Just Wicked Enough

For Petra and Karen

Because you make my sons smile.

London 1888

M
ichael Tremayne, the fourth Marquess of Falconridge, had always maintained, both publicly and privately, that Jane Austen had the wrong of it. The accepted universal truth to which she so blithely referred would have been more accurate had she written, “a single American heiress in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a titled husband.”

Studying his reflection in the cheval glass, Michael was none too pleased with what greeted him, but only because he tended to delve below the surface. With determination, he forced himself to study nothing more than the visible trimmings. With those he could find no fault.

He’d purchased his formal clothing—silver waistcoat, white starched shirt, silver cravat, black silk trousers, and black patent-leather shoes—expressly for this important occasion. His thick black hair had been tamed, brushed back from his face, but it was only a matter of time before the rebellious wavy curls regained their freedom and became a nuisance. He knew he should probably go with the shorter style men were wearing these days, but he didn’t fancy conformity. The unruly locks served notice he was his own man—even if that notice was about to be discarded in favor of greater gain.

Earlier, he’d carefully applied a straight-edged razor to his sturdy jaw, taking extra care in order to avoid any chance of a nick. It wouldn’t do for any evidence to point toward unsteady hands or a hint that he was the least bit uneasy with his role in the forthcoming proceedings. Nor did he want it apparent he could no longer afford the luxury of a valet.

He’d purchased special cologne—a musky blend of lilac, lime, and citrus—and applied it liberally, almost suffocatingly so. He preferred the earthy smells associated with a man after galloping across the rolling hills, but for his plans this afternoon to succeed required all manner of civilization. He wanted to leave no doubt he was the product of sound breeding and extensive education in all matters of importance.

He slipped his black, double-breasted tailcoat—again, newly purchased—onto his wide shoulders and settled it into place, not bothering to button it as the present style was to leave it undone. It had been some time since he’d been properly attired in the latest fashion, and it had taken considerable cajoling on his part to get his preferred tailor to agree to extend him credit yet one more time when he already owed the man a substantial sum. But Michael had promised a tempting additional payment for the man’s generosity and understanding.

He studied himself more critically, quite pleased with the package. Make it fancy enough to mesmerize, so no one was tempted to peel back the wrapper and peer inside. Yes, even the most unflattering of souls could be hidden in plain view, and a man who eluded confidence was a man assured of success. What better way to demonstrate confidence than with perfectly fitted clothing and exceptional grooming. He’d gone to great pains to prepare for this moment, to ensure he acquired what he so desperately needed: an American heiress in possession of a good fortune.

With any luck Michael would be debt-free before the end of the month.

No, not luck. Cunning, cleverness, and the willingness to do whatever was necessary…no matter how difficult, no matter how tightly his gut clenched with the implications of what the future would hold.

A sharp rap sounded on the door.

“The last of the gentlemen has arrived, my lord,” his butler announced. Michael had managed to retain his butler, his housekeeper, his cook, and one footman. His outside staff consisted of the gardener, coachman, and groom. They were all necessary to keep up appearances, but the number was a far cry from the twenty-four servants who had once seen to the needs of this household and its family.

“Very good, Bexhall. Inform Farnsworth I’ll be down shortly.” Farnsworth, his portly solicitor, would oversee the proceedings.

“Yes, my lord.”

As the footsteps faded, Michael bowed his head and released a deep breath, gathering the fortitude he would need in order to face what he had put into motion. He’d have much preferred taking the way of a coward and staying in his bedchamber until the proceedings were concluded, but he thought it important to be present when the gentlemen heard the terms of the exclusive auction to which they’d been invited.

It was Michael’s resounding conviction regarding what American heiresses wanted that had caused him to face the reality of his present circumstance and dispense with the flirtations and falsehoods required to snare one. He’d accepted the truth of the matter and stopped dancing around it: he was selling, they were buying. Money talked. It was ridiculous to pretend otherwise.

