Page 15 of A Marriage for the Marquess (Barrington’s Brigade #1)
T hat evening, Glenraven paused at the wrought iron gates. The address he’d been given etched in elegant script on the card in his hand led him to this secluded place on St. James Place. The once majestic home, now cloaked in the shadows of the evening, loomed with an air of silent stories and faded glory. Its stone facade, etched by time, whispered of a nobility long past. Above, the distinct silhouette of the turret cut a stark figure against the twilight sky.
He stepped through the gates and walked up the stone path to the heavy oak door, which swung open before he could knock. The entryway was a cavernous space, the grandeur of its high ceilings and sweeping staircase evidence of its former glory. A dimly lit chandelier cast shadows that danced across the portraits of stern ancestors that lined the walls.
The modest octagonal turret room was perfect for this evening’s entertainment. It was elegantly appointed, with high ceilings and mirrored sconces on each of the eight walls. The grand turret, in its roundish form, rose above the room and added an architectural touch. The space was rich with the scent of polished wood and tobacco. The wood panel walls bore witness to countless games of chance. A round mahogany table dominated the center of the room, where men of varying degrees of wealth and desperation waited to begin. Their faces were etched with concentration, their eyes flickering with greed, or was that fear?
At the table sat Lord Thornfield, his eyes sharp and calculating behind round spectacles had a hawkish gaze. His fingers deftly handled his cards as if they were an extension of his will. Lord Whitby, his cuff frayed, a subtle sign of his dwindling fortune. Sir Charles Bentley, a young baronet whose laughter rang out with the carelessness of youth. His eyes betrayed the naivety not yet tarnished by loss of any kind. Across from him sat Lord Gray, a man of few words, his silence a stark contrast to the clink of chips and the soft drop of cards. His eyes, however, followed the hands of every player with a calculated intensity. And there was Viscount Drake, who had a face that was a map of experience and weathered hands that moved with the precision of a man who had seen many such games.
Servants in crisp livery moved as silently as shadows, navigating the room with trays of spirits and glasses. Their presence was unobtrusive.
The game had been one of many Ewan had attended since his father’s warning, but none revealed the gambling den he sought. Each visit left him with more questions and the answers as elusive as the turn of a card.
As the door to the room swung open, a hush fell over the table. Every player paused, and those standing turned in unison to the person who entered. Sebastian Morgrave’s arrival was a performance. His confidence bordered on arrogance, his smile a challenge to the room. He glanced around as if he dared anyone to question his presence. When his gaze settled on Glenraven, the surprise was mutual. Sebastian appeared to relish the moment of unexpected recognition.
“Glenraven, what a pleasant surprise. I was certain you’d be back in Paris by now.”
Unfazed, he acknowledged his cousin with a nod. “Sebastian.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed slightly as he gestured towards the empty chair. “Please, have a seat. Gentry will not be joining us this evening,” Everyone caught the sly edge of Sebastian’s words.
Glenraven sat in the empty chair, his stature, head and shoulders above the rest, cast a long shadow across the table. The candlelight flickering from the sconces behind him only accentuated his imposing figure. His broad shoulders squared as he settled into the chair, an unspoken assertion of his place at the table.
“I trust you’ll find this game more… stimulating than the others you’ve attended recently. Word does get around. Do be careful here, though. You see, fortunes can change as quickly as the cards are dealt.” Sebastian’s warning filled the silence, a challenge that went beyond the green baize of the card table.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Glenraven motioned for another whisky as the game began. Glenraven won hand after hand. His winnings mounted up. But as the night progressed, he allowed his luck to fade, and his cousin’s winnings grew. Sebastian’s overconfidence was blatant, his smug smile widening with each hand Glenraven lost.
Yet Ewan was not easily bested. With a calm focus, and when he saw fit, he turned the tide, his winnings again mounting until his victories overshadowed the table. Sebastian barely concealed his rage. His veneer of civility thinned with each loss.
“You may think you have the upper hand now, Glenraven,” Sebastian sneered, “but the night is long, and fortunes change.”
Ewan met his cousin’s gaze, his response carefully considered but firm. “Indeed, they do. And I intend to see this game through to the end.” His expression remained composed, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he collected his winnings with a calm assurance that contradicted the intensity of the game. He was the picture of confidence, leaning back in his chair with one arm casually draped over the back of the empty chair beside him. The subtle challenge in his attitude, the unspoken assertion of control, was enough to unsettle his cousin, whose confidence hinged on the intimidation of others.
The tension in the room continued to mount as the game progressed. Glenraven’s gaze remained fixed on Sebastian.
“Sebastian,” he interjected smoothly just as the next hand was about to be dealt. “I must thank you for overseeing the estate in my absence. Your efforts were… noted.”
Sebastian’s smile faltered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “Of course, Ewan. It was my pleasure to assist.”
Glenraven’s expression remained impassive as he continued, “Now that I’ve returned, I’ll be resuming full control of the estate affairs during Father’s recovery. Your services, while appreciated, are no longer required.”
His words echoed in the room, a subtle yet unmistakable dismissal that sent a ripple of murmurs through the onlookers. Sebastian’s composure cracked, his veneer of civility giving way to a flash of anger before he regained control.
