Once Upon A Wedding Night (3 page)

Meredith closed her eyes against the tiny ham-mere beating against her temples from inside her head. Suddenly she felt very small, powerless, as though a powerful current swept her along. Opening her eyes, she asked, "What if I am caught? Defrauding an earl must carry grave penalties."

"Nonsense," Aunt Eleanor said solemnly, a fierce light entering her eyes. "Who would dare question you? The plan is foolproof, Meredith."

Then, as if the matter were settled, Aunt Eleanor rose and strolled to the desk. "We need to pen a missive to that Grimley fellow. With any luck, he will arrive before Nicholas Caulfield so you don't have to confront the dreadful man alone. Just imagine how upset he will be when he learns he is not the next Earl of Brookshire." The glow in Aunt Eleanor's eyes revealed a decided lack of worry. "I hope he's not predisposed to violence."

A tremor skated along Meredith's spine. Considering upon whom his wrath would focus, so did she.

Aunt Eleanor brandished a sheet of parchment and flattened it on the desktop. Quill pen in one hand, she crooked an impervious finger at Meredith. "Come, dearest. You are the far better correspondent. You shall have to compose this."

Meredith rose and moved to the desk. For a long breathless moment she gazed at the blank sheet, allowing her aunt's plan to root and settle in her mind. A plan borne of desperation, a plan to forever link her to the Brookshire estates and money, to lifelong security. She closed her eyes in one long fortifying blink. Almost anything was worth such a guarantee.

Gathering her courage, she wrapped shaking fingers around the quill and, with a deep breath, began to write. A small spark of hope flared to life deep in her soul as the tip of the pen scratched parchment.
Lifelong security
.

Nick was not a pimp.

No more than he was a man interested in engaging the services of a whore.

"I'm afraid you've been misinformed. I don't conduct business in this manner." His gaze raked the beautiful young woman in front of him dispassionately. "Nor do I substitute payment of debts for a quick tup."

Old Lord Basslye's new bride flinched, and Nick felt an annoying stab of pity. Basslye, a gamester with a vicious temper who lost a fortune every night at Nick's tables, had
lowered
himself to wed the chit—the daughter of a rich merchant who cared not that he married off his child to a degenerate, only that said degenerate came with an old, renowned title. Every bit of her generous dowry had been applied to Basslye's debts. Still, it wasn't enough. Apparently Basslye thought his wife's
charms
could make up the difference.

She wasn't a whore. That much was clear. The stark misery in her face proclaimed her humiliation. His acceptance would offer her a reprieve— at least until her husband sunk them back into debt. Then Basslye would force her to offer her body yet again in exchange for his debts. Who knew whom the lender might be the next time?

Yet the thought of using her repulsed him. The fear in her too large eyes reminded him of another woman brought low by the very man who was supposed to love and protect her. He couldn't be a party to it. Couldn't be his father. Over the years, he had done some terrible things—thieving, stealing, and, when called for, killing. But even he had his limits.

"Sorry, love. I may be a bastard, but I'm not interested. Leave the way you came." He waved his hand to the door of his room. "Be careful you're not seen. And tell your husband if he sends you here again, he'll face my pistol."

Her eyes grew even wider. Rushing forward, she fell to her knees and grabbed his hand in both of her cold ones. "Please! He'll only beat me if I tell him you refused." Her head dipped in shame, a cascade of flaxen hair obscuring her fresh young face. "He'll only send me to others until I've earned enough. He said a lot of men would pay good coin for me."

Nick felt something dark and dangerous coil in his gut and was certain that if Lord Basslye were in front of him he would gladly strangle the son of a bitch with his bare hands. He still might do just that.

She lifted her face, shiny with tears, and clutched his hand tighter, her nails digging into the back of his hand. "I would rather it be you. You're handsome. And there is kindness in your eyes… even though you try to hide it."

A sudden knock at the door saved him from refusing her again.

"Who is it?"

"It's me… Mac. There's a gent here to see you."

"Tell him to come back later."

"Don't think he'll go away."

Nick sighed and pulled his hand free. "Go home. Tell your husband the debt is cleared."

Her mouth fell open. "But—"

He sliced a hand through the air, silencing her. "It's done. Be gone when I return." He hurried out of the room before she drowned him with gratitude.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath as he made his way to his office and wrenched the door open, the hinges squeaking in protest. He couldn't afford to be soft. He had not gotten this far in life by being tenderhearted.

