Revenge Wears Rubies (44 page)

“Who else?” Ashe gave him a wry grin. “You! All those soulful good looks and romantic notions of yours—I don’t believe you’ll survive the summer!”

Darius nodded consolingly. “You seemed the likeliest candidate.”

“Then he is sure to be the last!” Galen predicted confidently. “Which puts
you
, Ashe, directly into the fire!”

Ashe’s look of horror was priceless, and the men savored the levity of the moment, imagining in varying degrees of failure their poor friend Ashe in the throes of love.

“I’ll never marry!” Ashe vowed, lifting his glass to solemnify his claim.

Darius clapped him on the back. “And the Fates prepare to claim another victim! When you defy the gods, Blackwell, you invite them to prove you wrong—and they invariably do.”

“I’m not defying the gods,” Ashe clarified, returning to his chair, “I’m reminding them about a leopard’s spots!” He downed the last of his drink and recovered his humor. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just redirect their attentions to poor Josiah slinking about over there.”

“To me? I’m not fool enough to distract the Fates when they’re busy teaching a man a well-earned lesson.” Josiah leaned against a bookcase and studied a small statuette of Aphrodite. “Nor fool enough to try to guess what the future holds for any of us.”

“Wise man,” Michael noted quietly, stretching out his long legs by the fire. “Not to leave a happy subject, but we’d all be wiser to pay more attention to the world around us. The Jaded are spoken of more than I like.”

“Some new novelty will come along soon and we’ll be forgotten,” Rowan said.

Michael shook his head firmly. “Not as long as men seek out secrets and lust for lost treasure. I hate to say it, for each of us has benefitted in our own ways, but I sometimes wish we’d never picked up a single stone out of that godforsaken hole.”

“I’m not regretting a single stone!” Ashe stood quickly and crossed to refill his glass. “I regret that we didn’t bother to steal a cart while we were at it . . . then we could have bought an empire of our own and not had to worry about poor Rowan’s collection of African gewgaws getting rifled through!”

Rowan bowed his head, trying not to laugh. “That’s very sweet of you, Ashe.”

“No more talk of what we should have done. The issue at hand, gentlemen, is what do we do now?” Michael asked.

“We could simply be a bit more open about what happened. We’ve committed no criminal acts, and the talk may not last at all once the details were public.”

It was Darius who shook his head. “Myth has a power all its own. No matter what we said, it would never slake the curiosity of those determined to believe differently. They would see it as a smoke screen to hide the truth, and the danger wouldn’t lessen. But you’d have the public on your doorstep, and that . . .”

“Is unacceptable,” Michael finished.

“Our first instinct was to keep ourselves to ourselves.” Josiah took a sip of his brandy before he went on thoughtfully. “And I’m not proposing a drastic change to that strategy. But a variation may make all the difference in the world.”

“And what variation is that?” Rowan asked.

“What if we fed just the rumors that worked best to our advantage? The Jaded aren’t a secret anymore, thanks to that article and talk amidst the peerage, but what if we supplied a different answer to the nature of the Jaded? What if we quietly and carefully confessed that it were true that the Jaded are a secret club for gentlemen? A whisper about our notoriety and penchant for privacy and we’d blend in with every other informal society in this city—and then if it comes up, we can just laugh at any suggestion that there’s more to our association and friendship than any other club.”

Ashe smiled. “The Jaded does sound wicked. Perhaps a hint or two about all the women we secretly seduce for sport at our meetings?”

“No!” Galen straightened in his chair, his voice the loudest but not the only one as Rowan, Darius, and Michael also echoed his disapproval. “My bride has enough to concern herself with! And I’ll forego the company if you insist on painting us as another hedonistic version of the Hellfire Club.”

The men laughed, but it was Darius who finally spoke. “Let it be the truth, then, to ensure that we have Galen’s continued friendship—if not his membership. If asked, the Jaded have no interest in the treacherous company of women beyond their temporary uses—a brutal assessment, but it will ward off more questions and keep more than one scheming mother off of Ashe’s doorstep.”

