Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

LONDON, A FEW DAYS LATER

B eatrix nodded approvingly at the tea presentation, and the maid gave a small curtsy and departed.

She released the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding.

Every day was like this.

Every morning, her eyes opened on a new day, expecting this life she’d somehow fallen into to have been a dream.

Then the chambermaid arrived to open the curtains and deliver the hot chocolate she’d become positively addicted to and Beatrix realized she would be living inside the dream one day more.

Now, it was evening, and her nighttime tea had been delivered, along with a separate tray that overflowed with correspondence.

It had been a long while since she hadn’t served herself tea.

How different her life was since Blake Deverill had entered it—a house full of servants…said house rendered spotless due to said servants…a pantry full of food…a French cook to prepare said food…a wardrobe stuffed with new dresses…and a tray full of correspondence.

And not just any correspondence.

Invitations.

Her status as the daughter of a marquess had always ensured she was invited everywhere—to balls…to soirées…to musicales…and such.

But the invitations now filling her correspondence tray were of a different variety. They were invitations for morning strolls and afternoon teas. The sort of invitations extended from one lady to another so they might further their acquaintance.

And it was down to a single lie: Lady Beatrix St. Vincent was the fiancée of Mr. Blake Deverill.

These ladies wanted to meet with her to get to the bottom of a single, fundamental question.

How had the unremarkable, spinster-adjacent daughter of the wastrel Marquess of Lydon secured the most exciting man to enter the ton since Lord Byron took himself off to the Continent?

How had such a woman captured the affections of such a man?

Members of the ton were beside themselves attempting to uncover that particular truth.

Oh, doubtless the gossip was bursting with theories abundant. But that was all they were— guesses . There were no facts.

Only she and Deverill knew the truth.

And she planned to keep it that way.

To distract herself from thoughts of that man, she poured herself a cup of tea, and while it cooled, she reached for a raspberry biscuit. A sweet ever held the power to consume her entirely—for a blissful moment, at least.

But it was no use.

As had become usual, one thought of Deverill led to another, then on to an inevitable destination.

The kiss.

That was yet another way her life had changed since he’d entered it.

She’d been kissed.

Thrice , in fact.

The first kiss had kindled her curiosity.

The second had confirmed the pleasure of the first.

But the third kiss…

Blimey.

A kiss should be like this.

The third kiss had revealed the previous two kisses to be mere shadows of a kiss.

She hadn’t known a kiss could unsettle the very foundations below a person’s feet.

But really, that was only the beginning of what she hadn’t known a kiss could do.

A kiss should be hot and messy and desperate.

And that was precisely what the third kiss had been— hot…messy…desperate .

Fingers that yet held a residual tremble reached for the top letter in the correspondence tray.

Anything to distract herself from that kiss.

It preyed too much on the mind.

As she thumbed through missive after missive, it was exactly as she’d thought. Invitations, with a few bills for Lydon sprinkled in— of course . It was a good thing her father was a peer of the realm, for if he hadn’t been, he’d likely be serving a decades-long sentence in the Marshalsea for debt.

The next missive produced a smile as she lifted rich cream parchment to her nose. Honeysuckle. Just as she’d instructed.

She snapped the crimson wax seal on the invitation and took in the gold-embossed contents she’d dictated, word for word:

To the most esteemed Lady Beatrix St. Vincent:

The pleasure of your company is most cordially desired

at the

Primrose Park estate

of

Mr. Blake Deverill

Entertainments will commence on

28 July

and conclude on

1 August

Beatrix’s eye caught on a word, and her brow lightly crinkled.

Desired.

It had been a word, in fact, that had been much on her mind these last few days, and there it was, staring up at her, brazenly.

Requested would have been the more proper word.

Now that impropriety had begun to govern her behavior, it was slipping into her lexicon, too.

Yet, even the fussiest peer would have difficulty turning down this invitation—even with its whiff of the improper.

For Beatrix, however, it held a whiff of something else, too— hope .

The future she’d so craved was almost hers.

At this house party, Deverill would win the countess. And if he couldn’t win her at his beautiful, luxurious estate where his every advantage would not only be displayed, but forced into one’s face, then there never had been any hope for him, anyway.

And Beatrix would have her final payment for pretend-fiancée-services rendered.

Her dowry .

Soon.

So soon she could almost taste her future.

Her gaze reluctantly slid over to the other stack of letters—the debts. On a resigned sigh, she reached for the top one and cracked its seal. She wouldn’t miss receiving these in her good, solid future.

She scanned the contents, knowing what to expect, and blinked.

Somehow, this debt letter wasn’t what she’d expected at all.

Her eyes moved across it again.

And again.

And… again .

If she was putting the sequence of words together correctly—and by now, she should have been—Lydon’s debts were no longer debts in the plural sense.

Rather, they were now a debt .

A debt owned by a sole entity.

Blaze Jagger.

The vision of a rangy, handsome figure filled her mind’s eye. The young, arrogant, cocksure blackleg who had introduced himself to her at the Hampstead races.

That man now held all Lydon’s debt and the note on the very Mayfair townhouse she’d occupied all her life.

Her attention caught on a string of numbers, and the bottom fell out of her stomach.

￡19,881 .

Such a precise number.

Enough to send Lydon into bankruptcy and have everything unentailed seized and sold.

Everything, that was, that Lydon hadn’t already sold himself.

The roof over her head was as good as gone. She should start packing her bags for the crumbling family pile in Bedfordshire.

Except…

She did have money, didn’t she?

Or, at least, she would very soon.

A sob formed in her throat and sat there, a hard, unresolved knot.

Likely, it would sit unresolved for the rest of her days.

