Elizabeth Powell (29 page)

Nigel turned vaguely green and shook his head.

Jace leaned one shoulder against the cracked marble mantelpiece, his brow creased in a thoughtful frown. “Your man said the matter was urgent, Sebastian. Am I correct in assuming it has something to do with why you’re drunk as a lord? What happened?”

The viscount observed the curiosity on his friends’ faces. He had known these two since they were at Eton, when the three social outcasts had little recourse but to band together against the bullying of the older lads. Black sheep, the lot of them, but their loyalty to each other had never wavered. Although they had had no secrets between
them ever since their school days, it rankled that he had been put in this position.

Before he could say anything, however, Nigel blurted out, “Oh, Lud, you lost to Fairleigh. That’s it, isn’t it?” His lips curled in disgust. “The fellow’s a Captain Sharp! I knew you were in the suds the moment you accepted his challenge.”

“I think your words were: ‘Devil take it, man, your wits have gone begging,”’ Sebastian drawled. “But I did
not
lose to Fairleigh, and you would have known that had you stayed to watch, rather than sporting with that improbably red-haired Cyprian.”

“You won? By Jove! How’d you manage it?” Nigel sat up in his chair, suddenly attentive.

Sebastian raised a laconic eyebrow. “You seem to forget that I cut my teeth at piquet. Fairleigh’s method of marking the cards is so obvious even a child could make it out. He didn’t seem to realize I was on to him until the very end, and the look on his face was worth more than all his vowels put together.”

“Then why didn’t you call him on it?” Nigel demanded.

“I could have, but I do not fancy grass for breakfast, thank you very much. Besides, the possibility that I might let this knowledge slip should be enough to prevent him from gulling anyone else—for a while, at least.” Sebastian frowned and glanced down at his brandy. He was no longer slurring his words, and the pleasant, fuzzy sensation he’d cultivated seemed to be wearing off. Without another infusion of spirits, in a few hours he’d be sober as a parson on Sunday. Blast.

Jace cleared his throat. “Forgive me for being such a doubting Thomas, Sebastian, but you win and lose fortunes
at the drop of a hat. Care to tell us what is this really about?”

“Very well, I shall come to the point.” The viscount made a grandiose gesture with his glass. “My friends, I stand before you a condemned man. My esteemed father, the all-powerful Earl of Stanhope, has declared that I must marry before my twenty-fifth birthday or be cut off.”

A moment of stunned silence greeted this pronouncement.

Jace recovered first. “Your birthday is but two months hence!”

“Exactly so. Two months to find a suitable bride, or I shall be left without a feather to fly with.”

“But you bested Fairleigh last night,” Nigel blustered. “And that was hardly for chicken stakes.”

The viscount shook his head. “What I won is not nearly enough to make up for my string of reversals over the past six months. My father has me over a barrel and he knows it.”

“You’ve suffered reversals before and come out on top,” Nigel pointed out. “He’s bluffing.”

“Would that he were.” Sebastian contemplated the last of his brandy, then finished it off with one convulsive swallow. Try as he might, he could not block out the echo of his father’s derisive statements and the thread of steel that ran beneath them. “He is deadly serious, I assure you.”

“Why now?” Jace wondered. “Forgive my impertinence, ’Bastian, but I find it odd that your father ignores you for the better part of five years, then suddenly barges into your life and makes this astonishing demand.”

“No more so than I. I can only tell you what he said: that he has grown weary of paying my debts, and that it’s
high time I turned my attention to my responsibilities, namely, marrying and producing an heir.”

“There are scores of unmarried ladies in London at this time of year,” Havelock pointed out, “any one of whom would be happy to secure the title of viscountess.”

Sebastian rubbed his forehead; his temples pulsed in rhythm with his heart. Was it his imagination, or had the close confines of his drawing room grown uncomfortably warm?

“Scores of unmarried ladies,” Nigel muttered darkly, “
and
their mamas.”

