The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) (4 page)

Her final season. She was almost afraid to believe it.

“Then let us not waste another moment, Mr. Pryor.” She felt her smile blooming like a flower upon her face. “Not another blessed moment.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER THREE

“Hmmph. I suppose even the devil must pay his rent.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lord Gilforth upon learning of said gentleman’s purchase of Rutherford House in Grosvenor Square.

A shaft of afternoon light streaked across the otherwise dreary study and set Rowland Lancaster’s thick, fiery hair ablaze. “A man in a bind as dire as yours should be more amenable to my offer, Rutherford.”

Chatham grinned slowly at his future father-in-law and steepled his fingers. “She is in her fifth season.”

“Yes. And?”

“She is taller than most men. Red-haired. Quite … spotted.”

The American’s jaw tightened.

“This is to say nothing of her dearth of grace. It is a wonder she has engendered only humiliation and not her own demise.”

“Now, see here—”

He allowed his smile to fade and his voice to harden. “Further, her claim to nobility is tenuous. Her mother’s sister is married to a baronet. Farrington, yes? Insufficient for a voucher to Almack’s, let alone marriage to a peer.”

“The connection is sound.” Lancaster’s sharp gaze narrowed, his temper flashing but well controlled. “Particularly given the incentive of her dowry.”

Chatham sniffed dismissively, deliberately tweaking the ginger-haired mushroom. “My debts are burdensome, yes, but they do not make me suicidal.”

Lancaster stood and came toward Chatham’s chair, crossing his arms and looming with the full impact of his daunting height. “I beg to differ. Ending your life may be your only other option. You should give my offer its due consideration. And my daughter her due regard.”

Recognizing Lancaster’s obvious attempt at intimidation, Chatham neither flinched nor shrank. Casually, he placed his hands on the arms of his chair. “I assumed you would prefer honesty to flattery.” He inclined his head as though conceding. “Forgive my presumption.”

It was a dance that they had performed for over an hour. Rowland Lancaster had greeted Chatham from behind his desk, rising to display his height, carefully reading a list of properties Chatham had sold in the past four months, then offering him a seat. Chatham had answered with a shrug, and Lancaster had continued his litany, pointing out what both of them already knew: Chatham’s finances were entirely beggared. Then, Lancaster had offered his daughter, along with an as-yet-unnamed sum, in exchange for Chatham’s agreement to make her a marchioness.

For an American, he was less direct in his negotiations than Chatham had expected.

He met the looming man’s gaze with a grin. “Have you any whisky? The Scottish variety, preferably. One does acquire a thirst whilst jousting.”

The gray eyes narrowed again, then he slowly turned and moved to the sideboard. The clink and splash of imminent comfort was relieving to Chatham’s ears. He sipped from the glass Lancaster handed him and watched as the man sat once again behind his desk. The faint sting and streak of golden heat soothed his sudden restlessness.

Did this American really suppose a peer of the realm could be so easily purchased, even one as tarnished as he?

“Two hundred.”

Chatham would have drowned his lungs in Scottish moonshine if his long swallow had not already disappeared into his stomach. As it was, his breath ceased midway down, his chest throbbing painfully.

It was obscene. That kind of money was bloody impossible among all but royalty. “You cannot possibly possess such a sum.”

This time, it was Lancaster’s lips that lifted. “Except that I do. And I will put it to use buying the only thing that will matter when I am dead.” He leaned forward slightly, bracing his forearms on the wood and interlacing his fingers. “Now, you are not my first choice, Rutherford, nor my second. But neither are you my last. This could be a boon for you, but I do have other options.”

“If two hundred is her dowry, your fortune must be … How the bloody hell did you acquire it?” The question escaped past his usual control. Probably the drink. More likely his sense of wonder. It was truly an astonishing sum.

Lancaster grunted and relaxed back into his chair, seemingly at ease now that Chatham had given him his due. “First, shipping. Before the war and the damned English with their blockades and trespassing, it was a good business. More recently, banking.” His grin grew. “A superior business, all around.”

