The Art of Ruining a Rake (37 page)

Tony ignored his rebuff. “I meant it in a positive way. I’m proud of you for requesting your accounts be totaled, but evidently you don’t want to hear that from me. Very well. That is your debt less the amount Lady Letitia holds. How do you intend to buy your vouchers back? Will you borrow the money from a friend?”

“No.” Roman chose the next piece of correspondence and ran his eyes down the text, steadfastly ignoring his brother. Why couldn’t Tony trust him to manage his own affairs?

“Elizabeth, then,” Tony suggested. “I’m sure she has it.”

Roman didn’t doubt it. Constantine’s wife was wealthy, at least half as well-heeled as Celeste. Both ladies’ early lives as premier courtesans had afforded them the chance to amass impressive fortunes.

“Elizabeth also has a very long memory,” Roman reminded his brother. “She won’t have forgotten my resistance to her marrying Con.”

 
“You weren’t her favorite person before that, either,” Tony conceded, referring to Roman’s attempts to keep Celeste and Ashlin apart. “What about Trestin? He’s been known to furnish you in a pinch.”
And he’s married to Celeste,
his expression seemed to say.
You know he has the blunt.

Roman clenched his jaw. While it was true Ashlin had put up funds for him on several occasions, they were not his proudest moments. He hated thinking about them. He wanted to repay his friend for his loyalty, not borrow yet more money.

He reached for his pen and dipped the tip in ink. “I’ll raise the money myself.”

“How?”

He refused to give his busybody of a brother any more of his time. “It’s none of your affair.”

The room was silent for so long, he almost thought Tony had taken the hint and gone. Then his brother spoke. “Don’t be so determined to prove yourself, you hurt the people who love you.”

Roman pretended to scan the next page in his ledger. “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

“Please do. There is no shame in admitting you need help.”

Roman grimaced. No shame for Tony, perhaps. Everyone already knew how perfect he was.

Then he recalled his talk with Bart and felt marginally more like an ass. Tony did have a head for these things. He might know of a way forward. “Very well. What would you do in my situation?”

Tony blinked in surprise. Heroically, he didn’t comment on Roman’s change of heart. “I’d consolidate it, to start. With only one rate of interest to manage, your small payments will have a greater impact on the total remainder. As for where you’ll find the ready to make the payments, might I suggest you begin with a good, hard look at your wardrobe? You must have hundreds of items of clothing you haven’t worn in a year or more, and gewgaws and such to match.”

As if he owned any attire that wasn’t absolutely required!

But rationally, his brother was right. “Simple is better,” Roman allowed through his teeth. “I’ve always agreed with Brummel.”

Tony smiled. “If you tell them the new fashion is to be seen in just one cut of coat, simplicity will become
de jour
in an instant.”

“I’ll consider it,” Roman said, working his jaw back into place. He didn’t have to like it.

When his meddlesome brother finally left, Roman kicked away from his desk and paced the room. Work was impossible tonight, after that intrusion. As was sinking into his cups. If he became inebriated he’d no doubt do something stupid like go to Lucy and tell her everything.

He’d meant to do that long ago. Now it seemed too late. How could he tell her about Letitia and her like after all they’d shared last night? He risked losing Lucy all over again.

He’d thought he’d die before, when she hadn’t loved him. Now that she did, if he revealed his sordid past and she turned away, he’d lose everything. Not only his hope of hearing from those sweet, sweet lips that she loved him, but also the man he’d become. All of his progress, his newfound rapport with his brothers, his responsibilities, his hopes and plans for the future—all would be lost, if Lucy wasn’t here to share in his happiness.

Roman looked up when Mr. Benjamin slipped into the room. “What is it?” he asked his butler, glad for the interruption.

Mr. Benjamin handed him a folded letter, then stepped back and clasped his hands behind him. “The courier did not wait, my lord.”

“But you did.” Roman unfolded the page. Perfume wafted into the air and he felt his gut tighten in response. A quick glance confirmed this was Letitia’s writing.

In a way it was a relief. At least now, he’d be forced to
do
something.

“I’m being summoned,” he told his manservant. “It appears I’m about to be blackmailed.”

“Very good, my lord. Do you prefer your brown greatcoat or the black?”

Roman tossed the letter into the hearth. The fire had gone to embers, but enough remained to catch the vellum in a slow, orange burn. “The brown, of course. It brings out the color of my eyes.”

Mr. Benjamin nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. Will you be walking, or shall I have a hack waved down?”

Roman’s gaze didn’t stray from the curling paper ashes. “No hack. Bring the brown beaver hat, as well as my kid gloves.”

Twenty minutes later, he strolled into Letitia’s drawing room fully aware he was about to be extorted within an inch of his life—and glad for the chance to be heated about it. “My lady,” he said curtly, “what brings me to you on this fine eve?”

She lounged on her chaise and sipped from a glass of rich red wine. Purple smudges discolored the skin beneath her eyes, evidence of sleepless nights. He knew a moment’s regret. Letitia had relied on him for comfort. He’d reformed, and rather quickly. It wasn’t entirely fair to assume she had done the same.

Her eyes found his over the rim of her glass. Slowly, she brought the stemware down to rest against the chaise cushion. “I want you back,” she said calmly, without a trace of the desperation he’d read in her letter.

Not,
I’ve missed you. I can’t sleep without you. You were my soul.
“Letitia,” he said just as methodically, “I’ve told you our association is over. How can I make it any plainer?”