Besides, courtship required a great deal of effort and was fraught with the possibility of failure. Even if he met success with his wooing, he would eventually have to meet with the heiress’s father, obtain his permission to marry his daughter, and then spend days, possibly weeks, hammering out the tedious details of the settlement, its final outcome questionable from the outset. He had no assurances when he began his courtship endeavor—again, a long and tedious undertaking—that his efforts would be well worth his while. Quite simply put, he found the entire practice of winning a lady over to be a great deal of bother, with no guaranteed satisfactory outcome. It was a gamble. Any venture involving the fairer sex was
always
a gamble.

Case in point: his trusted friend, the Duke of Hawkhurst, had expended a great deal of effort into winning the affections of the wealthy American heiress Jenny Rose only to find himself married to her chaperone, after creating a scandal that had nearly ruined them both. And the Earl of Ravensley had been reduced to betraying his long-time friend and his sister in order to protect his interests in Jenny Rose—his betrayal adding fuel to the scandal. Michael had no idea where the man was now.

Nor did he care. At present, he was much more concerned with his own plight.

Lifting his head, he met his gaze, as green and hard as emeralds, in the mirror and squared his shoulders. “You’ve no other choice, old man. Let’s get to it, shall we?”

With a shuddering breath, he gave himself one more nod before striding from the room and heading down the stairs to the library.

Michael’s two friends had shown rather poor planning and judgment. Michael, however, had no intention of following their lead. Not when success could easily be pre-determined with a bit of forethought, preparation, and the careful arranging of key players.

Hence the exclusive auction to be held within his library that afternoon. Americans were known for wanting to outdo each other. He hoped to provide them with ample opportunity to do just that. Place an item before them and let them fight over it. If all went as expected, Michael would be the victor, with enough funds to do whatever he damned well pleased.

The footman opened the door to the library just as Michael arrived. He strode into the room, a man refusing to reveal what the next few moments would truly cost him. Five gentlemen rose—as one—from the chairs circling the massive mahogany desk.

His solicitor stepped away from the tea ser vice set off to the side. “My lord,” Farnsworth said, with a slight nod. “I was about to pour tea for our guests. Allow me the honor of introducing them first.”

The only thing Michael truly noted about the gentlemen was that each wore success as though it had been tailor-made, each stitch hand-sewn with the wearer in mind. Resentment welled within him, but he knew it didn’t rise to the surface, wasn’t visible in his face or his eyes. He’d had years to perfect the art of not revealing his thoughts or feelings. He was a selfish bastard where they were concerned. He shared them with no one.

“My lord, allow me the honor of introducing Mr. Jeffers of New York. His interests lie in railroads,” Farnsworth said.

Michael paid little attention to the rest of his solicitor’s glowing praise for the man standing before him, because Michael had already researched and read the reports provided by both Farnsworth and a private investigator Michael had hired—with the promise of an enticing payment once all business was concluded. He knew
exactly
who he’d invited to this affair, their worth, and their daughters.

“I had the honor of dancing with your daughter, Leonora, earlier in the Season. Lovely lady.”
Face like a horse, but in a darkened bedchamber all women look the same.

Jeffers had two other daughters: Melanie who had recently married and Emily who would be joining the ranks of eligible heiress next Season, if rumors were to be believed.

“Thank you, my lord. She takes after her mother,” Jeffers said.

Which said a good deal about Jeffers’s taste in women. They ran along the same lines as Michael’s—wealth over beauty—because he knew the man’s wife had brought the money into the family which helped to give Jeffers the initial funds to invest in railroads. If love had entered into Jeffers’s decision at all, Michael would gladly eat his recently purchased jacket.

“My lord, Mr. Blair of Boston. His passion is hotels and horses.”

And his daughter, Elizabeth, from all accounts. With only one daughter, he had but one chance to move into aristocratic circles. He wasn’t quite as refined as the other gentlemen, and Michael knew his wife was the one with social ambitions. Blair simply paid the bills his wife presented. Not that Michael faulted the man for avoiding the social scene. Until recently, he’d been of a like mind. He preferred his evenings spent with a few intimates, rather than a host of jolly sorts who quickly annoyed him with all their boring trivial conversations.

