The pen scratched across the paper, Victoria’s signature binding her to this desperate course. As she set down the pen, something shifted inside her, innocence transforming into something harder, more calculating. She had been forced into this position by a cruel man’s whim. Now another man would pay the price for her salvation.
The guilt of it would haunt her, but guilt was a luxury she could no longer afford.
She would earn his respect, somehow. Do everything in her power to be a good wife and make up for her part in this ruse.
***
The leather chair creaked beneath Mr. Rees Harcourt as he shifted to reach for his brandy, the amber liquid catching the firelight. The familiar comfort of White’s gentlemen’s club enveloped him. The rich aroma of cigars, the soft murmur of voices, the clink of crystal as drinks were poured. To his right, Rafe Lennox, Viscount Hollis, studied a sheaf of papers with the intensity of a player eyeing a winning hand, while Alistair Cavendish, Earl Wyvern, lounged opposite, smoke curling from his cigar.
“The venture’s sound,” Rafe declared, tapping the papers. “Three ships initially, expanding to five by year’s end if the West Indies routes prove as profitable as suggested. My man in Portsmouth says the captains are reliable. None of this business of sellingcargo on the side and claiming storms.”
“What’s the initial investment?” Rees asked, swirling his brandy and watching it cling to the glass. Business talk provided a pleasant distraction from the restlessness plaguing him lately.
“Five thousand per share, minimum of two shares.” Alistair exhaled smoke thoughtfully. “Steep, but the return projections are impressive. Twenty percent within the first year if their calculations hold.”
“If.” Rees smiled slightly. “There is always an if, is there not?”
“Spoken like a man who’s been burned before,” Rafe chuckled. “Though I do not recall you ever making a bad investment, Harcourt. You have got the devil’s own luck with money.”
“Luck has little to do with it. Research, patience, and knowing when to walk away...that is all.”
“Listen to him,” Alistair said, gesturing with his cigar. “As if he did not win a fortune at hazard just last month.”
“That was different.” Rees grinned. “That was entertainment.”
Their banter was interrupted by Lord Pemberton—a pompous older lord. The eager expression on the man’s face suggested he carried gossip.
“Gentlemen, pardon the intrusion, but have you heard about the scandal at my wife’s ball?”
“Your wife’s ball?” Rafe set down his papers. “That was tonight?”
“A sennight past. Most shocking thing... Lady Victoria Richmond was discovered in a compromising position with Lord Sterling. In the garden, no less. Her dress torn, the two of them alone in the shadows.” Pemberton shook his head, relishing the tale. “My wife’s friend Mrs. Ashford and her daughter came upon them. The girl is quite ruined, I am afraid.”
The sharp report dragged up memories of Catherine Winters—her muffled sobs, Rees’s useless promise to make it right—and the same helpless fury flooding him now.
The crystal snapped in his hand. Brandy spilled across his fingers, and blood welled where a shard had cut his palm. The pain felt distant, secondary to the rage surging through him at Sterling’s name. He set the broken glass down carefully, controlling every movement to avoid acting on impulse.
“Harcourt?” Alistair leaned forward in concern. “Your hand—”
“It is nothing.” Rees pulled out his handkerchief, wrapping it around the cut. The white linen bloomed red, but he barely noticed. His jaw ached from clenching it tightly.
Pemberton had already moved on, eager to share his news with others, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind. Rafe and Alistair exchanged glances over Rees’s bent head as he tended to his hand.
“That was quite a reaction,” Rafe said carefully. “Do you know Lady Victoria?”
“No.” The word came out clipped. “But I know Sterling.”
“Ah.” Alistair stubbed out his cigar. “Not favorably, I take it?”
Rees laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You could say that.” He flexed his injured hand, watching the blood seep through the makeshift bandage. “We have... history.”
“What kind of history?” Rafe poured himself another drink, then poured one for Rees as well and pushed it across the table.
For a moment, Rees considered deflecting, changing the subject. But the anger still burned in his chest, demanding release. “We were both at Lord Cedrick’s country house party five years ago. Both pursuing the same woman. Miss Catherine Winters, daughter of the local vicar. I was prepared to court her honorably. Sterling...” He paused, remembering. “Sterling seduced her. Ruined her. Then laughed about it afterward, claiming she threw herself at him. Her family sent her to the Continent in disgrace. She died there last year...fever, they said, but servants whisper it was laudanum.”
“Good God,” Alistair breathed.
“That wasn’t enough for him.” Rees picked up the fresh glass, noting with detached interest that his hand was steady despite the rage coursing through him. “At Oxford, we ended up in the boxing ring. Supposedly a friendly match. He fought dirty...blows below the belt, thumbing my eye when the referee was not looking. My vision remained blurred for a sennight. When I finally knocked him down, he claimed I had cheated. Tried to have me expelled from the Pugilistic Society.”
