A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

Rufus jumped off the bed and came to heel at Devlin’s side. Juliet could hear him talking to Rufus as they headed out of the door and down the stairs.

In a matter of minutes, her husband returned. He locked the door, stripped off his clothing and slipped into bed beside her. “Now, where would you like me to start?”

Chapter Twenty-One

“If you have come to berate me over my conduct the other day, then you can save your breath.” The baron stood before the fire in the drawing room, his hands clasped behind his back. He wielded his arrogance like a shield, but Devlin had the one weapon capable of cleaving it in two. “I assume it’s just a matter of time before you find an excuse to call me out.”

Devlin relaxed back in the sofa while Juliet sat comfortably at his side.

“And I don’t know why I must be party to this ridiculous conversation,” Miss Bromfield complained from the chair opposite. “So I wrote to tell Ambrose he was a fool. So I told a few tales, cast aspersions on his character. I was upset. Do I not have the right to voice my opinion?”

“You have no right to spread malicious lies,” Juliet said with a level of confidence Devlin had not seen when she stood outside his house in Wimpole Street, nibbling her bottom lip. “You have no right to slander a gentleman’s good name just to bolster your own sense of worth.”

Miss Bromfield tutted. “He’s dead. What does it matter?”

“It matters to me.” Devlin cast the chit his hardest stare, took pleasure in her nervous gulp. He glanced at the baron. “We thought you might like to know that we found the letters you seek.”

Miss Bromfield

sat forward. “You mean Ambrose kept them?” With hope in her eyes, she looked up at her father. “Well, surely that means he cared something for me.”

Devlin held the next sentence in his mouth for a few seconds as one would a fine wine. He savoured the taste, anticipated the way its potency would relax his shoulders, would send a wave of satisfaction surging through his veins.

“I am not speaking of the letters sent to Ambrose,” he said, relishing every word. “I speak of the letters written to my grandmother, to Charlotte Drake. Letters written by her maid Susan while she attended your parents, Baron.”

All life drained from the baron’s face. He reached for the mantel and gripped the wood. “You found them? You’ve … you’ve read them?”

“Numerous times.”

The baron gulped. With trembling fingers he reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a handkerchief and used it to mop the beads of sweat from his brow.

“Papa? Is everything all right?” For once, Miss Bromfield sounded anxious.

The baron could not find his voice and simply shook his head. The action sent Miss Bromfield into a tizzy. Still looking confused and bewildered, she jumped up and assisted her father into a seat.

“What is it, Papa?” She turned to Juliet and scowled. “What have you done?”

“It is not a case of what we have done,” Devlin said, unable to suppress his jubilation. “But more a case of what your grandfather did.”

The baron’s complexion turned grey, sallow. He swayed in the chair, looked ready to cast up his accounts. “Leave us, Hannah. I’ll not have you party to this conversation.”

“Miss Bromfield stays,” Devlin said, his tone hard and unforgiving. The witch would hear everything he had to say. “She stays. Else you leave me no option but to put the evidence in print. Some magazines thrive on gossip.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“It would be a fitting retribution, do you not think?”

Miss Bromfield braced her hands on her hips and glared. “I do not know what game you’re playing here but say what you must and then leave. You should be grateful I have not thrown you out already.”

The baron squirmed in his chair. “I beg you. Spare the dear girl. My daughter has suffered enough heartache.”

Miss Bromfield? Suffered? What about Juliet?

Devlin’s blood boiled. The man could not have said anything more damning. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to—

Damn it.

Devlin shot out of his seat. He crossed the room, grabbed the lord by his cravat and hauled him to his feet. “If you were twenty years younger, I would beat you black and blue.”