“I don’t want to. It’s bad for the club’s image. We try to settle these matters in other manners. But we could, if it was something you were willing to do. We wouldn’t have to leave him long. We’re trying to ruin his reputation—and your’s by extension—not leave the man to rot.”
My first instinct was a vehement objection. Then, the idea took hold in a vindictive part of me, a part of which I was ashamed. He was perfectly willing to sell me to pay his own debts. Was this not merely him facing his own consequences?
“I am wretched for even considering this. How long do you suppose he would have to remain there?”
“Long enough for the gossip to spread. Perhaps a fortnight?”
A fortnight? My father would never survive it. Surely the ton moved faster than that. I had seen rumors spread across a ballroom in minutes. Oh— “What if we made a spectacle of it? What if the entire ton was there to witness his arrest? Could he not be released quickly after that?”
“What did you have in mind?”
I parsed my mental social calendar. I had been dreading Lady James’s ball for weeks; it was next week. My father would be there. Since I had bungled his plans for Xander to pay his debts, he would be in search of a wealthy bride.
“Lady Charlotte James has a ball Friday next. Would that be enough time?”
“Certainly. Are you sure? I will need to begin the arrangements immediately.”
“Yes. Can he be arrested at a ball, though? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“I have friends. I can make it happen. Especially since he’s been so efficient at dodging us for months.”
Without pausing to give myself time to change my mind I answered, “Do it.” With two words I had ensured my father’s ruin. And my own.
Twenty-Seven
PICCADILLY, LONDON - JULY 1, 1814
MICHAEL
It was trulyastounding just how much money one could lose in such a brief time. I was down more than £500 this evening with no end in sight. Even that sum was paltry to me, but I really ought to work up some concern. Some of these men remembered me from my misspent youth. Some of their losses helped build my fortune. There were still some who were wary of me. They hadn’t forgotten my skill in the four years I had been away. The majority were taking advantage of my string of bad luck. It was not so much bad luck as apathy, but I saw no reason to correct their misconception.
Augie and Tom had both been trying to reach me, if the stack of calling cards I found at my house on the rare occasions I returned were any measure.
I made no effort to remain presentable. I could not recall ever having so much growth on my face. I had long lost my cravat and had no interest in its location. If I employed a valet, he would be in a fit about the smell of liquor and cigars seeping from my very skin.
It was no wonder that the man who made himself comfortable across from me didn’t recognize me in my current state. I recognized him, though. I would recognize him anywhere. He was nearly as bedraggled as I was, rumbled and sloppy with drink too. Stouter with age and sin, even more than he had been a few months ago. He was paler too—a sickly yellow. Richard Dalton.
“Dalton.”
He startled, squinting at me through hazed, beady eyes. When recognition sank in, he stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly, lurching toward an escape. The crush surrounding us was too much for him, and he slopped back into his chair, the furnishing groaning under the mistreatment.
He finally responded with a resigned tone. “Wayland, I don’t have your money.”
The reminder of how he planned to get my money, the still impending nuptials, made the ale and scotch roll in my stomach. Unbidden thoughts of untamed, sun-lit curls and bluer-than-sky eyes came forth, and I swallowed the bile with another sip of scotch.
“I’m not here for your money. At least no more than you’re prepared to lose at present.”
He blinked slowly, stupidly, not taking my meaning in the slightest. The caster to my right began the roll.
“I won’t have your money. Least not right away,” he said.
“I know—not until after the happy day.” I struggled to keep the bitterness out of my tone and was not remotely successful.
I should not start a fight with the man here. Neither of us were in a state for it, and while I was relatively confident the crowd would side with me, I had taken a great deal of money from them over the years.
He swallowed back the rest of his drink and signaled for another while I cast, losing once more.
“Not going to be a happy day.”
