Six

SIX

Stockworth Manor

After supper that evening

“Let’s go through to the ladies, gentlemen.” George Templeton rose, his rotund belly bumping the table and rattling a few crystal tumblers. “My missus has delightful entertainment planned for the evening.”

Finally.

Jack had promised not to leave Aubriella’s side, but he couldn’t conceive of an excuse for not partaking in spirits and cigars with the men and joining the women instead.

Wouldn’t that cause the rumor mills to spin?

Normally, the hour after supper passed quickly with discussions about politics, horses, trade, and ribald jokes. However, aware Aubriella fended for herself, he’d checked his timepiece with increasing impatience every few minutes.

Twice, he’d glanced up to see Baron Spencer Willoughby observing him with a strange expression on his dissipated countenance. Though kin to George Templeton— second or third cousins ?—Jack had never cared for the Willoughbys. Not only did they put on haughty airs and treat those without a title like underlings, but they were also a slimy lot.

Jack couldn’t count the times Francine, as wanton as a dockside harlot, had invited him to bed her these past three years. Last December, she’d followed him to the conservatory, and it had been all he could do to pry her off him. This year, he’d ensure he was occupied and was never alone with her, and Aubriella provided that insurance.

Ugly rumors also circulated that old man Willoughby possessed an unnatural appetite for young boys. It was a wonder anyone included them in their social circles, but then all manner of excuses were made for wealthy aristocrats’ deplorable behavior.

Jack wasted no time departing the dining room. Eager to keep his promise to Aubriella that he’d stay by her side, he’d made it halfway down the corridor when Lord Willoughby waylaid him.

“I would have a word with you, Matherfield.”

“ Now ?” Jack stepped aside to permit the other gentlemen to pass. “Can it not wait?”

“No. It cannot.” Willoughby shook his head, his fleshy jowls jiggling back and forth like a hound on the hunt. Once the last man had turned the corner and was out of earshot, Willoughby puffed out his substantial chest. “Francine is pregnant. You shall marry her within a fortnight.”

Jack barely refrained from putting a finger in his ears to make sure he’d heard Lord Willoughby correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

Surely he had misheard.

“You and Francine shall be wed,” Willoughby announced as if discussing what jam to smear on his scone.

“Whether your daughter is with child is not my concern. I have never been intimate with her.” Or any other female, for that matter . “She’s shared her favors far and wide. I sincerely doubt she knows who the father is.”

Willoughby’s face turned an astonishing shade of purplish-red.

“Be that as it may,” he sputtered in outraged offense, “she has chosen you .”

Jack leaned against the wall, arms folded, a ruse against the feral urge to seize Willoughby by his fat throat and shake him to within an inch of his miserable life.

“And Francine always gets what she wants?” Jack’s silky timbre would’ve alerted a man smarter than Lord Willoughby. Shaking his head, Jack bared his teeth, no longer caring to act the part of a gentleman. “She won’t have her way this time. I shall not marry the chit. Ever.”

His face contorting in fury, Willoughby stomped forward. Shaking with ire, he lifted a fisted hand. “I can ruin you, Matherfield.”

“You can try.” Jack straightened, looking down at the older man and letting the rage tunneling through his veins manifest in his gravelly voice. “But I can produce at least a half dozen men—some in this very house, in truth—who haven’t a qualm about revealing they’ve bedded your daughter.”

“You… you wouldn’t dare.” Willoughby had worked himself into such a state that spittle formed on the side of his mouth. “No gentleman would denounce a lady so cravenly.”

“Despite your title, Willoughby, your daughter is no lady.”

Willoughby opened and shut his mouth several times, only managing to emit strangled, gurgling noises.

Jack hadn’t finished taking the pompous man down several pegs. “All of London is aware of her loose morals.” He leaned forward. “Do you know she’s called Fickle Francine ?”

And a few other crude terms Jack refused to let pass his lips.

Willoughby made a choking-growling sound deep in his throat and raised his hand as if to strike Jack.

“I would not, Willoughby, because as you’ve said, I’m no gentleman. I shan’t hesitate to lay you out like a rug despite the difference in our ages.”

Jack shook his head and stepped around the infuriated older man who looked on the verge of an apoplexy.

“I suggest you take her back to London and find a doddering old fool who doesn’t mind claiming another man’s child. I’m sure if the price is sufficient, you’ll have more than one offer.” He drove home the final nail. “But you’d better make haste. You’ll not be able to hide her condition indefinitely.”

Jack presented his back, and seething with black rage, strode down the corridor.

Francine, the little tramp, thought she’d entrap him?

Snap her manicured fingers, and Papa would make everything right?

Willoughby erroneously believed he could use his position to blackmail Jack.

Another feral snarl contorted his mouth before he wrestled it under control.

That showed how little either he or his daughter knew him.

Jack hadn’t become the success he had by allowing others to manipulate or take advantage of him. And by damn, no high-born trollop with the morals of an alley cat would ever become Mrs. Jackson Matherfield.

Outside the drawing room, he closed his eyes and filled his lungs with calming air. Storming into the room would only stir the pot. No one need know what had transpired between him and Willoughby unless the sod was an imbecile and blathered about the matter.

