A Diamond in the Rough (v1.1) (2 page)

“No, but your son would be.”

The Earl’s hand shook as he swallowed the entire contents of his glass. A murmur ran through the cluster of figures gathered behind Hertford’s chair. Word of an interesting wager quickly spread, like blood from a fresh wound, and a number of scavengers hurried over, scenting a kill.

“S’true,” slurred a voice. “Yer always bragging ’bout how yer only spawn’s a bloody Corinthian.”

“A fair bet!” encouraged someone else.

“Woolsey Hall against everything else,” repeated Hertford. “I’m merely trying to be gentlemanly and offer you a fair chance to recoup your considerable losses, but if you’d rather not . . .” He shrugged and reached for the pile of vowels.

“Wait!”

Hertford’s hand hovered in midair.

“W—what do you have in mind?”

“Oh, a match of sporting skills.”

The Earl bit his lip.

“What are you hesitating for, Chittenden?” cajoled a drunken gentleman at his elbow. “The Viscount’s the best damn shot at Manton’s, drives like a banshee, and ain’t been downed yet at Gentleman Jackson’s. You’ve windmills in yer head if ye don’t have the bollocks to accept.”

A number of voices seconded the sentiment, and a few jeers from the crowd questioned his manhood along with his nerve if he backed away from such a generous offer.

The sweat on the Earl’s forehead was now trickling down to his twisted collar. More seconds passed, and with mutterings of disgust, several figures drifted away in search of better entertainment. Hertford let out a sigh and made to rake in his winnings.

“Done!” croaked Chittenden.

The other man’s mouth quirked up ever so slightly. “Ah, it appears we have a wager, gentlemen,” he announced to the remaining crowd. “The Earl of Chittenden pledges Woolsey Hall against my winnings here”— he gestured at the stack of promissory notes—“in a match of sporting skills between myself and his son, Viscount Marquand. Agreed?”

The Earl’s head jerked in assent. After a moment he managed a hoarse whisper. “Shooting? Handling the ribbons? Riding? Boxing? What sort of match do you have in mind?”

Hertford’s smile became more pronounced. “Oh, nothing so banal as those common pursuits,” he answered. Reaching out for the bottle, he poured another stiff drink for the other man and clinked glasses. “No, my dear Chittenden, in order to decide the fate of Woolsey Hall, the Viscount and I are not going to culp wafers, race curricles, take fences, or trade left jabs. We are going to play a round of golf.”

Another two glasses came together, these with the clear ring of crystal rather than the dull chink of ordinary stuff.

“So, she has accepted your suit.” Anthony Ellington regarded his friend from over the rim of his champagne flute. There was a hint of hesitation before he forced a smile to his lips. “I wish you happy.” His tone, however, lacked any of the effervescence of the wine he brought to his lips. “You must be in alt.”

“What man wouldn’t be, on becoming engaged to the Season’s Incomparable?” Marquand drank as well, then set his glass down and stretched his long legs out toward the roaring fire. The chiseled features, smooth and pale as marble, gave little hint of any emotion, joy or otherwise, as he contemplated the dancing flames. His eyes, a gray-green akin to the sea in winter, were equally unfathomable, though the look of keen intelligence lurking in their depths could not be completely drowned by the show of studied aloofness.

Ellington squirmed in the face of such sangfroid. “Of course, of course,” he muttered. “Once again, my best wishes.”

A faint smile finally cracked through. “Go ahead and spit it out, Tony. Much as it is amusing to see you wiggling around like a trout with a hook in its mouth, I’d rather cut line and have you say what you really mean. We have known each other far too long for you to keep your true thoughts submerged.”

Ellington’s mouth opened and closed several times, looking for the moment exactly like a fish out of water— and every bit as uncomfortable. “I, er, that is . . .” “Spit it out, man.”

“It’s no joking matter—this is deucedly hard,” he grumbled. “I do wish you happy, Adrian . . .”

“Yes?”

“It’s just that ... I fear you won’t be.”

One of Marquand’s dark brows rose in question. “Miss Dunster is beautiful, charming, accomplished in all things a proper young lady should be and, well, altogether perfect.”

The brow rose a fraction higher.

