‘It wasn’t your fault. My cousin Corbridge is a lying, deceiving toad.’
‘And I should have known it! But I’d got so badly in debt, you see, thanks to the company Sebastian led me into; and only Sebastian seemed to know the way out of it—’
‘By taking you to one gaming house after another?’
‘He assured me I could not help but win, Marcus! But I lost so heavily, night after night. Corbridge saved me—at least I thought he did—by promising he would see to my bills until September of this year. But in return—’ and Sir Roderick sighed heavily ‘—I had to sign a letter promising him the entire Lornings estate as security.’
Marcus listened, tense-faced. ‘But surely your debts, however great they are, aren’t equivalent to the value of Lornings?’
Sir Roderick hung his head. ‘Believe me, they’re bad enough. If Sebastian hadn’t taken on the bills, I would have had to put myself in the hands of moneylenders; and then, you know, what with the interest they demand, my debts would have doubled and trebled, until even the sale of the estate wouldn’t have paid them off. I had no choice, Marcus. I’m so sorry. Lornings was supposed to be yours. I shall never forgive myself!’
Marcus shook his head vehemently. ‘I don’t give a fig for my inheritance. You’ve given me support and encouragement all my life—what more could I ask? But I can’t forgive Corbridge for forcing you out of your rightful home. And I swear to God I’ll make him pay.’
‘Lornings is still mine for the moment,’ Sir Roderick had said, with a gentleness that tore at Marcus’s heart. ‘Until the autumn, that is. But—I cannot afford to maintain the Hall now, so it seems best to live here, in the Dower House.’
Marcus was silent, thinking. Then he said suddenly, This last gaming house Corbridge took you to. Where you lost everything. Was it some backstreet den?’
‘It was disreputable, certainly. But if you’re thinking of contesting the letter that I signed, then don’t trouble yourself, because Corbridge had it legally drawn up and witnessed.’ He looked around him rather helplessly. ‘I’m comfortable here, really I am. And I’ve still got some land and livestock—I’ve always fancied trying my hand properly at farming…’
At your age? thought Marcus sadly. His godfather, who was sixty-three, suffered from arthritis. He had two ageing retainers, husband and wife, who had stayed loyally with him for a pittance, and a capable man called Daniels who ran the small farm. Otherwise he was on his own, with hardly any resources now that his fortune was so badly compromised.
‘I’ll come and help you,’ promised Marcus. ‘We’ll get the land to rights again, believe me. But first—’ his steely eyes narrowed ‘—I’ve got Corbridge to deal with.’
Sir Roderick was watching him with loving but anxious eyes. ‘Please don’t do anything foolish, my dear boy! I know how impetuous you can be!’
And Marcus had smiled grimly as he replied, ‘Impetuous? Don’t you worry. I shall consider every action—extremely carefully.‘
But so far, concluded Marcus, so far his plans had not gone well. He’d confronted Corbridge earlier tonight in the white heat of his rage, and been forced, publicly, to retreat—then he’d had his wallet stolen. Not the best of starts.
Hal was calling for the bill. Marcus hated not being able to pay for himself, but Hal brushed his objections aside. ‘If you’re staying with us as you promised, then you’ll have plenty of opportunities to repay me when you’re ready. Caro will love having you, and we might even persuade her to host one or two small gatherings; you could invite anyone you liked—’
Marcus interrupted. ‘If you’re thinking of Philippa again, then I must tell you I don’t think I’ll be inviting her anywhere. You see, she knows that my inheritance has gone.’
‘Marcus, I don’t believe—’
Marcus topped up their glasses. ‘Actually, I think she knew before I did.’ His voice was lightly casual, but Hal saw that his friend’s expression was bleak. ‘No doubt her doting parents found out and told her. I called on her just before I set off to see Sir Roderick. Oh, it was all very civilised; Philippa talked of how we both needed some time to reconsider our rash youthful commitment, and her foolish mother hovered by her side all the time, looking terrified in case I should try to change Philippa’s mind. I didn’t, of course.’
Hal frowned as he absently counted out the coins for the bill. He knew that Philippa’s parents, the businessman Sir John Fawcett and his wife, lived, when not in town, on a moderately prosperous estate in Gloucestershire that bordered Lornings to the south. Happily willing to overlook Marcus’s slightly dubious parentage in view of his being the great-grandson of the Earl of Stansfield and his expectation of Sir Roderick’s substantial estate, the ambitious father and vain, silly mother had openly encouraged the friendship that had grown up between their daughter and Marcus. Even Marcus’s long absence in the American wars had not dulled everyone’s belief that the two of them would marry.
But Sir Roderick’s catastrophic change of fortune had altered all that, and now Philippa was doing her Season in London, intent on wealthier prospects. Hal felt deeply angry for his friend, who had come back from two years of brave service to his country to be faced with calculated rejection. But of course Hal knew that Marcus didn’t want his, or anybody’s, sympathy.
Instead, Hal leaned forwards, and poured out the last of the wine. ‘Time to re-plan tactics, dear boy,’ he said briskly. ‘Plenty more where she came from.’
Were there? Marcus had been remembering a summer’s day, just before he had set sail for the American war two years ago. He and Philippa had ridden out along the Gloucestershire lanes, unchaperoned—Philippa had laughingly escaped from her groom—and on a grassy bank by a secluded stream Philippa had allowed Marcus to kiss her and promised him that she would wait for him for ever…
Hal was still talking. ‘Capitalise your assets, Marcus,’ he was pronouncing gleefully, ‘and get your revenge on Corbridge. Remember gambling is his fatal flaw!’
‘Revenge on Corbridge indeed.’ Marcus echoed Hal’s toast at last, and knocked back the last of the claret. ‘Talking of gambling, Hal—didn’t you mention a gaming house called the Angel?’
It was eleven o’clock, and the night was just beginning.
Chapter Three
‘Got it!’ Tassie was still sitting cross-legged on her bed in the light of a tallow candle, so utterly absorbed in her task of getting all the hearts to the bottom of the pack that at first she didn’t hear the quiet knock at her door. Then it came again, and she tensed, afraid that it might be Billy. But, no, it was Lemuel’s voice that she heard, calling out quietly, ‘Tassie. Tassie, are you in there? I was just wonderin’ if Edward’s all right, seeing as I was lookin’ after him for you…’
Quickly Tassie scrambled off the bed, pushing her loose hair back from her face and tucking her big shirt into her slim buckskin breeches. Lemuel was a bit sweet on her, she knew, but she trusted him to keep his distance. She opened the door wide. ‘Come in, Lemuel, do. Yes, Edward’s fine. Moll hasn’t poisoned him—yet. My thanks for keeping an eye on him.’
‘Darling Marcus! Darling Marcus!’ cackled
