Read BlackJack (A Standish Bay Romance Book 1) Online
Authors: Christine Donovan
BlackJack (A Standish Bay Romance Book 1) (29 page)
Christine Donovan is an
International Bestselling Author. She lives on the Southeast Coast of
Massachusetts with her husband, four sons and four cats. When she is not
writing or reading, she is either painting or gardening. Visit her at
www.christinedonovan.org
Thank you for reading BLACKJACK
.
I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please help other readers find this book:
Send this book to a friend who you think might like it so
they can discover me too.
Help other readers find this book by writing a review.
Sign up for my new releases e-mail by contacting me at
[email protected]
,
so you can find out about the next book as soon as it’s available.
Come like my Facebook page.
https://www.facebook.com/authorchirstinedonovan?ref=hl
Follow me on
Twitter.
https://twitter.com/cmdonovan
Previous Books by
Christine Donovan
A Seabrook Family Saga, Book I
Available Now
CHAPTER ONE
London 1816
“It appears, Your Grace, you have bested me and left me
destitute.”
Thomas Seabrook, the Duke of Wentworth, met the eyes of Mr.
Charles Hamilton, known as the New Bedford Whaling Tycoon, and could not shake
off the prickling sensation which plagued the back of his neck. The Englishman
had amassed his fortune in America during the past twenty years yet looked
anything but upset at his loss. And it was a fortune indeed. Thomas could not
even begin to contemplate his good luck. Deep down, however, intuition warned
him to proceed with caution.
“Mr. Hamilton,
how is it you came to be here today?” Thomas leaned back in his chair, his
fingers steepled on the table in front of him. He tried his best to appear
relaxed and unaffected by the turn of events. “I’ve never had the pleasure of
your company before. Nor have I heard rumors of your passion for the gaming
tables. I do believe, sir, you were in over your head. Because of this, I will
take the monies you lost, at least what is on the table. But I must pass on the
rest.”
Gasps came from
Thomas’s two friends at the table in a small private room at the back of
White’s. Thomas ignored them. How could he, in good conscience, take everything
this man had worked for his entire life? True, Thomas’s family was desperate
for coin, thanks to the foibles of his late father, but he could not profit to
this extent at the expense of another. Besides, he rarely indulged in games of
chance. He had seen too many gentlemen of the
ton
lose everything in the
gambling hells––their self-respect, properties, and fortunes lost in the
shuffle of a card or the roll of bones.
Often gambling
led to disgrace, scandal, and sometimes worse. He would not be responsible for
this particular gentleman’s fall, could
not
subject this man’s family to
what still haunted his on a daily basis.
Edward
Worthington, the Marquess of Amesbury, spoke quietly into his ear. “Wentworth,
do you realize what you are passing up? Here is your chance to regain your
fortune and make the necessary repairs on your holdings. And bugger all, he
might call you out. You have insulted his honor. Have you taken leave of your
senses?”
Myles
Fredrickson, the Baron of Norwich and heir to an earldom, added his two pence
worth. “Have you forgotten your sisters’ dowries or your brother’s commission?”
Thomas had not
forgotten anything. Bloody hell, how could he? Yet the tingling that had begun
on his neck now spread down his spine. He never ignored his intuition and knew
that no good could come of it if he ruined this man. Yet how could he, as a
gentleman of the
ton
, ignore honor and integrity by refusing his
winnings? And disgrace both Hamilton and himself in the process?
Hamilton
abruptly pushed his chair back, crossed the room, and knocked on the closed
door. From the room beyond a servant handed him a large packet, a packet Mr.
Hamilton then held out to Thomas. “I’m aghast that you would insult my honor in
the presence of these two gentlemen. I insist you accept from me what you are
due. I believe, Your Grace—” He dropped the packet on the table, the sound of
it resonating around the small room. “These now belong to you.”
Without further
ado, he bowed, turned, and left the establishment.
With unsteady
hands Thomas drained his glass of brandy, tucked the papers into his waistcoat,
and left without a word to his friends who tried to congratulate him on his
good fortune. They could attribute his rudeness to shock, which indeed was the
truth.
When he stepped
outside, the cold blasts of wind and rain that shrouded London in midday gray
did not register, nor did he remember that he had left his greatcoat, gloves,
and hat at his club.
