Lady Belling's Secret (7 page)

I’m going to be sick. Right here at the table.
Francesca took a large sip of wine, and it went down the wrong way, causing her to sputter and cough. Thomas spared no time in thumping her on the back.

“Something make you choke, Francesca?” he asked her. She wasn’t falling for his solicitous tone one bit.

“Thank you, Thomas. I’m fine now.” She would be fine if he hadn’t kissed her. She simply couldn’t have a conversation about her fiancé immediately after kissing him
.

The family babbled on, inane conversation bantered back and forth, and Francesca stewed. She desperately wanted to hate the man seated to her left. He’d been mean and spiteful and vicious, and the Thomas she’d always loved had never been that way with her. Of course, the Thomas she loved had never noticed her before either.

Even as nasty and cruel as he was tonight, she’d never be able to forget the look on his face when he’d found out she was engaged. Could he possibly have been crestfallen? Certainly not. That was simply absurd.

“You have a ring,” Thomas stated in an absolutely toneless voice. “Of course you do. Well, let me see it. I’m quite sure that it’s a magnificent token.”

Francesca stretched out her left hand. There, on her third finger, was a simple band of gold with a large square sapphire set between two smaller ones.

“Very nice,” he said then added in a low enough voice that only she could hear, “It seems he didn’t try very hard. When you wear my ring, it will be emeralds and diamonds to rival the sparkle and color of your eyes.”

Francesca closed her eyes. She was desperate to shutter him out, to not let him in to any more of her feelings than she already had. Damn him. He knew she was in love with him. Did he have to make her miserable to the end of her days because of it?

Chapter Six

After the tension-filled dinner, Thomas arrived at White’s with the need to let loose a little. Christian had some errand or other, and Thomas wasn’t interested in tagging along, but his friend promised he would follow him to the club shortly.

Thomas handed his hat, walking stick and gloves to the butler at the door, and headed through the richly appointed rooms. He joined several old acquaintances at a card table and ordered a brandy from a footman. It wasn’t long before Christian arrived with a gentleman whom Thomas couldn’t remember meeting before. Still, he had a sinking feeling he knew who the gentleman would prove to be. He made a conscious effort to keep from glaring.

“Thomas, old man,” Christian greeted him with a familiar clap on the shoulder. “Meet my friend Henry Cavendish, Marquess of Dalton.” And turning to Dalton he said, “My friend Thomas Wallingham, Earl of Harrington.”

Thomas stood and shook the other man’s hand. “Dalton.” He nodded and made every effort to reserve judgment, but he was pretty sure he hated the man on the spot.

“Harrington,” Dalton responded. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Good to hear you’re back safe from the wars. King’s Navy, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Damn sorry to hear about your brother.” Both the man’s tone and expression were sincere. “He was a good man.”

Thomas didn’t reply. He had his own feelings about his brother that didn’t need airing at a poker game. Besides, Basil was dead.

“How are you faring at the table?” Christian smiled, clearly seeing the large sum of money piled in front of Thomas.

Thomas raised his eyebrows and replied tauntingly, “Sit down and see for yourself.”

“You are going to be sorry you made that suggestion.” Christian laughed and threw himself down in the leather chair next to him.

“I believe I will as well.” Dalton lowered himself in the chair directly across the table from Thomas.

Thomas raised his hand to a footman and signaled for more brandy. “Better make it a bottle,” he told the servant.

He surveyed his opponents. On his right sat his best friend; across the table, his bitter rival. Of course, Dalton didn’t know that they were rivals. Yet. Thomas had to wonder briefly, if forced to pick, on which side Christian would fall? He made his expression amiable and settled in for a conversation. Know thy enemy, right?

“So, Dalton, how is it that I never met you in school? You didn’t attend Eton or Oxford?” Thomas asked.

“Both,” Dalton conceded. “But I was three years behind you.”

“Ah, a whippersnapper.” He was certain he knew the type—one of the younger sort at school, the detestable hangers-on of their popular crowd.

“You’d think so.” Christian shuffled the cards with a curt snap. “But no. Dalton ran with the Lawrence brothers and their lot.”

