Authors: Tessa Berkley
Lord Heartless
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Lord Heartless
Copyright © 2014 by Tessa Berkley
ISBN: 978-1-61333-674-8
Cover art by Fiona Jayde
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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By
Tessa Berkley
I wish to thank my lovely editor whose dedication and skills make this book a joy to share. I would also like to thank my publisher who had enough confidence in me to accept this story.
The gray skies combined with the endless drum of the rain on the roof of his carriage did little to lift his spirits. “Lord Heartless,” he growled and crushed the newsprint beneath the supple deerskin glove of his left hand. T’was not his fault Charles Gilbert gambled, nor did he ply bottle to cup, or force his hand to pick up the revolver and place it against his temple. What was done was done. Regardless of the consequences, he would take ownership of Holly Grove in less than a few days’ time, and in one stroke, collect the debt owed to him, happy to cease the waggle of tongues belonging to the Ton.
He lifted his cane and using the knob end, parted the curtains to watch the shapeless brownstones drown beneath the sheets of relentless rain. Only a few solitary figures braved London’s inclement weather to move along the streets. Their faces covered with upturned cloaks, and their hats pulled low in a failed effort to keep dry. His lips pressed together to form a thin line. “Good,” he mumbled as the carriage slowed. “The less likely I am to be stoned.” He reached to collect his hat. The carriage tilted as the driver climbed down and opened the door.
“Your stop, your lordship.”
Even in the pouring rain, the driver removed his hat and bowed his head as Landon Montague emerged only to submerge his right foot in a puddle. He ground his teeth together, ignoring the dampness that would mar the shine of the leather, and pulled a few coins from his vest pocket as the man raised his head. “Put your hat on, man, before you catch your death a cold.”
“Thank you, sir.” In a swift movement, the driver palmed the silver and doffed his hat, sending a spray of water onto Landon’s trousers.
Anger simmering, Landon grasped his cane tighter, ignored the infraction, and mounted the steps to his solicitor’s door.
“Shall I wait, sir?” the cabbie called.
“No. But, thank you.” Landon wondered why he even bothered with pleasantries considering the man’s station in comparison to his own. “Growing soft,” he mumbled with a shake of his head. No time to think, there was business at hand. He lifted his cane and rapped against the door as the sound of the horse’s hoofbeats faded.
Seconds later, the dark door opened. “Afternoon, Lord Montague.” The young man, bent at the waist, ushered him in with a sweep of his hand.
“Afternoon,” Landon replied, pausing to hang his hat upon the rack.
“May I take your cloak?”
He turned and lifted the soaked wool coat from his shoulders. The clerk took it without remark, heedless of the water pooling on the carpet, and hung it on the hook.
“Mr. Black asked me to show you to the meeting room and kindly begs for you to wait.”
Landon arched his brow in surprise, but he followed without comment.
The room, which lay adjacent to Mr. Black’s office, was connected by a slim doorway so that the barristers might talk without notice of their clients. A fire in the brazier warmed the room and kept most of the shadows at bay.
“Mr. Black will be right in.” With that, the clerk closed the door, leaving him alone.
How peculiar, usually Black was waiting for him. Was something amiss? Landon pursed his lips and he walked across the narrow room toward the fireplace, extending his hands to the warmth. He supposed it could be the gossip from the papers; however it didn’t explain the warning rise of hair along the nape of his neck. His glance moved above the hearth to the mirror.
His reflection shimmered in the rising heat. The dark curl of hair dipping over his forehead pointed toward his equally dark eyes. He’d heard it said that the eyes were the reflections of one’s soul. Well then so be it, his was dark for no soul lay in the depth of his bosom. It had been crushed, wrenched from his body years ago.
The door opened. He swung around.
“Afternoon, Lord Montague.” Amos Black entered the room and closed the door behind him. “I hope today finds you well.”
“As well as it can be,” Landon said and moved to one of the chairs before the desk. Amos took up residence on the other side and drew his chair close to the desk. “I suppose you’ve read the papers.”
Amos looked in his direction, his face stern. “I have. I dare say you have earned your moniker yet again.”
Friends since boarding school, Landon looked up to Amos as he would have an older brother. Too bad Black’s family had suffered a reversal of fortune, for they might have been business partners instead of Amos being in the Montague’s employment. Still, his condemnation hurt more than the slanderous remarks in the tabloids. Landon glanced at his trousers and plucked an invisible specter of dust from his thigh. “I am not at fault. Lord Gilbert should not have made a wager he could not back.”
Amos raised a hand. “I am not here to judge. I am just reminding you of your efforts of late to clear the black mark from your name.”
“Not even an angel on my shoulder can change the perception of the Ton if they do not wish it.”
“Quite.” Amos sighed. He opened the folder and placed his arms on the paperwork. “You intend to go through with this?”
“Does Gilbert’s estate have sufficient funds to cover the debt?”