“Evidently.” He blinked and shook his head, still a bit stunned. Perhaps another sip of whisky would help. “You say I was not your first or second choice. I assume you have made this proposal to others.”

“One.”

“And he refused? Good God. Is she diseased?”

Gray eyes narrowed again.

“With child?”

“Rutherford.” His title was a warning, gritted and ominous.

He held up a hand. “Simply trying to comprehend, my good man.”

“I assume this means you are agreeable to the match.”

“Well, now I would not say that. She may be diseased. Or mad. Or with child. Perhaps she is mad
because
she is diseased. Or perhaps her child is—”

“My Charlotte is as pure and sane as numbers.”

Chatham lifted a brow, liking this conversation more and more. “Intriguing comparison. Is she as obscene as two hundred? Because, in that case, consider my interest thoroughly piqued.”

“You will address her with due courtesy, Rutherford, or I will come around this desk and shove that glass—”

“Now, now. No call for violence.” He sighed. “What happened to your second choice?”

Lancaster scowled and muttered his answer. “Dead.”

Chatham read the other man’s eyes and nodded. “The old ones are dreadfully unreliable in that regard.”

“You do not appear in the best of health, yourself.”

Chatham raised his glass. “Nothing two hundred could not alleviate.”

“You won’t receive the full sum without certain conditions being met.”

“Ah, yes,” he replied sagely. “At last we come to the meat of the offer. And in only, what, an hour? My, how time does gallop when one is subject to intimidation.”

“You are a low drunkard, Rutherford. Ordinarily, I would toss you and that damned cane out onto the street where you belong.”

“The best negotiations always begin with flattery.”

Lancaster glared, his jaw flexing, his wide nostrils flaring. “You will adhere to my terms, or you will not see a penny. Not one penny, do you understand?”

Chatham’s hand motioned elaborately for him to continue. He was uncertain what the man’s conditions would be, but he strongly suspected he would find them disagreeable. Another sip of whisky seemed just the thing.

“First,” said the upstart American, “the day your marriage to my daughter is solemnized, your debts will be paid in full.”

Now, this was an auspicious beginning. Debts paid
and
a monstrous dowry?

“Second, for the span of one year you will maintain complete marital fidelity. No further visits to Mrs. Knightley, Rutherford. Nor any other female. You will be true to my daughter.”

Interesting. And annoying. And really, when he thought about it, not terribly difficult. He supposed he might feel differently if he had been better able to scrub the lilac-and-musk stench from his skin this morning.

He nodded his understanding to Lancaster.

“Third, for no less than one year, you will maintain perfect sobriety.”

Chatham’s hand paused halfway to his mouth, the glass dangling from suddenly limp fingers.

“If I discover you have continued to consume liquor or any other intoxicant that results in your inebriation during this period, you will forfeit the dowry in its entirety.”

He swallowed, nearly gagging on the appalling demand.

“Fourth, you and my daughter will live together. No separate residences. In exchange for this, along with your faithfulness and your abandonment of drink for one year, you will receive the sum of one hundred thousand pounds.”

One hundred? What the bloody hell happened to two?

Lancaster read his thoughts on his face. “The second hundred will be granted to you upon the birth of my first grandson.”

Few things surprised Benedict Chatham. As a seasoned explorer of humanity’s darker crannies, he had done much and seen more, leaving his veil of cynicism fully intact. Still, this was most peculiar. Obviously, having no son to carry on his legacy, Lancaster desired a grand title for his daughter’s get, and he was willing to pay dearly to give her husband incentive to bed her.

Which begged the question of why such incentive would be necessary.

