truth.”
Nathan took a sip of his drink, contemplated what she said, and dismissed it at once. She was a woman; therefore, emotions ruled her thoughts. He was a logical man. “I hate to disappoint you, but I have no desire to attain someone’s love.”
“You cannot be serious!” Amelia cried.
“If you had known my mother you would not say that,” he said, then flinched as his words registered in his mind. This was exactly why he avoided personal conversations. Once one was knee-deep in them, emotions took over and one tended to reveal too much. He cleared his throat. “I’ll eventually marry because I have to in order to carry on my line, but when I do pick a bride, I will do so carefully, after I am certain she meets all my requirements.”
Tilting her head, Amelia peered up at him. “Goodness, you sound as if you think picking a wife is like choosing a horse.”
“That about sums it up.”
She shook her head. “You are worse off than I imagined. You’re utterly trapped.”
By God, he knew he shouldn’t ask but he was intrigued by what she thought was trapping him. “What is it you think has me ensnared?”
“Oh, that’s simple. Fear. You are deathly afraid of allowing yourself to want love.”
“Wrong,” he replied. “I cannot be bothered with love. I fear nothing.”
Amelia gazed at him as if she was contemplating what he’d said before she spoke. “That’s drivel,” she stated. “Of course, I don’t know for certain why you fear love. Shall I take a guess?”
Nathan clenched the glass in his hand. He hated talking about personal matters, but he saw no graceful way to exit this discussion without hurting Amelia. Abruptly, he turned to Aversley. “Is your wife always like this?”
“Indeed. It’s quite entertaining, I assure you. You should be so lucky as to find a woman like Amelia.”
“Thank you, darling.” Amelia fairly purred at her husband but her eyes were locked on Nathan, and damn if they didn’t hold a knowing look. The way the lady stared, as if disassembling his personal thoughts, was disconcerting. She took her husband’s arm while still looking at Nathan. “You have a kind heart.”
“Who told you that lie?”
“I’ve seen it with my own two eyes,” Amelia snapped. “You helped Colin and I come together.”
“One moment of weakness.”
She huffed at him. “You danced with Miss Benson when not a single gentleman would even speak with her.”
“One moment of insanity.”
“Men!” Amelia growled and scanned the room. Her gaze fastened on Ellison, who blushed deeply, as he always did when a beautiful woman looked at him. Nathan wished there was some way he could give his cousin more confidence, but he was at a loss as to how to do it. His efforts always seemed to make matters worse, not better.
Amelia gestured to Ellison. “I wager your mother would agree that Scarsdale needs a wife.”
Ellison shook his head. “That would not be a good wager.” His words slurred slightly, betraying his state. Amelia gave him a pitying look that Nathan was sure would set Ellison off again, but his cousin didn’t seem to notice and continued speaking. “She doesn’t take the usual view that Scarsdale has to marry. She only nags me about that.” He poked himself in the chest.
“She doesn’t wish Scarsdale to find a wife?” Amelia’s voice rang with surprise.
Nathan shook his head. “My aunt encourages me to take my time and remain a bachelor as long as I deem necessary,” he offered, not allowing his tone to reveal what he knew to be true. His aunt didn’t push him to marry because she was worried she would have to move out of the dowager house if he took a wife. The only reason he allowed his awful aunt to remain there at all was because Ellison wished her with him. And he would grant his cousin whatever he could to make up for convincing him to climb into that carriage that fateful night so many years ago.
“I wish my own mother would be less concerned,” Harthorne said.
“Take her concern where you can get it,” Nathan automatically responded.
When Harthorne gave him a strange look, Nathan froze. Damn if he hadn’t spoken without thought again. He was not himself tonight.
“Speaking of Mother,” Ellison said, saving Nathan from having to explain the unexplainable outburst, “I almost forgot that she wants to ask you a favor before we leave for the night.” He finished his sentence with a loud hiccup.
Nathan frowned at both Ellison’s behavior and the idea of mingling with all the vain and insipid people in his ballroom. “I’m not venturing out there again. Too many unmarried debutantes.” He eyed Amelia. “I did not have a hand in creating the guest list.”
Amelia narrowed her eyes at his statement, making his lips twitch upward.
When she scowled at him, he chuckled and addressed his cousin. “So, Ellison, what does Aunt Harriet need?”
“She was told of a horse breeder in Newmarket that trains horses for people with…” His words trailed off as he patted his leg. “She’s convinced that if the man is legitimate, I will be able to learn to ride again.”
Nathan wanted to curse his aunt for continuing to push Ellison when his cousin was so obviously scared to remount a horse. And Nathan wanted to curse himself for crippling his cousin in the first place.