She gestured in a very insouciant, French way. “Surely you’re not still mooning over that Lancester cow.”

His conscious cleared with that. “You won’t speak of her in my presence again.”

Letitia held her empty wineglass toward him, indicating he should refill it from the bottle on the sideboard.

Dutifully—perhaps out of habit, or mayhap because he wished to choose his battles—he returned a glass of Bordeaux to her awaiting hand.

She smiled in sly satisfaction. A single, garnet-colored droplet clung to her upper lip as she lowered the glass. The tip of her tongue retrieved the morsel while the rest of her body hung in bated suspense.

Once, he would have been intrigued. Or he would have feigned his arousal, depending on his mood. But he would not have been disgusted, as he was tonight. And he would not have ignored the invitation, let alone spurn it.

Her expression grew spiteful as she realized her ploy wasn’t working. “I never thought you’d
change,
” she said accusingly. “I depended upon you not. I liked our little games. You gave me power. We women are afforded very little of it.”

It was so unlike the attack he’d expected her to make, he was momentarily nonplussed.

“I
have
changed,” he agreed after a pause, indicating himself from head to toe. “I realize it’s an inconvenience. I’ll give you twice my worth, if you’ll stop making demands of me. Please, Letitia. Let me go.”

She dropped one foot to the floor and sat up so straight, it seemed she’d risen like a phoenix, his dreams turning to ashes around her. “Double the price when it’s you I want? You fool.”

“Who am I,” he asked, his tone matching her ire, “but the man who warms your bed? Punishing me can’t bring back Robert. He’s gone.”

She flung her glass at him. Wine sprayed over chairs and tables, drenching everything in bloodred liquid. The glass fell ineffectually at his feet. A dark stain seeped into the plush carpet where the wine dregs soaked the fibers. “Don’t you
dare
speak his name. You are the man who obeys me. I have desires. And what I want is
you.”

“But why?” he asked, unruffled by the splatter of wine drops ruining his second-favorite pair of breeches. “What makes me special, when there are others who would gladly take my place?”

She blinked, momentarily flummoxed.

His entire body tensed. She didn’t know.

She didn’t
know
.
 

“I desire a man who is tall,” she answered. “Blond. Handsome beyond measure. Charming when he wishes to be, virile even when he does not, and beholden to my every desire. In whom else will I find such a paragon as my Robert? And why should I give you up, when I already have you firmly in my grasp?”

Pure, unadulterated rage consumed him. She’d been bedding him because it simply hadn’t occurred to her there was anyone else she might tup without consequence, and now she refused to release him because it pleased her to have power.

Power he’d given her.

“You can’t toy with me merely because it suited you better when I was your marionette,” he said in a firm voice. “I’m going to tell Lucy all of it. And you,” he said to the woman who’d belittled him long enough, “are going to meet my youngest brother. His name is Darius. He’s tall, blond, handsome, charming, and utterly beholden. He will not mind a whit that you’re using him.” After a pause, Roman added, “It will be up to you to determine whether or not he is virile.
I
certainly don’t wish to know.”

Chapter 18

THE NEXT DAY Roman examined the diagram Mr. Shaw, his chief engineer, had unfurled across his desk. Mathematics had never been his favorite course of study, and calculus in particular he’d always found abstract, but he recognized the formulas scratched into the corners of the quarry survey. Evidently, the geometry he’d suffered through did have
some
use.

Better yet, while he couldn’t claim to be adept with calculations, it was the first time he’d been shown something he at least understood. “If the incline is too steep and the ground too soft for the plateway to be effective after all, why not create a winding path? It could switch back through here,” he pointed to the rendering of the moors, “and we can even collect moorstones lying about as we approach the canal, for an extra profit.”

Mr. Shaw came around the desk. He looked over Roman’s shoulder and placed his fingertip on a point halfway between the projected plateway and a cluster of tors depicted by a jagged M. “A series of switchbacks will require more time and resources than the plateway. Too, there is this odd little dip in the moorland here. If it were up to me, I’d build a simple stone bridge to span this gap,” he pointed to a narrow point, “but Lord Antony didn’t prefer it.”

“Why not?” Roman asked. Tony must have had his reasons.

He looked up in time to see Mr. Shaw blink, as if he hadn’t expected to be asked. “Bridges can be troublesome. They can collapse for a myriad of reasons, even when we do our best with design. Especially concerning is the load. Granite is a substantial burden, and Lord Antony favored leveling the slope rather than constructing a bridge that would require regular maintenance and introduce a possible hazard.”

“It sounds like you don’t recommend that option.” Roman scoured the map for a third choice. The survey was frustratingly two-dimensional, however, and he began to think he needed to see the site firsthand.

Tony, of course, had overseen the project from Devon.

Mr. Shaw clasped his hands behind his back. “As I said, were I marquis for a day, I
would
build the bridge. It would provide access to the moorstones—which are highly profitable, as you pointed out—while reducing the need for expensive excavation. Too, it eliminates the heavy equipment we would need to bring from London. Furthermore, even a flattened slope will be steep. We would have to lower the carts’ load limits because the danger of tipping or becoming mired would be a concern.”

Roman began rolling the schematic. “It’s settled, then. Build the bridge.”

Mr. Shaw accepted the scroll with a bright smile. “On your order, my lord. Thank you.” He clicked his heels as if he were pleased enough to do a jig. Evidently, he’d not seen eye-to-eye with Tony on this issue.