A Wicked Wager (Avenging Lords 2)

“Well?” Devlin asked. “Have you any news?”

Copeland raised his chin. “Not at present, sir.” His indifferent expression bore no sign of frustration. “Your missive was delivered, but the boy is yet to return. And other than to address your immediate concerns, I have not moved from my post.”

Damnation.

Darkness would be upon them in a matter of hours. If the baron had procured a special licence, Devlin intended to leave for Blackwater immediately.

The rattle of carriage wheels drew his attention to the window. Four long strides—the benefit of being so tall—and he rounded the desk to peer out onto Wimpole Street.

The canary-yellow chariot rolled to a stop outside Devlin’s house. Only one man rode about town in such an ostentatious contraption—Bromfield. A servant dressed in garish yellow livery jumped down from his perch and hurried around to open the door and lower the steps.

Baron Bromfield descended. The lord surveyed the exterior of Devlin’s townhouse, his lips curling in contempt. The baron stepped aside, and the servant assisted Miss Bromfield to the pavement.

The sight of the golden-haired beauty sent bile shooting up to burn the back of Devlin’s throat.

Evidently, Miss Bromfield had inherited her father’s need for extravagance for she wore a ridiculous wide-brimmed bonnet dressed with three large ostrich feathers. Her midnight-blue pelisse flattered both her colouring and slender figure—and still, she was the most abhorrent woman he’d ever laid eyes on.

Devlin’s heart thumped hard in his chest—from anger, from the need to wipe the arrogant grin off Miss Bromfield’s face. Clearly the lady knew nothing of the wager else the baron would have dragged her from the conveyance, kicking and screaming.

Last of all, the lady’s maid clambered out of the chariot. The petite girl with red hair had a more pleasant countenance. Devlin pitied anyone forced to spend a second in Miss Bromfield’s company, let alone have to dress and pander to the spoilt chit.

“We have visitors, Copeland. Be sure to show them in, although there is no need to be polite.”

“Indeed, sir. I shall greet t

hem in a tone befitting a man of a much lower station.”

“Excellent.”

Devlin watched the scene from the window. The baron and his daughter strode up to the front door as if neither had a care in the world. The maid looked the most terrified of all. She stood gawking, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. She hugged her arms and shivered. Perhaps hearing her master talk of the hulking beast set to marry her mistress had sent her nerves skittering.

The baron barked an order, and the maid hurried to his side.

Devlin wasn’t sure where he wanted to sit. Eager to convey an air of authority, he chose the chair behind the desk. When Copeland escorted the illustrious guests into the study, Devlin was surprised the maid followed them in, too. Perhaps she came armed with the vinaigrette bottle ready to revive Miss Bromfield once she’d received the distressing news.

“No need for pleasantries,” the baron snapped when the butler opened his mouth to announce them. “Drake knows who we are.”

The muscles in Devlin’s stomach clenched. He couldn’t bear to look at Miss Bromfield, couldn’t bear to look at the baron and found himself staring at the maid instead. The woman held his gaze with a level of enquiry considered ill-mannered for a servant. A look few aristocratic women dared to bestow.

“That will be all, Copeland. Do not go to the trouble of arranging tea.” Devlin’s tone was as cold as the ice casing around his heart. “We hope to conclude our business quickly.”

This was nothing more than an arrangement, a task, a chore.

“May we at least take a seat?” The baron gestured to the two chairs facing the desk.

Devlin gave a curt nod.

Miss Bromfield made sitting seem like an art form. She examined the seat. With poise and an air of self-possession she straightened her back, gathered her skirts and lowered herself down gracefully. Her movements were so affected even the maid rolled her eyes.

The baron waited for his daughter to sit before taking the seat next to her.

The maid looked at them both, rolled her eyes again and stood stiff and rigid behind the baron’s chair.

“Am I to assume you have not broached the subject of our wager with your daughter?” Devlin did not need to glance at Miss Bromfield to know her grin stretched from ear to ear. Indeed, she put her gloved hand to her lips and tittered at the question.

“On the contrary,” the baron said with mild condescension. “My daughter is aware of her obligations and will consent to the match.”

Shocked, Devlin’s head shot to the venomous creature whose mind was riddled with poison.