Midnight Bride (4 page)

"Charles, just the man I was looking for," he said in his heartiest voice, taking his friend's arm. "I'm looking for someone to blow a cloud with. We even have time for a quick hand or two." He smiled his winning smile.

Just then a voice rang out from above them.
"Charles, darling boy.
Why didn't' you stop by my room to see me before you came down?" They looked up to see Louisa tripping down the stairs, her blonde locks covered by a lace dowager's cap that matched the lace on her gray-blue silk gown.

"I forgot. I had to wait to see Elizabeth," he said quietly through clenched teeth.

"Well, where is she? Jeffries is ready to announce dinner and she isn't down yet." Louisa laid her soft white hand in its lace mitt on his arm and patted his cheek in a way that always embarrassed him.

"She's not coming. She said to tell you she will be having her meal in her room."

Both his cousin and Hartley looked at him, the hostility in Charles's voice evident. Louisa patted his arm to get his attention. "Did the two of you argue again?" He nodded, already ashamed but still angry. "Charles, how could you?
And on her first day at home."
Then determined that even that little unpleasantness would not spoil her evening with such handsome young men, she said soothingly, "Now, take me into dinner as soon as I have greeted the others." She moved away to speak to Viscount Dunstan, a face she remembered from Elizabeth's Seasons.

"It was her fault," Charles muttered, too low for Louisa to hear because she was talking to Dunstan, but Hartley heard it well.

Later that evening, after Louisa had gone up to bed and the men were gambling and finishing off the port, Hartley smoothly maneuvered Charles to a table far enough removed from the others to make their conversation private. Seating Charles with his back to the others, Hartley took the place opposite, his pale blue eyes checking the room once again. As he glanced at another table, he frowned as he watched Dunstan pull in yet another winning pot. He had lost more than he could afford to the viscount that afternoon. His eyes narrowed.

Hiding his thoughts, he turned back to Charles, who slumped over the table. The young man, having consumed more than his share of wine at dinner, was almost castaway.

"Tell me, Charles, what's disturbing you? You haven't been yourself all evening," Hartley said in as encouraging a voice as possible.

"My sister," Charles began and then stopped, putting a hand over his mouth. He burped. Then he smiled. "Elizabeth told me have bad manners." He frowned again.

Hartley asked quietly, "Elizabeth?" Charles nodded and then held his head. "Older sisters can be such a problem."

"Problem,' Charles agreed, slurring his words
. "
Think they know what's best for everyone."

"Especially for younger brothers."

Once again Charles nodded.
"Tries to choose my friends.
Thinks you—" He paused and reached for his glass. Finding it empty, he reached for the bottle. It too was empty. He started to haul himself out of the chair to get one of the full bottles on the table nearby.

Hartley grabbed him, pulling him back into his seat. "I'll get another. You stay here." His eyes almost half closed, Charles simply smiled. Hartley used the few seconds that it took to reach the other table to consider Charles's remark. He would simply have to be more careful. With all his charm, he assured himself, he would be able to win all the ladies to his side. He had done so before. He hurried back to the table and poured Charles a fresh glass. "Tell me what started your argument?" he
asked,
his voice sympathetic.

"Not arguing with you. Like you. You're my friend." Charles sank farther down in his seat. He smiled like a happy baby.

"Not me.
With your sister?"
With effort Hartley kept his voice soothing, his contempt for the younger man carefully hidden.

"Thinks she's in charge here since my father left her life interest.
Don't remember I own it.

Always trying to be in charge.
Can't even arrange a marriage properly.
Messed that up.
Chose a stupid man.
Now she'll live here forever." Charles emptied his glass and reached for the bottle again. "I'll never be able to see it. Hand in glove with Mama, that's what she is.
My mama, not hers."
By this time Charles was mumbling almost incoherently.

"What about your mama?" Hartley asked, prodding him awake.

"Won't let me join up.
If Elizabeth were a boy, she could join. My mother never denies her anything. Not fair. She's my mother.
Should love me best."

"And she doesn't?" Hartley took a quick look around the room to see if they were being observed. Dunstan raked in another hand. Couldn't the man lose?

"No. If she did, she'd marry Elizabeth off so I could sell this place. Or she'd buy me colors herself. I know she told Elizabeth not to give me the money. Elizabeth helped me before.
Bought me a hunter.
Doesn't mind sharing her money."
Charles straightened up some. "Not jealous.
Everything'll
be fine when get rid of the trustees. Then I'll do what I want. No one
stop
me," he mumbled.

"Your sister has more money than you?" Charles nodded. "But she's a girl. How did that happen?"