He struggled to recall the few occasions upon which he had seen Charlotte Lancaster. She was unusual—shockingly tall with flame-red hair and freckle-dappled skin. Her bluntness and direct gaze unnerved some fellows and offended others. Her clumsiness and coltish gaffes, such as slipping on the ice and tossing her skirts up beside the Serpentine last winter, had earned her the unfortunate nickname of Longshanks Lancaster. He hadn’t seen the tumble, but according to his sources, the appellation was well deserved.

Shortcomings aside, however, she was not hideous to look upon. He supposed if one fancied flamboyant coloring and very, very long limbs, one might even find her appealing. Not him, of course. But another man. One who enjoyed having his soul dissected by green-and-gold eyes and his skin flayed by a witch’s tart tongue.

He frowned. “Is there a time frame for the child?”

Lancaster cleared his throat gruffly. “If she is found to be increasing during the course of the year, and she subsequently gives birth to a boy within the … usual period, you will receive the full one hundred. If she delivers a girl, you will receive twenty-five, and an additional seventy-five upon the later birth of a boy. If she is not found to be with child during the first year, but a son is later delivered, you will still receive fifty upon his birth.”

“And if no child comes of our blessed union?”

“Then you will receive only the first hundred, providing you have met the terms.”

Chatham leaned forward to set his glass upon the edge of Lancaster’s desk then sat back and once again steepled his fingers, letting his mind work upon the problem. Lancaster was neither stupid nor careless. He would have ways of verifying that his terms were met. How was not important. The relevant question for Chatham was whether the terms were achievable. Tolerable. Worthwhile.

To the first, he thought the answer to be yes. He
chose
to service women such as Mrs. Knightley. He could make a different choice. He chose to imbibe his favorite drink and let the sweet numbness descend like a comforting blanket across his senses. Strictly speaking, he could choose to abstain. It would be agonizing. Just the thought of it made his gorge rise in protest. But it was not impossible.

Now tolerable, on the other hand. That was a different matter.

And whether the cost would prove worth the reward in the end … that, too, was debatable.

However, it was only a year. One bloody, revolting year of sobriety. And fidelity, too, though that sacrifice seemed minor in comparison. And he would have to bed Miss Charlotte Lancaster, probably more than once. For some reason, that bothered him least of all. Strange, indeed.

“Well, now,” he murmured, tapping the tips of his fingers together as though he were still contemplating. “One thing you haven’t mentioned: You intend to pay the debts upon our marriage, one hundred after a year, and one hundred more upon the birth of my heir.”

Lancaster nodded, his gaze direct and probing and familiar.

Chatham tilted his head. “How shall I provide for your daughter during the year? Every property has been sold. My possessions, as you so kindly described earlier, could be packed into an oversized valise.”

He did not like Lancaster’s answering smile. It reminded him of a former opponent at Gentleman Jackson’s who had often signaled a right cross with an odd twitch of his mouth. It smacked of imminent triumph and sadistic pleasure.

“I would never hire you to work for me; do you know why?”

“Hmm. An irrational dislike of properly pronounced R’s?”

“Nothing disturbs me more than waste. Waste of money. Waste of time. Waste of potential. You are the greatest waste I have ever seen.”

With care and control, Chatham managed to keep his expression sardonically neutral. Inside, however, the accusation sank through his flesh like a sharpened sword, cleanly and without stopping. Even the whisky did not stop it. It punctured his breath.

“Truthfully, I do not expect my daughter to remain with you beyond one year, nor you with her,” the red-haired, steel-eyed man continued. “But that year will shape you into a better man if I have to spend every dollar I possess to see it so.”

When Chatham responded only with a steady stare, the American rose again from behind his desk and clasped his hands behind his back, eyeing Chatham’s casual pose. “You waste your intelligence on trivialities. Gaming. Selling secrets. Dabbling in matters of espionage.” At the lift of Chatham’s brow, he replied, “Oh, yes. I know a great deal. Enough to judge that you are capable of providing for my daughter, should you bother to apply your mind and—God forbid—effort. You have a house. The entailed property in Northumberland. Take her there.”