“At dawn? How uncivilized an hour. Lord knows I have plenty of engagements,” Mercer said with a brittle laugh, “and cannot possibly rearrange my schedule to fit you in.”
“Well met, gentlemen.” Gabriel, the Marquess of Tremont, came up to them. If Tremont’s astute grey gaze took the full measure of the tense situation, his pleasant expression showed no signs of it. “Mercer, I believe some friends of yours are looking for you. Something about an entry in the betting book.”
“A gentleman’s work is never done.” Sketching a bow, the earl sauntered off, his entourage tagging at his heels.
Alaric said in low tones, “I’d like to rearrange more than that bastard’s schedule.”
“Mercer’s just looking to stir trouble. Don’t give him the satisfaction.” Tremont slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s have a drink and talk of more important things.”
They managed to find prized seats by a private hearth.
“They don’t make chairs like this anywhere else,” Tremont said, stretching out his legs.
“They do if you pay them enough.” Alaric had commissioned furnishings from the same manufacturer for his study at Strathmore Castle, and it had cost him a pretty penny.
Tremont regarded him with a dry smile. “We aren’t all as rich as Croesus, you know.”
While the marquess had improved the financial situation he’d inherited, apparently he still had a ways to go. Alaric understood the other’s predicament. After all, he’d spent his tenure as duke replenishing the coffers left empty by his guardian’s profligacy.
“You will be once our venture is settled at month’s end,” Alaric assured him.
“I do have some good news on that front. I spoke with Burrowes today, and he’s decided to stand firm with us. His show of support should help us cauterize this wound yet.”
“Well done,” Alaric said. “That is the best news I’ve had all day.”
“What are you two up to now?” said an amused voice. “Whatever it is, may I join in?”
Marcus Harrington, Lord Blackwood, was another friend from his Oxford days. Blackwood had been the spare to the title back then and after University had bought a commission in the army. His training was still evident in his militaristic bearing, the precise cut of his golden brown hair. After his brother’s death, he’d acquired a marquessdom and a marchioness soon thereafter.
All three stood and exchanged bows.
Alaric said, “Care for a hand of cards, Blackwood?”
“Why not? I could always do with some of your gold.”
At one o’clock in the morning, Alaric left the table with heavier pockets, bowing to the good-natured groans of his friends. Outside, he descended the steps of the club, aware of an edgy energy that the night’s distractions had not quelled. As he headed toward his carriage parked up ahead, he considered making a stop at a bawdy house. Mayhap a fuck was what he needed to rid himself of his inexplicable itch for Miss Kent once and for all.
Yet for some damnable reason, he didn’t feel like bedding a whore.
The oncoming rattle of wheels made him look to the road. A black carriage was flying over the cobblestone; the driver, a fellow obscured by a dark hat and greatcoat, must have bacon for brains for driving that fast down St. James. Trash fluttered from the open window. As the vehicle passed him, Alaric glimpsed whipping curtains, a face split by a scar into two menacing halves, metal glinting—
Even as he threw himself to the ground, the shot rang in his ears. He lay on the pavement, blinking up at the stars. Muffled shouts came from the distance. Scorching pain flamed over his arm, and the night descended upon him.
Chapter Eleven
The stillroom, with its bottle-lined shelves and large work table, was a refuge for Emma. Claiming that remedies were not her forte, Marianne’s housekeeper generously allowed Emma use of the space below stairs whenever she wished. At present, Emma was working on a salve for Mr. Pitt’s aching knees and the second footman’s bad back. She added drops of camphor to the bowl, stirring it into the thick concoction of beeswax and rosewater.
“The new gowns came for me and Polly,” Violet said. Perched on the table next to the bowl, she swung her legs idly.
“That’s good, dear,” Emma said absently.
Thank God she had a few mundane activities to occupy her. If not, she might have been driven mad by her thoughts.Do not think about him, she reprimanded herself.
“There’s ribbons and slippers to match,” Violet went on.
“Mmm.”
As Emma concentrated on giving the salve a good mix with the wooden spoon, she kept hearing Strathaven’s seductive voice, the wicked things he’d described last night. The pale fire of his gaze licked through her.
