A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

An image of Greystone and his wife, Lydia, burst into his mind. Devlin had stood witness at their wedding, had seen the look of love and devotion in their eyes as they exchanged vows, as they shared a passionate kiss regardless of the onlookers. The thought that he would never feel the same abiding affection had stabbed his heart, drawn blood. But that pain was nothing compared to the crippling sense of loneliness that followed.

“Well?” Bromfield’s amused tone drew Devlin from his reverie. “For what shall we wager?”

Devlin cleared his throat and took comfort from Valentine’s reassuring smile. “For the hand of your daughter in marriage.”

A collective gasp tore through the room.

Shock turned into amusement when Lord Marshborough chuckled, slapped Devlin on the back and said, “Mighty good show, Drake. You had Bromfield quaking in his boots for a moment there.”

From the rigid set of Devlin’s jaw, it took but a few seconds before someone in the crowd said, “By God, it’s no jest.”

“Indeed.” Devlin shot Bromfield a hard stare. “If you’re brave enough to bet, we’ll wager for the hand of your daughter.”

Bromfield jerked his head back and scoffed. “You expect me to risk such a valuable treasure?”

“Is she a treasure?” The insult sliced through the volatile atmosphere. “Some might disagree.” Miss Bromfield lashed out with her vile tongue as a man did a sharp blade—with menace, with deadly intent.

“You have spent too much time abroad, Drake.” Bromfield brushed a lock of hair from his brow, and Devlin noted the slight tremble in his fingers. The baron was no fool. He knew he had his back pressed to the wall. “You have spent too much time bartering with heathens if you think I would gamble with my own daughter’s happiness.”

Devlin arched an arrogant brow. “You have yet to hear what I offer in exchange.”

“I doubt you have anything of equal worth or status.”

Were it not for her connection to Ambrose, Miss Bromfield wasn’t worth the scrapings off his boots.

“I don’t?” Devlin paused. “What about the deeds to Blackwater?”

This time, the crowd looked too stunned to utter a sound. With wide eyes, they exchanged puzzled glances. Some shook their heads. Some edged closer, not wanting to miss a word.

With his usual aristocratic grace, Valentine stepped for

ward ready to play his part in the game. “Don’t be a fool, Drake,” he pleaded. “Good God, that house has been in your family for five generations.”

“Six generations,” Devlin corrected.

He watched the baron’s eyes flicker to life. But the glint of pleasure stemmed from more than the value of the prize. Baron Bromfield had visited Blackwater after Ambrose’s death under the guise that his daughter wished for the return of all private correspondence. In light of the scandal, the lady was eager to preserve her reputation.

The housekeeper, Mrs Barbary, refused. Citing that only written permission from the master would prevail her to allow such an intrusion. Days later, an intruder ransacked Ambrose’s room, stole a silver shaving pot and brush—took nothing else.

So, what had Miss Bromfield written in those letters?

Was it all a ruse, the letters an excuse for the baron to gain access to the house?

And if so why?

Valentine appeared at Devlin’s shoulder. He bent down, giving the impression of whispering in Devlin’s ear but spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Although you took Harridan-Jones’ vowel, luck has not been your friend tonight. God damn, Drake, you’ll lose your home.”

Oh, Valentine was good. The usually suave, sophisticated lord did indeed seem ruffled.

Devlin shrugged. “I have the townhouse in Wimpole Street. What need have I for a draughty old mansion?” He focused his gaze on the baron. “Well? Do you doubt me enough to wager your daughter against Blackwater?”

The ugly green vein in the baron’s temple swelled and pulsed. Everyone could see he was tempted. The beads of sweat forming on his brow confirmed as much. He fiddled with the seal ring on his little finger, twisting it back and forth. A gentleman to his left leant down and advised caution, called for prudence, but the baron dismissed him with an irate flick of the wrist.

The thought of possessing Blackwater proved too enticing.

“Highest roll wins.” The words burst from the baron’s lips, though from the deep lines on his brow it had not been an easy task.