“How many of them come with a fortune?” Sebastian’s voice grew rough. “I know what my father is doing—he has set these conditions in the hope that I will fail, allowing him to regain control over me. If I must marry, then it must be to an heiress; I’ll be damned if I allow myself to be dependent on him for anything any more.”

Nigel loosed an inelegant snort. “’Pon rep, if you’d gotten leg-shackled to that wealthy widow when you had the chance, you wouldn’t be in this pickle.”

Jace’s booted toe shot out and clipped him across the ankle. “Stubble it, you oaf,” he said with a growl, then shot a significant glance in Sebastian’s direction.

“Ow!” Nigel shoved his chair beyond his friend’s reach. “Well, it’s true. She and her fortune would have been his for the asking, had Bainbridge not stolen a march on him.”

Jace’s scowl darkened; he and Nigel glared at each other until the viscount held up a hand.

“Cease and desist, you two—I have no wish to dredge up ancient history. And you need not concern yourself with my tender sensibilities, Jace. I have long since forgotten about Mrs. Mallory.” Sebastian set down his glass,
careful to school his features into a bland mask so his friends would believe the out-and-out lie. Kit—Mrs. Mallory—the Marchioness of Bainbridge, he should call her now—had been the first woman in a very long time whose company he actually enjoyed. Her wealth and unusual beauty had attracted him at first, but the few weeks he had spent in her company gave him an appreciation of her as a woman. But she had not loved him. Oh, she regarded him as a friend, something most properly brought up females would never consider, but nothing more than that. When he went so far as to propose marriage (a mad gesture if ever there was one!), she had hesitated. Perhaps she had even considered his offer for a second or two. But in the end she had graciously refused, even though the arrangement would have saved her reputation—not to mention his finances.

The news of her marriage to Lord Bainbridge last September had not surprised him; Kit had been head over heels in love with the dashing marquess. She still was. God’s blood, anyone with eyes in his head could see that. He had spotted her in Town a few weeks ago, happy and smiling on her husband’s arm, her belly beginning to swell with pregnancy. A strange, hollow sensation spread beneath his breastbone, but he shrugged it off. He could never have made Kit happy. Ultimately, a rogue like him cared for no one’s happiness but his own.

“So, what is your plan?” Jace prodded.

Sebastian shoved his hands in his coat pockets, heedless of the way the fabric strained at the shoulders. “Gentlemen, I intend to take a logical approach to this dilemma. I need blunt, lots of it. And, somewhere in London, an heiress has her eyes set on a title. I propose a fair exchange.”

“Egad, the thought of any of us leg-shackled to some simpering miss curls my liver,” Nigel stated, shuddering.

Jace waited.

Sebastian paced a few steps from the sideboard, turned—and grabbed for the back of the threadbare sofa as the room seemed to wobble a bit. So much for sobriety! “Believe me, if I thought there was another way out of this dilemma, I would take it in a heartbeat.”

Nigel leaned forward and stroked his chin. “What about the moneylenders?”

“I am already deep enough in debt without throwing myself headfirst down a well,” replied Sebastian with no little sarcasm.

Nigel slumped. “Just a thought.”

“Then what do you need from us?” Jace asked.

The viscount flashed a sardonic smile. “I have not had much contact with polite Society of late, so I need the names of heiresses in Town for the Season.”

“I say,” Nigel interrupted, “what if you were to marry a Cit’s daughter? Plump in the pocket, but completely
outré
. Oho, wouldn’t that send your pater into the boughs? Er … no offense, Jace.”

“None taken. After all these years, you would think I’d be used to it,” Havelock muttered.

Sebastian’s hand tightened on the back of the sofa, his fingers digging into the thinning fabric. “No, not a Cit. I do not wish the earl to take exception to my choice of bride; that would be too obvious. No, she must be well bred in addition to well inlaid.”

“Is the magnitude of the lady’s fortune your sole consideration?” Jace wanted to know.

The viscount thought a moment. “She should be a comely chit—no diamonds of the first water, but no antidotes,
if you please. I should hate to have to consummate the marriage in the dark.”

A half-smile tipped Havelock’s mobile mouth. “Anything else?”