She must pay Lydon’s debt.

If she wanted to keep both the roof over her head and her good name, she had no choice.

And like that, her dowry and her good, solid future disappeared before her eyes.

To think, for an instant, she’d allowed herself to envision one.

Blaze Jagger.

The name cut through her like a curse.

With sudden determination, and ignoring the tears of fury and frustration and no small amount of hurt, she shot to her feet and dashed into the receiving hall. A frenzied search of her reticule found the item she sought.

A calling card.

Mr. Blaze Jagger

Tom of All Trades Extraordinaire

The Archangel

Resolve steeled within her.

Blaze Jagger, Tom of All Trades Extraordinaire, wanted her to pop in to The Archangel for a nice, little chat?

Oh, they would have a chat, indeed.

But it wouldn’t be nice.

The Archangel

Dev gave the Hazard dice an indifferent toss and stifled a yawn.

It was just as well he threw out on the first roll.

He was dead bored.

Typically, he enjoyed a rattle of the Hazard dice or a game of Macao as much as the next man. But it was habit that had him here tonight, as he made a point of frequenting The Archangel once a week. To show that he belonged to one of London’s most exclusive gaming hells. That he belonged everywhere any lord of the ton belonged.

Really though, the night’s work had already been accomplished in that capacity.

In fact, he was feeling fairly gratified at the moment. The Earl of Bridgewater had just deigned to inform him personally that he and the countess would attend the house party at Primrose Park. Further, the earl had made it abundantly clear that he intended to tour the stables and meet Little Wicked.

Beatrix had been correct on that point.

The woman was correct on many points, in fact.

Dev loved a good plan, particularly when matters behaved as they should and proceeded as expected.

And he had Beatrix to thank.

A clever woman was Lady Beatrix St. Vincent.

A clever woman who wanted to waste herself on a good, solid future.

He gave his head a bemused shake.

There was no accounting for wants and desires.

And just as he didn’t understand hers, she didn’t understand his.

Fair play.

He gathered his markers and began making his way toward the exit when a figure flashed at the edge of his vision. It would’ve been unremarkable, except…

It was a feminine figure—in an all-male establishment.

Which incited a boisterous buzz that washed through the club with the suddenness of a tsunami wave.

Recognition stirred as he pivoted—and there came confirmation.

Lady Beatrix St. Vincent…

Here.

At The Archangel.

Striding through the club like a Fury.

And she wasn’t simply any woman causing a scene.

In the eyes of all in this room, this Fury was his fiancée.

Right.

Of their own accord, his feet were already in motion, alarm firing through him.

He reached the study in time to hear her call out—and for the benefit of no fewer than ten sets of ears, “Jagger, you and I have business.”

Jagger had been conferring with the club’s doorman, his back to her, but slowly, he turned, a single eyebrow lifted, his entire being glittering with arrogance. “Do we now, Lady Beatrix?” The smile curving his mouth was not unlike a tiger’s as it held a mouse squirming beneath its paw. “And what business is that, pray tell?”

Dev doubted the ten sets of ears populating the room had ever listened so hard in all their lives.

Before Beatrix could respond with the answer ready on her lips, Dev was across the room and threading his hand through the crook of her arm. Startled gray eyes rounded on him. The next instant, they were shooting daggers.

He cared not.

The woman had already caused more than a minor sensation.

He had a scandal to avert.

“Let’s take this conversation upstairs, shall we?” He kept his tone breezy and absent of heat. They could’ve been discussing the weather.

The arrogant glint in Jagger’s eye didn’t falter. “I’m content with the good lady having her say here.”

“As am I,” agreed Beatrix.

As were all The Archangel’s patrons.

“ Private ,” said Dev in a low voice that would brook no smart talk.

Jagger sucked his teeth before giving a shrug of a shoulder. “If you’ll follow me.”

He led them through the club— paraded , more like—and up the stairs to the second-floor office. Dev made sure the door was closed firmly behind them.

He knew that particular set to Beatrix’s jaw. The woman was in deep dudgeon.

The few intervening minutes had neither cooled nor soothed her.

Jagger cocked a hip onto the large oak desk and crossed his arms over his chest—and waited with a smirk perched on his mouth.

“Lydon’s debt,” she bit out.

Dev didn’t understand what she meant by it, but no curiosity shone in Jagger’s eyes. “What about it?”

“You’ve bought every last note.”

Jagger sniffed. “Oh, I’m sure there are more out there. He does get about.”

Beatrix remained in no mood to engage in a bit of levity. She waited—and glowered.

“Must admit, though, to a bit of surprise that he came running to you about it.”

Utter disbelief shone in her eyes. “You think Lydon opens his mail?”

Jagger spread his hands wide. “You got me there. I reckon he wouldn’t.”

“ Why? ” she demanded. “Why have you bought Lydon’s debt?”

“An investment, if you will.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“ No? ”

“No one possessed of half a brain would invest in Lydon”

Jagger cocked his head. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Take it as you like, but I know one thing.” The words hung in the air for an extra beat of time. “You’re out to ruin him.”

“I’m just holding on to the debts.” An intensity entered Jagger’s eyes that belied his easy manner. “For now.”

Beatrix’s sharp inhalation rent the air. She’d heard the truth as clearly as Dev had—and something more within the single space between those two simple words.

For now .

Not indefinitely.

When she opened her mouth to speak, her voice was low and rasped with emotion barely suppressed. “You can take possession of the Mayfair townhouse any time you like.”

The smile that curved Jagger’s mouth sent a ripple of foreboding through Dev.

“Now, now,” said the rogue, his voice rich with condescension. “What sort of brother would turf his own sister out on her arse?”