Page 8 of When the Marquess Was Mine
“Indeed, my lord,” said Tipton without blinking.
“I don’t want it.” He took a cautious sip of coffee and exhaled in pleasure at the taste of it. “I need to return it to the man who lost it.”
Tipton’s eyebrow quirked, but he only repeated, “Indeed, my lord.”
Rob sipped more coffee, beginning to feel restored. “How do I do that?”
“Well.” Tipton shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “I presume this acquisition was made at the gaming tables.” Rob nodded once. Tipton spread his hands. “Then it ought to be a simple act. One might wish to add a stern word about wagering valuable property, of course.”
“So I can give it back to him?”
Tipton nodded. “I don’t see why not.”
“That’s brilliant. Precisely what I needed to know.” He paused, glancing at Heath, who was watching with a mixture of disbelief and dismay. “Simply handing it back makes it rather easy on the fool who lost it, don’t you think?”
“Aye,” muttered Heathercote.
“Especially a fool who’s gone about London telling people I defrauded him of it.” Rob scowled at that memory.
Tipton’s eyebrows shot up. “Fraud, my lord?”
“The devil he has,” exclaimed Heathercote.
“He has.” Winslow deserved to squirm until he apologized and retracted his slanderous charges publicly.
“I wouldn’t give him a stained handkerchief,” Heath was saying. “You can’t appease that sort of thing!”
“No.” He stared into the coffee. That damned cure might actually work; he felt more like himself than he had in days. “I won’t give it back tohim. The idiot will probably just wager it away again. No... I’ll give it to his family and make them aware of what he’s up to.” If they were anything like his own family, Winslow would suffer far more, for far longer, if his wife or mother knew what he’d done. Rob did not want that house, but he did want to make the man writhe and agonize over his actions.
Heath burst into laughter. “Oh, that’s too good! West, you’re positively fiendish.”
He smiled over his coffee. “Tipton, find out where this Winslow lives.”
And that was how Rob found himself rattling northward the next day toward the hamlet of Maryfield in Derbyshire, looking forward to giving Sir Charles Winston—not Winslow—a very memorable lesson.
Tipton had tracked down Winston’s solicitor and demanded the actual deed to the house, using the scribbled note Hobbes had located in the pocket of his jacket as leverage. Part of Rob had hoped the lawyer would refuse to give it, which would have let him off the hook. But, somewhat disappointingly, the lawyer had meekly handed it over.
Heath had refused to come, despite enjoying the prospect of the revenge Rob would have. Marlow pleaded family obligations. Clifton couldn’t even be found, and Sackville said he’d rather take holy orders than go.
Piqued, Rob decided he did not need his friends’ company; he could travel faster without them anyway. By a happy coincidence, Maryfield was less than fifty miles from Salmsbury Abbey, the Rowland seat in Lancashire. With only a small detour he could return to London by way of Salmsbury. Like his father, he also enjoyed a spot of good fishing, and after such a journey, he’d have earned it.
It would also prove to his mother how extremely attentive he’d been to her wishes, and prevent her from sending the duke after him. Rob would drive to Scotland and back in a poultry wagon to avoid facing his father in a temper.
As the miles passed, however, the diabolical pleasure of this plan began to wear thin. It was three days’ journey to Derbyshire, and even though his travel coach was outfitted with every luxury, Rob had never wanted to spend three days inside any coach.
Dust drifted in the windows and the sun beat through the shade. He cursed the narrow confines of the coach. He wished for his horse, even though he’d never subject his favorite gelding to this long a trip. The road was rutted, jolting him about so hard his head banged on the cushioned wall. This was a fiendishly brilliant idea, but it had clearly rebounded and was now causinghimenormous inconvenience.
By the morning of the third day, when there remained only twenty-some miles to go, he took one look at his carriage, which seemed to have shrunk in every dimension since he left town, and decided to risk a hired mount. The stable master led out a strong-looking animal, and he accepted it at once.
The sun still blazed, but at least he was out in the open air. He threw some necessities into the saddlebags, and told his coachman and valet to take lodging at Macclesfield, the nearest town of any significance. He expected to spend a few days in Maryfield, then continue on to Salmsbury Abbey.
It was afternoon when he reached the hamlet, barely a village at all. A brief stop at an inn called the Bull and Dog to water the horse confirmed he was nearly there; Osbourne House was only three miles distant.
He began to think he’d be doing Winston a favor by keeping this house. Not only was it leagues away from anything resembling civilization, the locals were rude and lazy. His query about the best road to take had been met with suspicion and hostility. They demanded to know who he was, and when Rob informed them, there was none of the usual eruption of solicitude, and no offers of guidance.
He was not used to that. Normally his title flattened everything in its path, spurring even the laziest lout into action. This time they all but turned up their noses. He discarded his plan to spend a few days here recuperating from the journey, rusticating with some potent country ale. He would spend the night and be on his way, even if he had to hire the sorriest nag in Derbyshire.
The road to Osbourne was a lonely stretch of narrow, sunken lane, bordered by hedgerows on one side and a wide muddy ditch in front of open meadow on the other. The sun seemed to have got hotter since he left the village. He stopped at a signpost and lingered a moment in the shade of a gnarled hawthorn to doff his hat and wipe his brow. It had been a long time since he’d been outside so much. He ought to have kept the carriage. His throat itched for a mug of ale, or a good glass of claret.
