Once Upon a Wedding Night Page 2

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Eleanor said solemnly, a fierce light entering her eyes. “Who would dare question you? The plan is foolproof, Meredith.”

  Then, as if the matter were settled, Aunt Eleanor rose and strolled to the desk. “We need to pen a missive to that Grimley fellow. With any luck, he will arrive before Nicholas Caulfield so you don’t have to confront the dreadful man alone. Just imagine how upset he will be when he learns he is not the next Earl of Brookshire.” The glow in Aunt Eleanor’s eyes revealed a decided lack of worry. “I hope he’s not predisposed to violence.”

  A tremor skated along Meredith’s spine. Considering upon whom his wrath would focus, so did she.

  Aunt Eleanor brandished a sheet of parchment and flattened it on the desktop. Quill pen in one hand, she crooked an impervious finger at Meredith. “Come, dearest. You are the far better correspondent. You shall have to compose this.”

  Meredith rose and moved to the desk. For a long breathless moment she gazed at the blank sheet, allowing her aunt’s plan to root and settle in her mind. A plan borne of desperation, a plan to forever link her to the Brookshire estates and money, to lifelong security. She closed her eyes in one long fortifying blink. Almost anything was worth such a guarantee.

  Gathering her courage, she wrapped shaking fingers around the quill and, with a deep breath, began to write. A small spark of hope flared to life deep in her soul as the tip of the pen scratched parchment. Lifelong security.

  Chapter 2

  Nick was not a pimp.

  No more than he was a man interested in engaging the services of a whore.

  “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. I don’t conduct business in this manner.” His gaze raked the beautiful young woman in front of him dispassionately. “Nor do I substitute payment of debts for a quick tup.”

  Old Lord Basslye’s new bride flinched, and Nick felt an annoying stab of pity. Basslye, a gamester with a vicious temper who lost a fortune every night at Nick’s tables, had lowered himself to wed the chit—the daughter of a rich merchant who cared not that he married off his child to a degenerate, only that said degenerate came with an old, renowned title. Every bit of her generous dowry had been applied to Basslye’s debts. Still, it wasn’t enough. Apparently Basslye thought his wife’s charms could make up the difference.

  She wasn’t a whore. That much was clear. The stark misery in her face proclaimed her humiliation. His acceptance would offer her a reprieve—at least until her husband sunk them back into debt. Then Basslye would force her to offer her body yet again in exchange for his debts. Who knew whom the lender might be the next time?

  Yet the thought of using her repulsed him. The fear in her too large eyes reminded him of another woman brought low by the very man who was supposed to love and protect her. He couldn’t be a party to it. Couldn’t be his father. Over the years, he had done some terrible things—thieving, stealing, and, when called for, killing. But even he had his limits.

  “Sorry, love. I may be a bastard, but I’m not interested. Leave the way you came.” He waved his hand to the door of his room. “Be careful you’re not seen. And tell your husband if he sends you here again, he’ll face my pistol.”

  Her eyes grew even wider. Rushing forward, she fell to her knees and grabbed his hand in both of her cold ones. “Please! He’ll only beat me if I tell him you refused.” Her head dipped in shame, a cascade of flaxen hair obscuring her fresh young face. “He’ll only send me to others until I’ve earned enough. He said a lot of men would pay good coin for me.”

  Nick felt something dark and dangerous coil in his gut and was certain that if Lord Basslye were in front of him he would gladly strangle the son of a bitch with his bare hands. He still might do just that.

  She lifted her face, shiny with tears, and clutched his hand tighter, her nails digging into the back of his hand. “I would rather it be you. You’re handsome. And there is kindness in your eyes…even though you try to hide it.”

  A sudden knock at the door saved him from refusing her again.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me…Mac. There’s a gent here to see you.”

  “Tell him to come back later.”

  “Don’t think he’ll go away.”

  Nick sighed and pulled his hand free. “Go home. Tell your husband the debt is cleared.”