Leaning back in his chair, Glenraven let a small, victorious smile stretch over his lips. He took pleasure in Sebastian’s grappling with the implications. As the power dynamics shifted, he turned to the game, his confidence unshaken. “Now, shall we continue?” he asked, his voice filled with a challenge as he met Sebastian’s gaze.
Pulling out his pocket watch, Ewan noted that it had been over an hour since the first cards were dealt. He leaned forward, his eyes locking with Sebastian’s. “Let’s make this interesting.” His voice was steady and clear. “I’ll raise the stakes.” With a flick of his wrist, he pushed all his chips into the center of the table, effectively doubling the bet and heightening the tension in the room even more.
*
The soft rap at the servants’ entrance at Fairmont Abbey broke the evening’s stillness. Mrs. Murthy opened the door and found Duncan standing there, a bottle of homemade punch cradled in his arm, a peace offering or, perhaps, an overture to more candid conversations to come.
“Come in, Duncan.” She stepped aside to let the cool night air sweep him into the warm kitchen. “That looks like a fine brew you’ve got there.”
Duncan offered a small, appreciative smile as he entered, placing the bottle on the sturdy wooden table. “Aye, it’s from my mother’s own recipe. Thought it might sweeten our talk.”
Mrs. Murthy fetched two glasses and a plate of biscuits, the clink of crystal against wood interrupting the silence. She poured the punch and inhaled the rich aroma that mingled with the lingering scents of the day’s cooking. “So, what treasure did you find at the market today?” Even though her tone was light and her eyes keen, she asked not only to fill the space but also because she was truly interested.
“A rare find indeed,” Duncan’s Scottish accent thickened with pride. “An old volume of Burns’ poetry. It’s for his lordship, but I’ll admit, I’ll be enjoying it myself before it finds its way to his library.”
Their laughter filled the room as they tipped up their glasses. “To his lordship’s new edition.” But as the joy faded, Mrs. Murthy’s expression grew serious, and she leaned in closer. “Duncan, there’s talk of another suitor for Miss Juliet.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
Duncan’s face clouded with concern. “And what does the lass think of this?”
“She’s none too pleased,” Mrs. Murthy sat back, her Scottish lilt wrapping around her words like a comforting shawl. “It’s a marriage of convenience, nae more. To pay off the family’s debts.”
Duncan’s hand tightened around his glass. “And Lord Glenraven? Does he ken about this?”
Mrs. Murthy’s gaze held a shadow of sorrow. “She’s afraid to tell him. Afraid he’ll see it as a betrayal, that she tricked him. But she willnae marry him without being honest.”
The room grew quiet, save for the soft crackling of the fire. Duncan nodded slowly, his respect for Miss Hayward deepening. “Aye, the lass told him all. And brave she was. It’s not easy to admit such a downfall. We must do something. We cannae let her be trapped in a loveless marriage.”
“Aye, not when the lass loves Glenraven,” Mrs. Murthy agreed. “She was mooning over him for weeks until he came calling. We’ll need to be clever about it. A bit of Scottish cunning might just turn the tide.”
“Mrs. Murthy, get us paper and pen. We need to send Glenraven an anonymous message about what is happening, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he deduces the source.”
Mrs. Murthy nodded at Duncan’s request, her movements swift as she gathered the necessary materials. “We must be cautious with our words,” she said, dipping the quill into the inkwell. “The message must be clear yet discreet.”
Duncan leaned over her shoulder, reading as the letter began to take shape on the paper. “Start with ‘A matter of urgency has arisen,’” he suggested, his voice low.
Mrs. Murthy’s hand moved across the page, the words flowing smoothly. “And mention ‘a suitor with intentions not of the heart,’” she added, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Duncan read over the line, his lips pursed. “Perhaps we should say ‘intentions that are more monetary than affectionate,’” he corrected, seeking precision in their message.
“Good,” Mrs. Murthy agreed, scratching out the previous words and replacing them with Duncan’s suggestion. “Now, we need to hint at the pressure she’s under without revealing too much.”
“‘The lady finds herself in a delicate situation, one that may lead to an unwanted union,’” Duncan offered, his eyes fixed on the letter.
Mrs. Murthy wrote it down, then paused, considering. “Let’s add ‘Her heart belongs to another, whose declaration has already been made,’” she said, a hint of urgency in her voice.
Duncan nodded, satisfied with the addition. “End it with ‘Time is of the essence, and discretion is paramount,’” he said, knowing the power those words carried.
Mrs. Murthy finished the letter with a flourish, setting the quill aside. They both reviewed the message, their heads close together, the tension of their task hanging in the air.
“A matter of urgency has arisen. A suitor with intentions that are more financial than affectionate threatens to bind a lady in a delicate situation, one that may lead to an unwanted union. Her heart belongs to another whose declaration has already been made. Time is of the essence, and discretion is paramount.”
“Perfect,” Mrs. Murthy whispered, her eyes meeting Duncan’s.
“Seal it if you will, Mrs. Murthy. I will see that Glenraven reads it. He will understand that this letter, left unsigned and sealed, is a silent plea for action, a call for him to step forward before it is too late.
“One last glass before I leave.” With the letter safely tucked in his pocket and Mrs. Murthy clearing away any signs of their secret plot, Duncan poured them each a glass of punch.
He raised his glass, the amber liquid catching the light as he nodded to Mrs. Murthy. “To clever plots and honest hearts,” he declared, his Scottish brogue coloring the words.