“There you are.” Duncan, wearing his perpetual grin, his dark blue eyes twinkling, emerged from the card room. At once, his genial expression faded.

“What has happened, Jack?” He glanced down the corridor toward the dining room. “I saw Willoughby corner you but thought nothing of it.”

Jack cupped his tense neck where several stones seemed to have taken up residence. “He thought he could force me to wed his pregnant daughter, and I refused. Most adamantly.”

Duncan whistled as he slowly shook his dark head. “That explains why Miss Willoughby keeps flitting from room to room as if looking for someone. Thrice, she asked me if I knew where you were. Given I know how much you dislike her, I should’ve suspected something untoward was afoot.”

“Would you be a good chap and make sure Willoughby is preparing to depart this evening?” Jack slapped his brother’s shoulder. “I’m reluctant to divulge his attempt at blackmail to our hosts and put a damper on the festivities.” Especially since he’d promised Aubriella that she would enjoy herself this year. “But if he refuses to take his daughter and make for London straightaway, I shall.”

“I’d be happy to send the bounder on his way.” Thunder in his eyes and outrage causing a muscle in his jaw to tick, Duncan swore softly. “I never liked either of them. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. I’ll find you when they’ve left.”

After watching his brother until he disappeared from sight and was once more in control of his emotions, Jack ambled into the tastefully decorated drawing room. Though wealthy, the Templetons didn’t feel the need to brandish their prosperity. He snatched two flutes from a passing servant’s tray and then searched the room.

Thank God Francine wasn’t present, but Aubriella was.

Holding the glasses of sparkling wine, Jack wended through the guests toward Aubriella, perched like a nervous cat at the end of a settee. Surrounded by a half dozen chattering women, she appeared regal in her champagne and ecru lace gown. Only the tautness of her delicate jaw and the occasional flick of her tongue over her lower lip betrayed her unease.

When had she become so accomplished at hiding her feelings?

“Mr. Matherfield.” Mabel motioned him forward with a wave of her plump, be-ringed hand. “My husband tells me you are considering investing in the spice and textile trades.”

Of course, Templeton had.

Aubriella’s hazel gaze swept to Jack’s face.

“I’m contemplating several ventures right now.” He had made no commitments and, in truth, wasn’t certain he wanted to take on additional undertakings. He passed Aubriella a glass of wine. “Your father asked me to deliver this to you.”

Mr. Penford hadn’t, but the little white lie protected her from the curious glances speared in her direction at his kindness. It took little to stir the gossipmongers into a frenzy of speculation, and White’s betting book overflowed with nonsensical conjecture.

Having worked for every cent he had acquired, Jack had no use for gambling and even less respect for those who wasted funds on frivolous wagers. Men lost fortunes on everything from horse races to the tumbling of dice and bets as ludicrous as whether a rat would escape with a crust of bread or a lady would drop her handkerchief for a certain gentleman.

The women were little better and, in many cases, worse.

Lives ruined, estates impoverished, children neglected, individuals forced into arranged marriages and marriages of convenience, all because of a feckless need to win. On the rare occasion Jack indulged in a wager, it never involved money or property. At the end of the night, the most he’d owe was a bottle of brandy or a free meal at one of his restaurants.

His wastrel Uncle Martin, Earl of Marchant, had all but bankrupted the earldom, and his three sons practically prostituted themselves into loveless marriages to heiresses to fill the family’s hollow coffers once more. Jack’s mother had fallen in love with a gambling sot who had sent the family to the poorhouse for a time.

Both his parents had died in that hellhole, leaving him to care for his younger brother.

Jack never intended to be a pauper again, nor would he follow in his rakehell father’s footsteps. Toward that end, he eschewed the same temptations, and even though he could’ve increased his and Duncan’s fortunes exponentially by adding gaming rooms to his restaurants or turning them into gaming hells, he refused to do so.

Money dishonorably earned was tainted. Funds gained by hard work, shrewdness, or others’ ineptness, on the other hand…

“Thank you.” Aubriella angled her long neck to meet his gaze as she sipped. “Papa is most considerate.”

She knew as well as Jack did that he fibbed.

Mrs. Templeton had set aside a separate salon for card and dice games—but only for forfeit prizes. Mrs. Templeton didn’t allow gambling for profit in her grand home. Wise lady.

“This afternoon, after I posed for your sketching, you promised me a game of hazard, Miss Penford.” That wasn’t entirely true. She hadn’t asked him to sit for her. Her talent was such that she could quickly sketch a scene, image, or person and had done so while the others labored over a single drawing.

Neither had she promised him a toss of the dice.

“Please excuse me.” She rose and, graceful as a swan, skirted an armchair.

Jack extended his arm, and after the merest hesitation, she slid her gloved hand into the crook. After taking a casual sip of wine, she glanced at him from the corner of her eyes.

“I don’t recall promising you to play hazard,” she said.

He winked as they strolled toward the card room. “It was the only excuse I could think of at the spur of the moment to save you.”

She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t need saving.”

“We all need saving at some time or other.” He grinned down at her.

“Jack.” A female titter accompanied the calling of his name. “That is, Mr. Matherfield.”