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

“Of course, but . . . I’ve been searching for her. I need to find her. I need to know she is alive and-and well.”

Sally stared at Averil and then she sighed, her shoulders slumping. “I wish I could ’elp you, me dear, I really wish I could. But I can’t.”

Averil swallowed the lump in her throat.

Sally reached out and pulled an embroidered bellpull, and a moment later the young girl appeared in the doorway. “Go and fetch Lord Southbrook. Lady Averil is finished now.”

She picked up her pen again and dipped it into the ink, and Averil was dismissed.

“No,” she said, using the desk to help her rise to her feet. “I can manage. Don’t fetch him. If you could help me down the stairs . . .?”

The young girl came forward at a nod from Sally and Averil slipped her arm about the girl’s shoulders. Her knee was very painful but she much preferred the pain to having Lord Southbrook comment on her proportions again. Slowly, very slowly, they made their way down the stairs.

Rufus pushed his way through the crowd in the card room, ignoring the dark looks and comments. It was a brave man who would tackle him, and usually his scar made even brave men think twice before doing so.

The Tin Soldier was much noisier than when he’d carried Lady Averil upstairs, and women in gaudy clothing hung on the arms of gentlemen who should have known better. The fact that Averil had been so desperate to speak to Sally Jakes made him curious—some secret there that he’d like to uncover—but right now he had other things on his mind.

He was searching for his uncle, and as he stepped into the gambling rooms he heard James’s voice at once. Relief washed through him and he strode across to the group of men hunched over their cards in the far corner, scanning the table anxiously for Eustace.

The Honorable James Blainey had taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves; his cravat was askew and his graying dark hair was sticking up as if he’d been running his hands through it. No doubt he’d been tugging at it in frustration.

Rufus stood a moment until some of the gamblers looked up and noticed him. Their faces froze with dismay at the sight of him. They probably thought him some species of pirate. It was the scar; he’d been called a buccaneer more than once.

“Well, deal, damn you!” James cried, and then, seeing the direction of the man’s gaze, turned his own head and looked up. His shock was almost comical but Rufus wasn’t in the mood to laugh.

“Rufus, my boy! There you are.” James was good at bluffing his way out of trouble. “Eustace was sure you would come but I told him you had better things to do.”

He’d hardly begun speaking when a dark-haired boy, who’d been half-asleep on a chair by the wall, darted up and threw himself into Rufus’s arms. Thin, tall for his age, Eustace clung to him for a moment, and then scowled up at him.

“Where were you, Papa?” he demanded. “I’ve been here for ages, and Uncle James won’t go home.”

“Well, he’s going home now,” Rufus promised in an icy tone.

James went pale, but to his credit he didn’t try to bluster or make excuses. He knew better. He put his cards down and pushed his chair back, rising to his feet.

Rufus was taller than his uncle—indeed, he was taller than most people—and now he loomed over the older man. James was very like him in looks, apart from the broadening of his frame, the graying of his hair, and the lines on his face. He was a handsome man, the man Rufus might have been without the scar.

“How much do you owe?” Rufus asked in that same icy voice.

James cleared his throat, his brown eyes sliding to his nephew’s and away again. “Actually, Rufus, I was winning.”

One of the other men pushed a few coins toward the edge of the table and James scooped them into his hand and then into his pocket. Rufus marched him toward the door.

“I don’t suppose there’s any point in me apologizing?” James said in a meek voice.

“You’re right, there isn’t.”

“No, I didn’t think so,” he said smugly, as if his being right gave him some sort of satisfaction. “I told Eustace you wouldn’t listen to me. Told him I just can’t seem to help myself sometimes, when the cards call. I didn’t want him to come with me, you know. He insisted.”

“Eustace is seven years old,” Rufus reminded him.

“Well, I couldn’t shake him off. Next time tell him not to attach himself to me like that.”

“There won’t be a next time. You are going to Southbrook Castle and there you will stay. Indefinitely.”

James cast him a despairing look. “Rufus, how can you send me there? You know how I hate it. I don’t understand how you can be so fond of the horrible pile. I was always sent to Southbrook when I was bad, and now you are sending me there again. What must I do to stop you? I’ll promise anything.”

His remorse seemed genuine, but Rufus was beyond caring. “Then you’ll be pleased to know that I am about to lose Southbrook, James. And the London house. I am going to lose it all, and I have you to thank for it.”