Thomas’s eyebrows lifted. “The Lawrence brothers?” Damn, not a whippersnapper after all. The Lawrence brothers and the boys who ran with them were the up-and-coming boys behind him and Christian. Their reputation was one of good-natured mischief and gallantry towards the village lasses. Despite himself, his opinion of Dalton elevated ever so slightly.

“We were all stupid lads then.” Dalton picked up the cards dealt him and glanced at them briefly before making a quick bet.

Christian nodded. “I’d like to think I still retain some of that same spirit from when we were boys.”

“I’ve been back less than a week, Christian,” Thomas agreed, “and you’ve not proven to me that you’ve changed much since then.”

Christian flashed a toothy grin before he tossed in his cards.

“So whatever happened to the Lawrence brothers?” Thomas asked and tossed in his cards as well. He barely registered the loss of the hand. “George and Marvin, right? God, they were crazy, madcap chaps.”

Christian answered, “George died of influenza in ’07. Marvin left for America but his ship went down.”

“Oh. I didn’t hear that while I was away.” Thomas took a thoughtful sip of his brandy. “It seems I missed a lot while I was gone.” Of course, his thoughts strayed immediately to Francesca. She was still a stunning revelation, changed from the very awkward young lady to the sensual, passionate woman who occupied his mind.

“Not so much really,” Christian told him, his voice showing a fashionable amount of ennui. “The
ton
is the same. Nothing changes in the social whirl. Everyone just waits for the next tasty bit of scuttle.”

Dalton chuckled at Christian’s assessment. “I’ve not known you for as long as Thomas here, but I’ve never known you to be bored unless it suited your purpose.”

“No, you’ve nailed him.” Thomas grinned at Christian. “If Christian is bored, he just buys another horse or another dancing girl until the feeling passes.”

Once again, Dalton pulled the winning chips into his own pile. The cards were re-dealt, and the new antes flew into a pile in the middle of the table.

“You’re a fine one to talk, Thomas.” Christian refilled the glasses all around. “Are you going to try to tell Dalton here that you don’t have your own well-built reputation? You’ve certainly used that pretty face of yours to your own benefit.”

“If he tried, I wouldn’t believe him anyway.” Dalton jeered. “I’ve heard from too many reliable sources about the way you and Harrington broke a thousand hearts.”

Thomas snorted and took a healthy swig from his glass. “Reliable sources. Who would that be? I was always a far sight more discreet than our friend Christian here.”

The chips piled up in front of Dalton again. “Of course, Christian is more than happy to regale an audience with both your gentlemanly exploits.”

“All embellished, I assure you.” Thomas shuffled the cards. He glanced over at Christian, but his friend was studiously arranging his cuffs.

“Not even one adjective is untrue,” Christian assured them both as he anted up his chips.

“And, of course, Frankie has told me about you all growing up together,” Dalton said as he picked up his new cards. “She’s very fond of you, you know.”

Thomas’s stomach knotted at her name. If he’d only known when she was twelve with legs as long as a horse and at least as knobby, that he would end up craving those same toned and beautiful legs wrapped tightly around his naked torso, then he would have behaved a whole lot differently. He wouldn’t have allowed his father to make him believe he was worthless; neither would he have run off to join the Navy in a fit. Maybe he would have taken Francesca’s ill-thought-out trap as an invitation instead.

Once thing was certain, he’d have to stop obsessing about her this night, or his companions were going to wonder about the tent he had growing in his trousers.

“All right, I’ll admit that I had a reputation as a young man, but I’ve grown up. I have new responsibilities now, ones I never had before.” Thomas realized that this was absolutely true. It was one thing to say it to the duchess, but now he understood that he actually meant it. “So what about you then, Dalton? Surely being friends with George and Marvin Lawrence, and our esteemed hedonist here,” he said as he gestured to a grinning and unrepentant Christian, “you must have chased and caught your fair share of pretty little birds.”

“My wild oats have been sown.” Dalton smiled and took yet another hand. “But I’ve been the Marquess a lot longer than the two of you have had your titles. I inherited when I was fifteen. Quite frankly, it’s a near miracle I’ve been able to reach the ripe old age of twenty-six before being jockeyed into a marriage.”

Christian excused himself from the table for a moment and went to have a conversation with two new arrivals. Thomas saw this as the perfect chance to do a little undermining of Dalton’s ego.

