Wicked Earl Seeks Proper Heiress (The Husband Hunters Club 5)

Rufus clenched his fists and his valet backed up a few steps, eyeing him uneasily. “Finish it, Gregson,” he ordered. “I have to go out almost immediately.”

To make matters worse, if they could get any worse, today he had visited his bank and heard some dire news. He supposed it was his own fault for not being more vigilant, but he’d believed his uncle when he swore he’d never visit another gaming club again. What Rufus had thought of as his uncle’s annoying hobby was, in fact, a severe affliction. Gaming was like a drug to James, and once within its sphere he was powerless to resist.

And now it looked as if Rufus would lose Southbrook Castle.

The place was chilly and gloomy but it was his and despite the rumor that Rufus was a coldhearted villain, he loved it.

The money to save it would have to be found, but from where?

“See that a room is prepared for Mr. James, Gregson. He will be leaving for Southbrook in the morning. I don’t want him going missing. Do you understand?”

The valet nodded earnestly. “The room is to be locked, sir.”

“Locked up tight.”

Soon Uncle James would be far away from harm, but it was too late. The damage was done. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely James’s fault. He was just one in a long line of Southbrook wasters who had brought the family to this end. But whichever of them was to blame, they were now so far in debt that they would lose Southbrook and the London house. He’d be one of those shabby gentlemen living on the Continent, no doubt with James in tow, moving from room to room, one step away from the creditors.

He shuddered.

Rufus had been in tight situations before and found a way out. But this time . . . He tried to rally himself. There must be a way out. There must be something he could do, there must be.

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Gregson had returned, his face whiter than before. “My lord,” he said, eyes like saucers. “Master Eustace can’t be found.”

Rufus frowned at his hapless valet. “I haven’t got time for this, Gregson, I have to find Mr. James.”

“But my lord . . .” Gregson was wringing his hands. “Master Eustace left a note to say he had gone with Mr. James to the East End, to keep an eye on him for you.”

Rufus, who had thought things could not get any worse, felt his heart sink in his chest. His son, Eustace, was seven years old. The last place he should be was with James when he was hell-bent on pleasure.

Drat the boy!

And yet Rufus felt a measure of pride, too. Eustace had known his father would be angry that James had gone off, and he had taken it upon himself to go, too, to keep a man forty years older than him out of trouble.

His mouth quirked into an unwilling smile.

“Very well, Gregson. Get the coach around. I will take that with me.”

“And bring them both home safely, sir?”

“Yes, and bring them both home safe and sound,” Rufus replied, and refused to let any doubts enter his mind. Some years ago Rufus had been engaged by a secret government organization called The Guardians. His job had been to patrol the East End and listen in to possible seditious talk. He’d learned the narrow alleys and laneways like the back of his hand. Wherever James was, he would find him, and Eustace, too, and then he would let his temper rip at the pair of them.

Averil tucked her shawl more closely about her, using a fold of it to cover her hair and the lower half of her face. Her clothes were the oldest she could find in her wardrobe. Some of the places she’d been to tonight were not safe for a woman like her, young and rich and upper class. The grubby streets and grubbier inhabitants disliked and distrusted her sort, and it was only the gentlemen with gold in their palms that received a friendly welcome.

“Miss?” Jackson’s ugly face peered at her from the gloom. “Are you sure you want to go on?”

Averil, who preferred “miss” to “my lady” when she was in the East End, nodded brusquely. “Of course. Is it far now?”

Averil had received news from her old nanny. She’d written that fifteen years ago Averil’s mother had ended up in a gaming house called The Tin Soldier, and that was where Jackson was taking her now.

“A few streets. Stay close, miss. Lots of pickpockets about.”

She let him lead the way, keeping close behind his musty-smelling coat. She told herself that she must not lose heart or hope. If her sister was here, somewhere, then she must be found. Before it was too late. The fact that it might already be too late was not something she wanted to dwell on.

The Tin Soldier had been more than just a gaming house. Although Jackson wouldn’t tell her exactly what, Averil imagined it catered to more than just dice and cards. There would be women, women who, like her mother, had fallen upon hard times. This was the place where her mother had spent her final months, before she was taken to the infirmary and died. Averil knew that, whatever awful things she learned at The Tin Soldier, she could not ignore this new clue. Not if she wanted to find her sister.

“I understand why you want to find her, Averil, but some things are better left alone.”