Patience (4 page)

Roark Fitz Roy raised one black brow. “I bet Hollingsworth a hundred pounds that rumors of your presence were pure fabrication.”

Matthew shrugged as he turned his gaze back to the ballroom below. “Never bet on rumor.”

“Yes, well . . . unfortunately for you and Grand West Railway, plenty of people
are
betting on rumor.”

Matthew tensed. “That’s their mistake.”

“It’ll be yours if you don’t do something about it soon.”

Matthew glared at Fitz Roy. The man was a favorite of the Queen, but Matthew had never been one for currying favor and he wasn’t about to start. “I haven’t seen you since my fall from grace, Fitz Roy, and right now you’re interrupting the solitude I have become accustomed to. So, if there’s something you want to say, why don’t you just say it?”

Fitz Roy stood with his hands in his trouser pockets. His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Very well, but I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

Matthew raised his brows in mock surprise. “Really? Bad news, is it?” He wiped the expression from his face. “Copies of my mother’s letter declaring her joy in my bastard birth can still be found floating down London’s sewage- filled gutters. The newspaper article containing the blackmail plot against my brother, in which he almost lost his one and only love for my sake, is still being passed around the drawing rooms of my
former
peers. And should that not be enough, my former
fiancée
and her
father
,” he ground the words out, “have made their total and complete rejection of me a matter for public mastication. As people chew up the delicious gossip of my fall”—his voice grew progressively harder—“Lord Benchley and his daughter continue to add salt and seasoning to the feast with their public declarations and lies against me.” He leaned forward. “And while Benchley slanders my character publicly, he privately infects my business associates with his vile influence. I’d wager my last pound note that
he
is the one who is at the heart of the ill rumor you speak of.” Matthew drew back. “Bad news? My whole bloody life is bad news.”

A long silent moment followed, but Fitz Roy’s supercilious expression didn’t change. “Well, since you put it that way . . . Lord Wollby just informed me that he intends to sell all his shares in your company.” His black brows lifted. “He heard a
rumor
that Grand West Railway—in other words, you—will soon not be permitted to buy a single lump of coal unless Grand West Railway—in other words, you—is willing to pay twice its worth.”

Matthew felt his blood surge. He was already overpaying for what coal he could get, and teetering on the brink of financial disaster. Wollby’s sellout could spur an unstoppable wave of share dumping.
Ruination.

“He’s not likely to do anything while he’s here,” Fitz Roy said. “You have some time to convince him to hold.”

As his mind churned, Matthew stared down at the swirling mass of society below. He found Patience in the center of the dance floor. His cock twitched. “Convince him to hold? To what end?” The dance was the mazurka, and his frown deepened as he saw Patience’s partner, the Viscount Montrose, come very close to touching her breast.

A sudden possessiveness heated his veins. He turned back to Fitz Roy. “No. I’m not going to convince Wollby of anything.
I
built Grand West Railway. She’s mine, and I’ll be damned if I’ll get on bended knee to beg the forbearance of every bloody shareholder.” He lifted his shoulder to ease his tension. “Either they believe in GWR—and me—or they don’t.” He turned his gaze back to Patience. His prick throbbed and the call to claim her filled him with urgent determination, especially as Montrose leaned close to say something near her ear. “Whatever the case, I’ll take care of what’s mine,” he said quietly.

“Very well, then.” Fitz Roy paused. “Oh, by the way, you’ll never guess who approached me at the Cromley ball and posed discreet inquiries about you.”

“I really don’t care,” Matthew murmured, keeping his eye on Montrose’s hands while watching Patience move gracefully through the steps of the dance.

“Yes, well, it was Lady Rosalind.”

Matthew stiffened as he turned to Fitz Roy. “Rosalind?” he growled. “
Lady
Rosalind can go to the devil.”

“So I take it you don’t want the sweet- smelling note she furtively bade me give you.”

Matthew stared at Fitz Roy. “After everything that happened due to my mother’s sordid letters, Rosalind was
not
stupid enough to pen a secret note.”

“Actually, she was.” Fitz Roy pulled a small folded paper from his breast pocket and held it out. “I put it down to desperation.”

