Bride for a Night

“You have him captured. He is no threat.”

“I have already discovered not to underestimate your brother. So long as he lives, he will be a threat,” Jacques muttered with a grimace. “Besides, did you not just assure me that it would be impossible for you to take his place without a proper funeral for the current earl?”

Harry hunched his shoulders, as usual unwilling to accept that his choices had a cost that must be paid.

“There is no need for me to be the Earl of Ashcombe to discover another contact within the Home Office. I shall return to London…”

“Non.”

“What?”

Jacques heaved an impatient sigh. “Have you forgotten you are currently embroiled in a nasty scandal after having abandoned your bride at the altar and taken off with her dowry?”

He did not even possess the grace to appear guilty as he waved a dismissive hand.

“It will have passed now that my brother has wed Talia.”

Jacques rolled his eyes. Harry truly believed his sins had once again been swept beneath the carpet by his brother.

“And how do you intend to explain their mysterious disappearance?”

Harry was momentarily stumped by the perfectly reasonable question. But with the skill of a born prevaricator, he offered a ready lie.

“It must be known by Gabriel’s servants that Talia was kidnapped by you and that he traveled to France to rescue her,” he pointed out. “It will be assumed that he is still searching for her or he is captured.”

“Which will ensure that I am hunted by every British soldier in France.” Jacques shook his head. “Non, I thank you.”

The younger man scowled, predictably indifferent to the notion of Jacques being pursued by the entire British army.

“Then I will say that they have returned and have traveled to my brother’s estate in Scotland to recuperate from their ordeal.”

“And they took Lord Rothwell along as a chaperone?” Jacques scoffed.

Harry hissed with impatience, his face drawn with believable tension. Had Jacques not been so sadly familiar with the selfish cad, he might have been convinced Harry truly cared whether his brother lived or died.

“We can conjure some tale that will satisfy society.”

“I am not willing to risk our profitable arrangement on the hope you can deceive those who are already inclined to distrust you.” His lips twisted into a humorless smile. “And you cannot deny that your position as the Earl of Ashcombe would be worth a great deal more to me than a scapegrace younger son.”

Harry returned to his furied pacing, his jaw clenched and the sweat dripping down his narrow face.

“Dammit, I do not want the title,” he growled.

“Is that a jest?” Jacques demanded, watching the nobleman’s restless motions with a narrowed gaze. “You have spent your entire life consumed with jealousy.”

“I will admit that I have resented being forever found inferior to my perfect brother, but that does not mean I wish to step into his shoes,” Harry muttered. “And I most certainly do not wish to have him murdered.”

Jacques made a sound of disgust. “I could almost believe you if I had not spent hours listening to your drunken boast.”

His accusation brought Harry to an abrupt halt, his expression suddenly wary. And for good reason. Who had not been in Harry’s company and not had to endure his tedious complaints of the injustice of the world in general and his elder brother in particular?

“What drunken boast?”

“That the title of Earl of Ashcombe was wasted on a humorless prig who should have been drowned at birth,” he reminded his companion in sardonic tones. “That you would have been a far superior heir had fate not been so cruel.”

“A man will say anything when he is in his cups,” Harry said with a peevish frown.

“Oui, and almost always it is the truth.”