“Excuse us,” Nathan said and led his cousin near the window and away from everyone so he wouldn’t feel more embarrassment than he probably already did. “Do you want this, Ellison? If you do, I’ll be happy to go, but if not, I’ll refuse Aunt Harriet’s request.”
Ellison shrugged. “If it will make Mother happy, even for a brief moment, then I want it.”
Nathan cringed. Ellison’s words struck a nerve. His aunt shared more than the blood of a sister with his deceased mother. The women had been the same in personality, too: impossible to make happy and devoid of love.
He stared at Ellison. “But how long will she be happy? An hour if it’s a good day, a few minutes if it’s bad.”
“Scarsdale,” Ellison growled.
Nathan shook his head. “No, let me finish. I don’t want to see you continue to waste your life trying to make your mother, or any woman, happy. It’s an impossible task. You know I understand what that’s like.” He’d been foolish enough once to think he could make his mother love him.
“She’s not like your mother was,” Ellison said under his breath.
Nathan leaned closer to his cousin. “You’re right. Your mother is still alive while mine is dead. I’m free of her sharp tongue, whereas you allow Aunt Harriet to cut you anew every day.”
“Scarsdale, don’t.” Ellison’s liquor-soaked breath swirled in the air between them. “You’re wrong about her.”
Nathan nodded, stepping back immediately and tugging his hand through his hair. He’d promised himself ages ago that he wouldn’t try to talk to his cousin about his controlling mother again, as Ellison always angered when he did so.
A tick started on the right side of Nathan’s jaw. It was this damn ball making him cracked. He didn’t like feeling trapped, and that was exactly how he was feeling. He clapped Ellison on the shoulder and felt his cousin twitch in surprise. Nathan forced a smile. “I’m leaving, but you may tell Aunt Harriet I’ll depart one week from today to meet the horse trainer.”
“You’re what?” Amelia gasped and rushed toward him. “You cannot leave! This is your ball!”
Nathan resisted the urge to tweak Amelia on the chin for her audacity in claiming such a lie. He was positive that touching the duchess, even in a brotherly fashion, would raise Aversley’s temper—his friend was amusingly possessive over his wife—so he quickly added, “My dear, this is your ball, and it just so happens to be in my home. Is it not, Aversley?”
Aversley nodded, which elicited an angry huff from his wife, followed by her muttering, “Traitor.”
“I’m sorry, darling,” Aversley crooned nauseatingly as he moved closer to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “But I did warn you Scarsdale was apt to leave his own home if you pushed him too far.”
The duchess’s jaw dropped open, and she stared between the two of them. After a moment, she clamped her mouth shut, crossed her arms, and started tapping her foot. “And just where are you going? And what am I to tell people?”
“I’m going somewhere I cannot speak of in front of a proper lady, and you may tell them whatever you wish.” White’s followed by a trip to visit his current paramour, Marguerite, seemed like an excellent way to end the night on a high note.
“But—”
“Tell them I’ve taken ill,” he said. “But bid them all to enjoy themselves. As long as they are gone when I return in the morning.”
Amelia frowned. “In the morning? But where will you—” Her eyes grew wide as a blush tinged her cheeks. “I think you enjoy shocking people.”
“No, I just don’t feel the need to pretend to be someone I’m not. And if that shocks or offends, then so be it. Now, if you will all excuse me.” He turned on his heel and made his way to the door. His cousin stood there, appearing as if he was waiting to go with him.
That would be a first, and not entirely welcome tonight, given Ellison’s current state, but Nathan didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Where are you going?”
“To White’s to start.”
Ellison shook his head. “I better not. Last time you were in a mood like this was in the country at Whitecliffe. Do you remember? You introduced me to those two young eager seamstresses who work for that French woman… What’s her name?”
“Madame Lexington,” Nathan replied, slightly irritated that Ellison was bringing up a time he knew was the darkest period in Nathan’s life. A time he’d acted in ways he was ashamed of.
“Ah, yes,” Ellison said. “The only problem with those wenches was they were not eager to be introduced to me. They only wanted to entertain the mighty Duke of Scarsdale. I’m still nursing my wounded pride, so I’ll pass.”
Nathan fought the urge to glare at his cousin, but he knew Ellison likely hadn’t considered how Nathan would feel about the subject. So instead, he simply answered, “So be it.”
“I’m coming, Scarsdale,” Harthorne called and strode across the room.
“Philip!” Amelia moaned. “You cannot be serious.”
Harthorne paused by Nathan and faced his sister. “Someone has to keep Scarsdale out of trouble.”
“Ha!” Amelia retorted. “It’s more likely he’ll corrupt you than anything.”
“She’s right,” Nathan added with a chuckle. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here in the warmth and safety of a ballroom filled with ladies looking for husbands?”