  Her mouth fell open. “But—”

  He sliced a hand through the air, silencing her. “It’s done. Be gone when I return.” He hurried out of the room before she drowned him with gratitude.

  “Damn,” he muttered under his breath as he made his way to his office and wrenched the door open, the hinges squeaking in protest. He couldn’t afford to be soft. He had not gotten this far in life by being tenderhearted.

  For the moment, he ignored the room’s other occupants, making his way to the liquor cabinet, feeling the need for a little numbing. It had been a long time since he thought about his mother, but that sad little pigeon in the other room had conjured her ghost. Settling himself into the chair behind his desk, he turned his attention to his uninvited guest. Mac Swell relaxed in a chair beside the stranger, not bothering to ask if he could remain. Equal partners in several gaming hells and betting shops throughout London, they had no secrets.

  Wasting no time, Nick asked, “Who are you?”

  “Grimley, sir. Albert Grimley of Snide and Grimley.”

  Nick frowned. “What does a solicitor want with me?”

  Grimley fidgeted in the seat. “Why nothing, my lord. I am here to—”

  “What did you say?” Nick broke in, a coldness gripping his heart, squeezing like an icy fist.

  Grimley blinked and appeared a little frightened. “I—I want nothing.”

  Nick leaned menacingly over the desk.

  “Not that,” Mac explained with infinite patience. “Did you just call him my lord?”

  Grimley flushed red and rubbed his forehead ruefully. “Ah, so I did. Not the best way to break the news I suppose.”

  “What news?” Nick persisted.

  “Mrs. Grimley claims I have a habit of running away at the mouth a bit.”

  “What news?” Nick thundered.

  Grimley’s Adam’s apple bobbed above his cravat. “Your half brother has passed away. You, sir, are the new Earl of Brookshire.”

  Mac whistled between his teeth.

  Nick closed his eyes in one long blink, but it did no good. Opening his eyes, the solicitor still sat across from him, delivering the most shocking, distasteful news. It must be a nightmare. He pinched his leg beneath the desk. Hard. It did no good. This was one dream from which he was not waking.

  Recovering his voice, he said, “Give it to someone else.”

  Grimley frowned and looked to Mac as though seeking confirmation to Nick’s incredible command. No sane man would turn down an earldom.

  Mac shrugged, holding both hands up in a gesture of helplessness even as his smiling eyes indicated his enjoyment of their little drama. “You heard him. Can’t you give it to someone else? I wouldn’t mind being an earl.”

  The solicitor sniffed disdainfully before turning back to address Nick, evidently not appreciating Mac’s sense of humor. He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it is not that simple, my lord—”

  “Oh, but it is,” Nick cut in, his voice sharp as a whip. “And don’t call me that.”

  Albert Grimley struggled to swallow past his bobbing Adam’s apple, and Nick felt a brief stab of sympathy for the solicitor. This meeting was likely not unfolding the way he had imagined. No doubt most men would have hugged the bearer of such news. But he was not most men. He preferred his life the way it was, with his roots in the aristocracy completely erased. That his father had been an earl made little difference in the world he chose to inhabit. It was a fact Nick preferred to forget.

  “How did you find me?” He squeezed the bridge of his nose.

  “It was our obligation to locate the closest living male relation to the late earl.”

/>   “You shouldn’t have troubled yourself. Mark me off and move down your list.”

  “The line ends after you, my lord. Your half brother left no heirs.”

  “Then as you said, the line ends,” Nick replied blandly.

  “I cannot do that—”

  He knotted his fist on top of the desk until the knuckles went white. “I’ll sign whatever I have to. I don’t want it. Any of it. Not the property. Not the money. And especially not the title.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Grimley reiterated with a sigh, his eyes glancing uneasily at Nick’s large fist. “You own property, whether you wish it or not. You may either sell it or give it away, but that will require some paperwork, not to mention the necessity of a buyer in the matter of selling. The matter of your title is another issue. You will have to go before the courts to officially renounce your title and Oak Run since the family seat lies adherent with the title.”

  Nick threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t want it. A refusal should suffice.”