The lighthearted atmosphere evaporated as each man considered the grain of truth in Darius’s proposal. All the names they’d whispered in the dark for comfort had proven to be ghosts unable to withstand the harsh light of day, and not a single faithful, feminine welcome had awaited them. Not one of them had returned to England without a harsh lesson in betrayal or loss—and none of them had been eager to risk another taste of heartbreak afterward.

“It sounds like an unsocial social club,” Michael noted, but he nodded approval. “And that may be just what we need.”

Josiah stood and raised his glass, his saturnine expression unreadable. “To the Weary and the Wicked, the Wanton and the Wandering—to the Unwanted! Gentlemen, a toast to the Jaded!”

“To the Weary and the Wicked, the Wanton and the Wandering—to the Unwanted!”

Their glasses touched again, and this time, it had the ring of a sacred oath, and the men knew that for all their bravado, the necessity of a haven for their small number was fundamental to their survival, and now that haven was something tangible—something named and defined—and each man knew without speaking the words aloud that they would willingly die to protect it. “To the Jaded!”

The quiet of the country ate at his nerves, and Ashe Blackwell had to force himself not to pace. Bellewood, his family’s home, was less than a day’s ride from Town, but it felt to Ashe like it sat on the farthest edges of civilization. His grandfather’s library had always been his least favorite room as a child, with its gloomy colors and dusty shelves. It was here he’d been brought if there was a punishment to be determined or a stern reprimand was to be given. Gordon Walker Blackwell was not a man Ashe had ever wanted to face after he’d been caught at one childhood misadventure or another.

“Is that the style in London these days or did you not change your clothes after arriving?” His grandfather’s voice was edged in familiar icy authority, but the years had robbed the older gentleman of the power of volume, and Ashe winced to hear it. It saddened him to see the dear monster losing his teeth. “Your coat is rumpled, Ashe, like a man who takes no care of himself.”

Ashe managed a half bow and tamped down on his habitual sarcasm out of an old love for the codger. “I only just arrived, and meant to change after a muddy ride, but your butler brought me here and indicated that your business could not wait.”

“Nor can it! I’ve no time to waste as you seem to have.”

“I make the most of every day, Grandfather,” Ashe countered gently.

“How dare you, sir! You make the most of your nights and I suspect you haven’t seen much of a morning ever since you returned to England! You are a disgrace, Ashe. I hear report after report of your carousing in London and I marvel that you can stand before me without hanging your head in shame.”

Ashe’s spine stiffened; he was not enjoying the lecture. “I’m flattered that you would follow my pursuits so closely. But the gossips may exaggerate my—”

“Do they?” His grandfather stepped closer, cutting him off. “Is it all wrong? Am I misinformed? Are you a moral example of what a gentleman should be, my boy?”

Ashe hesitated at the strange new tone in the older man’s voice.
Was that desperation?
But a lie wasn’t possible. “No, Grandfather, you are not misinformed.”

Silence strung out between them, and Ashe’s chest ached at the stirring look of raw disappointment in the old man’s eyes.

“Which brings me to the reason that I summoned you out of Town.”

“I’m dying.”

Shock froze Ashe in place at the unvarnished announcement. His grandfather was older, yes, and looking a little slight, but on the verge of passing? Finally, he managed to reply, “Is this Dr. McAllister’s opinion as well? Are you . . . ill?”

An impatient gesture cut off the awkward sympathetic line of Ashe’s questions. “I hate doctors and of course I’m not ill! Don’t be daft! Do I look desperately ill to you?”

“You just said you were dying. I’d say that was a logical inquiry.”

“We are all mortal, and don’t give me that knowing look. I’m sharper than men a fraction of my age and I’ve not gone soft in the skull.”

“A relief to hear.” Ashe struggled not to smile.

“Mind that wit of yours!” He straightened his shoulders, and Ashe caught a glimpse of the formidable younger man again. “I’m closer to the end of life than I care to contemplate! And who do I have before me to carry out even the saddest parody of a legacy?”

