Page 4

The Sword and Shield Tavern

At the same time, three streets away

Kingston Barclay glowered darkly at the inch of amber liquid remaining in the crystal tumbler. Firmly encased in his white-knuckled grip—more evidence of the turmoil churning within him—the glass rested upon the battered rectangular table.

His third, or was it his fourth glass?

Since when had he needed whisky to bolster his courage?

Bloody, bloody hell.

Since he’d decided to seek The Wicked Widow of Whitechapel's assistance in acquiring a bride.

He was bloody insane.

No. He was out of options.

Desperate times and all that driveling rot.

He quaffed back the last swallow, closing his eyes and relishing the fiery trail of spirits sliding to his belly and creating a warm pool there.

Bollocks.

Kingston was really going to do it.

Barter his future dukedom and fortune for a wealthy wife now. The now being the most critical and relevant detail.

How else could he restore his familial lands to prosperity? Feed, clothe, and provide a roof over the heads of his three younger sisters and two brothers? Pay for their educations, dowries for the girls, and make provisions for the boys’ futures as they deserved?

They’d already lost their parents and currently eked out a meager existence at Quail Hollow House outside Canterbury. While he’d been gallivanting around the world playing at being a soldier, they’d struggled to survive.

It was his duty and responsibility to provide for them. And Kingston wanted to—nay, needed to—make up for his prior negligence.

But how exactly?

That worry had plagued him the months he recuperated in the hospital and the six months since, as well. Six months of searching for a solution in London. And each and every time he strove for an answer to the deuced conundrum that was his life, he came back to the most logical recourse.

Find a wealthy woman willing to pay handsomely to buy herself the title of future duchess. Confound it. Mayhap Kingston ought to have taken out adverts in the gossip rags. Promoted a blasted bidding war. He could’ve stood on the auction block and let them inspect him like a prized stallion.

In point of fact, a version of an auction was what he meant to put to The Wicked Widow of Whitechapel. She could handle the bidding and perhaps even encourage wagers on the outcome. He had no plans to bed his duchess, so he needn’t worry the scars covering his shoulders, back, and arms would offend her tender sensibilities.

By Hades, pray God this path he’d chosen would spare his siblings' further humiliation and pain. Everything Kingston did now was for them.

He’d been arrogant and selfish, persuading his generous, loving parents to buy him a commission in the army and cajoling Gabriel Becket to do the same. Father had laughed and said it must be Kingston’s Highland ancestor, Camden Kennedy’s, warrior’s blood that made him eager for the battlefield.

Young, foolish, and full of himself—Mother of God, he’d been a cocksure assling—Kingston had reveled in the thrill. In the excitement and adventure. Until the brutal, horrendous, gut-wrenching reality of war had stripped him of Gabriel Becket, his brother in spirit, if not brother by blood.

Jesus.

Kingston hadn’t even been able to go home when his sister Madeline wrote that their parents had died mere weeks apart. The letter had taken six months to reach him. At just seventeen, she’d been left to care for their four younger siblings. And God curse Kingston for a selfish, neglectful bastard, he’d let her do so for almost three more years.

But you couldn’t have known father had made several poor business decisions that rendered the family coffers empty. Nor can you be faulted that Father didn’t tell you, and he left your sisters and brothers destitute.

And there was nothing Kingston could’ve done while convalescing either.

Nevertheless, shame infused him for being a self-centered, dishonorable cad. A better man would’ve promptly resigned his commission and returned home.

He flexed his shoulders, the familiar tautness stretching the flesh across his back, reminding him he’d barely survived. Reminding him what his purpose in life was now. What his obligation this night was.