The Art of Ruining a Rake (44 page)

“Every author worries his story will be given away for free. Even a newspaper article can spoil too much, in his mind. In truth, some amount of the book must be made available so customers may determine whether they are willing to spend their own carefully-counted ha’pennies on it. Moreover, you needn’t fear you won’t be compensated at all. The editor of the
Ladies’ Companion
will pay you handsomely for the opportunity to be the first to distribute your work.”

Trestin pointed to an empty line where a settlement price needed to be filled in. “When will we learn how much her book is worth?”

Mr. Tewseybury gave them both a patient smile. “Mrs. Avery has a good head for business, and she knows what sells. Once she has a chance to read the book, she will make an offer. For today, we will have Miss Lancester sign the top portion, authorizing me to negotiate on her behalf.”

Lucy looked at her brother. She wanted to publish her story more than anything, but she was afraid of making the wrong decision. He was much more experienced in this sort of thing, given his responsibility for Worston Heights.

“We won’t accept less than fifteen pounds,” Trestin said. He turned to her. “That’s almost twice what you were paid for seven months of being headmistress. We’re offering Mrs. Avery the first of three volumes. It seems a fair sum.” Then he quickly corrected himself. “
Does
it seem a fair sum, Lucy?”

Lucy was delighted by his understanding of her. “Yes, indeed. Thank you for asking.”

Trestin smiled back at her. Then he passed the pen and inkwell to her.

She accepted the instruments and leaned over the contract again. She wasn’t convinced her novel would be worth any sum, let alone fifteen pounds. But if her brother believed in her…

She signed her name and instantly felt euphoric. It was done.

She sagged into her chair, thrilled and exhausted at once. In the seven days since Roman had left her drawing room, she’d barely slept. Editing her novel had become a necessary distraction from remembering how he’d begged her to forgive him, as she’d forgiven James. How he’d kissed her so chastely. How solemn and hopeful he’d seemed, determined to win her yet, but resigned to waiting while she sorted through his admission.

“When will it be ready?” she asked as she watched her brother verify she’d signed the correct places.

Mr. Tewseybury accepted the document and writing instruments from Trestin, then wrote his name into two blank spaces. “I’ll call on Mrs. Avery tomorrow. You should see your prose in print before the month is out. As for the finished copy, the first volume of the three-decker will be sent to lending libraries and bookstores in time for your first installment in the
Ladies’ Companion
. Congratulations, Miss Lancester. You’re on your way to becoming a published author.”

“I can hardly believe this is real,” she answered a bit breathlessly, too fatigued to dance for joy. “I’m elated, but also frightened.”

He smiled warmly. “No different from any other author. Have a glass of sherry and try to enjoy your accomplishment. Not every lady can write a book.”

She grinned back at him. “Nor can most men.”

ROMAN SEARCHED FOR his disreputable brother for an entire week, but Dare was nowhere to be found. It could almost be believed the bounder was skulking about the countryside where he’d torched the bridge—though that seemed especially far-fetched, given that he thought Devon even more insipid than Roman did.

After a seventh night of fruitless searching, it occurred to Roman that he’d been looking in all the wrong places. Dare wouldn’t patronize the fashionable establishments. No, he’d bury himself in a true gaming hell. One where even a bankrupted profligate like him would be guaranteed a seat at the hazard table.

For three more days, Roman wasted his time scouring the lowliest dens in London. He was beginning to recognize the avaricious wenches who went from hell to hell, hunting reckless men willing to wager their livelihoods on the tumble of a die.

Just when exhaustion begged Roman to concede defeat, he was directed to a rear hazard table. He rounded the Oriental screen dividing the table from the rest of the club and found his towheaded brother slumped over a game in progress. Dare was too soused to do more than open his hand and let a pair of dice drop onto the baize-covered table.

“Nick,” he slurred, using the jargon for a win. He reached for the pile of dirty coins glinting in the den’s tallow lights.

Roman stepped forward so his brother couldn’t possibly fail to see him. “Good, you’ve taken the pot. You’re ready to come home, then.”

Dare’s head moved in the direction of Roman’s voice, but it took his eyes longer to catch up. They focused slowly, as if he were too drunk to recognize his own brother. “Can’t,” he said, and tossed two golden coins back onto the baize. “Not enough yet.”

Roman ignored the gawping looks of
Dare’s fellow players. He hauled his brother to his feet. “
You’re betting worthless guineas when you owe thousands.
Let’s go.”

Dare jerked away with so much force, he sent himself sprawling into the Oriental screen. The silk shade crashed into the next table. Rounds of “What the devil!” and “You piss-ant drunk!” rose over the general din.

Roman didn’t bother to help Dare up. He collected his brother’s filthy coins and pocketed them. “Come before I’m forced to break your legs myself.”

Dare struggled to his feet. “You don’t tell me what to do.”

“But I do,” Roman disagreed. “I hold your fate in my hands.”

“You,”
Dare spat, his expression full of loathing. “I’ll be dead one day and you won’t even know it. How long has it been? Two weeks since I saw you last? Now you ask me to leave in the midst of my winning streak. You don’t care what’s best for me.”

Roman silently cursed the choruses of “Aye” and “Bugger him” that came from the men at the table. The last thing his brother needed was encouragement.

“I came to help you,” he said, stressing each syllable so his intoxicated brother could follow. “Come home and we’ll sort it all out.”

“Can’t.” Dare wobbled a bit before catching himself on the back of a chair. “Home is the first place they’ll look.”