“That’s the damn trouble, Adrian! There’s not a hair out of place, if you take my meaning. Everything about her is buttoned up and stitched down tight—I fear there is not a loose thread among all the finery.”

Marquand’s mouth tightened ever so slightly. “I’ve had quite enough of loose threads—and loose screws—in my life. Believe me, I shall welcome the sort of order and predictability you allude to. Furthermore, it shall be a pleasure to become part of a family that is a pattern card of propriety.”

“Hylton is a pompous ass! If he is a stickler for propriety, it is not out of principle but because he lacks the imagination to act in any other way.”

“Trust me, Tony, the last thing I desire in my future family is imagination or uniqueness.”

His friend muttered something unintelligible under his breath. He, too, gazed moodily into the flames for a bit before tossing back the contents of his glass. “I know how difficult it has been for you over the years. Your father and mother possess a certain, er, exuberant charm, but—”

“Charm is not exactly the adjective that comes to mind,” said Marquand, with some bitterness. “Oh, of course they could be charming. And witty. And gay. But as a child I did not find it charming in the least when my parents would fly into one of their raging fits of temper, hurling the Staffordshire figurines at each other—or at me. Nor was it charming when the fires could not be lit and every bloody room was as cold as a witch’s tit because Father had gambled away all his ready blunt.” He ran his hand through his thick dark locks in the first overt show of emotion. “I was no doubt one of the few boys who found life at Eton a respite from home. Whatever the hardships and rigors, at least one knew what to expect there.”

“I know,” said Ellington softly. “I haven’t forgotten the time you returned for Michaelmas term with your arm in a sling and a bad cut on your brow. It is a wonder you ever bothered to go back to the Hall after that.”

“I didn’t hate him, you know. I knew he didn’t mean it. The drinking actually stopped for quite some time after that unfortunate accident.” The Viscount shrugged, as if the memory did not cause his insides to constrict in a tight knot. “Besides, my parents might have destroyed each other, but they didn’t destroy my love for Woolsey Hall. I love every stone and bit of mortar, every creak in its floors, every layer of beeswax and lemon oil on the patinaed woodwork, every quirky mark left by generations of Linsleys. And most of all, I love the lands, the undulations of the meadows, the stately trees lining the drive, the woods thick with oak and elm. Long ago, I made a promise to myself that I would restore it to the glory it deserves. I mean to keep that promise.”

Ellington blinked at the sudden show of passion in the Viscount’s voice. He shifted in his chair and took another sip of his champagne. “Do you love Miss Dunster as well?” he asked abruptly.

The Viscount’s face became stony again. “What has that to do with it?”

“Quite a bit, I should think. If you wish to avoid the pyrotechnics of your father and mother’s match, perhaps it would do well to choose someone for whom you can have a real regard. Not to speak of someone who might share your same . . . interests.”

There was a short, mirthless laugh. “Good Lord, don’t tell me you are turning into a blathering romantic! One would almost think you’ve been stealing a peek at those ridiculous offerings your sister buys from Minerva Press.”

Ellington flushed slightly, but refused to be lured into a discussion of a different sort. “You haven’t answered my question, Adrian.”

Marquand was silent long enough that his friend thought he didn’t mean to give a reply. Indeed, the Viscount settled deeper into the leather wing chair and appeared to forget the other man’s very existence, so engrossed was he in watching the myriad of tiny bubbles burst in a series of tiny explosions on the surface of his drink. Finally he set the glass aside without a taste. “We both know that marriage is a practical alliance, one that can work quite well if the parties involved act with discretion and abide by the rules. Miss Dunster and I shall each get what we desire. She shall be a countess, gaining one of the oldest and most respected titles in the land, while I shall have a polished wife of impeccable breeding and flawless manners, one who will never give cause for any scandal to attach itself to the Linsley name.” He drew in a deep breath. “Indeed, we are both agreed. We are an ideal match.”

“How admirable, Adrian.” A tinge of sarcasm colored his friend’s words. “I can see you have given perhaps the most important decision in your life the sort of rational, dispassionate consideration it deserves.” There was a brief pause as he reached for the bottle to refill his glass. “Remind me to take you with me next time I need to choose a new style of coat at Weston’s or purchase a hunter at Tattersall’s.”

A slight tightening of the jaw was the only reaction from Marquand.