  Grimley folded his hands in his lap and pursed his lips in disapproval. Clearly, Nick did not meet his expectations. Well, he could care less. The solicitor had pushed his way into his life uninvited, and he didn’t owe him anything.

  Grimley bent to pick up his leather satchel from the floor. “I daresay you’ve suffered a shock. I will leave you now to process this news. You will surely come to your senses in the morning.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nick bit out, his jaw aching from clenching his teeth.

  Grimley settled his somber, brown beaver hat on his head. “Just so. I’ll be in contact. Much depends upon you. Aside from the property, you bear responsibility for countless lives.”

  At his lifted eyebrow, Grimley explained. “Ten-ants, servants. And of course there are Lady Brookshire and her relations. They still reside at Oak Run.”

  “Lady Brookshire?”

  “Your brother’s widow,” Grimley replied as if he should have known.

  Had the man not yet figured out that he did not keep abreast of family matters? That Grimley in fact addressed the blackest sheep ever expelled from a family bosom?

  “I’ll show myself out. Good day to you, gentlemen.”

  Mac called out to the solicitor’s retreating back, “Have a drink on your way out. Just tell Fred at the bar it’s on the house.”

  Grimley’s back stiffened before exiting, indicating the unlikelihood of him accepting that offer.

  “Starchy fellow,” Mac muttered.

  Nick replied with an indifferent shrug, willing his jaw to unclench.

  Mac kicked his feet up on the desk and wasted no time getting to the point. “Nicholas Caulfield, the Earl of Brookshire. Nice ring to it, eh? You inheriting it all—that’s a good comeuppance for the old earl. Fancy that! I’ve partnered up with a nob. Wait till everyone hears. Suppose this means you’ll be changing your ways? No more hanging about here. Can’t be seen with riffraff like me.”

  Leaning back in his leather chair, Nick laced his hands over his flat stomach and frowned. “I’m the same man. I don’t intend to change. Besides, I need to be here to keep an eye on business.” He raised a dark brow sardonically. “You don’t expect me to leave it all to your care, do you? Who would do the books? You can’t add two and two. We’d be back on the streets in a month’s time.”

  Mac tossed a hand over his heart in mock pain. “You wound me, boy. Didn’t I find you in the streets and get you your start?”

  Nick raised his snifter of brandy to his partner in salute. “I’ll give you that, but I was the talent, remember? You couldn’t draw a winning hand to save your life.” He grinned. “Still can’t.”

  “I haven’t lost it,” Mac defended, tapping his temple. “I just took enough blunt off young Lord Derring to buy that racer I’ve had my eye on.”

  Nick rolled his eyes. “Lord Derring. That pasty-faced nob does not qualify as talent. He’s so in debt I could take the clothes off his back any day I choose.”

  Mac’s eyes widened. “I had no idea he was that far gone. Why’ve you let him carry on, then? This is a business, Nick, not a charity.”

  “I don’t want the reputation that will go along with devastating a duke and his family. Bad business, that. Never fear, I shall collect the young lord’s debt in due time.”

  Mac gave a little shake of his head. “Should have known there was a business angle to it. There ain’t a charitable bone in your body.”

  “Quite so,” Nick agreed, neglecting to mention his transaction with old Basslye’s bride just moments ago. Mac didn’t need to know everything.

  They sank into silence. He knew Mac was giving him time to think, to mull things over in his mind until he was ready to discuss the subject hanging so heavily in the air. It didn’t take long.

  “How can I be a part of that world again?” Nick spread his hands out wide in front of him. “One day I’m riding a pony between my Latin and fencing lessons and the next I’m…” He let his words hang in the air for a long moment as the past reared its ugly head. The old, sour taste he so loathed filled his mouth and throat. He wanted nothing from the man that had destroyed his mother or from the world that had turned a blind eye.

  He took a long swig of brandy, thinking he might have to get foxed. Voices, laughter, and the faint whirring sound of a roulette wheel floated from below. Nick knew he should make an appearance. Bess was acting hostess tonight and would pout if he didn’t come down, but he wasn’t in the mood to socialize. The dark shadows of his past had been roused, spoiling his humor. “I don’t intend to claim the inheritance.”

