Page 129 of A Gentleman's Wager
“No. I don’t need coaxing. I believe you desire honesty, and this is it. I don’t know if I can give you what you want, and even if I can, are you sure that Bella’s ready to go along with it?”
“I—”
“Have you asked her?”
He had not. Not in the way that Vaughan meant.
“Go to her.” Vaughan rose but bowed from the waist to press a dry kiss to his brow. “Sleep with her. It’s what you want, and I think best when alone.”
-70-
Wakefield
On the last Tuesday of the month, Frederick Wakefield sat in the front parlour of Christopher Denning’s town house, praying for a brief, painless interview. For the second month running he found himself here looking to extend his credit. It was a deplorable situation, but given he already owed Joshua a month’s rent for their lodgings, and he’d received word from his eldest sister only that morning begging for him to send money so that the middle two might remain in school another term, what choice was there?
Denning strode in looking dapper, in a waistcoat of yellow paisley and a finely tailored coat straight off the latest fashion plates. It caused him to seethe so badly it made his teeth ache. Denning wasn’t even a gentleman by birth. He wasn’t sure why that made it worse to come begging to him, but it did.
“Ho, it is you, Wakefield. The tyrant said it was, but I thought he must be mistaken. ‘He can’t possibly be back so soon, Joseph, I said. It’d be dreadfully rum of him to come calling right after I was rid of him.”
“Rid?” Wakefield enquired perplexed. “Whatever do you mean, rid?”
Denning, who had picked up the morning paper to swat a fly, whirled to stare at Wakefield, hand raised as if he might strike. His dense brows furrowed. “You don’t know?” He lowered his arm. “I thought for sure he’d have—never mind. That’s hardly the important point. The fact is, I no longer own your debts. I’ve let them go.”
“Let them go?”
“Sold ‘em.”
“You sold them!” Dear God, he might not like Denning, but at least he was an honest villain. His heart crashed into his nethers, already anticipating bailiffs rifling through his room. “To whom?”
Denning shook out the folds in his broad sheet, which he spread across his unfeasibly large breakfast table. “I’m sorry, I can’t possibly say, it was part and parcel of the terms of sale, but I’m sure they’ll make themselves known to you anon. I’ll be honest with you, I rather supposed he was a friend of yours, paid over the odds for them.”
The only friend he possessed in town was Joshua, and he would certainly have said something. Nor did he have such an amount to spare that he would so rashly choose to splash about. Joshua was careful, a planner, and his funds heavily invested in his industrial interests. Besides, they’d parted ways not fifteen minutes ago, and unless he’d suddenly become a masterful actor hadn’t shown anything but resignation over Wakefield’s planned trip to Denning’s door.
Who else could it possibly be?
His mind strayed across country. Lucerne certainly possessed the means to bail him out, but they’d not spoken since the fight on the stairs. Was this then a gesture of good will meant to coax him back to Lauwine? If it were purely up to his heart, he would fly back immediately. He missed Lucerne’s friendship and pined for Louisa. There was no question of him returning though, not after he’d disgraced himself with Miss Hayes. That one folious lapse in judgement had cost him her love. Not that he had been in any position to accept it.
“At least tell me what he looked like.”
Denning ignored him in favour of ringing the servant’s bell. “There you are Joseph. If you’d be so kind as to show Captain Wakefield out. I’m sorry, Captain, but you’re no longer what I’d consider a sound investment.”
He plodded his way back to the White Boar. It had to be Lucerne… Had to be, which meant he had to find a way to acknowledge that. He was mulling how over a pie and ale when Joshua bounded through the door with a sweat on his brow.
“Have you seen this?” He thrust a grubby broadsheet, rather more smudged than the one Denning had been perusing at his leisure, at him, before sinking onto the wooden bench. “Garret Pryce is missing.”
This was announced with such significance that Wakefield instinctively squared his shoulders even though the name was unfamiliar to him.
“Disappeared from his office on Thursday night so they reckon, along with half the bank’s holdings and their current ledgers. They say he’s run off to France… or Scotland… no it was France. Dammed stupid place to run. Either way, he’s gone. Reckon the old weasel has finally cracked. He’s done nothing but look at ledgers since he learned his figures as a tot.”
“Garret Pryce?”
“Oh, you must have heard of him. Of Watson & Pryce, bankers, and notaries. Well, I suppose it’s just him now. Watson succumbed to the reaper a good eighteen months back.”
Wakefield shook his head.
“Truly?” Joshua settled himself more comfortably and helped himself to a mouthful from Wakefield’s tankard. He signed contentedly at the refreshment, then waved at the owner to deliver him a pint of his own.
“I forget you’re not from these parts. They’re a smallish establishment, but very popular among a certain traditionally focused set. No real nose for industry or progress, but—”
