Double Deceit (3 page)

“It was dice.”

“You bet the roof over your family’s head on an idiot’s game like hazard? You’ve been impersonating God’s deputy for so long you think you are God himself. What possessed you?”

“I was drunk!”

Tony’s knees gave out, dropping him into the punishment chair. “Did you decide to commit every one of your infamous sins at once? How stupid can you get? Don’t you know enough to cut your losses while you still have a shirt on your back?”

“Lady Luck always returns,” swore Linden. “In the end, she is always there.”

The gamester’s creed. Shock doused Tony’s fury as the ramifications of those words registered. “Do you mean you have wagered the estate before?” His hands shook.

The whisper sliced through Linden’s shout like a sword. He paled, collapsing into his own chair.

“How many times have you risked it?” Tony asked.

“Only once—”

“Did you learn nothing from the experience?”

No response.

Tony paced the room as he tried to come to grips with the catastrophe. The how and why made little difference. What mattered was recovering as much as possible. The money was gone, but perhaps Torwell could buy back the estate. It would require a bank loan, but Torwell had sufficient assets to impress a banker. His cousin Jon could act as go-between for the reclusive antiquarian.

“Who won it?” he asked, hoping it was someone who might be reasonable.

“Sir Winton Vale.”

“Dear God!” Temper engulfed him. “How could you be so stupid? Sir Winton is a dedicated gamester! Even
you
must have heard of him. He wins and loses at least a fortune a month.” Running his hands through his hair, Tony stalked to the window, no longer able to look his father in the eye. “He has probably already lost the Park to someone else.”

“No. I transferred ownership to his daughter’s dowry trust. It will go to her husband.” He slammed his fist onto the desk. “You are the fool. If you hadn’t turned yourself into a pariah, we would not be in this fix. His daughter is a deformed freak who has reached the advanced age of six-and-twenty without a single offer. But he would rather she wed a gazetted fortune hunter than you. I’ve warned you for years about your vices.”

“You are in no position to cast stones.” He fisted his hands against the window casing to keep from smashing the glass. “If anything, your sins exceed my reputation. I’ve never lost an estate at the tables. I’ve not even lost enough to postpone paying my tailor. Haven’t you noticed that not once have I asked for an advance on my allowance? And not once have you received duns on my behalf. You sit in that chair with a sanctimonious sneer on your face, casting aspersions at anyone who refuses to kiss your feet. Yet you never question whether your charges are valid. You would rather cling to your prejudices than admit you might be wrong.”

Don’t bother, Tony. He’s not listening.

It was true. When he turned back to the room, Linden’s head was in his hands. And sniping at each other was pointless. Sir Winton never gave up an advantage, so redeeming the estate was impossible. “How long do we have?”

“Wh-what?”

“When – must – we – leave?” He spoke each word with deliberation. Why was Linden moping? At least four days had passed since that fatal meeting. Shock should have given way to planning by now, yet the man had obviously done nothing but brood on his woes and twist the blame elsewhere.

Linden’s mouth worked soundlessly.

“When must we leave?” he repeated.

“A month. Less. Where will we go?”

The plaintive voice was the last straw. “You should have thought of that before risking the roof over your head.”

Unwilling to remain, Tony stormed out. Most of his possessions were already in London. The rest would easily fit into his coach. He would survive. He might even prosper. There was a small estate in Somerset he had his eye on. The grounds contained a mound that might hold an ancient tomb. He would look into buying it – but he’d be damned if he would offer a roof to the hypocritical fool seated in the study.

How many times had Linden ranted about the evils of gaming, accusing him of throwing his money away through reckless wagers? Yet all the time, he was hiding his own weakness. What could have prompted him to drown himself in wine, then offer his entire fortune to a known gamester?

And why had none of their ancestors entailed the estate? It had been in the family long enough.

The questions circled uselessly through his head. But the biggest one of all stabbed new pain into his heart.

What would happen to his mother?

