Page 1 of The Banished Bride
One
The dice hit the scarred wood with the rattle and crack of musket fire. A sharp howl followed, as if the dotted cubes of ivory had indeed dealt a mortal wound.
“May Lucifer be poxed, I’m done for!”
A rumble of drunken laughter greeted the slurred words.
“Aw, stop your infernal moanings and have another tipple, Woodbridge. It’s still early and your luck is bound to come around.”
The other gentlemen who were pressed cheek to jowl around the gaming table nodded while the one who had spoken groped for the large wad of vowels and shifted them a bit closer to his person. “Let’s have another throw, but, say, at double the stakes this time—” The words dissolved in a loud belch and hiccup. Uncorking another bottle of port, he sloshed a generous amount in each of the empty glasses before him. “To make it interesting, I’ll put up five thousand pounds against each of you in turn.”
“Damn nipcheese of a pater won’t spring for another farthing ‘til next quarter day,” groused a short, ginger-haired man whose bulbous nose was already threatening to eclipse the vivid color of his thinning locks.
“Your note is good til then, Hervey. What about the rest of you?”
The portly viscount seated to the right of Hervey took a moment to grope at the scantily dressed barmaid moving by his chair before nodding a quick assent. The gentleman to the left, his weaselly face screwed in an even more furtive expression than usual, did the same.
“Belmont and Jarvis here have coffers as deep as Loch Ness,” whined the last of the group as he waved a unsteady hand at the other two. The burr of his Scottish accent was roughened by the goodly amount of whiskey he had consumed. “They can afford to match their blunt against yourn, but I’m rather strapped for the coin of the realm at the moment.” He ran a careless hand over his disheveled cravat, already stained with sweat, and flicked the ash from a half smoked cheroot off one of the sagging folds. “What say ye, Bull, will ye take some pledge aught than sterling?”
“Perhaps, MacAllister—if it’s interesting enough.” Baron Trumbull’s bleary eyes became a tad more focused. “What do you have in mind?” he demanded.
The Scot leaned over and whispered something.
A meaty palm smacked against the rough wood, setting the dice to bouncing over its breadth. It was followed by a roar of laughter loud enough that for a moment it drowned out the babble of curses and slap of cards echoing through the murky confines of the gambling hell.
“The Devil’s ballocks, how can a man say no to that!” cried the baron, a lopsided leer tugging at his slack lips. “A bawdy house in Chigwell, you say? You are offering to put up a bawdy house as your stakes?”
“Aye. The girls be sturdy Scottish lasses.” MacAllister gave a sly wink. “From the Highlands, where they breed ‘em for spirit and stamina, if that’s ter yer taste, laddie.”
“Oh, that’s quite to my taste. You’re on,” he agreed, already licking his chops at thought of what delectable dishes might be served up for his pleasure. When the lewd jests from the rest of his cronies finally petered out, he turned in some impatience to the last man of their party. “Well, what say you, Woodbridge, will you stop your sniveling and join in as well?”
The earl drained his glass. “Mac ain’t the only one with pockets empty of blunt. He ain’t the only one with flesh to offer, either,” he growled in a sulky mutter. A dribble of sticky spirits ran down his unshaven chin but it went ignored as he sought to trump the grinning Scot. “I got an even better offer.”
“Oh?” Trumbull leaned forward, nearly losing his balance and toppling from the rickety chair. “Pray, what could be better than a houseful of sluts?”
It took even longer for the shouts of inebriated laughter and risqué comments to die away.
Woodbridge bared his teeth in an attempt at a smile. “How about a husband for that troublesome chit of a daughter you are always complaining about? Think on it. Finally free of all family responsibilities. And you would be rid of the bother and expense of a Season, something you couldn’t avoid when she comes of age.”
“Hmm. And just who do you propose for such a match?”
“My youngest son.” Gratified by the gasps of surprise from the rest of the group, he went on with some smugness. “The match is a good connection, for though he won’t have the title, ours is a good family. You might do better, but not without a good deal more effort and expense on your part.”
“Ain’t the girl only a child, Bull?” asked Hervey.
“And a sharp-tongued little shrew, just like her mother. Anyway, fourteen ain’t so young?—”
The earl waved away the objection as well. “Aye, it’s done all the time. Lock her back in the nursery for a few years, if need be.”
Trumbull rubbed at his jaw. “What makes you think your son will be willing to go through with it?”
“Oh, he’ll be willing, I promise you,” answered Woodbridge, a nasty smirk slowly turning his expression even uglier. “I’ve got control over the one thing he wants, and to get it, he’ll have to dance to my tune, for once.” Under his breath he added, “And a merry jig I’ll make him dance. Serve the impudent whelp right, after all the times he’s flaunted my authority over the years.”
“Is he still a pup, then?”
“No, no, nineteen—or is it twenty? Can’t keep track of the whole cursed litter of them.”
The baron didn’t hesitate more than a second or two. “Done. You’re on as well, Woodbridge.” He reached for the dice and caressed them between his fingers. “Come, gentlemen, let’s play.”