“Mr. Rose, my lord, of New York. A banker with interests in Wall Street.”

James Rose was the wealthiest of the lot, disgustingly so. It was rumored that in his New York residence the floors were paved with gold, the chandeliers carved from diamonds, and the furnishing imported from around the world.

He was also the man whose daughter, Jenny, had caused the downfall of Michael’s two best friends. She demanded passion and both men had been determined to deliver it. Michael thought a man could do worse than a wife who fancied passion. He was also quite confident he could exceed her expectations in that regard.

Rose had another daughter, Kate. Michael had danced with her at the beginning of the Season. Her hazel eyes had sparkled that evening. On another occasion, he’d had the opportunity to play a game of lawn tennis with her. She’d smiled and flirted, albeit only a little, but he’d been left with the impression she’d make some gentleman a fine wife, as long as that gentleman could shower her with the one thing
she
demanded: love.

Michael’s one experience with the emotion had taught him that it brought excruciating agony. Why any woman would desire it was beyond his reasoning. And he certainly wasn’t a man capable of delivering it.

“Mr. Keane…Wall Street…”

Michael was barely listening as he moved farther down the line of expectant fathers. He knew Keane had invested heavily and invested well. The man did nothing by half measures. Even procreation. He had four daughters: Emma, Mary, Helen, and Florence. Michael had no preferences where they were concerned as there was very little to distinguish one lady from the others. As he recalled, they were all blondes with blue eyes, nothing spectacular, nothing horrific.

“…Mr. Haddock…”

Who’d built an empire as a wholesale grocer, not a particularly impressive origin, but the results couldn’t be argued. Haddock had three daughters: Lily, Alice, and Ada. Although Michael had yet to meet them, any one would do nicely. They met his one requirement: they’d chosen their father well.

“Gentlemen,” Michael said. “I’m pleased you were able to join us this afternoon. I know your time is valuable, and I won’t take any more of it than necessary. Although, Mr. Farnsworth, I do believe the occasion calls for brandy rather than tea. See to it before we begin.”

As unpatriotic as it might seem, Michael didn’t understand the English fascination with tea. Unlike his opinion of Austen, however, he’d never publicly revealed his distaste of the flavored brewed concoction. There were some opinions, after all, for which an Englishman might not be forgiven for possessing.

Michael glanced over his shoulder. “Nothing for me, Mr. Farnsworth.” He wasn’t certain his knotted stomach could handle anything at the moment. With one more nod toward his guests, he walked to the window that looked out over the well-manicured garden. His title had bought him extended credit that had allowed him to keep his London residence from displaying his decline into poverty, but he knew he’d reached the end of all men’s generosity.

With a sigh, he clasped his hands tightly behind his back. His part of the performance was over for the moment.

He heard the chair behind the desk scrape across the wooden parquet flooring as Farnsworth took his seat. Michael was aware of the sounds of other creaking chairs as the fathers sat. The moment he’d been meticulously preparing for was beginning. He was about to auction off that which he valued most.

He listened with vague disinterest as Farnsworth carefully explained the value of the item. Michael had no reason to pay attention to the details because he was intimately familiar with it and knew precisely its worth.

Facing away from the gentlemen sitting in thick leather chairs before the desk allowed Michael not to reveal that he knew Farnsworth was embellishing the truth surrounding the item’s value. It also allowed him not to disclose what he thought of the embellishments.

It would not do to give away too much too soon.

In some respects, the item being auctioned was worth very little, and yet at the same time, it was worth everything.

The odd thing was that Michael was the only one who knew what was truly being auctioned. Even Farnsworth, with his flowery prose—in-comparable lineage, highly coveted, incredible legacy—had absolutely no clue.

“Have you any questions, gentlemen?” Farnsworth now asked.