“No.”
“Then we take possession of the manor.” Landon watched the sour twist of his lawyer’s lips. “What troubles you? We’ve done such transactions many a time. Why, today of all days, do you question my right to claim something of monetary value to cover my losses?”
“Are you aware that Charles Gilbert had a family?”
Landon’s chest contracted. He moved his fingers along the upholstery, then encircled the wooden end of the arm, and held it tight.
A minor catch
. “No. Is it wife or mother that I am casting into the streets?”
Amos sat back. “Neither.”
Landon’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he stared at his solicitor. “Then, pray, whom?”
***
“A daughter.” Landon shook his head and stared at the dark, empty fireplace of his London home. He wanted to throttle Gilbert’s corpse.
How could anyone gamble when they knew an innocent depended on them? Had Gilbert no priorities?
Landon lifted his hand only to find his glass empty. Grumbling, he rose and made his way to the sideboard by memory. He reached for the glass container that held the whiskey.
Could it be Lord Gilbert knew my mother?
They moved in the same circles. Who else would have told Gilbert he was unmarried? No, he mused, this type of meddling was better left to gossipmongers. They would have delighted in passing the information to his mother that since Gilbert’s death he had cut back at the clubs and attempted to clean up his reputation. A sigh pressed against his lips, but the mess already for naught. The source of his doom had been written in Gilbert’s own hand and delivered by solicitor to Black that very morning.
It made no difference. The Ton would never stand for him casting an innocent into the street. Despite his attempts at control, his hands shook as he poured another dram of whiskey into the glass. Cornered like a fox on a hunt. Their tongues would shred what little respectability he had left. A deep breath steadied his hand as he raised the glass high to the light. He gazed at the golden-brown liquid knowing it would not drown the memory, but it would make it easier to survive the night.
“One year from twenty. Even my mother could not have planned a trap better.” The sarcasm dripped from his lips. Four months. He had put it off long enough. Tomorrow, he would drive to Holly Grove and meet this Miss Gilbert. Then damn his soul, he would perjure it, and do the right thing in the eyes of the Ton. With a flick of his wrist, the liquid disappeared.
Juliet paused. From beyond the door, the sounds of two voices she held dear rose in conversation. Cook and Mrs. Nichols were engaging in their favorite pastime: gossip. Her lips twitched. She’d grown accustomed to their analyzing of their world’s events. Yet, today’s edition came too close to home. She pushed the door open and watched them from the top of the stairwell. The sounds of the servants’ conversation drifted through the edges and reached her ears.
“Disgraceful if you ask me,” Cook snapped. Her meaty arm whipped the whisk around the bowl, clutched against her ample bosom. The poor eggs never stood a chance.
“And she knows nothing?” the woman standing next to her drying a fork asked.
Cook placed the bowl down with a heavy
thump
. “If she knows, the lamb has not said a word. Pleasant smile on her face. Going around the manor making sure all is well so that thief can come in and steal all that’s left.” She shook her head and sent her jowls to quivering. “If I had ’em in this kitchen, I’d box his ears in good fashion.”
“Then perhaps it is a good thing Lord Montague is late,” Juliet said.
Two pairs of eyes rounded as Cook and the housekeeper gasped drawing her hands against her heart as the fork clattered to the wooden table. Turning, they found Juliet Gilbert poised at the top of the stairs that led down to the kitchen.
“Forgive me, Lady Juliet.” Cook curtsied. “Gossip is a terrible sin left to give old ladies, like myself, comfort.”
“You are forgiven, as always.” Juliet smiled and moved down the steps. “Yet, I must remind you that your new employer may feel differently. Should either of you wish to keep your positions, you might think to temper your tongues or at least keep a wary eye. Emma, I wish you to bring the good china and crystal into the dining room today.”
“The one with the crest, ma’am?”
“Yes. I assume Lord Montague and his solicitor will have left London quite early. A warm meal and good hospitality will be appreciated.”
“Three places?”
Juliet shook her head. “No, five. Reverend Phelps and his wife will be in attendance also.” She paused. Even if this was the last time she was mistress of Holly Grove, she was determined to show she still had her pride. “We must show his lordship, that even in the country, manners are observed. Have we enough meat?”
“Aye, miss.” Cook nodded. “I can see us through to midweek.”
“Today, we will do our best. I expect it to be over and to be gone by midweek.” She drew a breath. “Thank you for staying on. I know,” her voice cracked, “I know you both have had other offers.”
“Of course we’d stay,” Cook huffed. “We’ll see you through this with the dignity Holly Grove has always shown.”
“Bless you, Cook.” Juliet reached out and grasped the older woman’s hands¸ then leaned in to kiss both her ruddy cheeks. “I shall leave you to your labors.” Releasing her, she did the same to the housekeeper. “You both have made this house a home. I thank you.” Head held high, she turned and retraced her steps to the main floor.