Linden’s punitive orders had hurt her enough already. She had ceased corresponding with school friends years ago, ashamed to admit that she was a virtual prisoner at Linden Park, yet unwilling to lie. Her local friends were wives of other rigid moralists, who would repudiate the connection once Linden’s gaming binge was known. Not that Linden would remain in the area. He would move to a place where no one knew of his stupidity. How would she cope with a dour husband and no friends? Could she manage without servants, possibly without even a home?

She was waiting in his room. “He told you?”

He nodded. “How could he—” He bit off the words when he spotted her glittering eyes. Drawing her close, he let her cry against his shoulder. Several minutes passed before she pulled herself together.

“I thought I was past that,” she said, sniffing into a handkerchief.

“Did he mention that this is not the first time he has wagered the estate?”

She swayed, making it to a chair only with his help. “So that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“He was not always like this, Tony.” The barest hint of a smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “During my Season, he was the gayest of my suitors, always laughing, or flirting, or reciting extravagant poems to my beauty. His wit made him welcome everywhere, and there wasn’t a gentleman in society who did not envy his flair for dress. Half the girls were in love with him, but I was the one he stole kisses from in the garden.”

“Father?”

She blushed. “My parents thought him a trifle brash, but he was considered a good catch. I had no regrets until you were two years old.” Pausing, she dabbed once more at her eyes. He handed her a dry handkerchief. “He loved society as much as I did. Our balls were always squeezes, and we received invitations to everything. You wouldn’t believe the prince’s gala when he moved into Carlton House back in ’84. And the month we spent in Paris – salons, balls, the court at Versailles…”

He choked, failing to picture Linden at the French court.

“I don’t know what happened in the end,” she admitted, her momentary excitement gone. “We’d been in London only a fortnight when my maid woke me at dawn. Linden announced that we were leaving. We never returned. I learned a month later that he’d sold the town house. And from that day, he changed, growing dour and disapproving, forbidding all the activities he used to love, locking himself away until he no longer recalled those days.”

Tony said nothing as she again dissolved in tears. Her memories bore no resemblance to the man he had known all his life.

“Forgive me,” she begged. “I cannot quite believe we must leave.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t think he knows. We have not spoken since he informed me that he no longer owns the estate. You must help him, Tony. At least make him decide something. For four days he has done nothing but brood – and drink.”

“Drink?” So the departure from abstinence had not been a one-time event.

She nodded. “I was hoping that he would tell you something.”

His laugh contained no trace of humor. “He blames the loss on me.”

“What?”

“If I were less notorious, Sir Winton would have agreed to shackle me to his deformed ape-leader of a daughter instead of demanding the estate. Apparently Sir Winton wanted a dowry for the girl.”

“Linden would have done that to you?”

“My refusal would have given him a new complaint. He must be mad.” He paced the room, trying to find words of comfort in a situation they both knew was hopeless. He couldn’t invite her to live with him without also inviting Linden – another impossibility. Even doubling the amount of time he spent on excavations would leave months when he must be home. They had no relatives who might take them in – he discounted his cousin Jon, for the vicarage was only a mile from the Park. Linden’s pride would never consider it.

Absently bidding his mother good night, he continued pacing. Fireplace to window. Window to washstand. Washstand to fireplace. His thoughts followed the same path, around and around. Reliving the confrontation in the study. Naming every friend and relative they had, with all the reasons why each could not help. Balking at any suggestion he share his roof with his father. He needed a drink.

But he froze with his hand on the bell-pull. This was Linden’s solution – hide the pain beneath a haze of wine.

Is wedding Sir Winton’s chit really so mad?

He jumped. Where had that idea come from?

Refusing Linden’s suggestions was an automatic reaction, he realized. Since childhood, the man had demanded blind obedience. That contest of wills intruded into every other disagreement, building even minor skirmishes into major battles.

He had long considered Linden a religious fanatic, but in truth, his obsession bore little trace of church dogma. He wasn’t opposed to sin. He merely railed against enjoying life, condemning everything pleasurable: dressing in the current mode, visiting the clubs, a glass of port, a willing maid, an innocuous hand of cards, an invigorating set of country dances. But his most fervent lectures were always reserved for gaming.