  Mac nodded his head slowly, rolling his heels on Nick’s desk. “You could do that,” he allowed.

  He knew there was more coming, and knew Mac well enough to know that he wasn’t going to like what he heard.

  “But there’s power in the aristocracy, and that license we’ve been trying to get to open the gaming hell across the river will be ours in a blink if it’s an earl asking.”

  Just discussing the inheritance roused a whole host of uncomfortable memories. He could not imagine actually stepping in his father’s shoes, no matter what it brought him.

  “Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve accomplished, has been with my own sweat and blood.” He tapped the desk.

  “Aye, and taking the inheritance won’t change that.”

  “I don’t want a thing from my father.”

  Mac scratched his head. “Isn’t it technically your brother that’s dead? Thought your old man’s been dead for some time?”

  He laughed humorlessly. “Please, don’t let me relate to you the kind of brother I had. He was little better than my father.” Nick stood and looked out the window at the city skyline. The lights of London flickered and blinked in the inky night. “I don’t want a thing from either of them.”

  “I understand you got your demons, but this seems the best revenge to my way of thinking. I doubt there’s another earl that pinched a pocket or heard his own belly rumble in hunger before. You grew up in Whitechapel, for God’s sake. You could get in among the peerage and make some change. By God, you’ll have a seat in the House of Lords.”

  Nick smiled indulgently. “I’m no reformer.”

  “Well, you could be if you chose. Hell, or don’t.” Mac, only two years his senior, seemed far older as he threw his hands up in the air and said, “Thumb your nose at them and take Bess to all their fine balls.”

  “Now that’s a thought.” His smile deepened at the thought of the buxom woman with her painted face, loud gowns, and brassy red hair rubbing elbows with the peerage.

  “Besides, what about the tenants and people you’re now responsible for? To my way of thinking, you can’t simply turn your back on them.”

  Smile gone, Nick sighed and looked over his shoulder at Mac. “And my half brother’s widow.”

  Mac’s brows rose. “What will you do with her?”

  “I suppose I’ll have to set her up somewhere in grand style
and cater to her for the rest of my life.” He ran both hands through his hair, rumpling the locks in aggravation. “Guess I better pack.”

  Mac grinned, sitting forward in his chair. “Want some company?”

  “I need to do this alone.” He had no idea what to expect upon returning to the home of his birth, but he knew he needed to confront the demons of his past by himself.

  Mac nodded in understanding, but the disappointment was clear in his face.

  Rising to his feet, Nick downed the remainder of his brandy before excusing himself, glad for the solitude awaiting him. As close as they were, even Mac could not understand how the prospect of returning home rattled him.

  The instant Nick entered his room, he knew he was not alone, which was too bad because he wasn’t fit company. There was a slight movement on the bed. Lady Basslye’s naked figure took shape as she rose to her knees. An uncertain, hopeful smile flitted about her lips. He leaned against the door and observed her lazily, his mood dangerous.

  “You’re still here,” he said flatly.

  She nodded, flaxen hair dancing against her generous breasts.

  “You should have left.”

  “I know you cleared the debt…but I wanted to stay. For once I want to choose who shares my bed.” Her eyes darkened as she eyed the long line of his body.

  Nick pushed off the door and crossed the room, his strides long and fierce. He buried his fingers into her soft shoulders and pulled her close, kissing her savagely, releasing all the anger and frustration brewing inside him, forgetting his determination to leave her untouched.

  Perhaps he was that big of a bastard after all.

  He stripped his clothes and lowered both their bodies to the bed, his movements mechanical, his touch perfunctory. It was only a temporary escape. A distraction from the emptiness, from the perpetual night that lived inside him.

  As she rubbed her body against his, he felt only a flicker of interest flare to life. It was impossible to feel anything when one was but a hollow shell. A living, breathing man should feel. Only it had been years since he had felt anything at all.