hackney hit a bump and she clutched the register to keep it from sliding off her lap. When the vehicle settled back into a rocking gate, she opened the worn leather cover, the papers beneath it yellow with age. The past no longer mattered. In her lap lay a better, more secure future for her and Andrew. With the money she’d raise from the register, she could keep paying for Andrew’s school and prevent Fanny from making good on her threat to send him to her brother in the disease-ridden West Indies.
She closed the book, knowing it wasn’t only Andrew’s future she held.
The fate of Rafe’s entire legacy now rested on her thighs.
The tart taste of revenge filled her mouth, followed by a pang of guilt. She ran her finger down the first list of names, wondering on which page Rafe’s father’s name appeared.
He’ll come after it.
She snapped the book closed, wrinkling her nose against the dust escaping from the paper. Let him come, let him try to charm the book out from under her with all his wit and games. She’d listen, all the while dangling it before him like a sweetmeat in front of a dog’s nose. Then she’d pull it back and watch him writhe in frustration.
It’s exactly what he deserved.
* * *
Rafe stepped through the crumbling brick arch into the narrow alley filled with the deafening chorus of men’s cheers. The noise called to him, drawing him through the sharp turns like a sweet smell draws a child to the kitchen. He stepped around the last corner and into an open courtyard. A large crowd circled two men, yelling and jeering as the hulks in the centre pummelled one another. They fought bare from the waist up, their broad backs covered in open cuts and dark bruises, each blow sending sweat and blood splattering into the dirt.
A smile eased Rafe’s jaw as the crowd’s excitement vibrated through him, shifting the lingering tension from this morning’s escapade in Gracechurch Street. He’d spent the better part of the past hour walking the streets and considering his options, of which there were few. Cornelia possessed the register and there was no way to raise enough blunt to tempt it away from her. He owed more than he cared to remember to several moneylenders, including the garlic-loving Mr Smith. It was a wonder the cockroach hadn’t scurried out of the shadows to demand repayment since the debt was almost a year outstanding. Rafe wouldn’t even have dealt with the rat if he hadn’t needed money to keep his mother from starving while he was in Paris and to buy his and Cornelia’s passage to France and their way into the most lucrative card rooms. He’d hoped to repay the moneylender with their winnings, but like too many other plans, it hadn’t proceeded as he’d expected.
Now, the outstanding loan was just another of the heavy debts hanging around his neck. With any luck, one of Mr Smith’s less-than-genteel clients would find a more creative way to eliminate his debt and save Rafe from the money man’s foul breath. Rafe doubted he’d get so lucky. Luck had avoided him like the pest house these past few months.
He tapped his pocket, making Mrs Ross’s letter and the pound notes from the sale of the spoons crinkle. It was a shame he couldn’t use the letter to settle the old bet in the book at White’s and prove it was the maid and not the old trollop who’d died in the fire twenty-two years ago. His smile widened at the idea of entering the club and watching a few faces go pale as he held up the missive and collected his money. He could also imagine the stampede to Cornelia’s door. No doubt she’d get rich selling the damning evidence to all those heirs and then where would he be? Certainly not sharing in the wealth.
If I’d have known this was how she planned to repay me, I’d have left her at Lord Perry’s where I found her. He tugged the bottom of his waistcoat straight, not believing his own words. Her father might have been hard hearted enough to consign his own daughter to the pawing hands of Lord Waltenham, but Rafe hadn’t been cruel enough to condemn a young woman to such a fate.
‘Densmore,’ a voice hailed. Lord Hartley, a short fellow made higher by his tall hat, pushed his way out of the crowd, pausing to let a young urchin scurry in front of him before he trotted up to Rafe. ‘I see Napoleon threw you out. Afraid you’d steal Josephine’s jewels?’
‘I wouldn’t be the first to touch her baubles.’ Rafe took the Viscount’s extended hand as the other clapped him on the back. Another cheer went up from the crowd and they turned to watch the smaller of the two fighters stagger back. He quickly regained his footing and landed a sharp hook on his opponent’s jaw. ‘No, I couldn’t stay in France, not with such cultural delights beckoning.’
‘Then you’ll want to bet on the next fight, on Joe James.’ Hartley stepped closer, holding one hand to his mouth and dropping his voice as much as he could in such a racket and still be heard. ‘I spoke to a man who knows his trainer and assures me he can’t lose.’
‘Sounds like a most reliable source,’ Rafe chided.
Hartley shrugged. ‘More reliable than most. Come, what do you say?’
He knew too much about bribed pugilists to risk his money on a fight. ‘No, thank you. I prefer the certainty of cards, where if a man slips a deuce from his boots, justice against him is swift.’
‘Yes, you’ve always been eccentric that way. Come with me anyway. Keep me company while I take my chances.’
Rafe swung his arm towards the two men in the dirty tricorns sitting behind the betting table. ‘Lead the way.’
He followed Hartley around the circle of men, catching glimpses of the fighters over the heads of the ever-shifting mass of bodies. The larger man pounded the smaller one to the delight of the spectators whose bloodthirsty cheers grew louder, eager for the larger man to deliver the coup de grâce and put his poor contender out of his misery.
‘Whatever happened to the delightful little widow I used to see you with in Paris?’ Hartley asked.
The larger boxer slammed his fist into the smaller man’s face, sending him spinning to the ground in a puff of blood and dust. ‘She married the Comte de Vane.’
Hartley’s eyebrows shot up before scrunching down in disbelief. ‘The relic from the Ancien Regime who used to haunt Madame Boucher’s card parties?’
‘The very one.’ The old codger used to enjoy playing Cornelia at the tables, his rheumy eyes raking her body as he tried to capture her interest. Rafe once admired the artful way she’d kept him at bay, flirting with him just enough to encourage more wagers. Never in all the games had Rafe guessed she was scheming to win more than the Comte’s counters.
‘Well, I suppose it’s a more practical way for a woman to earn her wealth.’ Hartley shrugged, more amused than disgusted by the pairing. Unlike Rafe.
‘Apparently.’
Rafe picked at a small chip on a waistcoat button, recalling her saucy smile their first night at Madame Boucher’s when she’d laid down her cards to win a tidy sum and the notice of all Paris society. He’d proudly watched her from across the room as she’d risen from the table and tucked the bills into the small pocket sewn into the front of her stays. She’d been so beautiful, the cunning fox. Her yellow dress hugging her full breasts and emphasising her willowy height had made her a rare daisy among roses. As she’d crossed the gilded and mirrored ballroom, she’d collected every man’s gaze. Then, when her vivid blue eyes and radiant smile had fixed on him, he’d almost forgotten the terms of their arrangement and dropped to his knees to propose.
Almost.