Roman indicated the coarse clientele surrounding them. “Surely you’re safer at Merritt House than here.”

Dare swayed. His blue eyes didn’t leave Roman’s. “Did you get my pistol back?”

“Yes,” Roman lied smoothly. He wasn’t going to stand here and argue semantics. The last time he’d seen the pistol, Dare had left it in the billiards room. Roman had seized it. Of course he’d kept it safe. “You’ve nothing to fear if you stay close to me.”

Dare nodded, absorbing Roman’s promise. Then he grinned at the men seated around them and waved his hand through the air as if bidding adieu. “I must say good night. Big brother is here to return the prodigal son.”

“You’ll be back,” predicted the nearest man.

“It’s all for show,” agreed another.

Roman cast them all a disgusted look and ushered his brother to lead the way. They wove between gaming tables, out into a cramped stairwell smelling of piss.

When they reached the door to the street, Roman finally exhaled. He steered Dare to a waiting hack. Moments later, he eyed his brother across the shadowy expanse of its interior and shook his head. He should have known better. He’d not have answers tonight. The second Dare slouched against the rear-facing squab, his eyes fell closed and a soft snore issued from his lips.

At least he was safe.

The next morning Dare didn’t appear at breakfast, where Roman had hoped to speak frankly with him. Rather, Dare wandered into the library at three in the afternoon holding a half-eaten scone in one hand and his greatcoat in the other. Roman could detect the tobacco smoke clinging to the garment even from across the room.

“Where are you going?” he asked, laying down his pen.

Dare fell onto the couch and tossed his greatcoat across the back of the squab. He propped one long leg along the cushion and eyed Roman with barely masked indifference. “Nowhere that concerns you. Unless you plan to fetch me again?”

Roman regarded his brother with unconcealed exasperation. “If it means keeping you out of harm’s way, I’ll pull you out of every den and card room for the next forty years.”

Dare’s blond hair was still too long but he’d given it a wash, and his chin was so freshly shaved it almost gleamed. There remained a dullness in his eyes, an anguish that fed Roman’s resolve. He must help his brother. All his years of doing nothing could be pardoned if he brought his brother back.

“It’s very simple, really,” Dare said, biting into his scone. “Give me the money and I shall never wander off again.”

Roman was determined to help his brother. That didn’t preclude him from wanting to throttle some sense into him. “You don’t have it.
I
don’t have it. Constantine has it, but he won’t give it to you. Let’s consider this rationally. You must earn it. What is a man in your position to do?”

“Whatever he must,” Dare said, swallowing his bite. “When he has no help.”

A flash of indignation caused Roman to rage. How could he be so cavalier, when he wanted Roman to help him, and the money must come from the quarry?

“Did you set fire to the Devonshire bridge?” Roman asked with deadly calm.

Dare took another bite of scone. “Yes.”

Fury, hot and consuming, ignited Roman’s last vestiges of patience. Just one
hint
of an apology and he would have felt sorry for his pathetic whelp of a sibling. But Dare finished his scone as though he’d done nothing wrong. Roman had never imagined a more unconscionable person. Even when he hadn’t been diligent, himself, he’d surely been more aware than
this
.

He gripped the edge of his desk. “You face some very serious charges, then. Your debt may seem inconsequential by comparison.”

Dare crossed his arms and looked directly at Roman. “What are you going to do? Arrest me?”

Why, the cocksure little— “Yes!” Roman exploded. “You leave me no choice!”

Dare sat up a fraction. “What?”

“You’re unpredictable, destructive and malignant. What do you expect me to do when you endanger yourself and our family?”

Desolation paled Dare’s face. As if Roman had cut him to the quick.

Roman instantly felt contrite. Hadn’t he felt worthless when Lucy had laid his faults bare?
You’re charming, gifted with a silver tongue, and spoiled.
He hadn’t meant to hurt his brother. He didn’t want to send Dare into an even worse fit of melancholy by speaking to him as if he were utterly without hope. He wanted to help.

Then again, if Lucy had never called him a spade, he wouldn’t have realized he needed to do better. He sought his words carefully. “You’re an optimistic sort of fellow, Darius. The next grand adventure is always around the corner. But you must accept you’re not the only person in the world whose feelings must be considered. Our family could have been liable for the crime of insurance fraud and you could have found yourself guilty of manslaughter. Our futures were put at risk, all for minimal gain.”

Dare’s eyes drilled accusingly into Roman. “It’s always about them, isn’t it?” ‘The family will be ruined. Tony and Bart and Constantine will be hurt.’”

“Did you not hear what I said?” Roman’s voice rose. “
You
could have killed someone. It would have been a man’s death on
your
conscience. Bart says you could have hanged for it. Is that what you want? People to die? All for a few hundred quid?”

Dare finally had the grace to look chastened. “No,” he muttered.

Roman exhaled deeply. Thank God. There was hope.

But he’d barely scratched the surface of the issue. Even if he didn’t know what to do, he must
think
. Bart had made it clear this was his problem to solve. What could he say that would hold meaning for Dare?

“You have a choice,” he said, and was rewarded when Dare lifted his head a fraction. “You can continue to be unrepentant and I will have you arrested. Or you can own up to your responsibilities and carry your weight. I’ve thought of a new job for you, one that might suit you better.”

He was afraid to tell Dare about Letitia. There was so much risk. But what other option did he have?

Dare watched him warily. “You wouldn’t help without reason. What do you want in return?”