Page 28 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
He was well aware of the other lords snapping to attention, studying him with interest. They never mentioned individual ladies, because speaking of a particular female might indicate an interest in her, which might portend a trip down the aisle. They were all confirmed bachelors. At least until they were ready to obtain an heir. For years they had bemoaned the fact that his untitled state kept him free of such responsibility. He would never be required to marry, to take a wife. He never had to suffer through lectures on his duties to his heritage.
Strange, though, how they craved his carefree bachelorhood that would never have to come to an end while he would have given anything—gladly taken on a wife—to possess their untarnished bloodlines.
“I suspect so,” the earl murmured distractedly, studying the displayed cards.
“You don’t know for certain?” Drake didn’t bother to hide his skepticism, although he managed quite well to disguise his irritation at the less than satisfactory answer.
“She’s off caring for an infirmed aunt.” Somerdale picked up several chips and tossed them into the pile. “I’ll raise fifty pounds.”
“When did she leave?”
“Mmm. Late last night. Uncle arrived shortly after we returned home. Apparently Auntie is quite ill. She and Ophelia are rather close, always have been. Ophelia spent considerable time at Stillmeadow growing up.”
“Stillmeadow?” He was generally more adept at conversation but he wanted to get to the matter at hand as quickly as possible.
“Our uncle’s estate. A few hours north of London. He’s the Earl of Wigmore.”
“And they arrived safely?”
Somerdale finally looked up, his green eyes—not quite the intense shade as Ophelia’s—homing in on Drake. “I should think so, yes. I’ve not heard differently. Why the interest?”
Because I dragged your sister out of the Thameshung on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back. Instinct. Preservation. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but alarm bells were ringing. Somerdale could be lying. A little tale he’d made up after trying to do his sister in. Only why would he try to kill her? She came with an appealing dowry, but as Avendale had pointed out, Somerdale’s own pockets weren’t all that flush. Their parents were gone. They had no other siblings. Her dowry would no doubt go to him if she died. People had killed for less. His father had.
“Thought perhaps he’d be keen on having a membership in the club if he’s only a few hours away.” Distance was no deterrent to those who indulged in vice. Although he did hope Somerdale would fail to notice the erratic course of their conversation, that when it had begun Drake could not have known it would end here. Considering how much scotch Somerdale had downed, Drake was surprised the man could follow the cards, much less the direction of their discourse.
Somerdale chuckled. “Not Wigmore. He doesn’t gamble, he doesn’t drink. He’s quite the paragon of virtue.”
“Still, I should like to send him an invitation.” He removed a small black book and pencil from his jacket pocket. He used it to keep a list of things that needed to be tended to around the club. He opened it to a blank page and passed it across the table. “If you would provide the details for the post.”
With a shrug, Somerdale took the offerings in hand and began scribbling out the address. Drake would send a message, determine if the uncle was safe at home. If not, he would alert Scotland Yard that they needed to search the river for another body. It was quite possible that leaving in the late hours of the night, they’d been set upon. Or perhaps Somerdale was not the gentleman he appeared.
When Somerdale handed back over the book and pencil, Drake tucked them away.
“May we get on with the play now?” Avendale asked laconically.
“Actually, I just remembered a matter that needs my attention.” Drake signaled to one of the footmen. “Randall, take over dealing.”
A spark lit the man’s eyes. They all wanted to become dealers or croupiers. This was the first step.
“Surely whatever it is can wait,” Langdon said. His father, too, was a murderer. The knowledge should have made Drake feel more equal to the heir of the Claybourne title. But the Earl of Claybourne had killed a man who justly deserved killing. The same was not true of Drake’s mother. She’d deserved nothing but kindness and it had been denied her.
“Your responsibility is to begat an heir; mine is to see that the club makes profits. Yours is a far more pleasurable task.” He stood. “Gentlemen, enjoy your play.” He jerked his head toward another footman. “Gregory, I have need of you. Come with me.”
With Gregory trailing behind him, he strode through the room, down the stairs, and into his office. His pitiful attempt at a reference letter remained where he’d left it. He balled up the nonsense, tossed it in the wastebasket, and began anew.
This time involved the careful penning of an invitation to the Earl of Wigmore. He placed it in a vellum envelope that bore the emblem that represented Dodger’s Drawing Room. Then he sealed it with wax. He handed it over to the young footman. “I want this delivered to the Earl of Wigmore personally, to no one else. Only him. If he’s not there, I want you to ferret around until you discover if he ever returned from London.”
“Yes, sir.”
Taking the small book from his pocket, he found the location of the earl’s estate and passed it over to Gregory. “You’re not to tell anyone that I asked you to do this or to say a word about the additional information I seek.”
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t need to remind the footman that his position here depended upon his discretion. Drake had the power to hire, let go, and promote. He was obeyed without question, had been since he’d taken over the reins of running the establishment from Jack Dodger.
He then retrieved some coins from the safe and dropped them into Gregory’s waiting palm. “For your journey. Whatever is left over is yours to keep.” Considering the amount he’d handed over, a good deal should remain. “Hire a horse. Based on the distance, I expect to have your report tomorrow evening.”
“Yes, sir.”
