False platitudes.Jordan wasn’t fooled.
“Thank you. It was a shock to all of us.” He doubted Whitehall had spared Bentley a moment’s thought after discovering Jordan’s existence.
Burns shut the study door with a soft click.
“I confess, my lord. I was growing concerned at your continued absence in London. I expected you to arrive to bury your brother. I worried you had decided to reject my offer.”
Offer? More threat. Jordan had little choice but to comply.
“Apologies I kept you waiting.” Jordan shrugged. In his opinion, Whitehall was little better than some thief operating in the rookery, only he hadn’t thrust a pistol into Jordan’s back to get what he wanted. “Business matters.”
Whitehall’s smile faltered at the blatant insincerity. “You should have informed me, my lord.”
“My solicitor assured me he relayed the information.” Jordan’s fingers curled into his palms, struggling with the urge to take out his frustration at Whitehall with his fists. A foolish desire to be sure. Whitehall held all the cards at present, and it would do Jordan no good to let this petty criminal see his hand.
“Business? In Spittal?” The glittering blue of Whitehall’s eyes mocked Jordan. “Did you find a good home for all your pigs, my lord?”
Why did everyone feel it necessary to remind Jordan he’d been a pig farmer while waiting to become an earl?
“Mostly,” Jordan answered.
Turning, Whitehall lifted a decanter of brandy, splashing the amber liquid into two glasses, one of which he pushed across the desk. “You may sit.” Whitehall took his own seat.
Bentley might have been obedient, but this prick would find Jordan far different. He was not some pampered lord who had the bad sense to become involved with Whitehall.
Dunnings and Spittal had molded Jordan into someone far different.
Jordan didn’t sit. Nor did he touch the proffered brandy he hadn’t asked for. Presumptuous of Whitehall, a man who was obviously enthralled with his own power and assured Jordan was trapped by it. Resentment filled him, for Whitehall and his unseen, unappealing daughter.
Whitehall frowned. Drummed his fingers along the edge of the desk. Waited impatiently for Jordan to speak first. An intimidation tactic of sorts.
Jordan clasped his hands and regarded Whitehall blandly, to the other man’s growing annoyance. The ever-efficient Patchahoo had prepared an entire file on Angus Whitehall, criminal and blackmailer. The list of wealthy, affluent gentlemen, nearly all titled, who found themselves ruined by Whitehall was lengthy. He’d used the desperation of others to great effect. Wealth seemed to be his primary objective in the beginning, possibly some petty revenge on his betters. After a time, Whitehall wanted to be part of society instead of merely bleeding it.
Whitehall wanted acceptance. Laughable, really, considering he’d caused the “honorable” deaths of a handful of lords. Put others in his debt forever. Even though his business dealings were by now of a more legitimate nature, Whitehall still demanded favors from his acquaintances, some of whom despaired they’d ever rid themselves of him. His marriage, to the youngest daughter of Lord Maplehurst, an impoverished viscount, hadn’t brought Whitehall any closer to the acceptance he so desperately craved. He’d pushed his daughter into the marriage mart, hoping to use his dead wife’s connections, but to little success.
No one wanted Whitehall at their parties. Or his daughter.
Holding the brandy against his chest, Whitehall took a sip and leaned back in his chair, taking Jordan’s measure. Drummed his fingers some more. Finally, he grunted, “Your solicitor informed me he is reviewing the contract once more. I won’t tolerate another delay, my lord.”
“Mr. Patchahoo is incredibly thorough, which I cannot fault him for, given the circumstances.”
A tiny sneer lifted Whitehall’s lips. “You seek a way out. I assure you, there is not one.”
Jordan had decided at Dunnings there wasn’t a way around wedding Miss Whitehall, but he didn’t care to be reminded of it by the charlatan before him. A great deal of money would be required to dig the Sinclairs out of the hole Bentley had made, and an heiress of Odessa Whitehall’s magnitude would be required. Once the debt was erased and Odessa’s dowry in his hands, Jordan had every intention of discarding his unwanted wife and ensuring Whitehall didn’t invade his existence again.
Patchahoo would scrub every inch of the marriage contract before Jordan signed it.
“How did you come to be acquainted with my brother?” he asked, knowing it couldn’t have been accidental. Whitehall was the type who liked to play with his food, taking stock of his victims and knowing exactly what he wanted from them before pouncing. Bentley’s markers had been all over London, and his financial situation worsening.
“We both enjoyed wagering on horses and happened to be doing so at Newmarket.”
Horse racing. One of Bentley’s favorite pursuits, though he wasn’t a good judge of horseflesh. His brother would have been deep in his cups, bemoaning the fact his horse had lost once more, demanding he be extended every courtesy because he was Lord Emerson. So full of his own self-importance he wouldn’t have seen the trap Whitehall set for him.
At some point in the last year, Whitehall must have realized the usual methods of dangling Odessa’s enormous dowry to nearly impoverished titles hadn’t worked. So he’d resorted to blackmail; after all, according to Patchahoo, it was how Whitehall acquired his wife.
“The previous Lord Emerson wasn’t any better at picking horses than he was at anything else,” Whitehall said in a bland tone. “Begged for my assistance after a time.”
There was no point in debating the absolutestupidityof Bentley Sinclair. Nor would he defend his brother. “And you were happy to offer it.”
