In short, Mal was a mercenary. At least that was the consensus of his siblings.
“He’d say you’ve become a fop,” Drew’s beautiful, outlandish sister retorted with a raised brow.
Tamsin resembled their mother so strongly that at times he was struck by the sight of her. She was beautiful. Fierce. Overprotective to a fault.
And somehow involved with the Duke of Ware.
Drew toyed with the idea of broaching the subject of Ware during the journey to River Crest, because he wasn’t sure what the bloody hell was going on. Tamsin and Ware were pretending an attachment of sorts all because a moth had landed on Tamsin’s knee at a ball. Lady Longwood as well as half the guests had witnessed the incident which necessitated the farce. Tamsin’s reputation would not be destroyed and Ware wouldn’t have to be honorable.
At least, that is what Miss Maplehurst explained to Drew, frustrated when he didn’t grasp the concept of thevagueattachment.
That must be why Tamsin had rushed into the house the other day, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, absolutely furious and looking like a woman who’d been kissed senseless.
Vague attachment indeed.
Aurora stood beside Tamsin, yawning at Drew’s approach. His youngest sister was not an early riser, at least not since arriving in London. Miss Maplehurst was facing the door, watching as a young, muscular Emerson footman rushed to secure a trunk on top of the waiting carriage.
Miss Maplehurst was probably not the best choice of chaperone for Aurora.
“I don’t even have time for toast?” he asked, knowing what Tamsin’s answer would be.
“No,” his sister replied. “We’ll miss the train. Mrs. Cherry has packed us a basket. You can dig in there once we get moving.” She turned, shepherding Aurora and Miss Maplehurst to the coach.
“Mr. Sinclair.” Holly, the Sinclairs’ mastiff of a butler, slid around Miss Maplehurst to address Drew. “This arrived for you a short time ago.” A fat envelope with Drew’s name scrawled across the top with Dunnings just beneath, was in one hand. “I knew you were making preparations for your departure and didn’t wish to interrupt.”
“Hmm. Thank you, Holly.” Drew took the travel-stained packet. “Must have gone to Northumberland first before coming to London. Strange.” He couldn’t imagine who would have sent him anything at Dunnings because Drew rarely mentioned that he lived at the impoverished estate. And now that the Sinclairs were once more in residence on Bruton Street, Drewnevermentioned Dunnings to his circle of London friends save Worthington.
Curious.
Holly bowed and moved down the hall, ushering orders to the servants as the family made ready to depart.
Aurora, Miss Maplehurst and Tamsin were all handed into the carriage while Drew halted on the steps and opened the letter. Lines of elegant handwriting met his gaze as he scanned over the words, making sure he understood.
A man named Joshua Black had died and bequeathed the property known as Blackbird Heath in Lincolnshire, to Mr. Andrew Sinclair.
Joshua Black?
Drew wracked his brain for an acquaintance by that name. Finally, the dim recollection of an older gentleman with watery eyes and a terrible, hacking cough came to mind.
Lady Stanhope’s house party in Essex.
Joshua Black had been one of the guests along with Drew. Mr. Black had wandered about, often deep in his cups, scouting about for a game of cards. The final evening of the house party, Black lost his entire purse to Drew due to bad luck, but not poor playing. It had been evident to Drew during their brief acquaintance that gambling was a way of life for Black. The way he held the cards in his hands and the blank, shuttered expression on his features while he played told Drew that Black was far from a novice. Only the terrible fits of coughing had interrupted the older man’s concentration. When Black lost the last of his coin, Drew tried to leave the table, but Black insisted on one more hand. A chance, he said, to win back all he’d lost.
Blackbird Heath is my estate, little more than a glorified farm, Sinclair. But suitable, I think, for the wager.
Drew had tried to refuse. Black was obviously unwell. The coughing and the flecks of blood on the older man’s handkerchief made Drew increasingly uncomfortable, reminding him of his mother’s death, dying in a bed not her own at Dunnings. Drew wasn’t the most upstanding gentleman. He made his living with cards and sometimes dice. But there were some lines Drew refused to cross. Taking the home of a man who was clearly dying was one.
Black insisted, demanding that Drew, as a gentleman, give him the opportunity to win back his purse.
Drew agreed but intentionally played poorly. Everything he’d spent the night winning from Black he returned with each hand of cards. Black’s condition continued to worsen and when the last hand was finished, Drew had excused himself and retired for the evening. He departed the house party the following day, promptly forgetting about Joshua Black.
Drew scanned the letter once more. “Holly,” he said. “Please send for Mr. Patchahoo and have my trunks unloaded from the coach. An urgent matter requires my attention. I won’t be traveling to River Crest with my sisters at present that will keep me in London for a few more days.”
An estate in the country. Or rather, a farm.
Dunnings had once been a farm, before someone realized nothing would grow in that barren place.
Disgust filled him for rolling hills, the filth of animals and cabbage.
