Page 50 of The Rake is Taken

What a muddle, he decided, and leaned as his coachman took the curve too quickly, which Bastian had instructed him to do. He had a reputation for navigating London’s streets at a breakneck pace, and he saw no reason to adjust course. Firestarter, scoundrel, soldier. He’d thought to add husband to that list and occasionally relieve himself of the first, but that intention was looking bleak indeed. To make matters even more wretched, Angelica, his current paramour, had heard of the impending marriage and reacted badly. So, he had the choice of letting that relationship cool or swinging by his jeweler to purchase a suitable apology.

Bloody hell, he thought, tugging at the leather ceiling strap as the coachman made a move that had the carriage springs squealing. Perhaps a period of celibacy was a good idea. He could retreat to one of his country estates, that utterly remote, crumbling one in Scotland, catch up on his reading and his many business obligations, and set fires at will. Or he could spend the rest of the summer at Harbingdon and work with Piper on controlling his gift. Maybe Lady Hamilton would assist in a strictly platonic capacity, once he gave young Finn the swift kick it looked like he deserved.

Viscount Beauchamp’s repeated advice about happiness being possible for people cursed with mystical abilities had not only influenced Finn, it had also made Bastian consider if hewasas lost as his friend alleged. Observing Julian and Piper’s hushed communication and glowing looks over the years had polished him to a high sheen when he didn’t want to shine. He was surrounded by former soldiers from his regiment. Women. Supposed friends. Sycophants, servants, solicitors, tenants, beneficiaries.

As if a duke could ever be lonely.

When he arrived, the Blue Moon was a disaster, men spilling from the entrance, the night’s winners striding down the street to the next adventure, the losers slumped against the bricked stoop looking as if a fierce wind would send them tumbling. Coaches and hacks lined the road, waiting to discharge more into the mayhem. Two hulking porters stood by the baize-covered door, a crimson beacon winking in the night, admitting only those on the membership list. The activity reminded Bastian of a swarm of bees, a sting the one thing in the world he was fearful of—and deathly allergic to—so he left his carriage a block away and circled around, arriving at the gaming hell’s back entrance. He made quick work of the padlock, thinking to alert Finn to how easy it had been to pick. He’d spent many an evening here, often while praying a streak of good fortune wouldn’t have him accidentally setting the place ablaze. There’d only been the one instance, minor destruction to a velvet drape and window frame a quick-acting croupier had extinguished.

When he entered the main salon, ribald laughter, drunken shouts, the clack of dice and shuffle of cards swept over him, as did the scent of macassar oil and burnt tobacco. He wove between tables offering hazard andvingt et un, lifting his hand in greeting to those who called out but not halting, working his way to the back parlor, a private room that held other, more delectable, enticements.

That jackass,Bastian deduced the moment he laid eyes on the boy—his heart taking a little dive as he said goodbye to Lady Victoria Hamilton and her ability to erase his curse.

Because Finn was a rake on all counts, true, but a reserved one most of the time.

This was a show.

Bastian sighed and crossed the room.He’s as in love with her as she is with him.

Finn had a cheroot anchored between his teeth, long legs unfurled before him, a woman of indiscriminate everything draped across his lap, and a circle of saccharine admirers surrounding the table where he held court. “That face,” Bastian groused beneath his breath, “is more trouble than it’s worth.” As he approached, the indiscriminate everything’s hand snaked up the back of Finn’s coat, and Bastian could only think he’d arrived in the nick of time.

“Alexander,” he said and slipped into the empty chair that had materialized with his arrival.

Finn blinked drowsily, a challenging smile twisting his lips. “Your Grace.”

Bastian rolled his eyes. Foxed and belligerent. This endeavor promised to be amusing. “I thought you and I might have a little run on the hazard table. I’m feeling lucky.”

Finn gave the woman in his arms a suggestive wink. “I am as well, Ashcroft.”

“May I say, I think your current predilection is a mistake.”

Humor sliding from his face like mud down a slippery slope, Finn gave his temple one hard tap. “Iknowshe wants me to stay. My mind is full, nothing blocking if you grasp my meaning. So stay I shall.”

