Given the strain between him and Wick of late, Richard refrained from pointing out that costly trollops, French or not, were well beyond Wick’s means. A lecture on fiscal responsibility would only alienate his brother further. Besides, he remained wary of his brother’s purpose in calling.
Wick left before the mishap,he told himself.It’s possible that he doesn’t know what happened.
Going to the sideboard, Wick let out an aggrieved sigh. “Kippers and eggsagain? How’re such meager offerings supposed to fuel a fellow for the day?”
“If you don’t like it, don’t eat it.” Richard forked up eggs.
Setting down a plate piled high, Wick took an adjacent seat at the table. “So you don’t look any worse for the wear.”
Damnation.He decided to bluff his way through. “And why should I?”
Wick gave him an innocent look. “Because of thesplashyou made last night?”
Heat crawled up Richard’s jaw. “It was an accident.”
“Accidentally got tap-hackled, did you?”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
“Then how the bloody hell did you take a tumble into afountain?” his sibling chortled.
Devil take Violet Kent.Richard’s face burned. Yet he couldn’t reveal the truth of what had happened. First of all, he’d slit his own throat before admitting that he’d been downed by a female—and a slip of a miss at that. Second, his sense of honor precluded him from incriminating a lady, which was precisely why he’d instructed her to flee the scene of the crime.
Beneath his seething anger, he also felt an uneasy flicker of… guilt. In a way, he supposed he owed it to her to protect her reputation after the gossip he’d inadvertently started about her. He regretted that his private conversation with his friend Blackwood had been overheard and circulated by the wags. His worry over Wickham had prompted him to speak brashly, causing Miss Kent unintentional harm.
Her face rose in his imagination: the high, creamy slope of her cheeks and her tip-tilted eyes, which were the rich, tawny shade of his favorite whiskey. Her bee-stung mouth was too generous for her face, the bottom lip particularly full. A retroussé nose added to her air of feminine mischief and merriment.
In and of themselves, her features were not beautiful, but together they exuded an undeniable appeal, a vividness that made it difficult for one to look away. She wasn’t Aphrodite, but Aglaea, one of the Three Graces, the embodiment of glowing good health and vitality. Grudgingly, Richard had to admit that Violet Kent’s attractions went beyond skin deep, stirring a dangerous, primal response in him. And if her charms were not lost on him—a sensible, level-headed man—then what untold peril did she pose to his hapless brother?
“Never mind the bloody fountain,” Richard said abruptly. “There are more important matters to discuss. How did things go with Miss Turbett last eve?”
In a blink, Wick’s merriment turned to sullenness. Richard bit back a sigh. He ought to be used to his brother’s lightning shifts in mood by now, but somehow he wasn’t. Somehow in his mind Wickham was still the tow-headed boy who’d followed him everywhere and took his word as gospel. The younger brother who’d worshipped him—and whom he’d protected in turn.
But ever since their papa’s death six years ago, things had changed. Wickham had transformed from a fun-loving lad to a wild and reckless rake. The worst of it was that any advice or solutions Richard had given had only made Wick surly and resentful… until all possibility of rational discourse was gone.
Thus, Richard had resorted to leveraging the last means available to him. He’d threatened to cut off Wick’s quarterly stipend—and only source of income—if Wick didn’t take gainful steps toward discharging his debt of ten thousand pounds. Owed to amoneylender, for God’s sake.
Richard’s temples throbbed. If only he hadn’t been preoccupied by the financial quagmire left by their father, he could have kept a better eye on Wick. Stopped the whelp from frittering away an astronomical sum and jeopardizing his future in the process—
“I danced with Miss Turbett once. She had all the charm of a dead fish,” Wick said, his chin lifting belligerently, “and the conversation of one, too.”
“It’s not her charm or conversation you’re after: it’s her twenty thousand pounds. Devil take it, you agreed to this.” Richard’s jaw clenched in frustration. “I met with Turbett and cleared your path to courting his daughter. You should count yourself fortunate that he’s willing to take you on for the connection to our family. Miss Turbett’s fortune is your only hope for salvation.”
“I don’t want to marry that antidote of a female, and you can’t make me.”
“By Jove, stop acting like a child.” Richard’s grip on his temper slipped. “Don’t you comprehend the danger you’re in? Your moneylender isn’t some merchant who will wait patiently at the tradesmen’s entrance to get paid. Garrity is acutthroat: if you don’t make good on your debt, you’ll be parting with more than your good name. He’ll take his pound of flesh—literally.”
Wick paled but recovered quickly.
“This is all your fault,” he shot back, angrily swiping jam onto his bread. “If you’d gone into the canal venture with me, we’d both be rich as Croesus. I could pay off my debts, and the family estate wouldn’t be teetering on the brink of ruin. But you refused, and I hadn’t the coin to go at it alone. Therefore,youbrought this situation upon our heads.” He pointed his knife at Richard, the initials of his gold signet ring flashing with accusation. “And Mama agrees with me.”
Of course she does.Guilt churned, which only heightened Richard’s frustration. He’d done the best he could, yet he knew full well that their mother hadn’t forgiven him for putting limits on her expenditures. She’d made her displeasure quite clear in her scathing correspondence.
Your papa would turn over in his grave if he knew how you were treating me. He’d never forgive you… and neither will I. I can only regret giving birth to such an ungrateful child.
As was her wont, Mama had glossed over the truth: Papa had paupered himself and the estate trying to keep her in her accustomed style, and, in the end, the stress of it had killed him. He’d died, face-down in a ledger book, his heart collapsing from the weight of his debts.
And he’d left Richard to clean up the mess.