“It’s become apparent to me that they only want a husband with means, which I currently do not possess. So I might as well go out tonight and have some fun.”
“After you,” Nathan said, stepping back to allow Harthorne out the door. Behind them, he could hear Amelia bemoaning the night, her brother, but most of all Nathan for not coming to his senses and for leaving her in such an awkward position. He almost relented and stayed, but then he remembered she had tried to play matchmaker. Grinning, he picked up his pace and showed Harthorne to, and through, the hundred-year-old secret passage that had been created…in case there was ever a need to escape unseen.
~ ~ ~
A couple of hours later, they emerged from White’s with Harthorne leaning heavily on Nathan as he assisted his now-inebriated friend down the steps toward the carriage he’d requested. Outside, the mild temperature had disappeared, replaced by a gusty wind and a chill that caused every exhale to come out in a ring of light-gray smoke.
“I don’t feel well,” Harthorne said on a hiccup.
“One wonders why,” Nathan grumbled.
Harthorne stopped walking and swiveled his head toward Nathan. “I don’t think drinking large quantities agrees with me.” His face did have a greenish tint to it. “Both times I’ve ever done so, I’ve felt briefly unpleasing.”
“Unpleasing?”
Harthorne grinned before hiccupping again. “Beg pardon. Unpleasant. My stomach found the liquor unpleasant.”
“Ah, I see. And what happened?” Nathan inquired, seeing as if Harthorne lost his accounts it would be all over Nathan. He would do a great deal for his friends, but he’d rather not wear their food if he could avoid it.
“I ruined Aversley’s carriage.” Harthorne clamped a hand to his mouth and, after a moment, slowly peeled it away. “Do you think we could walk for a minute?”
“By all means,” Nathan replied waving to his coachman, Wilson, who had been standing at the ready, to wait.
After strolling for a bit, Harthorne decided he was well enough to ride in the carriage, so they headed back toward White’s. As they neared Nathan’s carriage, a gust of wind blew his hat off his head and sent it tumbling across the street and into the shadows. Nathan squinted at the ill-lit street where his hat had flown.
“Shall I fetch it for you, Your Grace?” Wilson inquired.
“No, I’ll get it. I won’t be a minute.”
The men nodded, and Wilson helped a staggering Harthorne into the carriage while Nathan crossed the street and located his hat. As he started back, the sound of wheels turning along the road filled the silence. Nathan glanced to his left, surprised to see a carriage whipping around the corner at full speed. For a moment, he froze in his spot, until he realized the carriage was not going to stop. His heart exploded as he jumped back, out of the way of the driver, who had to have been foxed himself to be driving so recklessly. Nathan gaped at the carriage as it disappeared into the dark night.
Wilson and Harthorne reached Nathan at nearly the same moment. Harthorne gawked, open-mouthed in the direction Nathan had been looking. “Made any particular enemies lately?”
Nathan shook his head. “Not lately. Though I’ve a few men that would probably like to kill me.”
Harthorne guffawed. “I’d say. Lord Peabody complains that his mistress always compares his performance to yours when she was your mistress.”
Nathan pressed his mouth together in distaste. “I’d rather not know Lord Peabody’s failings in the bedchamber.”
Harthorne nodded. “Didn’t look like Peabody’s carriage, anyway.”
“No, it didn’t.”
“Didn’t look like any carriage I’ve ever seen. Who else has you on their kill list?” Harthorne joked.
Nathan shrugged. “I don’t waste my time worrying about who thinks I’ve wronged them. If someone wants to kill me, I dare them to try it.”
Harthorne whistled. “Bold words. Especially considering you did just almost meet your maker.”
Nathan stared at the spot where the carriage had raced by. “Indeed. One more inch to the right and I would’ve been the latest on-dit tomorrow.”
Harthorne slung his arm over Nathan’s shoulder and grinned. “The matchmaking mamas would be bawling over the loss of a marriage prospect such as you.”
Nathan snorted.
“Wha’s that?” Harthorne squinted with one eye at him. “Don’t tell me you plan to never marry.”
Nathan couldn’t help but chuckle at the incredulous note in his friend’s voice. Harthorne needed to relinquish his foolish, romantic notions of marriage. “As I said earlier, I’ll marry,” Nathan confirmed.
“Superb!” Harthorne crowed with brandy-aided gusto.
“To secure my line.”
“What of love?”
Harthorne swayed slightly, and Nathan gripped his friend’s arm tighter in case he should fall. “Love is for fools.”
Harthorne lurched upright. “Are you calling me a fool?”
Indignation rang in Harthorne’s voice, but the grin offset the offended effect of the tone.
Nathan shrugged. “If the cap fits…”
