Page 31 of The Marquess' Wicked Wager
Albert stiffened then brushed a wrinkle from his jacket. “Gossip like spinsters all you like; you will not delay your defeat forever.”
“I think we’ve struck a nerve.” Moreton tried his hand again, but Albert leveled him with a gaze so full of exasperation the man shrunk to half his side and began the game.
“His Grace and Worthington were here a few nights ago,” Mr. Beauchamp called. He was a short, stocky man with no more than three blades of hair, but he was rich beyond belief, and a renowned card sharp. “What a shame they could not attend this evening.”
“Do you make it a point to keep track of my acquaintances?” Albert groused.
“Your father had quite a few things to say of your betrothed. The entire room was colored with the conversation of Miss Worthington.”
“And colorful it was,” Gerring added.
“He was quite intent on claiming her back from you from what we could gather—on making her his own before you soiled her.”
Albert was burning with anger. He looked away, not wanting to engage further. One wrong move, and the room could explode with fighting. Maybe gunfire.
“This is your father’s den,” Gregson whispered from beside him. “We don’t need to stay.”
“We will see this game through to its end first,” Albert mouthed. “One day, I will be their maker. I will wipe the smirks from their faces and make certain they do not forget it.”
And by some miracle, he did just that. By the end of the game, he had secured a hundred sovereigns from Moreton and the promise of a Clydesdale mare from Beauchamp. He rose from the table feeling quite like Caesar—veni, vidi, vici—and he watched his back carefully as he exited the hall.
By the time he had made it home, the moon was in full incandescence over London. He trailed lazily out of the carriage, having dropped Gregson off a few doors down. His townhouse seemed sad for all its splendor, the windows awash with loneliness. Albert had found a surprising amount of joy in Edna’s company at the engagement soiree, and every day spent without her seemed boring in comparison.
It is only because you are lacking for female company, he meditated, as part of your agreement. And the thought brought him no small measure of comfort.You will not lose yourself in the rules of this engagement.
His butler greeted him at the door, and a footman took his coat and hat. “Call for Charles,” he ordered, and the footman ran off. With a nod, Albert turned from his butler.
“A word, My Lord,” the man said.
“Go on,” Albert commanded, fearing the worst.A wordwas not spoken by his household unless it concerned his father.
“A lady called for you while we were out. A Lady Rees.”
Albert smacked his lips. “And what didA Lady Reeswant?”
“She left you this, My Lord.” The butler swiveled to the entrance table from where he plucked a small missive. “She asked that you take a careful look over it.”
The missive was heavy despite its size, and Albert had never seen one of its like. It had no seal, nor any address, but Violet’s calling card had been tucked inside… along with something else. He turned on his heel and made his way up to his sleeping chambers.
With a sigh, he sat down on his bed. Thankfully, Charles had beaten him to it and had stoked the fire. Albert pried open the missive, revealing a pamphlet of some sort from inside.
“Madame Murmerinton’s Musings,” he read on the front page, and then he gasped.Good God...it was an excerpt from a scandal sheet and a laboriously full one at that.
He flicked through its pages, fearing the worst, and then, the worst came to pass, for he read, aloud, at the top of a page titled,The Tatlings,“What does a Marquess know of love and passion? The Viscount W. must look carefully at his garden where he has planted a most beautiful English Rose. Among the flowers lies the egg of a viper.”
Did they all write with such opacity? He wondered then read some more.
“The prize-rose of the garden, Miss E. W. of Knightsbridge—”He stopped short.E. W. of Knightsbridge? There were not so many houses on that road that belonged to a viscount, and even few where anE.W.took up residence.
They were writing ofEdna—of Edna and vipers in their midst, ofweeds and marquesses. Was he a weed? Or a viper? He hoped he was neither. He hoped the whole thing was a joke at his expense.
He continued, his fingers curling nervously around the article.
“Miss W. of Belgrave is soon to be wilted—or jilted. The hatchling viper is stirring, the ever-desirable A.R. of Craster, and it has caught the attention of a gardener with its misdoings. That’s right, misdoings! The hatchling plays for the rose but lauds over the dandelions, and this one is named S., rhyming with Missy.”
Sissy, his old lover. But what on earth did she have to do with any of this? He had not seen Miss Serendipity Hargrove in nigh on three years! What was the scandal sheet suggesting? That he had been entertaining two women at once? That he was a philanderer? Worse, a liar?
A hatchling viper. Even worse. That he was just like his father.
