Page 58 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
“Y-y-you’re up t-t-to something, aren’t y-you?” Sir Richard said.
Cocking his head, Lando regarded him, abstractedly running a finger around the rim of his glass. “How terribly perceptive of you.” He’d leave, too, in a moment, once his legs stopped shaking. “And quite correct. I apologise for embroiling you in the whole affair, but I needed another potential business partner, one I could safely spill the beans to if things became desperate.”
“A-and d-did they? Become d-d-desperate?”
Lando made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. Strangely, he felt rather choked. “Yes, they did, as a matter of fact. But not now. Now, I hope things will turn out rather wonderfully.”
“G-G-Gartside is r-r-ruined.” Sir Richard held out his glass for a victorious clink against Lando’s. “That’s w-w-wonderful enough for me. So whatever else y-y-you are up to, I d-d-don’t care. But I’m s-s-sorry about M-Mr Angel. I l-l-liked him and d-didn’t s-s-suspect a thing.”
A warm feeling settled in Lando’s chest. He scrunched up the note, still in his lap, and tossed it onto the fire. “I liked him too. Very much.”
As the strong liquor permeated his veins, Lando finally loosened his own cravat. A wave of weariness swept through him and a desire to crawl into his bed and sleep for days. And he would, as soon as he was able. God willing, he wouldn’t be alone.
“My dear fellow,” Lando said, examining his cousin fondly. “We really should see more of each other. The fault is all mine. I have been rather a glum hermit of late.”
“I d-d-don’t get out m-much either.”
“I’d like to invite you to Rossingley very soon,” Lando pressed on. “And once there, I will regale you with this whole tale from start to finish. I am confident it will be to your liking. And then, when we are suitably reacquainted, I propose you go on to pay a visit to my sister at Horton. She has a young governess staying with her at present. A scholarly, quiet young lady—the niece of my very good friend Captain Charles Prosser. Do you remember him? Excellent fellow. I think you and she will find each other’s company most satisfactory.”
*
IN THE GLOOMof an overcast evening, Sir Ambrose Gartside’s Belgravia residence stood dismal and unlit, evidence suggesting the master was not home. Lando, however, knew differently. Pritchard had (with poor grace, naturally) shadowed the baronet there after his rapid departure from White’s. Now, the valet was seated alongside Lando in the phaeton, eyeing the building with distaste.
“I suspect it may be many years before this property opens its doors again to theton,” Pritchard commented as Lando alighted. He followed this pronouncement with an exaggerated shiver. “If you are too long inside, I’ll be frigid as an icicle on your return.”
Lando shot him a long-suffering look. “Darling, it’s the middle of a mild October. And this shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
“My lord, will you—at risk of sounding as if I truly cared—will you be quite all right in there?” Pritchard jerked his chin in the direction of the house. “He’ll be as cross as two sticks and desperate to pin the blame on someone. And you are not a large man.”
Lando gave his valet’s arm an affectionate pat. Gartside lacked intelligence, to be sure, but he wasn’t an utter fool. “Whilst I applaud your cheap attempt to invite yourself into the warmth, I’ll be fine. Ambrose Gartside is an odious bully, nothing more, nothing less.” He smiled thinly. “And I am no victim. It is my experience that if you grip a bully by his cravat, you will invariably find it comes off in your hand.”
He peered up at the forbidding grey stone house. “I’m not convinced there’s much warmth inside, anyhow.”
*
GARTSIDE’S BUTLER LEDLando into a dim parlour with the air of a man counting down the hours until he secured a position elsewhere. Slumped in front of a parsimonious fire, his employer made no effort to rise and greet his guest.
“You’re an odd fish, Rossingley.” Gartside threw him an ugly look, not aided by the purple bruise blossoming on the left side of his jaw. “And you have some gall showing your face here. Your blasted mills are the reason I’m in this hellish mess.”
“In addition to your own underhand behaviour,” Lando felt obliged to point out.
“That damned weaselly bastard made a fool of me.”
“He made fools of us all, Gartside.”
“And you seem uncommonly cheerful about it.”
“Do I?” Lando smiled amiably. “Perhaps that’s what comes of a clear conscience.”
He gazed around the room. It had been a few years since he’d visited—a raucous card evening if he remembered, many years ago, ending with him much richer and Gartside and his cronies poorer. And, goodness knew, Lando was no card player; he’d simply been able to resist the lure of showing off. More paintings had hung from the walls then. He recalled a small Canaletto catching his eye. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, a very fine inlaid Hepplewhite table had sat near the mantel. “So, you’ve taken my suggestion not to stay in town?”
Gartside harrumphed. “What do you think? I don’t have a lot of choice, do I? Sir Richard will be first through the door at White’s come tomorrow, hunting down Cobham. Unless you beat him to it.”
“I have no interest in malicious talk,” Lando replied. “Though I cannot vouch for the others. And I can’t deny Cobham may relish a sense ofjoie maligne.”
Abruptly, Gartside stood. Coatless and cravatless, he was a dishevelled mess. “Then my reputation is ruined.” He rubbed a hand across his bruised jaw. “I’m leaving for Scotland at first light. There’s nothing else for it.”
Lando could practically taste the panic.