“Sorry,” mumbled Ellington after a moment. “That was uncalled for. It’s just that, as you said, we have been in each other’s pocket since we were in leading strings. So although you choose to appear as cool and immovable as one of those Greek statues you place in your designs, I know that beneath the facade you present to the rest of the world beats a real heart, one that feels flesh and blood emotion. One has only to look at your . . . work to see that.” He cleared his throat. “Hell’s teeth, Adrian, you deserve more than a block of stone for a wife, no matter how flawless the exterior appears. I cannot believe you will be happy with such a spiritless match.” “Flesh and blood emotion?” A mocking smile twisted Marquand’s lips. “Oh, I have seen just what that can result in. The Linsley coffers are nigh empty, the lands— what are left of them—have been stripped bare, and my estimable parents vie with each other as to who can engage in the most scandalous affairs. You would have me risk my own future on something as ephemeral as love?” If anything, his tone had become even more sardonic. “Believing in love is equally as dangerous as trusting in luck.” His voice hardened into a steely growl. “I have seen quite enough to know that both those ladies are nothing but fickle temptresses, waiting to destroy any man who thinks he can win at their game.”

“Both entail chance, if that is what you mean, but perhaps you must be willing to hazard some risks in life to reap the rewards.”

“That sounds just like one of my father’s platitudes! However, when it comes to my life, I don’t intend to leave anything to chance.” There was a brief ripple of emotion in the Viscount’s eyes before a flat calm returned. “You see, despite all that my father has frittered away, I have made him swear by all that is holy that no matter how pressed, he would never stake Woolsey Hall on the turn of a card or roll of dice.” His fingers twisted at the gold signet ring on his pinkie and a smile of grim satisfaction played on his lips. “And such precaution on my part is about to pay off. In spades. Not because of luck, but because of meticulous planning and disciplined perseverance.” He paused to take up his glass once again. “Actually, I have another reason to raise a toast. You know that for the past six months I have been working devilishly hard on securing a certain job—well, I’ve just found out that my proposal has been chosen over all the others.”

For the first time that evening, Ellington’s eyes lit with real enthusiasm. “By Jove, that’s wonderful news! Such an important commission will almost certainly guarantee a successful future in the field. Why, with Devonshire’s backing, you may even be able, in due time, to let the truth come out.”

“Let us not celebrate too soon—I must still come up with the actual plan,” warned Marquand, but he could not hide the note of satisfaction in his voice. “But if all goes as designed, the Hall will soon belong to me outright, for I have a proposal for my father as well. And when it does, I mean for it to have the Countess it deserves.” His gaze once again strayed to the crackling fire. “So you see, you have no need to feel concern for my happiness, Tony. Believe me, I have considered everything very carefully and have taken into account all contingencies. I am well satisfied with my plans for the future.”

“And your intended? I take it she is aware of what you do and has no objection to it? After all, she will be allying herself with a husband whose activities can hardly be deemed . . . conventional.”

For the first time, the Viscount betrayed a crack in his composure. A hint of color rose to his lean cheeks and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Er, well, not yet. I shall, of course, make everything known to her in good time. But I assure you, it will not be an issue. I have taken a good deal of care to protect my true identity and there is no reason to think the ton will ever learn the truth unless I choose to reveal it.”

“Hmmph.” His friend looked at him askance. “Subterfuge and secrets between the two of you? Hardly an auspicious beginning to a lifetime together.”

Marquand’s color deepened. “I assure you, I am keeping nothing meaningful from Miss Dunster. And as for her”—he paused to give a short laugh—“why, you cannot seriously think that she is harboring any dark

secrets.”

There was a long pause before Ellington raised his glass in slow salute. “Well then, let us cry friends and say no more on the subject. You know that as your closest friend I only wish the best for you, Adrian, but it seems you have everything worked out, down to the last nail ...” A sigh, eloquent in its skepticism, sounded, followed by a further mutter. “I just hope it isn’t sealing your own coffin.” He swirled what remained of his champagne, then downed it in one gulp. “I shall forbear saying that I wish you luck, knowing your sentiments on that subject, and merely repeat that I wish you happy.” Under his breath, he couldn’t help but add, “However, to achieve that, I fear that you are going to need more of luck’s help than you think.”