“I’ve readied the master’s chamber,” Quince said, as if he’d completed one of the labors of Hercules. “Your valet can bring your things up.”
“I’m traveling alone.” Rhys gestured at the two valises he’d carried in. “These are my bags.”
Quince’s rheumy gaze travelled up Rhys’s polished boots and buff trousers, past his claret frock coat, pausing on his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Facial hair was a daring new style that Rhys had picked up on the Continent; Quince’s expression conveyed his belief that it ought to have been left there. While the servant’s behavior was bloody impertinent, Rhys was used to being stared at and couldn’t be bothered to issue a reprimand.
Given his mixed-blood heritage—he was the product of an English aristocrat and a Chinese merchant’s daughter—he’d been an object of curiosity all his life. As a boy, he’d been bullied and rejected by his peers for being different. As a man, his “exotic” looks had made him popular and sought after, thanks to the English fetish for all things Oriental.
Five years ago, when he’d become a duke at six-and-twenty, his celebrity had soared into the stratosphere. Indeed, theton, with their predictable tediousness, had given him a moniker: “Ransom,” a contraction of his title…and an allusion to the way he captured ladies’ hearts. In his opinion, the latter characterization missed the mark entirely. For in his interactions with the fair sex, the heart was the one part of the female anatomy that he took pains to avoid.
Whatever the case, he found himself immune to social scrutiny. It wasn’t as if anyone sawhim, after all. All they saw was the image he presented to them—that of a charming, worldly, and indolent rake. These days, when he stared into the looking glass, that image was what he saw of himself.
“Who’s going to keep you looking fancy?” the butler asked suspiciously.
Rhys gave the other’s crumpled, stained livery a sardonic glance. “I’ll take care of myself.”
It wasn’t by choice. No gentleman wouldchooseto take care of himself. But necessity was the mother of invention, and being on the flit from cutthroat moneylenders had made Rhys quite inventive: he could tie his own cravat and trim his own facial hair. Mortifying, but true.
Rhys’s troubles were, in part, inherited. When Phillip Cavendish, Rhys’s sire, had died five years ago, he’d left his heir with a title and mountain of debts. Phillip had not believed in fiscal management, a concept he’d deemed “vulgar.” Combined with his love of extravagant living, he’d done the estate irreparable damage.
His deathbed words had been as spiteful as the man himself.You’ve been a disappointment from the time you were born—a weakling and a mongrel. You and your mother have tainted the bloodline. What’s the point in preserving the well when the water’s been poisoned?
Rhys had been determined to save his legacy, if for no other reason than to prove his father wrong. He’d thought himself so clever to come up with a plan to rescue the estate through investments. Using his modest inheritance from his mother, he’d turned a neat profit. Buoyed by his successes, he’d risked more and more, eventually borrowing money to make money. Like any gambler, he thought Fortune smiled upon him…until she gave him the cold shoulder.
Thus began his spiral downward.
Now Sweeney and Garrity, two of London’s most notorious usurers, held his vowels in their blood-stained fists. Thanks to their rates of interest, his debts had gone from large to astronomical. Now he owed them fifty thousand pounds apiece.
While some might think that a duke would be above such troubles, Rhys had discovered that his title meant nothing to cent-per-cents determined to collect. Power came from wealth, and he was penniless. His father had sold off anything that wasn’t nailed down or entailed; his ancestral lands had been literally run into the ground and would take years to become profitable again—years that he didn’t have.
Another duke might be able to depend on influential connections to lend a hand, but Rhys had quickly discovered the perfidy of his so-called friends. The only thing thetonloved more than a rising star was a falling one. Men who’d envied his popularity with the ladies were the first to cast him from their circle. One by one, doors to exclusive clubs slammed in his face.
He oughtn’t have been surprised. His popularity was akin to the craze for chinoiserie: once the fad was over, the currentlyà la modeobjects would be tossed into the rubbish bin. He meant no more to his acquaintances than an Oriental vase or carpet…and probably less.
Acceptance was an illusion. The truth was that he’d always been an outsider.
The only thing of value Rhys had left was the title itself, which could be bartered for a dowry. It would have to be an enormous dowry, and Rhys would have to be willing to submit to the shackles of matrimony. The memories of his parents’ union made his gut clench.
The last thing he wanted was a marriage of convenience.
Desperate times called for equal measures, however, and he’d briefly courted an heiress. After the affair had ended in disaster, he’d seen the light and exercised his final option: he’d fled London.
He knew he couldn’t run forever. Indeed, he’d instructed his man-of-business to keep an eye out for any suitable heiresses that might pop up. In the meantime, a new opportunity had presented itself and brought him here.
A fortnight ago, he’d received a letter informing him of Horatio’s death and the inheritance awaiting him at Journey’s End. Glancing around the shabby antechamber, he doubted any bequest from his eccentric uncle could cover his debts, but perhaps there would be enough to replenish the dwindling stash that was subsidizing his flit. Being a realist, he knew he couldn’t avoid marriage forever, but by Jove, he would stave it off for as long as he could.
“You’ll be wanting supper, I suppose?” Quince said begrudgingly.
“Later.” No sense beating around the bush. “I understand my uncle left instructions for me?”
The butler sniffed. “There’s a letter in the study with your name on it.”
“Excellent. I know the way.”
It was difficult to get lost in the small manor, which if memory served, contained a parlor, dining room, and study on the ground floor and a smattering of bedchambers on the floor above. Rhys headed to his destination, his boots thumping on the worn floorboards. The corridor to the study was lined with cabinets bursting with artifacts from Horatio’s expeditions. Glazed porcelain from China stood next to burial masks from Egypt; the shelves were crammed with everything from Indian silks to shells from the Caribbean to ivory carvings from Africa.
Rhys had visited here twice before. As a child of twelve, he’d found solace and escape in Horatio’s curiosities. As a man of two-and-twenty, he’d been bored by them…or, more precisely, he’d been distracted by other things.
Memories of a cinnamon-haired bar maid pervaded his loins with pleasant heat. Ah, Maggie. She’d been a comely wench with big green eyes and bigger tits topped with the sweetest cherry nipples. A hot-blooded man by nature, he’d never had an encounter as passionate as the one he’d had with her. The hunger they’d unleashed in one another had been astonishing. In fact, they’d barely reached the room of his lodgings: that first time, he’d taken her right up against the door.