Thomas signaled
his driver. Once settled within his carriage, he stared at the packet in his
lap, ignoring the damp chill clinging to the inside of the coach.
***
The rest of the
day and into the evening Thomas sat at the mahogany desk in his study at his
home on Cavendish Square, a brandy bottle in hand, now half empty as he swigged
it straight. The papers he had acquired, spread across his desktop, did little
to ease his foul mood or the crushing weight upon his chest. Through it all,
the gruesome picture of his dead father haunted his vision.
His father’s
years of wasteful spending, drinking, and whoring had contributed to his
declining health. Dead at the age of fifty-one, in the decimated body of a
ninety-year-old. Thomas shuddered as he remembered finding his father, lying
dead on the floor of his study. His wasted body and the putrid stench of vomit
had hung sour in the air. He gagged even now as he remembered.
***
Several days
later found Thomas back at his desk, his mind still contemplating his altered
situation. The arrival of his valet, Giles, interrupted that.
“Excuse me,
Your Grace, there is a gentleman here to see you.” Giles reached out to hand
the duke a calling card, but Thomas waved it off.
“Read it for
me.”
“Yes, Your
Grace. A Mr. Charles Hamilton begs leave to see you. Shall I send him in?”
Thomas caught
Giles’s critical gaze as it scanned the cluttered room.
“Perhaps you
should meet him in the blue drawing room?” Giles suggested brazenly.
“Give me five
minutes and escort him to me here.” So what if his study looked lived in? He
had nothing to prove to this stranger.
Devil take
it. What can the man want with me? And do I care?
He pondered
this as he buttoned up the top three closures of his starched white shirt and
tied his cravat. Thomas might be a duke and used to being dressed by his valet,
but he was far from helpless. He tied a damn fine knot if he did say so
himself.
Thomas scanned
his study for his waistcoat before remembering he’d come down from his rooms
without one. He had thrown all propriety to the wind the past several
days––barely eating, bathing, or changing his clothes.
He put his
bottle of brandy, his only trusted companion, into the deep drawer of his desk
and waited for his visitor to be presented.
Though his
friends Amesbury and Norwich had called each day since the fateful card game,
he had refused to see them. What must they be thinking? That he finally needed
to be committed to Bedlam? A knock sounded on the study door.
“Enter.”
Giles led Mr.
Hamilton into Wentworth’s study and closed the door quietly after a silent bow.
The small rotund man, several decades Thomas’s senior, was dressed impeccably
in shades of brown. But if one looked closely, as Thomas did, the man’s skin
looked grayish. He appeared to be terribly ill.
“Excuse the
intrusion, Your Grace.” His visitor bowed his head.
“Please sit
down, Mr. Hamilton.” The man sat, and Thomas continued. “What is your purpose
in coming here?”
Was he here to
reclaim his losses? Hope fluttered wildly in the duke’s chest.
“I’m here to
see to the future of my estate and holdings in America.” Hamilton held up his
hand. “Before you interrupt me, let me explain several things to you. I played
you the other night. I wanted to lose to you. I wanted to get to know you in a
familiar setting. See for myself what type of gentleman you are.”
Hamilton
paused. “Your father and I were close friends during our younger days. After my
family was disgraced, my father hung, and all titles and holdings stripped by
the Crown, your father gave me money to start over in America. He was new to
the title and had many obligations for those funds, yet he would never let me
repay him. I’m repaying him now by saving your family from financial ruin.”
The duke opened
his mouth to ask a question.
Hamilton
ignored him. “Please let me finish. I’m also being selfish, for my daughter’s
sake. I am dying. I’m not sure I will survive the crossing back to Boston, and
I need you to take control of my businesses and the guardianship of my
daughter, Emma. Everything is explained in these papers––everything you need to
know about my daughter and my businesses and holdings. There is also a private
letter for my daughter. Please give it to her upon her marriage or when she
turns twenty-five.”
“But—” Words
escaped Thomas as his world shrank down to his own pounding heartbeat and the
gentleman facing him with so much pain and sadness in his eyes.
“I realize,”
Mr. Hamilton continued as he rose from his chair, “all this comes as a surprise
to you, but I assure you when you read the private letter addressed to you, you
will understand my reasoning. All I ask is that you do not disappoint me where
my daughter is concerned. Take her under your wing, introduce her into Society,
and arrange a good marriage for her. I have made you my heir, with a
substantial amount in a trust for my daughter.”
