She would stop by her bedroom for the castor oil—just in case.
Dev settledinto a leather armchair and idly exhaled a stream of cigar smoke, a brandy lolling in his other hand. He was aware of the picture he presented to the gentlemen presently circulating the supremely masculine domain of his study.
He was one of them.
Almost.
These exalted men had happily partaken of his hospitality these last two days, but it was clear they still didn’t know what to think of him.
“So,” began the lord in the adjacent armchair—an earl, “you didn’t inherit the business from your father?”
The earl was only giving voice to what many in this room found incredibly difficult to reconcile—the foreign idea of a man building something from the ground, rather than having had it passed to him through inheritance, as their titles and place in the world had been handed to them.
The exception in this room was Blaze Jagger, of course. Dev had been keeping an eye on the scoundrel for a variety of reasons—reasons too many to enumerate. Suffice it to say, this house party presented myriad opportunities for Jagger to create havoc, if he so chose.
“My father is, in fact, very much alive,” said Dev, “and presently touring the Lake District with my mother.”
The information elicited a further gathering of more than a few eyebrows.
From the corner of his eye, Dev noted Lydon edging along the periphery of the gathered. He avoided acknowledging him. The truth was Dev didn’t much like being pulled into the orbit of such a man. For all his titles, Lydon was naught more than a rotter in aristocrat’s clothing.
However, Dev was left with no choice when Lydon pushed in further. “My sincerest apologies for interrupting this absolutely riveting discussion,” said the marquess, inserting himself without apology, “but might I request a word with my lovely daughter’s future husband?”
“Of course,” said Dev, rising to his feet and leading Lydon to the set of doors that opened onto the terrace.
Outside, the rain had eased off, so they were able to step beyond the protection of the roof where they could converse with privacy. He didn’t know for a fact what Lydon wanted to discuss, but he could hazard a guess.
Lydon didn’t hold him in suspense for long. “Now, about what we formerly discussed.”
“You’ll have to refresh my memory.” Dev was in no mood to make it easy for the marquess.
“The bit of pocket money.” And Lydon was in no mood to be misunderstood.
“Ah, yes,” said Dev, nodding sagely. “One hundred pounds, was it?”
An edge of steel glinted within the gray of Lydon’s eyes. “Every week.”
“Indeed.”
“And you missed last week.”
“Right.”
The moment dragged on a beat too long. Dev wasn’t the least discomfited. He wanted to see if the old scoundrel would crack.
His gaze remained steadier than Dev had ever seen it.
This was deadly serious business.
At last, Dev relented. This was Beatrix’s father, after all. “I’ll have the two hundred pounds delivered to you by morning.”
A sudden, hale-and-hearty smile lit across Lydon’s face, utterly transforming it. He slapped Dev on the back in the jocular manner of carousing mates. “Good man.”
A marquess who knew when to leave before minds could change, Lydon had disappeared from sight before the next three seconds could elapse. Dev snorted and took another puff of cigar. The gentlemen had already begun moving from the study to join the ladies.
Dev entered the drawing room only to find Lydon proposing an evening of cards. It surprised him not in the least. Lydon had never met a penny he didn’t want to gamble away. The two hundred pounds would already be committed to debts of honor before it even arrived in his rooms by morning.
Dev sent for the housekeeper hired temporarily for the house party while his parents were away—really, he would consult with his mother to make the woman a permanent addition to the staff—and conducted a quick consultation about transforming the drawing room into a makeshift gaming hell.