Matthew stared at the folded pink paper. He ought to take it, but it repelled him.

He glanced down at Patience. Her bright, beautiful curls gleamed in the light. His heartbeat quickened and his cods tightened as he watched her pass close beneath Montrose’s arm.
She
was the one he wanted.
She
was the one he craved. Rosalind no longer mattered.

Yet, he knew only too well that letters could be powerful tools—tools that could be used against one’s enemies.

Dragging his eyes from Patience, Matthew snatched the note before he could change his mind. He quickly opened it while Fitz Roy turned his back.

Matthew snorted derisively as he shook his head. If he weren’t staring at Rosalind’s small, tight hand, he wouldn’t have believed what he was reading. Oh, what a change the months had wrought. And, oh, what possibilities this unexpected missive raised. Folding the note, he slipped it securely in his breast pocket. He needed time to consider how to make best use of both the note and Rosalind, but—he looked down at Patience—now was
not
that time.

He watched her move off the dance floor with Montrose, who seemed unwilling to forfeit her hand. Immediately, a crowd of men encircled her. He knew them all, and his shoulders tensed as he saw the Earl of Danforth press far too closely against her back. Matthew’s gut tightened. He’d known Danforth since Harrow, but he’d never liked him. He was a randy, arrogant ass, an inveterate gambler, and a poor loser. If he moved one slimy hand toward her . . .

Suddenly, the tall graceless man grimaced and, jumping back, lifted his foot. Patience turned and, with an oh- so-regretful shake of her head, mouthed what appeared to be an apology.

Fitz Roy chuckled. “Nothing like a hard stomp on the instep for deterring imbeciles.”

Matthew frowned. He’d almost forgotten Fitz Roy was there.

“By the way”—Fitz Roy turned to him—“have you heard Danforth’s news?”

Now what?
“What news?”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t say a word. Danforth is likely beside himself with excitement over the prospect of conveying it to you himself.” Fitz Roy briefly examined his nails. “But, since I do so love dampening the glee of idiots, I’ll tell you.” He leaned his hip on the low gallery wall. “The impoverished Earl of Danforth has just become engaged to none other than the very lady whose sweet-smelling note is now tucked in your breast pocket.”

Matthew froze for a moment and waited to feel something—anything. Nothing came. “When did this occur?”

“It was finalized this very day. Danforth is positively giddy over the whole arrangement because his future father-in-law has agreed to pay all his debts and renovate his crumbling manse.”

“Is that so?” Matthew stared down at Danforth. The man was incapable of staying out of debt. He would be a huge liability for Benchley. Matthew scowled. And the son of a bitch was still standing too bloody close to Patience. “Then he will surely be at the gaming tables tonight,” he said tightly.

Fitz Roy snorted. “Can you keep a hound from a hank of sausage? Of course he’ll be at the gaming tables.” He pushed away from the wall and straightened his cuff. “Well, I must be off. I’m partnering Miss Dunleigh and her two hundred yards of pink tulle for the next waltz.”

Matthew nodded as he returned his gaze to Patience. His heart thumped and his prick throbbed eagerly. It was time for him to go as well.

“Oh”—Fitz Roy paused—“not that you care, but Lady Rosalind bade me tell you that she is at the Filberts’ autumn hunt should you wish to arrange a private meeting with her.”

Matthew swallowed his distaste and kept his eyes on Patience. He wanted no more thoughts of Rosalind. Only one woman mattered now, and she stood below him. “Good evening, Fitz Roy.”

“Evening, Hawkmore.”

Matthew watched Patience’s red curls bounce around her bare shoulders as she turned to address one of her admirers. He traced the curves of her body with his eyes. Drawing a deep breath, he could feel his excitement shifting into the controlled containment that fed his dominant passions.

Tonight would be the beginning—a new beginning with Patience.

He wanted her. He’d come for her.

And though she didn’t yet know it, she belonged to him.

 

“She does
not
!” exclaimed Lord Farnsby.

“I hear that she does.”

“Just because you hear it, doesn’t make it true, Danforth.”

