Page 5 of For a Scandalous Wager (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #3)

CHAPTER 4

R ochester had been mulling over the problem of Evelyn since before her little stunt at the theater. He still couldn’t manage his unbiddable feelings. Had he truly hurt her when he teased her about the royal-blue gown? The woman was lavishly seductive in any gown, which had become a problem since breaking the rules would eventually turn sour. No decent fellow in his right mind would turn down one of her lush smiles, especially one that came with an invitation.

“I’ve got a game on the hook.” Rochester’s cousin, Mr. Hudson Wright, announced, walking into the drawing room holding a file to his chest.

“Where and when?” Rochester reclined in a wingback chair, sipping Irish whiskey. The drawing room of his Mayfair home was just one of several rooms furnished and livable. Although the house was a work in progress, it was his house, and playing billiard tournaments and some private games helped to fund the renovations.

He’d chosen to live at his Mayfair address because living with his father on the entailed property of the viscountcy was intolerable. His younger brother, Noah, fueled by a jealousy that had lasted since boyhood, took no pleasure in the property or the house. Rochester’s father also seemed to have no interest in maintaining the land, and as a result, the estate was in disarray.

If his mother had not died when he was a boy of five, perhaps his life would have been different. Perhaps his father would love him. Perhaps his brother and he would be friends. But his mother’s accident and the fact that Rochester had been the first one on the scene when she fell had changed everything for them all. He didn’t even blame Noah. His brother had been so young at the time he had no memory of their mother and had been negatively influenced by their father’s animosity.

His mother had died with her head on his lap. Rochester could still see her face when he closed his eyes, but her voice had been lost to him over the years. One of many losses in his life.

His father had made known that the liquid assets, whatever was left, would go to his brother, and Rochester would inherit an ill-tended entailment. As a result, he made it a mission to make his own money before being saddled with properties that had gone to waste. His father had never put the country estate to good use, and Rochester planned to hire a land steward who knew something about agriculture so that their tenants might make a decent wage.

Until then, he continued to invest with Darrington in projects and played in solicited billiard tournaments for blunt. He did fairly well on billiards alone. Who would have guessed his three-year holiday in Bath would turn into something lucrative? He’d gone there with a tarnished reputation and come home a much wiser man, not to mention a master at the table. Hudson, his cousin, managed the games, and Rochester hoped to see the sport become something more than entertainment.

Rochester offered Hud a drink. “Don’t say it’s tomorrow. I have an appointment with a ballroom and a dance or two if I can manage.”

“The devil, you say. Since when did you start scheduling billiard matches around the Season’s amusements?”

“Since now.”

“It’s a skirt,” Hud announced, a smiling accusation behind his tone as he took the drink from Rochester.

“It’s a woman. A lady. And a favor.”

“Female favors for you? Bring her. It will be like foreplay.”

“Don’t be crass.” He scowled. “Not that kind of favor. She’s a proper lady, and I feel obligated to keep an eye on her while her family is away.”

“You’re like her governess or lady’s companion. How thrilling for you.” Hud laughed. “You’re not going to tell me who she is, are you?”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Rochester threw himself back into his chair, then pulled back the rest of his drink in one swallow.

“Hm. I look forward to meeting this mysterious, nameless woman.”

Rochester hissed a long sigh like a bull ready to charge. “I thought you said you lined up a game. So, let’s hear it.” He raised his eyebrows, resting an elbow on the arm of the chair, and cradled his head between his forefinger and thumb.

“You’re no fun at all.”

“I’ve heard. It would seem you did not invent the phrase.”

Hudson sat on the sofa and laid the file on the tea table, spreading it open, smoothing his palms across the pages. The dates, times, winnings, and losses were all meticulously recorded. His cousin made a slash through a date. “If not tomorrow night, what about the day? There’s a small match at the Dead Duck Pub. It should leave you enough time to make the precious ball. You can be fashionably late.”

When Rochester grimaced, Hud continued, “We’re sitting in the only room in the house currently available for company. There are two drawing rooms—one of which is a ghastly mess, three parlors, and a library with high potential that needs furnishing. Then there’s the little matter of bed chambers.”

“Say no more. I’ll be there.”

“Oh, and this arrived sometime today with the post.”

Rochester stretched forward, half-standing from his chair, and snatched the note from Hudson. “Be civilized, man. Use a damn napkin.” He referenced the tumbler of spirits his cousin had set on the table.