For the moment, he ignored the room's other occupants, making his way to the liquor cabinet, feeling the need for a little numbing. It had been a long time since he thought about his mother, but that sad little pigeon in the other room had conjured her ghost. Settling himself into the chair behind his desk, he turned his attention to his uninvited guest. Mac Swell relaxed in a chair beside the stranger, not bothering to ask if he could remain. Equal partners in several gaming hells and betting shops throughout London, they had no secrets.

Wasting no time, Nick asked, "Who are you?"

"Grimley, sir. Albert Grimley of Snide and Grimley."

Nick frowned. "What does a solicitor want with me?"

Grimley fidgeted in the seat. "Why nothing, my lord. I am here to—"

"What did you say?" Nick broke in, a coldness gripping his heart, squeezing like an icy fist.

Grimley blinked and appeared a little frightened. "I—I want nothing."

Nick leaned menacingly over the desk.

"Not that," Mac explained with infinite patience. "Did you just call him
my lord
?"

Grimley flushed red and rubbed his forehead ruefully. "Ah, so I did. Not the best way to break the news I suppose."

"What news?" Nick persisted.

"Mrs. Grimley claims I have a habit of running away at the mouth a bit."

"What news?" Nick thundered.

Grimley's Adam's apple bobbed above his cravat. "Your half brother has passed away. You, sir, are the new Earl of Brookshire."

Mac whistled between his teeth.

Nick closed his eyes in one long blink, but it did no good. Opening his eyes, the solicitor still sat across from him, delivering the most shocking, distasteful news. It must be a nightmare. He pinched his leg beneath the desk. Hard. It did no good. This was one dream from which he was not waking.

Recovering his voice, he said, "Give it to someone else."

Grimley frowned and looked to Mac as though seeking confirmation to Nick's incredible command. No sane man would turn down an earldom.

Mac shrugged, holding both hands up in a gesture of helplessness even as his smiling eyes indicated his enjoyment of their little drama. "You heard him. Can't you give it to someone else? I wouldn't mind being an earl."

The solicitor sniffed disdainfully before turning back to address Nick, evidently not appreciating Mac's sense of humor. He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid it is not that simple, my lord—"

"Oh, but it is," Nick cut in, his voice sharp as a whip. "And don't call me that."

Albert Grimley struggled to swallow past his bobbing Adam's apple, and Nick felt a brief stab of sympathy for the solicitor. This meeting was likely not unfolding the way he had imagined. No doubt most men would have hugged the bearer of such news. But he was not most men. He preferred his life the way it was, with his roots in the aristocracy completely erased. That his father had been an earl made little difference in the world he chose to inhabit. It was a fact Nick preferred to forget.

"How did you find me?" He squeezed the bridge of his nose.

"It was our obligation to locate the closest living male relation to the late earl."

"You shouldn't have troubled yourself. Mark me off and move down your list."

"The line ends after you, my lord. Your half brother left no heirs."

"Then as you said, the line ends," Nick replied blandly.

"I cannot do that—"

He knotted his fist on top of the desk until the knuckles went white. "I'll sign whatever I have to. I don't want it. Any of it. Not the property. Not the money. And especially not the title."

"It's not that simple," Grimley reiterated with a sigh, his eyes glancing uneasily at Nick's large fist. "You own property, whether you wish it or not. You may either sell it or give it away, but that will require some paperwork, not to mention the necessity of a buyer in the matter of selling. The matter of your title is another issue. You will have to go before the courts to officially renounce your title and Oak Run since the family seat lies adherent with the title."

Nick threw his hands up in the air. "I don't want it. A refusal should suffice."

Grimley folded his hands in his lap and pursed his lips in disapproval. Clearly, Nick did not meet his expectations. Well, he could care less. The solicitor had pushed his way into his life uninvited, and he didn't owe him anything.

Grimley bent to pick up his leather satchel from the floor. "I daresay you've suffered a shock. I will leave you now to process this news. You will surely come to your senses in the morning."

"I don't think so" Nick bit out, his jaw aching from clenching his teeth.

Grimley settled his somber, brown beaver hat on his head. "Just so. I'll be in contact. Much depends upon you. Aside from the property, you bear responsibility for countless lives."

At his lifted eyebrow, Grimley explained. "Tenants, servants. And of course there are Lady Brookshire and her relations. They still reside at Oak Run."

"Lady Brookshire?"

"Your brother's widow," Grimley replied as if he should have known.

Had the man not yet figured out that he did not keep abreast of family matters? That Grimley in fact addressed the blackest sheep ever expelled from a family bosom?