Page 7 of When the Marquess Was Mine
“Indeed,” murmured Hobbes. “Mr. Bigby was in favor of admitting him when he first called, at half eight this morning.”
God almighty. He’d have to speak to the butler about that. Rob scowled at his valet as he poured water into the basin. “Don’t ever suggest that again.”
“No, sir. It did require some effort to persuade him to return at ten.” Hobbes stood by with the towel while Rob took a deep breath and plunged his throbbing face into the cold water. It wasn’t the best remedy, but these were desperate times.
“Send for Tipton,” he said when he’d pulled his dripping head from the basin. “I want him within the hour.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And Heathercote,” he added. If he had to be awake and thinking about his respectability, Heath could damned well help him.
“Yes, my lord.”
An hour later, Rob sat at his dining table eyeing his cook’s cure for drunkenness. A veritable tureen of weak tea, a cup of strong coffee, and a boiled egg sat before him, lined up in the proper order. His head still felt like it was inside a drum, so he grimly picked up the tea.
“You summoned me?” drawled Heath, strolling into the room. Only the slightest wobble in his gait gave away that he had spent the previous night as Rob had done, drinking himself blue.
“You’ve got me into a load of trouble.” He drained the first cup of tea. The footman silently stepped up and poured another. “Go on,” he told the servant, who bowed and left the room. “Did we wager houses the other night?”
“The devil if I know,” said Heath, staring at the cure in disgust.
“Did you win a house?”
“No.” He thought for a moment. “There’s a strange barouche in my mews, though. Not quite certain where it came from.”
Rob groaned. “Trade me—the barouche for the house.”
“Not on your life.” Heath paused, an arrested look on his face. “Wait... Yes, now I recall. At the Vega Club. You won Winston’s house. Marlow thought you might set it up as a brothel.” He laughed.
Rob cursed and drank off another cup of the tea. It wasn’t helping his stomach, but his head was starting to clear. “I don’t want a brothel any more than I want a house.”
Heath laughed again, and Rob threw a spoon at him. Too late he realized the spoon might have been used to stir some sugar into the vile tea. It must be made of rotten vegetables and old hay from the stable, steeped through a footman’s dirty stocking. “My mother says I must make things right,” he said, staring into yet another cup. Two more to go, by his calculations.
Heath stopped laughing at once. “God above. How did she find out about it?”
“Gossip.” He lifted the tea to his lips. “Apparently I came off as quite the callous wastrel in the telling, and now I have to mend matters.”
Heath sat as Rob choked down the tea. “That will cause trouble, West.”
He snorted. “Already has.”
“No, no.” Heath leaned forward, his voice dropping. “My uncle has been quite pleased with our progress with Forester. He wouldn’t be happy if you got distracted by some silly gossip.”
Rob scowled. He did not want to disappoint Lord Beresford, Heath’s uncle. He’d given the two of them a clandestine assignment: monitor Frederick Forester, a merchant out of Liverpool. Forester’s shipping firm was violating an act of Parliament, but Beresford had been frustrated in all his attempts to put a stop to it. No matter how many times Forester’s ships were caught with contraband, they always managed to wiggle off the hook. Beresford believed Forester had allies in the British government. He’d put his nephew on the case, to see if more subtle means could trip up the man, and Heath had asked Rob to help.
Now that the wars were over, it was about as dashing a task as a young man could find, playing a spy of sorts. It fit well with his eventual, though vague, intention of doing something in government. And all he had to do was be a rake of the first order. Rob hadn’t needed to be asked twice.
“Surely Her Grace will get over her upset?” Heath pressed.
“You’ve never met my mother. If I must choose between her displeasure and Beresford’s... make my apologies to your uncle.” He poured more tea, wanting it done with. “The solicitor said I should give the deed back to Winslow, even though he was fool enough to lose it.”
“Give it back!” Heath reared back in amazement. “It’s a debt of honor!”
“Heath,” said Rob with complete honesty, “I do not want the bloody house. The sooner I get rid of it, the sooner we can continue with Forester.” He bolted down the last cup of tea.
“Mr. Tipton, my lord,” announced the butler, not a moment too soon. The solicitor, this time his own, appeared in the doorway, and Rob waved him to a chair.
“I have a problem,” he said, clutching the cup of coffee as if it were salvation. After the tea, it probably was. “It seems I have acquired the deed to a house.”
