The Art of Ruining a Rake (25 page)

Barton-Wright’s stare continued to bore into Roman. “There is rank, and then there is fortune. I’m sure Lord Trestin can be persuaded to reconsider his priorities.”

Roman pushed away from the wall and headed toward the exit. Lucy was safe enough here in the bright, open space of the pavilion, and she seemed content. If he didn’t take some air, he’d be one investor short by morning.

When he returned, the party had risen in preparation for watching the fireworks. Becky, as usual, was observing the group with an air of amused detachment. With the exception of Scotherby, who had Mariah to entertain him, the rest of Roman’s unscrupulous friends were gathered around Lucy.

“…You’re wasting your effort on empty flattery,” she was saying to Barton-Wright as Roman walked up, “when that shan’t turn my head at all. A true gentleman is eager to please without being ridiculous about it.”

“Which of us is least ridiculous?” Lord de Winter asked, pulling his most appealing smile. “I hope it’s me.”

“You’re all
equally
ridiculous,” she said with a laugh.

“Then I must try harder,” Mr. Barton-Wright said, smiling even more roguishly than de Winter. Roman wanted to ball up Barton-Wright’s uninspired cravat and stuff it down his throat.

“Gentlemen, it’s not a competition—” Lucy began to say, but a chorus of men in disagreement cut her short. Her eyes shone with mirth, and some of Roman’s fire went out. She was having such a lovely time being the center of attention.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “It very much
is
. In that case, there is only one way to resolve our dispute, and that is to select a winner. In one week, I shall deem one of you the most winsome.”

Lord de Winter’s eyes gleamed. “Ten shillings on Lord Montborne, then.”

Lucy’s mouth formed an O. Roman’s heart stopped.

Would she choose him?

“Oh, no,” she said with a forced-sounding laugh. “
He’s
not part of this.”

“Why not?” Scotherby asked. “If we’re to gamble on a bunch of braggarts, I don’t want to put my money on a dark horse. Besides, Montborne’s always included.”

Roman could have kissed Scotherby for speaking up. Certainly,
he
wasn’t about to ask the same pointless question, and risk exposing his vulnerability any more than he already had.

Lucy steadfastly avoided looking at Roman. She didn’t glance at anyone else, though, appeasing Roman somewhat. A nervous little laugh shuddered through her. “Perhaps Lord Montborne is exhausted by the attention he already receives.”

Roman’s back was so rigid, he must appear ready to spring. He forced his tension to lessen. If she didn’t want him to pay court to her as part of a wager, surely it was only because she was afraid he might actually engage her heart. That should be reason to rejoice, not to envision wiping the smirks off de Winter and Barton-Wright’s stupid-looking faces.

Fear of him succeeding must be the reason she wouldn’t consider him. The alternative was untenable.

He stepped forward. “I should think I’ve had occasion enough to prove my wit to Miss Lancester. Do continue without me.”

Tewsey’s brow creased with concern, as though he understood the monumental effort it had taken Roman to withdraw. Steepleton and de Winter looked amused by his attempt to save face. Dare and Barton-Wright traded expressions of steely-eyed resolve, while Lucy touched her fingers to her lips and turned away.

Was she surprised by the speed with which things had jumped out of hand? Or was she regretting her decision already? Perhaps she did want him to shower her with sentimentality.

Roman swung his walking stick and pretended to ignore the lot of them. The question wouldn’t go away. Had she cut him from the contest because she didn’t think him capable of charming her?

Or because she very much feared…he could?

THE LIGHT SHINING in the corner window gave Roman something to look forward to at last. One of his brothers was still awake. He trudged up the staircase to the second-floor room where the five men had established a sanctuary of sorts, back when they had yet to discover the clubs and coffeehouses that would become their individual haunts.

“Oh, good, it’s you,” Roman said to Bart. He went to the rack hanging on the wall and selected the longest birch cue, then stepped back to analyze his brother’s game.

 
“‘Oh, good, it’s not Tony,’ you mean.” Bart leaned over the green baize table and neatly pocketed the red ball. “It’s nice to feel appreciated.”

“Come now, we haven’t spoken at length since…” Roman struggled to remember when he’d last talked to Bart alone. His brother was notoriously private.

“Since before I cross-examined you on the witness stand for Constantine.” A
smack
of balls crashing into each other punctuated the claim. Bart rose and walked around to the head of the table, then leaned forward again.

Roman shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose I never thanked you for that.”

His brother wasn’t quite as tall as he was, but he managed an impressive height when he stood straight. Bart didn’t smile at the compliment. “No.”

“Awkward business,” Roman muttered, feeling he’d missed the opportunity to thank his brother and sound like he meant it. “You showed yourself very well, despite the difficulties.”

“It all worked out.”

“He seems happy.”

“He is.” Bart indicated the object ball. “Left corner pocket.” He made short work of it, sending the ball spinning in a smudge of red.

Roman joined Bart in fishing out the pocketed balls, and then rolled them forward so his brother could collect them.