“You don’t really want to marry Francesca?” This was too good to be true
.

“On the contrary.” Dalton appeared nothing if not relaxed in his chair. “She’s a lovely girl, intelligent, well suited to be my marchioness. I’m quite fond of her, actually.”

Thomas hardly needed an accounting of her assets
.
“It’s not a love match then?”

“No.” Dalton took a thoughtful sip of his brandy. “But at the risk of sounding boorish, I do appreciate her beauty, and begetting an heir will not be a trial.”

Thomas was suddenly nauseous, and it wasn’t due to the fastest hangover in the history of drunken debauchery.

“I see.” Thomas wondered how he’d feel about that if the other man knew she might already be carrying his heir. With great effort he tamped down a hysterical giggle by taking a big gulp of brandy. How did one know if they were losing their mind?

“I know that young ladies hope for a love match. I, on the other hand, simply hoped for compatibility, and we have that,” Dalton admitted.

Christian rejoined their table, sitting down in the leather chair with a thump. “Waverly over there is looking to rid himself of his new stallion. Paid a fortune for him. Won’t say why, but I’ve got a good notion it’s because the huge black beast scares him.”

“So can we assume then that your stable is expanding?” Dalton drained his glass and agreed to a refill.

“It’s a sure thing.” Christian beamed. “Come with me tomorrow to Waverly’s.” He looked from Dalton to Thomas, his eyes excited with the promise of a new toy.

They whiled away the evening in this manner—playing cards, smoking, and drinking the finest brandy in the luxury of the gentlemen’s club. This was something else that Thomas had sorely missed while away—the comfort and luxury of it all.

After several hours, it was apparent that Thomas’s luck had changed as the pile of money shifted from in front of him to the other side of the table, heaped in front of a rather bored-looking Dalton. In addition to Thomas’s coffers dwindling, his mood became more and more ill-tempered. In fact, he growled at the footman when the man inquired if he needed anything.

The fact that he hadn’t lost a great deal of money—well certainly no more than he could comfortably afford—wasn’t the point. The real problem was that he couldn’t find sufficient reason to despise Dalton. And he tried. He brought up every topic he could think of that would show Christian that his future brother-in-law was a boor. Unfortunately, he was a friendly, quick-witted sort of chap much like himself. But it didn’t matter. The money that he had come in with now sat in a fat wad in his rival’s pockets. Thomas didn’t like that metaphor one bit.

“Gentlemen, this has been a most enjoyable way to waste my evening,” Dalton noted as he stood. Leaning over his chair, he reached across and downed the last of his brandy. “But I really must get going.”

“Oh,” Thomas growled, “where do you have to be that is so vital?”

Two sets of eyebrows rose in question at the brashness of Thomas’s tone. Christian also stood from his chair. “What is on your plate for the rest of the evening, Dalton?”

“Not much, really.” The man stifled a yawn. “I’m pretty knackered from the trip this week. I had no idea the place in Chesterbrook was so run down. It was a much bigger deal than I originally thought.”

“Dalton won Chesterbrook from Llewellyn in a card game,” Christian explained with a lazy stretch.

“Llewellyn is still playing cards?” Thomas was aghast. “How can he possibly have anything left?”

“I felt bad taking it, but the man needs to learn when to quit,” Dalton said.

“Dalton is one of the luckiest sons-of-bitches I’ve ever met,” Christian told Thomas.

Thomas snorted, leaned back in his chair and took a deep drag on his cheroot. The man’s luck would have to run out some time.

Christian turned to look at his friend. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’ve been acting like a jackass most of the night.”

“Nothing is wrong with me,” Thomas insisted.

“Really?” Christian said dryly. “You’ve growled at every one of the footmen. If it’s possible, I think you even bared your teeth at the last one who dared to approach you. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we’ve been playing cards with a rabid dog.”

Thomas grunted. “I hardly think that I growled at anyone.”

A polite cough from the other side of the table insinuated that, in fact, he had. “Actually, you did growl. And several times you’ve thrown the cards when you lost.” Dalton made as if to leave.

“All right.” Thomas threw his hands up in the air. “You win. Maybe I’ve been surly.”

“Well, obviously we won.” Christian grinned and gestured to the very small pile of money in front of Thomas and the large piles in front of Dalton and himself.