A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

“Yes, Mr Drake,” Miss Bromfield said in a high-pitched voice that grated. “We discussed the matter at length this morning.”

“And you’re happy with the arrangement?” Devlin stared at Miss Bromfield and tried to find something attractive in her countenance, something that might sweeten the deal, something that might make the next twenty years moderately bearable.

But alas, his search was in vain.

“Oh, I am more than happy with the turn of events.” Miss Bromfield smiled in the sly way that persuaded a man to sleep with one eye open.

This was not the reaction he envisioned while waiting patiently these last few hours. Wails and screams, yes. A tantrum to surpass all others, certainly. This sickly sweet sense of acceptance, most definitely not.

Devlin stared at her with a level of disdain he could not hide. Once at Blackwater, he would have his answers. What was the real reason Miss Bromfield ended her betrothal to his brother? Why had she invented the story of Ambrose’s fondness for men? What prompted his brother to wander Wimbledon Common in the dead of night? And what was so important about the letters she’d written that her father would demand access to Devlin’s home?

“Then I trust you had luck with the bishop,” Devlin said in an attempt to focus on the matter at hand.

The baron reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a tightly rolled scroll. “The archbishop refused to grant a special licence.” Bromfield leant forward and threw the document onto the desk.

Damnation.

“On what grounds?” Devlin snatched the paper.

“On the grounds that one applicant is of inferior birth,” the baron said haughtily.

Miss Bromfield sniggered.

Anger ignited in Devlin’s chest. “My bloodline is purer than yours. My grandfather was a viscount.” How dare the baron suggest a Drake was an inferior match for his serpent daughter.

“The bishop granted a common licence,” the baron said. “With some persuasion, I managed to make him see the urgency of the case.”

A brief flutter of relief filled Devlin’s chest—until he remembered whom he was marrying. “Then we will marry in the private chapel at Blackwater at ten in the morning.”

“So, you have been a resident in the parish for four weeks?” The baron stared down his nose. Would he use Devlin’s absence from Blackwater as an excuse to delay?

“Of course,” Devlin lied. “I’m certain the Reverend Fisher will confirm that to be the case.” The clergy rarely enforced the rules as long as there were no impediments to the marriage. Devlin unravelled the scroll. The blue tax stamp confirmed the document’s legitimacy. “Should we discuss the lady’s dowry, any portions or trusts set aside for children?”

Baron Bromfield cleared his throat. “There is no dowry. You won my daughter’s hand, nothing more.”

The comment drew Devlin’s attention away from the document. “A dowry is about protecting Miss Bromfield’s future as much as rewarding me for shouldering such a burden.” And what a crippling weight it was.

He waited for Miss Bromfield to gasp at the insult, to jump up from her chair and flick her forked tongue in warning. But she sat there demurely as if nothing he could say or do could unsettle her calm composure.

“Miss Bromfield has a sizeable dowry,” the baron informed with an arrogant grin. “However, Miss Duval does not.”

The maid put a trembling hand to her mouth and sucked in a breath.

Devlin surveyed the scene. It suddenly occurred to him that a man as cunning as the baron or a lady as devious as Miss Bromfield would come out fighting when backed into a corner.

“And who is Miss Duval?” Devlin asked though he had a suspicion he would not like the answer.

“My daughter.” The baron gestured to the petite girl behind him. “The lady whose hand you won at the gaming table.”

Devlin did not breathe, did not blink.

The baron had attacked his flank, and he had not seen the bastard coming.

Do not show any sign of weakness.

Do not give them the satisfaction.

Using every ounce of willpower he possessed, Devlin kept an impassive expression as he scanned the details of the document. His gaze lingered on the name Juliet Duval. Well, at least the bishop had recorded Blackwater as the place to solemnize the marriage.