Hudson made a show of licking his thumb and flipping a few pages before he wrote something in the ledger. “Rochester’s birthday. Send doilies.”

“Oh, you are a riot.”

His cousin smiled unrepentantly, shut the ledger, and bid him a good day. “I’ll leave you alone with your post.”

Rochester waited for his cousin to leave the room, then turned the note over in his hands, looking for a clue. He found none, just pressed wax. He cracked the seal.

My dear Mr. Rochester,

To my great humiliation, despite the new gown, my ill-planned attempt to correct my situation was a complete failure. I need your strategic help.

You may find me at my family’s townhome. I’ll be sitting on a wooden bench in the back gardens where the flagstone ends. I’ve made arrangements for a private discussion.

Please do not ignore this summons. I promise to behave.

Your friend,

EM

EM—as if it were code and no one with half a brain could figure it out. Good God, a private discussion, indeed. Who would believe such drivel if they were seen together? It would be deemed a tête-à-tête. Foolish woman. Goose.

For precisely three seconds, he considered sending a message back, but then he feared it would encourage her reckless behavior, and she’d send more. The note alone was reckless, and he couldn’t begin to imagine what she had planned for him.

Unfortunately, he did envision her waiting for him on that bench, prim and pretty, biting her thumb as he’d seen her do several times this week alone. His heart gave a little squeeze. Let her believe he’d either never received the note, or he stood her up because the cost of caring for her wellbeing would be greater than the humiliation when her father had paid his gambling debts.

He, Darrington, and Winn Markham all but ruined their reputations on a drunken whim that had cost them three years of exile to Bath. Admittedly, not a bad place, but Winn’s father would have preferred they’d gone to America and possibly never returned.

At first, Bath had been amusing, like one long party. And then they’d matured, growing tired of the consistently unprincipled amusements. Besides, Winn and Darrington missed their family. Rochester was the only one who had nothing of value calling him home.

Now, he had this house—a fine project to keep him busy. Work was good for the soul, and he’d just begun to feel like a better man when Evelyn came along. The shenanigans they shared at the infamous house party had been for fun. But this was something else, a dangerous and desperate scheme to prevent a proposal and contract of betrothal before it could happen, which made the game emotionally lethal.

Time would tell—an idiom he prayed worked better than time heals all wounds.

The following morning began with the requisite push-ups. This was particularly important to Rochester’s routine, especially on game days. They weren’t so much for the exercise of body as for his mind. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, and somewhere around fifty, the fog receded, and calm determination bled from his pores in little beads of sweat. The small staff he kept were privy to his obsessive habitual activity. He supposed growing up in a life of chaos had paved the way for the compulsive need for order.

On days like today, when his first meeting was a game of billiards, his valet, Mr. Jessup, had a bath prepared before Rochester woke. Sometimes, the bath cooled by the time his head cleared, but he considered even that to be part of the process. Then Jessup would lay out several waistcoats for Rochester to choose from in the dressing room.

This morning’s principal fog had everything to do with Evelyn Markham in a pretty dress, a breeze picking up a tendril of golden-brown hair kissed with cream and a decidedly mischievous grin. Not to mention her eyes—as green as spring foliage with eyelashes shone golden brown in the sun. This is how he imagined she looked this morning.

When she was younger, her hair had been blonde, but time had turned it into the shade of butterscotch, a description he avoided because it only made him want to taste her.

Another dozen push-ups, and he felt more in control of his faculties. He blamed his mental folly for the tepid bath. With towel-dried hair, he donned a robe and strode to his dressing room.

“What have we here today, Jess?”

Mr. Jessup stood next to three choices, bowing over each one and explaining its finer points. “Red paisley with gold thread. Red is a distracting color, making it a fine choice.” He moved to the next. “Yellow damask, also a fine distraction. Simple but an eye-catcher. And then there is the light-green satin luxuriously embroidered with Birds of Paradise flora. But the best part among the floral deep purples and orange is the hidden Greater Bird-of-Paradise itself with a spray of yellow flank feathers in full plumage.” Despite the description, Jessup stood back without any facial expression. Part of Rochester’s ritual included picking out his clothes, which heavily depended on his mood or the mood he hoped to influence.

The green satin reminded him of Evelyn, and if he couldn’t drive her from his mind this morning, he might as well take her mentally along. “The green satin,” he said blandly.