Hamilton
hesitated, clearing his throat. “But whatever you do, you must not let her find
out about our family’s past, about our card game, my illness, or how I die. And
no one other than your immediate family and the two trusted friends from the
gaming table must know any of this. It would ruin all I have planned for and
done if the
ton
finds out my daughter’s real origins.”
Mr. Hamilton
rose, took a step toward the door, and turned. “I will not have her suffer for
my father’s sins.”
***
Thomas could
relate to Hamilton’s comment about a father’s sins. Did not his whole family
suffer for their father’s sins? Against his will, voices from the past echoed
around him. He could hear his own voice choking back the words he’d uttered to
his mother after he found his father’s body. The scene began to evolve.
Christ,
not again
. He would not relive the finding of his father’s body again.
Thomas guzzled
the remainder of the bottle of brandy. More fiery liquid trickled down his chin
and onto his shirt than reached his mouth. He hurled the bottle against the
fireplace.
The loud crash
of it shattering gave him little pleasure.
The following
day, a note from Mr. Hamilton’s barrister dangled from Thomas’s shaking hand.
Mr. Hamilton
is dead. Suicide.
How long he sat
there Thomas had no idea. He started when his study door burst open. His
burning eyes rested on Amesbury and Norwich, who held their noses as they
entered the room.
“Good
gracious,” Amesbury bellowed as he wrinkled his nose. “When was the last time
you bathed? Damn, Wentworth, my eyes are stinging.”
He pushed aside
the burgundy drapes and opened the window to let in fresh air. Amesbury
approached the sideboard and held up the empty bottles, then swung around with
brows raised in silent question.
“Not a drop
left, and, by the condition of this place, I’d say you haven’t left this room
in days
.”
Amesbury left the sideboard to lounge in the chair opposite
Wentworth’s desk. “My God, man, for someone who’s always impeccably turned out,
you’re a mess. Three-day beard, dirty, disheveled hair, soiled, ratty clothes.
I’m almost embarrassed to call you my friend. Did Giles leave you for another?
What brought this on?”
Thomas glared
at his friends. For some reason brandy had lost its appeal last evening. Today,
though he didn’t look it, he was alert and sober, and he agreed wholeheartedly
that his study reeked. But how dare they come in uninvited and criticize his
appearance?
“Why are you
two here?” Thomas demanded, his voice hoarse from lack of use and from abusing
the spirits he’d consumed. He tried not to squirm in his seat as four eyes––two
brown, two green––narrowed on him. “Damnation, will someone speak? I’m not
horseflesh to be appraised for sale at Tattersall’s.”
“Well,” Myles
began, head cocked to one side, “we were just wondering what is so bad you have
yourself wallowing in self-pity. Did you not just come into a fortune?”
Thomas leaned
forward in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. How fortunate were these
friends who insulted him without consequences. Being a duke had its advantages
and downfalls. Too many of his peers sucked up to him and agreed with anything
that tumbled out of his mouth because he was a duke. It was not so with these
two.
Instead of
explaining events, he handed over a copy of the Last Will and Testament of Mr.
Charles Hamilton and the private letter addressed to him that had arrived with
it. Patiently he waited for their reaction as both his friends read the
documents.
Myles didn’t
even try to hide his amusement as he handed back the papers. “What are you
planning to do? Have you spoken with your family?”
“Do I look like
I have?” Thomas shook his head. “They are due to arrive any day, and I’ve not
decided what I’m going to do.” He slowly rose from his desk and paced the
floor, his hands behind his back. “I might just forget the whole thing. I am
considering contacting Mr. Hamilton’s solicitors in New Bedford to have them
sell off everything and send the funds to me here.” He paused, rubbed the
stubble on his chin, and winced. “As for the girl, there must be someone
willing to take her in.”
“You mean to
ignore a dead man’s wishes?” Amesbury asked with a sudden intake of breath.
“You cannot be
serious, Thomas,” Myles said.
The shock in
his friends’ voices puzzled him.
“Don’t ‘Thomas’
me. When I became Wentworth, I asked you to continue calling me Thomas and you
refused, so don’t ‘Thomas’ me now. Besides, what do you expect me to do?” He
slashed the air with his arm. “Never mind, don’t answer that. But what would
you do if you were in my place?”