Page 5 of The Heiress Gets a Duke
Back against the riser, she watched his opponent plant a boot into his muscled thigh. The Hellion grunted in pain. When the man pulled it away, the thigh of the Hellion’s breeches was dark red with blood. August brought her hands to her mouth to stifle a cry of dismay. The last thing she wanted to do was cause another distraction. A flash of light glinted on a metal spike embedded in the sole of the opponent’s boot.
“No!” she yelled along with many others in the crowd. That had to be against the rules.
The sharp metallic sound of the whistle came again, only this time it was much closer and accompanied by panicked shouts.
“Bloody hell!” Henry yelled near her ear. He must have jumped down from the platform when she’d fallen. “Someone’s called the bobbies.”
“Come on!” Camille pulled on August’s arm, tugging her to the wall and toward the side door.
“What is happening?” August asked, reluctant to leave the man hurt.
“The police are coming!”
“He’s hurt!” August cried.
“We have to go. We cannot be caught here. He has people to help him.” Camille continued to pull her along.
She was right. Already the men in suits who had accompanied the fighter had gathered around him, and even Leigh had jumped down to attend to him. Knowing there was nothing she could do, and very aware of the need to protect their reputations—if that was even possible at this point—she followed Henry and Camille out the side door and down the dark alleyway, hoping they knew where they weregoing.
Chapter 2
The time for levity, insincerity, and idle babble and play-acting, in all kinds, is gone by; it is a serious, grave time.
Thomas Carlyle
If he made it through the next hour, Evan Sterling, Duke of Rothschild, planned to reward himself with a bottle of Lochnagar and an evening in bed with a woman. The festivities would have to commence in that order, unfortunately, because his thigh was on fire after climbing that flight of stairs. He would need the whisky to dull the pain from the injury he had sustained last night before enjoying any other entertainment. Clenching his jaw against the agony, he tightened his grip on the silver hawk’s head of his walking stick and made his way to the study on the second floor of Sterling House, his mother’s London residence.
Decades of stale cigar smoke mixed with bay rum assaulted him as soon as he stepped into his father’s antiquated lair. The man had been dead for over a year, and yet the smells lingered, soaked up by the wood paneling and Persian rugs. Habit, born over a lifetime of disappointing his father, caused Evan’s stomach to churn uncomfortably as soon as he entered the room.
“Apologies for my tardiness.”
His solicitor, Andrew Clark, came to his feet with almost military precision. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. No apologies necessary.” The apology had been for his mother, but Evan inclined his head to Clark anyway. The man was young as solicitors went, but he’d come highly recommended. Evan had let his father’s longtime solicitor go shortly after he’d come to understand the full scope of the debts the estate had amassed. Much to his chagrin, the situation had not improved since he’d inherited.
“Morning, Mother.” Evan leaned down to place a kiss on his mother’s cheek, grimacing as he transferred weight onto his leg. She cast a quick look at his cane; that look was equal parts disapproval and concern as she murmured a greeting.
“Don’t say one of the stallions got the better of you again, Your Grace.” Clark smiled, causing his lips to twitch with nerves.
Evan cursed inwardly. Clark had overcome his nerves when dealing with Evan and his mother months ago; the fact that they had made a reappearance indicated that this meeting would go even worse than Evan had previously feared.
“That is precisely what happened.” The lie fell stiffly from his lips. Apparently, Evan had used the errant horse excuse to explain away an injury too many times. One of many he had been forced to utter over the past year to explain his unusual ailments. “The heathen threw me in a turn, but I will tame him yet.”
Wilkes had disappeared in the chaos of the police arriving, but Evan had vowed to find him. Not only to answer for the damned spikes on the soles of his boots, but he owed Evan for not finishing the fight.
“If you don’t mind me saying, perhaps you should stick with betting on horses at the track. You seem to have the devil’s own luck when it comes to the races.”
Evan gave a slow nod as he took his seat behind his father’s desk, indicating that Clark should sit. A lance of painseized his thigh, and he briefly debated starting the whisky early. “Sage advice.”
“Indeed,” said his mother, reaching for the teapot to offer him a cup. He shook his head, and she grasped her own cup and saucer.
Evan suspected her tea had been heavily laced with brandy. She despised these meetings almost as much as he did. He resented that she had to endure them, but she insisted. If his father hadn’t spent the two years previous to his own death locked away while mourning William’s premature death, perhaps the family might not be in this mess now. Or even if he had listened to his sons and invested in manufacturing, they might have something left to sustain them.
“Go on, Clark. Let us have the monthly report of our accounts.” He could not help the acerbic turn of his tone any more than he could stop the constant hemorrhage of their coffers.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Clark spread open the leather-bound account book and in a strong, precise voice began to read out where they stood.
The numbers changed by the month, a little up, a little down, but the end result was always the same. Foreign grain could be imported cheaper than their farms could produce it. Drought had only worsened the predicament. His mother had cut back her expenses as much as she was reasonably able to without appearing a beggar to her friends. Evan had given up his London terrace and had a small suite of rooms at Montague Club. Residing here with so many memories of his father lurking about wasn’t an option.
They had no funds. The little he was able to bring in with fighting, gambling, and investments only went out again to keep the creditors at bay. To make matters worse, his sisters—twins!—would have to make their debut next year. He hadn’t a clue how he would afford the gowns and accoutrement necessary for the occasion, not to mention the eventual trousseau that would follow for each of them.
