Page 28 of A Duke Never Tells

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

JASPER BURSHIN

Jasper Burshin waited until nearly sunset to leave the village of Hinipen and ride the two miles to Remiton and the Falconers Inn. He hadn’t explored much of Hampshire or Dorset in the ten days he’d been staying there, and he’d taken care to stay in one of the smaller villages rather than Dorchester. He couldn’t take the risk of being seen out and about when Elliott Riniken, the tedious stickler, might have set the constabulary nosing about for him.

The money he’d appropriated from the Duke of Earnhurst’s accounts had given him a taste—a meal—of what he wanted; a life where he could wager a hundred quid on a horse race, rent a villa in Italy for the summer, or become a merchant king in America. His attempt to multiply his initial funds, though, hadn’t gone at all as he’d expected, and by the time that last boxing match had ended, he’d lost all but thirty pounds on a so-called “sure” bet.

But then it had occurred to him that the Earnhurst properties could easily be made to fund his efforts again. The old duke was dead, the new duke refused to leave London and his bed full of beautiful women, and without any aristocratic allies—or even any household staff—Elliott Riniken would be in no position to head him off.

The man of business had made altering the numbers in those ledgers a nightmare that took longer than it should have, so Jasper figured he was owed for that. Counting every shilling, adding up all the figures himself before approving any statements—for the devil’s sake, anyone looking on would have thought the money belonged to the man of business rather than the bloody duke. Months, it had taken, then the happy coincidence of the duke’s death, and even then, there’d been no way to remain at his position to do it again, because the bastard had caught on too quickly for him to be able to cover it up.

“Riniken,” he muttered under his breath, making it a curse, as he crossed the small bridge and entered the village of Remiton. The fool had one glaring weakness, at least, and Jasper meant to make good use of it. The man of business wouldn’t stand for anyone speaking ill of the old duke. In fact, several times in correspondence, before Jasper had managed to make off with the last few hundred quid, Riniken had gone out of his way to remind the bank that they represented Earnhurst, and that they must therefore be unimpeachable.

Well, being unimpeachable hadn’t afforded Jasper a fine horse or a ticket to journey to America in any comfort. Accomplishing that had taken wit and skill, not high morals. And he had an abundance of wit and skill.

Dismounting and tying his horse in front of the inn, Jasper patted the big black Thoroughbred on the withers. “Wait for me, Demon,” he muttered. “I won’t be long.”

Yes, he had quite possibly the finest horse in the west of England, and though the irony of what he would do with the animal once he boarded a ship had escaped him for a short time, he’d finally realized that the sale of Demon, along with the ten thousand quid he’d be collecting today from Earnhurst’s estate, would be enough to buy him a home in one of the new United States, another fine mount, and a large share in a profitable business. Two profitable businesses. Or perhaps he’d buy them outright, though he preferred to leave the work to someone else. Having the old duke’s blunt do the work for him—that was the way to live.

“May I help you?” an old man carrying a tray of plates and accompanied by the scent of roasted beef asked as he approached from the far doorway.

A handful of people seated at various tables all turned to look at him, and Jasper was glad he’d taken care to dress like one of the commoners. No sense giving anyone anything to remember him by. “Yes,” he said, in his most polite voice. “I believe you may be holding a satchel for me. John Smith?”

“Oh, aye.” The man handed the tray over to someone else, wiped his hands on his apron, and walked over to a counter near the front of the dining room. “Here it is.” Visibly straining, he lifted a brown leather satchel of medium size onto the counter. Coins faintly clinked inside.

“My thanks. Was there any message with it?”

“None that was told to me.”

“Good evening, then.”

The man tugged on his forelock. “Sir.”

God’s sake, that had been simple. Ten thousand quid was damned heavy, too. Perhaps it was a good thing he hadn’t gone with his first impulse—to ask for twenty thousand. He would have had to take on a partner just to carry the spoils.

Lugging the thing outside, he tied it across the back of his saddle and swung up on Demon again. He wanted to count the money, feel it in his hands, but this whole enterprise had required patience, and he wasn’t about to open a satchel full of treasure out in the open where any would-be highwayman could attempt to take it from him. No, he meant to wait until he could dump it all out on his bed at the King George Inn in the nearby village of Hinipen and roll about in it.

That thought made him chuckle, and when an old woman turned to look up at him, he doffed his hat. “Good evening, lovely lady,” he said, and as she blushed, he kneed Demon and cantered back to the bridge.

For the first mile he kept a regular watch behind him on the chance the former soldier had thought to have someone follow him. And he kept an eye on the shrubberies and trees that lined the lane in front of him, as well, in case the constabulary had been alerted and were waiting to collect him now that he had the money in hand.

Nothing. No out-of-place horses, or wagons, nothing but a pair of young ladies heading back toward Remiton and giggling to each other as they saw him, and a farmer with a cart half full of hay heading into a field of cattle.

He’d thought this plan would work the best, with no one being shamed or publicly losing face, just an anonymous gift for an enterprising former banker. And best of all, he hadn’t had to create a ledger or anything of the sort. And then, if need be, he could return for another go-round. His own private bank, as it were.

Back at the King George, he handed Demon off to the stable boy and brought the satchel upstairs to his room. Just toting it up the narrow staircase left him out of breath, and he set it on the bed while he dropped into the room’s single chair to look at it.

Ha! He’d done it. His mother had always said that applying his mind to good deeds would earn him wealth in heaven. Well, this way he didn’t have to wait nearly that long.

Grinning, he stood again, unfastened the straps holding the satchel closed, and dumped it out on the bed.

Rocks.

Rocks and two broken-up tea saucers to clink against them and mud. No, not mud. Horse shite. One clump rolled off the bed and hit his foot, leaving a streak of shite across his shiny leather Hessian boots.

“No. No, no, no,” Jasper growled, flinging the satchel down on top of the mess that now covered his rented bed.

He’d timed it perfectly, with mourning for the old duke finished, the Season not yet begun, the new duke still refusing to journey to Dorset, and the man of business desperately making repairs before someone of consequence noticed the decay of the estate. Any attention brought to Earnhurst would make Riniken’s little house of cards catch fire and tumble to the ground. He should have been happy to part with the blunt in exchange for silence. Lord knew the estate would barely feel the loss.

Picking up the satchel again, he hurled it across the room. It smacked into the wall and a note fell away from it. Jasper strode over and yanked it off the floor. “‘Why the devil would I reward a thief, Mr. Burshin?’” he read aloud, then crumpled the paper and threw it into the small fireplace.

He paced back and forth the length of the small room, over and over, until the smell of shite began making him cough. Not only had Elliott Riniken cost him all of his dreams, but now he’d have to pay the damned innkeeper for the ruin of the bed. Oh, this wasn’t over. To this point he’d been civil. Now he wanted his money.