“A ten pound note says she does,” offered Lord Asher.

“Done,” replied Farnsby.

“A bet! A bet!” cried some of the other gentlemen.

Male laughter filled the circle.

“So,” Lord Danforth silenced them, and all eyes turned to her. “I ask you again, Miss Dare. Is it true that you actually play the cello?”

From behind her demi-mask, Patience raised a smile for the crowd of gentlemen that encircled her. Some costumed, some not, they all wore masks. Yet, their masks were lifted now and all eyes were fixed upon her. In the light of the huge ballroom, she could observe them well. Several were harmless, but she also saw lechery cloaked as friendliness, conceit disguised as charm, insecurity posing as bravado and—she returned her gaze to Lord Danforth—a predator, undisguised.

“It happens, Lord Danforth, that you are correct. I do play the cello. In two weeks time, I shall begin training in London with the renowned Fernando Cavalli. I am proud to be the first female student to ever earn his tutelage.”

As a chorus of “ahs” filled the circle and jokes about debts were tossed around, Lord Danforth bent close. “I knew you were the sort of woman who could hold a large instrument between her legs.”

She’d only heard that one about a hundred times. Patience squelched the desire to roll her eyes and excuse herself. Clearly men were the same everywhere—even if they bore titles. Instead, she laughed lightly and lowered her voice. “If you mean to wound me, my lord, I’m afraid your small prick has missed the mark.”

A slow frown turned Lord Danforth’s brow. “I beg your pardon?”

Patience lifted her brows innocently. “No, I beg yours, my lord.”

With a touch on her arm, Lord Farnsby, costumed as Napoleon, drew her attention from the odious Lord Danforth. “You must forgive my incredulity, Miss Dare. Your beauty alone would complement any musical experience.” He pulled his vest down over his portly middle. “It is only that the cello is such a large and unwieldy instrument, and therefore not well suited to the delicate nature and gentle sensibility of ladies.”

Patience nodded. She’d heard that before as well—all too many times. Heaven forbid that a woman should play the cello, or ride astride, or do anything that required the parting of her thighs. Never mind that every man standing there had been born from between a woman’s legs. How did they think
that
affected a woman’s delicate nature and gentle sensibilities?

She smiled. “I understand you completely, my lord. But at the young age I took up the cello, I had no notion of the delicacy of my nature, and my sensibilities were quite determined. You have only to ask my father.”

As the men chuckled and made jests about their own determined boyhoods, Patience caught the thread of a conversation behind her.

“I can’t believe Matthew Hawkmore is actually here tonight.”

Patience stilled. Matthew was here, at the ball? The sudden memory of his heated kiss brought a warm flush to her cheeks.

“Matthew Hawkmore? Don’t you mean Matthew
Gardener
?”

Patience tensed as the ladies tittered.

“Well, I can’t believe it,” the first continued. “Does he think he shall ever be accepted back into polite society? I mean, really . . . He ought, at least, to have had the decency to stay away—especially after lying to all of us.”

“But, my dear, I hear he never knew of his illegitimacy.”

“You hear wrongly. Lord Benchley informed
me
that Hawkmore knew all along. And I, for one, do not appreciate being duped, least of all by some lowbred gardener’s whelp.”

The incessant banter of Patience’s admirers faded from her hearing as she listened, with growing indignation, to the women behind her. She knew from her sister that Matthew had been suffering socially. But this haughty, ill-mannered meanness was unconscionable. Was this the courtesy of the nobility?

“You know, I overheard my husband say that no one will do business with Hawkmore. He says he may sell his shares in Hawkmore’s railway company.”

“And why shouldn’t your husband do so? Who wants to do business with a liar and an imposter? Mark my words, ladies. In no time at all, Matthew Hawkmore will be both a bastard and a pauper.”

Patience clenched her hands in her skirts. By God, if there was anything she hated, it was cruelty and injustice. She started to turn in order to give the malicious women a piece of her mind, but just then a tall, thin gentleman, ill-garbed as the hearty King Henry the Eighth, pushed between the gentlemen before her and clasped her hand.