Bart positioned a white ball and a red ball together. Roman shattered the formation in a clean break. They played at turns in silence. If this wasn’t the uplifting ending to his evening Roman had imagined from the street, it was at least a companionable one. Bart was pensive without Tony to lighten his mood. Roman couldn’t expect much more from him than a solid game of billiards.

It was regrettable, though, that he didn’t know Bart as well as he ought. As a practicing barrister, his brother spent most of his time outside of their family’s Mayfair residence, and his work with accused criminals further separated him. Until a few months ago, Roman hadn’t even understood his brother’s chosen profession. But then he’d been called to the witness stand for Constantine and seen Bart’s work firsthand. He’d been awed by his brother’s depth of knowledge, and his competence.

Yet another reason he rarely spoke to him at length.

They were setting up their fifth game when Roman’s valet arrived with a small white card set conspicuously on a silver platter. Roman’s stomach sank through the floor. Not now. Not when he was feeling marginally
good
about himself.

“My lord, a missive for you.”

Bart raised a chestnut brow as he bent over the baize and broke the balls again. “
Who
could that
be
at this late hour?” he exclaimed in a voice that said he knew perfectly well it was a summons from Lady Letitia.

Roman wasn’t in the mood for jests. He tore the card in two without reading it and placed both halves on the tray. “Thank you, Cumberpatch. That will be all,” he said, sending his valet back to bed.

“What’s this?” Bart asked as he turned the table over to Roman. “Ignoring your mistress? Is that wise?”

“She’s no longer my mistress and it’s incredibly stupid,” Roman replied tersely, “but I’m not going to let her ruin my almost pleasant evening.”

“She doesn’t seem the sort of woman one ‘lets’ do anything,” Bart said, his brown eyes curious. “But good for you. Break?”

“Please.”

Roman handily won that round, using more force than was strictly necessary. He marked it down. They played another three games before his sleepy-eyed valet reappeared in the doorway an hour later. This time, the white card was wrinkled, sure evidence Letitia had been in a fit of pique when writing it.

My dearest R.,
it read.
I haven’t forgotten you.

Roman scowled and plunged his cue ball into the red one with a satisfying crack. Nor was she likely to forget him. He was vaguely aware he was the only thing standing between her and total madness.

“You should see to her,” Bart mused. “Things may get ugly if you don’t settle them quickly.”

Roman began gathering up the red balls again. “Things
are
ugly.”

“More ugly, then. I assume Miss Lancester is not aware of your…connection?”

Roman’s churning intensified. “I haven’t exactly found the right way to tell her.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Fortunately, neither have my friends.”

“I’ve no idea how you manage to be so lucky.” Bart lined up his shot and pocketed the first ball without hesitating. “If
I were you, I’d fear my luck was about to run out. If you’re done with Lady Letitia, tell her so. In no uncertain terms. In writing, if possible.”

The tip of Roman’s cue punched the white ball with too much force, sending the wrong ball spiraling into a pocket. “I’ve already done so. She declined.”
 

Bart crossed his arms.
“No
is not an acceptable answer.”

It belatedly occurred to Roman he ought to have asked for Bart’s help earlier. He had been so intent on resolving his issues by himself, it hadn’t even crossed his mind to ask his barrister of a brother for assistance. “According to Letitia, I owe her a substantial sum for the monies she’s forwarded to my creditors.”

“If she is refusing payment for services rendered, she is in contempt, not you.”

Payment for services rendered.
Once, that phrase wouldn’t have felt like nails drawing down the back of Roman’s spine. “She’s not refusing payment for work I’ve done. She claims my
services
haven’t been sufficient to cover my debts.”

Bart grimaced. “We have a sizeable line of credit against the quarry—”

“Our agreement,” Roman said, drawing each word out so his brother would understand, “was an exchange of money for sexual relations. She’ll accept nothing else. She’s accusing me of breach of contract. If I countersue her, she’ll make it public. What is your professional opinion on
that
?”

Bart’s horrified mien told Roman all he needed to know. “You can’t be dragged through the mud,” his brother said. “Our investors will turn tail.”

Roman pressed his lips together. “So I fear.”

Bart shook his head. “You’ve no choice, then. She won’t be put off, so you must find a way to turn her away from you. And, I’d recommend you tell Miss Lancester sooner rather than later. Letitia seems to be out for blood. She’ll try to hurt you anyway she thinks she can.”

“Thank you, barrister.” Roman turned and drew a line in the Loss column of the ledger he and his brothers kept. “And how much do I owe for
your
services?”

Bart began collecting the balls and lining them up in their tray. “I’ll leave your account open.”
 
He replaced his cue stick on the wall and turned to Roman. “I have a feeling you’re going to need my advice again.”

Chapter 13

LUCY DIPPED HER pen into the inkwell. A reflexive action, for she hadn’t the slightest notion what she might write next. So far Caroline and James had proved to be the most stubborn lovers since Caro Lamb and Lord Byron. They never did
anything
she meant for them to do.

A knock at her door caused her to sigh with relief. If she had to spend one more minute rereading her papers covered in crossed lines, she’d shriek.