He paced faster.

He might wish his father in Hades, but anger did not extend to his mother. She had always supported him against Linden’s tirades, easing his punishments, concealing incidents she knew would trigger a new round of disapproval, giving him her unqualified love and support. How could he blithely pick up the threads of his own life, knowing that she faced poverty with no guarantee she would even have a roof over her head? Linden had nothing left. Even spending his remaining years in an endless round of house parties would not work. Few would welcome a guest who could not pay vails to the servants when he left.

He must explore every possible solution before condemning his mother to such a life. And one solution was recovering the Park. His parents could remain there while he lived elsewhere.

Marriages of convenience had been the custom for centuries. Most worked well enough. Excavating would keep him occupied, offering an excuse to avoid his wife if she proved too annoying. The idea of forming an alliance with Sir Winton set his teeth on edge, but he would deal with it.

Somehow.

A night of thought convinced him that it was the only honorable path. Yet his reputation stood in the way. Though he rarely lacked willing bed partners – many considered him handsome, and his aura attracted the adventurous – this situation was different. The courtesan class might enjoy the thrill of dallying with the notorious Tony Linden, but no respectable lady considered him eligible, not even those who flirted outrageously with the danger he supposedly represented.

Sir Winton had already refused a match, so he must approach Miss Vale directly. But she would only consider him if she judged him on his merits, which meant hiding his identity. Even deformed maidens incarcerated in the country would have heard the rumors.

Could he manage such a deception? Wedding under a false name – or even an incomplete name – could lead to an annulment for fraud, so he must disclose the truth before marriage. Only love might prompt a woman to overlook his deceit. And only revealing his real self would convince her that his reputation was false. He must also hide the fact that he was a fortune hunter.

He cringed, for he despised that term and all it stood for. But he could not deny that he was, in fact, a fortune hunter. He was willing to wed a stranger, described by her own father as a deformed freak, because he needed her dowry.

He paced the length of the gallery and back, scanning his ancestors as he wrestled with the problem. He must court Miss Vale, hide his identity and purpose, convince her he cared, and win her heart so thoroughly that she would forgive his imposture and wed him anyway. And he must do it under Sir Winton’s nose.

Damnation! It wasn’t possible.

He stared at his mother’s portrait. It had been painted shortly after her marriage and revealed a carefree happiness he’d never recognized. Her smile was wide, her eyes sparkling. He could see her twirling around a ballroom, charming every gentleman into slavish adoration. But that girl was gone, replaced by a timid woman struggling to survive in a harsh world. Could he release her from her long imprisonment? She had often sacrificed her own pleasure to protect him from Linden’s wrath, so he owed her his best effort. Even restoring the security of Linden Park would not balance all she had done for him.

He resumed pacing, this time looking for ways around each obstacle. Approaching Miss Vale as Tony Linden was impossible. Even a recluse would associate the name with vice. So he must conceal his identity and accept the consequences of such a deceit.

But concealing his identity posed serious problems. He had never spoken to Sir Winton, but he knew the man by sight. Thus, he had to assume that Sir Winton would recognize him. The conundrum beat against his temples. How could he hide in a house headed by a man who knew him, a man who had already refused to consider him as a suitor…

His great-grandfather stared down from the wall, brown eyes twinkling with humor.

Brown eyes.

The Linden looks.

Jon.

Every detail fell neatly into place as he rode toward the village. From a distance, he and Jon were nearly identical – same height, same build, same dark brown hair. At close quarters, the resemblance ended, but Sir Winton had never been close.

In light of the family looks, hiding his connection to Linden Park was impossible, but if he and Jon exchanged identities, he could appear as an innocent bystander. Jon could be the rakehell fortune hunter that everyone avoided. It should not be difficult. Jon knew him better than anyone and could copy the flamboyant bow and exaggerated formality that made Tony Linden stand out in any crowd. The contrast allowed Anthony Torwell to fade into the background.