Ashe’s smile faded. “No one could match your legacy, sir.”

“You could at least try!” The old man turned away, moving to the great marble fireplace over which his own great-grandfather’s portrait looked down on them both. “When I lost your father—when your parents were killed, I took you on and never thought that all the promise and potential you held would be squandered before my eyes.”

“I’m not an opium addict, Grandfather, and I’m certainly not squandering—”

“You had your moments of mischief before, but I was never alarmed. But ever since your return from India . . . I’m not even begging you to marry. Although, God knows, it’s not a ridiculous thing to ask you to make a good match and provide us all with a healthy heir or two.” A sigh rattled through his slender frame, and he leaned against the carved Italian marble mantel. “Give me some hint that you’re not completely lost, my boy.”

“I am not lost.”

His grandfather turned back, the same odd, intense light in his eyes that had made Ashe wary at the start of their conversation. “You are so far into the dark woods, I don’t think you remember who you are. It’s whatever that India business was, but it’s no matter. I have the solution, Ashe.”

“Do you?”

“I could threaten to cut you off, naturally. I could tell my solicitors that your name is to be struck from the will. I could do it, Ashe.”

“It’s your right to do so. And since I’ve disappointed you, not even I would dare argue against that decision, Grandfather.” Ashe spoke as honestly as he could. “I would rather forfeit ten fortunes than earn your disdain. And I’m sorry for it.”

“Ah, hell!” His grandfather drew closer. “Enough! I know that even if I removed every farthing from the will, it wouldn’t leave you destitute, since you clearly made some sort of fortune on your misadventures—but there is more to an inheritance than money, my boy.”

“True.”

“So”—he circled Ashe, as if assessing a new racehorse—“I understand you are a gambling man.”

Ashe nodded slowly. “I’ve been known to take a risk or two.”

“Then hear my proposal.” His grandfather gestured toward two waiting chairs by a small side table, and the men settled in. “I want some reassurance that if you truly wanted to, you could rein yourself in. My fear is that you’re beyond the call of discipline, my boy, and while I love you beyond measure, I will not leave our family’s fortunes, land, and holdings in the hands of a jackass who can’t keep his pants buttoned.”

Ashe leaned back in his chair. “Some reassurance? Are you asking me to reform in a religious flash of fervor? Join a monastery? Or did you just want some kind of vow that I could, as you put it, rein myself in, if and when I wished to?”

A blank look answered his questions. “I’ll take a simple demonstration.”

“What kind of demonstration?”

“A single social Season in which you don’t cause a solitary scandalous ripple in the wide and murky pond that is London.” The older man leaned forward. “It’s not much, Ashe, in the greater scheme of things, but I’d be hard-pressed to think you’d admit that you don’t have the spine to behave for the briefest span of a few months. Or have you grown so weak that you’re sitting over there wondering how you might possibly survive such an ordeal?”

“Not at all. I was wondering why you’d set the bar so low.”

“Oh, it may not be as easy as it looks. After all, with a reputation like yours, a single unremarkable Season may not truly be possible. And I’m not going to allow you to hide in the country and wait it out, either. You’ll be in Town with all your demons. But”—he sat back, shifting as if to feign indifference—“if you managed it, then all threats of cutting you out would forever be gone. I’ll face my final years knowing that when the crisis comes, you still have the potential to live up to your lineage.”

“And if I fail?” Ashe asked, aware that no dare was without consequences.

“Not only will I cut you out, but I will hand all things over to your second cousin, Mr. Yardley, who, by the way, has been less than subtle in expressing his desires to improve the house and make a better show of it.”

Yardley? Winston Yardley is a sniveling excuse for a human!
He’d met the man a scant three times and, even so, the memory of the ferret-faced man made his skin crawl. Of all the people to stand in the wings, Yardley was the last person on earth that Ashe wanted to see benefiting from a great man’s passing. “Like hell he would!”