Page 119 of A Gentleman's Wager
Sighing, she shook her head. “You make it sound so simple, but it is not… It is not, and I am hurt… And I want him. But it’s impossible. He won’t ever ask for me because I am too wealthy, and when he finds out what I have done, he will never forgive me either.”
Vaughan’s gaze rolled toward the heavens. “God, did two sillier fools ever exist? He will forgive you. Of course, he will forgive you. It’s what we do when we are in love. We forgive.” He rose to his feet upon the bench and looked down on her. “And if he does not, then tell him I forced you. He will be only too desperate to champion your honour then.”
She blinked up at him through hot tears. “What use is that? He would only call you out again, and then you would kill him.”
Vaughan made a motion as if enacting a rapier swipe, then lowered his imaginary blade. He climbed down from his stage and sat beside her once more. “I thank you for your conviction, I do. But it would not come to that. Lucerne would step in and stop it. He’d have us both arrested before the pistols were even out of the case.”
Louisa sniffed and Vaughan handed her his handkerchief. “That still doesn’t change anything. I’m still too flush with funds.”
Vaughan patted his thighs and rose once again to his feet, he paced a few steps, kicking through the skeletal leaves. “Perhaps you should take up gambling. I’m sure Charles would be only too delighted to assist.”
“That is an unhelpful and rather petty remark,” she replied sharply.
Vaughan grinned. “I am you know—petty, and rather unhelpful. Except, for when great fancy takes me.” He began to walk backwards down the path.
Louisa stumbled after him a pace or two catching hold of his coattails when he turned. “Wait, where are you going?”
There was a sense of purpose about him that had not been present before, an energy palpable in his stride. “To settle a few accounts.” He tugged his coattails from her grasp. “Go back to the house, Louisa. Tell Lucerne I’ll be back in a day or two, no later than Saturday. Then, go frig yourself to the memory of coming on my tongue while you are still able to do so without succumbing to crushing guilt.”
“What? You don’t make any sense,” she called after him.
He merely lifted his hand in a gesture of farewell.
-64-
Denning
A loud rumbling woke Christopher Denning from his repose. He carefully opened one bleary eye, then the other, and squinted at the canopy over his bed. He noted with some small concern that his left arm was dead, trapped beneath Francis Lambton’s accursed head. Moreover, his friend was naked, apart from the sheet.
What nonsensical raillery and rumblegarie had they been about yestereve?
Certainly, he possessed no recollection of offering to share his bed with Lambton, who was famous for his infernal snoring. More confusing yet was the fact that he was still fully clothed apart from his coat and shoes.
Somebody began to rattle the bedchamber door from the other side. Denning gazed at it rheumily. It was probably Joseph, his man, and damned if he was going to let a hangover put him off his breakfast. The door came unstuck as he managed to extract his dead arm. It flopped at his side, tingles starting to awaken in his fingertips.
Denning quickly shut both eyes and feigned sleep. The tyrant, as he was affectionately known, strode purposefully across the wonky floor to the window and threw back the long drapes. Bright stinging light flooded the room, prompting anguished groans from Lambton and himself.
“Dammit, Joe, have a little mercy in the morning.”
“It’s two o’ clock, and mercy is a quality we are both supposed to lack,” said a voice not at all like Joseph’s.
“Hell’s teeth!” Denning sat abruptly, his wits snapping back into place. “Pennerley, what the devil are you doing here?”
He could not think of a single instance that would bring the marquis to his door. Hell, it was only rumoured that he was even in the county. Beside him, Lambton grumbled and pulled the sheet over his head.
Pennerley, spruced as if he were come direct from St James’s palace, perched on the end of the disarrayed bed, and nonchalantly picked up a bun from the breakfast tray he’d just set down. Transfixed, Denning watched him slice and butter it, then carefully set the knife down.
“I thought I might come and pay my respects,” he said, tossing Denning the bun, which he belatedly remembered to catch.
“Did you send a card? I haven’t seen it. Thought you were still abroad. Joe!” he called, wiping his now buttery fingers against the sheets. “Damned fiend, did you lose the marquis’s card?”
“I never sent one.”
Denning settled his back against Lambton and chewed the buttered bread. “What do you want? Not a social call at this hour.”
“Business.” He shot a calculating glance at Lambton, who contentedly snored.
“He’s safe to speak in front of, even when awake. Consider him my silent partner.” Or more accurately his sleeping one, for Lambton was never quiet. “How can I help? A small sum to tide you over?” Denning smiled avariciously. Men only came to him for one sort of business, and Pennerley was the last man he’d ever expected to get a hold of. He’d heard nothing about town of him harbouring monetary woes, and he always, always listened to the gossip. It was the means by which he had attained his current position, having started as the humble seventh son of a clergyman. Still, some men were more circumspect than others. The marquis had expensive tastes. It would be a pleasure doing business with him.