“A sweet, biddable disposition would not be unwelcome.”

Nigel guffawed. “Then for God’s sake, stay away from Lady Blythe Daventry. She has fifty thousand pounds, but you couldn’t pay me enough to put up with that shrew. Gives you her opinion on everything, then expects you to thank her for it. She cornered me at Lady Rowland’s ball last week, and I barely escaped with my life.”

“I would have paid good money to see that,” Jace quipped, snickering.

Nigel ignored him. “There’s also Lady Amelia Winthrop; she has fifteen thousand pounds, but she’s a shy little dab of a thing. Can’t say boo to a goose. And Miss Gray is fetching enough, but I doubt if she has two thoughts to rub together.”

Jace rolled his eyes. “When did you become such an expert on heiresses?”

Nigel spread his hands. “Can I help it if ladies find me irresistible? After all, I am everything a woman could want: charming, handsome, gallant, well bred—”

“—vain, pompous, conceited, and ill dressed,” Jace finished dryly.

“Ill dressed?!” Nigel echoed in outraged tones. “You wound me, sir. I’ll have you know I am considered quite a Tulip of fashion.”

“By whom? The desperately nearsighted?” Jace grinned at him.

Sebastian folded his arms over his chest and sighed. “Gentlemen, if you please …”

The two men exchanged one more good-natured glare and subsided.

“I have one last requirement,” he continued. “I require the lady’s fortune to be in excess of ten thousand pounds.”

Nigel gaped. “Ten thousand? You
are
dipped.”

“Yes, but not that badly. Once I have paid off my debts, the remainder will allow me to live quite well indeed.”

Havelock remained skeptical. “A fair countenance, good breeding, a sweet nature, and ten thousand pounds—are you certain you can find this paragon in only sixty days?”

“I will find someone, Jace; if I have to sacrifice one or more of my requirements, then so be it. Beggars cannot be choosers and all that, but if such a paragon exists, I will make a go of it before I am forced to lower my sights. Within the next sixty days, I will find an heiress, wed her, bed her, and hopefully get her with child as quickly as possible. She will remain in the country to raise our offspring, while I reside in Town. I shall be flush in the pocket; she will be Viscountess Langley and eventually Countess of Stanhope. An even trade, wrapped up in a very neat package.”

“An even trade, if a cold-blooded one,” Jace mused.

“Cold-blooded? Highly sensible, I’d say,” Nigel countered. “You may not have been born to the upper ten thousand, Jace, but you’ve seen enough of Society to know that among the
ton
, most marriages are nothing but contracts. In such cases it’s far safer not to know one’s spouse too well. Have you ever seen my brother, the Duke of Wexcombe, with his wife? Brrr. Now
there’s
a chilly arrangement.”

Havelock’s dark gaze remained on the viscount. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I cannot change what I am, Jace. The less time my wife spends in my company, the less chance we have to make each other miserable. So … will you help me?”

Jace’s clouded expression did not waver. “All right, Sebastian; I’ll help you. But I still think you’re making a dreadful mistake.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, man, leave off your harping,” Nigel scolded. “The situation is bad enough without you playing the role of the Greek chorus. You can count me in, Sebastian.”

The viscount relaxed enough to smile. “Excellent. Now, before we begin in earnest, I suggest you get me out of this stuffy little hole in the wall and into a bottle of brandy.”

“Jane Honoria Rutledge!”

Jane jumped.

Penelope’s peal of laughter echoed through the confines of the small town house garden. “Honestly, dearest, you might at least try to
pretend
some interest in the conversation. La, my own sister thinks me dull as dishwater.”

For the first time that afternoon, Jane was grateful for the brisk spring breeze; at least it would cool her burning ears. She ducked her head and made a great show of smoothing the wrinkles from her poplin skirt. “That’s not true. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Penelope’s laugh subsided to an indulgent chuckle. “You have always been a terrible liar. You were thinking about home, weren’t you? Dearest, Mr. Finley can manage just fine without us for a few months.”