Although she was not looking at his scars now; rather, her eyes were roaming over his entire face. As she studied him, she caught her lower lip between her teeth, then let it slip away.
It occurred to him that Miss Larke had spoken. He looked back at her. “Hmm?”
Miss Larke sniffed. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain your meaning, my lord.”
“Perhaps I would be so kind,” Rafe said. “But it’s unlikely.”
Enjoying their matching expressions of indignation, Rafe excused himself with a nod, and headed toward Ventnor’s men, a space mercifully opening up around him as he crossed the sticky tavern floor.
Of all the places to end up—a blasted coaching inn in blasted Warwickshire. Definitely not what he had expected when he traveled to London in search of a lump sum of capital. There, he was surrounded by would-be geniuses, who all offered the same genius solution to his money problem. “Get married,” they all said, one after the other, the bishop grinning, his solicitor shrugging, his man of affairs scratching his chin. Get married, and he would meet the conditions of the trust set up by his mother with the express purpose of encouraging her sons to wed.
Or, as the bishop had put it: “Why not, my boy? You need only say ‘I do,’ and you will have ten thousand pounds.”
“I will also have a wife,” Rafe had pointed out. “And what the hell would I do with one of those?”
A mistake to ask, because the bishop was full of bright ideas for what, exactly, Rafe might do with a wife.
“You could contract a marriage of convenience,” his solicitor had suggested, ever looking for loopholes in the law. “Simply marry some lady who wants to be a countess and forget about her.”
A nice theory, but in reality, something was sure to go wrong, and Rafe would end up having to take care of his wife anyway. If life had taught him anything, it was that he did not need to look for trouble, because trouble would find him. Maybe if Rafe were a different man, he would take that risk, but he was not a different man.
He was still surprised that the solution had come from Lord Ventnor, of all people. Rafe preferred to ignore the viscount’s existence, but when he had heard of Ventnor’s rare orchids, and how Ventnor’s ignorant gardeners were murdering said orchids, Rafe had felt compelled to offer his advice for keeping the plants alive. At which point, Ventnor promised to give Rafe the orchids in exchange for helping to keep that social-climbing seductress Helen Knight away from Ventnor’s precious heir until he could find the boy a more suitable bride. It had been a small matter, in the circumstances, to send a man to learn more about Helen Knight, only to discover the scheme she was plotting with her sister. How nicely it all came together: Helen Knight would elope with Beau Russell, and Thea Knight would adopt a false name, thus giving Rafe a way to get married and get the money, but not end up with a wife.
Oh, and Ventnor would be apoplectic with rage. Excellent.
First, though, Rafe must get rid of Ventnor’s men.
They were big, uncouth-looking fellows, the sort Rafe would expect Ventnor to use; former soldiers, probably, who lacked property, a trade, and a conscience. Thanks to ruffians like these, Ventnor could conduct his dirty deeds, while keeping his soft white hands spotless. The pair had been watching the two ladies, but as Rafe bore down on them, they turned to stare at him, eyes wide, spines straight.
“It’s Luxborough,” he heard the bearded one hiss, as they exchanged panicked looks. “They say he…”
The words trailed off before Rafe had the pleasure of hearing which of the delightful rumors the man had chosen to share.
A glance over his shoulder revealed that Miss Knight and Miss Larke had made it out the door and were climbing into the waiting barouche. Ventnor’s men dropped their tankards and began to rise. Rafe pressed his hands to their shoulders, and they sank back down in their seats.
Rafe would have preferred not to have been cursed with title, scars, and outlandish rumors, but he had to admit, they had their benefits. People tended to become conveniently docile in his presence. When they weren’t trying to run away, that is.
“Lord…Lord Luxborough,” the bearded one said with a gulp.
“In the flesh,” Rafe agreed. “Or what’s left of it.”
He hauled a chair from a neighboring table and dropped into it. With a jerk of his chin toward the bar, he had the barkeeper pouring a round of drinks.
“’Scuse us, m’lord,” the other one said, “but we hafta— You see, that lady…”
“Miss Helen Knight, you mean?”
“Thass the one. Lord Ventnor told us to keep an eye on her.”