"She's older. At least that's what lawyer said. I'm the heir, but she has money—lots and lots. Her mother left her pounds and pounds." Charles sighed, once again caught up in self-pity. "Not even that'll get her married off down here. All available married." He lifted his glass.
"Needs to get married.
Then I'll get rid of this place. And be off.
To the Peninsula."
Proud of himself for completing the thought, Charles smiled and held out the empty bottle. "Find another."

Across the room a chair was shoved back from the table. "No more tonight, Dunstan. Fm cleaned out. Accept my marker until we are back in town?" The young man ran his hand through his hair as if embarrassed to admit his lack of funds.

"Certainly.
Anyone else want a game?"

A chorus of groans broke out. "Not now. You've the luck tonight."

"Every night."

At the table where Hartley and Charles sat, the older man sat up straighter. He glanced over at the table where Dunstan now sat alone, thought for a moment, and then turned to Charles. "You want to get your sister married, don't you?" His companion nodded and then regretted the action. "How would you like Dunstan as a brother-in-law?"

"Dunstan? Never offer. His grandfather has plans for him."

"We'll make certain he will have no choice. Then the manor will be yours," Hartley said, smiling coldly as he began to develop a plan.

Across the room, Dunstan now sat alone. The viscount glanced around the room, wishing he were in London or at Clarendon. Had his superior been a little later that evening at the club he could have been. He had been playing cards with Charles and a few others when Charles had issued his invitation. Dunstan had been about to refuse it when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Lord Seward, standing behind him. "Can I see you for a moment, Lord Dunstan?" the older man had asked formally. "I have a message from your grandfather."

Amid groans and murmurs of consolation, Dunstan followed him across the room to a more se- eluded corner. "Sit facing the room," his superior had
said,
his gray eyes stern. Dunstan obeyed. "Did
Beckworth
include you in his invitation?" Dunstan nodded. "Accept it. No, Î know it is not what you will like, but we need you there. The place is little more than an hour from the coast. Make a habit of riding out alone in the morning. Someone will be in touch with you." Dunstan sighed and agreed. He had pushed his chair back before getting up when the older man stopped him. "Make certain you seem one of the
group
."

"What does that mean?"

"Do what they do. Play deeply, lose occasionally, and let them see you in your cups. Sobriety frightens some people," Lord Seward said, his tone implying more than his words.

Those words now echoed in Dunstan's ears. He sighed, remembered the message he would be carrying back to London, and called for another bottle.

Hartley glanced over at Dunstan, his hand curving around the stem of his empty glass. He watched as a footman filled the glass again, leaving the bottle on the table. His eyes narrowed dangerously, Hartley inspected the room. Then he sauntered over to the largest table and separated the two youngest members from the group as easily as a sheepdog cuts ewes from the herd. "Dunstan looks lonely. Why don't we join him?" he asked, smiling sardonically.

"Too serious," the youngest complained.
"Won't play with me anymore.
Said he wouldn't take my vowels.
Almost called him out over that."

"Me too.
Told me to wait until I sobered up," the other added. "Not had as much as he has this evening."

"Maybe that will make a difference. He is a bit on the go tonight," Hartley said encouragingly.

"Still no money.
Meant what he said."

The older man slapped them on the back and smiled, at least his mouth did. He drew them to the side of the room, talking quietly. Finally they nodded.

"Give me your vowels," Hartley said, pulling from his pocket the roll of blunt he had won from Charles. "Keep him busy for a while. I'll join you shortly." He watched as they crossed the room and sat down with Dunstan, their young faces shining with mischief. They he rejoined Charles.

"Shouldn't have gotten angry at Elizabeth," the younger man said, his words badly slurred. "Never mean to." He slumped forward on the table.

Hartley leaned over and pulled Charles back in his chair. He signaled a footman. "Tell my valet I wish to see him in my room," he said quietly. "And get your master some coffee." When the man hurried away, Hartley walked around to Charles, his face serious. "I want a fresh pack of cards. I'll be back in a moment."

In his bedchamber he found his valet waiting. "Mix up one of your potions for Charles
Beckworth
, something to sober him for a time. And do not tell me how late it is. I know.
On your way."
He waited until the door closed behind his man and then took a vial from a case on his dressing table. A short time later he was across the table from Charles again.

During the next half hour or so, he dealt one hand after another, pushing pen and paper toward his host and accepting his vowels. He also made certain Charles drank only coffee and the potion Hartley's valet provided. By the end of that time, Charles was no longer sagging so disgracefully in his chair. His quarrel with his sister hung heavily on his mind.