“What’s it to you, your bleeding grace,” a man across the table that Bastian believed to be a baron of considerable ill-repute but significant wealth mumbled. His clothing was rumpled, his hair disheveled, his face bloated. Unsteady hands, weak posture. The soldier in Bastian, even if he’d left those rigid mores behind long ago, was disgusted. “Don’t be ruining our fun because you had to go and muck up yours with that Hamilton chit. Not worth the trouble, that one, if what I’ve heard is truth. Too bad she outwitted you, the conniving she-devil.”

Bastian had little time to react as Finn vaulted over the table, scattering glasses and conversation, the indiscriminate everything’s ample bottom plopping to the floor amidst a shower of brandy and silk. Without hesitation, Finn launched his fist into the baron’s face, sending the man sprawling and the table flipping, which allowed for another explosion of liquor and crystal.

“Holy hell,” Bastian growled and stumbled back in time to avoid the baron’s badly-thrown return swing, which, even in its inaccuracy, clipped Finn’s jaw.

Grabbing Finn by the collar and dragging him out of the fray, Bastian shouted orders to the men, who jumped into action like they were members of his regiment.Escort the baron to a carriage. Help the lady to a resting room.Return the parlor to rights.His fingertips tingled throughout, leaving his skin moist and his breathing shallow. “Control,” he repeated, hearing Piper’s soft voice ringing in his mind. This was not the time, not the place.

“Oh, that would be rich,” Finn laughed as Bastian wrestled him from the room and down a darkened servant’s hallway, “if the place went up in flames around us.”

“Shut up. Would you rather deal with Humphrey? I can arrange that.” He released Finn at the bottom of the stairs, taking them two at a time and expecting the boy to damn well follow. Once again, he could look forward to his transgressions being featured in tomorrow’s broadsheets. While Finn was accustomed to publicity, Bastian was not. If he didn’t consider the man to be the younger brother he’d never had, he would kick his arse from here to Westminster.

When they reached the landing, Finn brushed around him and, using a key procured from his waistcoat pocket, opened the door to his suite, his movements steadier than his behavior below would forecast. “Are you coming in, or was this simply an escort? A bit hypocritical, your disapproval,” he added with an indignant side-glance. “How did Angelica react to the news of your betrothal, by the way?”

Bastian gestured to the chamber.Insolent pup. He wasn’t going to get angry when that was unquestionably what Finn wanted right now, another purgative brawl when the fight would be most inequitable, and they both knew it. “I think you and I should have a little chat.”

Finn peeled himself off the doorframe and strolled inside, only a rapidly ticking jaw muscle revealing his temper. The man hid his true nature better than anyone Bastian had ever seen.

With a groan, Bastian collapsed on the sofa, giving in to the urge to let his exhaustion show. The boy was poised as all hell, he would give him that, while Bastian felt as if he’d been shoved through a crack in a windowpane. Blast, did those seven years difference in age feel like sevenhundred. He was getting too damned old for this business.

“A wise man once recommended going to Scotland for occasions such as these.” Striding to the sideboard, Finn splashed whiskey in two tumblers, took a fast sip from one, then delivered the other to Ashcroft. “When you leave, how do you know I won’t go down and find that willing creature? Do everything I was thinking of doing before you so heroically popped by. You’ve only given me time to sober up, more the enjoyment for her.”

Bastian took a thoughtful drink, let the excellent Scotch skate down his throat and warm his belly. This heartfelt camaraderie with those who knewwhathe was, is why he’d joined the League in the first place—and why he feared it in no minor measure. “Because if you do, she won’t forgive you.” He eyed Finn over the crystal rim. “And you won’t forgive yourself.”

Finn cursed soundly, threw himself in a leather beast of a chair, and drained his glass, as sufficient a reply as any to being in love, Bastian supposed. As he’d told Lady Hamilton, men weren’t comfortable expressing emotion. Finn, even with the tender heart he hid from the world, was no better. Why he’d been placed in the role of matchmaker, Bastian couldn’t say. Sometimes one had to roll with life’s little detours.