Page 59 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
“Short on blunt too.” Gartside’s eyes slid away from Lando on the admission. “Borrowed the two hundred pounds from my brother-in-law. I’ll have to bloody sell something to cleave that back.”
“How…” Lando hesitated as if uncertain how to phrase his delicate question. “If that is the case, then how were you planning on funding our joint business venture?”
Gartside huffed. “The estate bordering yours is unentailed. One of my old school chums was interested in buying it. Snuffy Pallister, now Duke of Beaminster. Rich as Croesus. His father died six months ago—Snuffy’s taken the title, but his land is all the way up in bloody Northumberland. He wanted something closer to town.” He barked a laugh. “Won’t want it now. If this gets out, I’ll wager he won’t even recollect my name by the end of the week.”
“Mmm.” Buying himself some time, Lando pretended to examine the heavy oil painting to the left of the fireplace. A fearsome, ugly woman stared back at him, her flabby breasts spilling from a too-tight corset, her mouth painted in a perpetual snarl. That she was one of Gartside’s ancestors left no room for doubt.
“Rossingley has had two poor harvests from the last five,” Lando began casually as if still admiring the portrait. “My man of business informs me barley yields have been particularly low across the whole of the south. Especially Spratt, if I’m not mistaken. All the signs are that next year will be equally dismal.”
He regretted not paying more attention to Robert’s ramblings; if Gartside asked him what thosesignswere, he’d come terribly unstuck.
“Never known such temperamental weather,” grumbled Gartside. “Or farmers. Blasted fellows more trouble than they’re worth. That land’s made a loss hand over fist ever since I took over the place. Not that I sharedthatwith Pallister,” he added gloomily. “Too bloody late now, at any rate.”
Lando let his eyes flutter closed. Drawing stale air into his lungs, he let his shoulders drop, clearing his mind of everything except what he was about to do.
“I suppose I could always take that damned estate off your hands,” he offered in a languid drawl. “After all, we do abut. And I suppose if I hadn’t thought of you as an excellent potential business partner in the first place, this dreadful affair wouldn’t have happened, would it?”
He sauntered back to Gartside and arranged himself in a chair. “Mind, it would be a bit of a bore. I’m certainly not looking to expand Rossingley; there is quite enough to keep my heirs busy for many a good year. And, as you know only too well, I’m quite preoccupied with my ventures in the north.”
He let his offer dangle for a few seconds, then added, “But, to help out an old friend, perhaps I could be persuaded. And, seeing as we are such old chums—” The earl flicked at an invisible mote of dust on his lapel. “—I might be able to encourage Sir Richard to keep the scuttlebutt to himself. At least until you are safely ensconced in Scotland and a new scandal emerges.”
Selling the estate would wipe out all Gartside’s debts, as well as the one he owed his brother-in-law. Fascinated, Lando observed Gartside’s mental and facial contortions as he attempted not to leap at the idea too eagerly. Hungry babes in arms were more inscrutable. No wonder the man lost every time he took a seat at the card table.
Taking pity on him and because he was keen to be on his way, Lando added, “Shall I put you in touch with my man of business? You may take your time coming to a decision. I’m in no hurry, no hurry at all.”
“We can shake on it now,” blurted Gartside, holding out a hand. “The details can be thrashed out later. That way, I’ll be able to promise my brother-in-law his blunt.”
They shook, Gartside’s grasp clammy, the earl’s crisp and smooth.
“Do you want to discuss some loose terms?” Lando pulled a pained face. “Wearisome, I know. Or shall we leave it to our men?”
“Snuffy offered 18 000 pounds. You can relieve me of the damned place with half of that if we shake on it now.”
He really was horribly desperate. If Lando had offered to take the land off his hands in exchange for his oldest boots he had a feeling Gartside would have obliged.
“Excellent. Most satisfactory. Consider it done.” Lando pulled out his silver fob. “Dear me, it’s late. I must press on. I’m travelling to Rossingley at first light. I’ve been away far too long.”
He gave Gartside a clipped nod. “Look after yourself, Gartside. I expect it will be some time before our paths cross again. If indeed, ever. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
AS KIT WASdragged, handcuffed, though the narrow, unlit corridors of White’s staff quarters, the lump of humiliation lodged in his throat threatened to choke him. Being arrested in front of the likes of Gartside and Sir Richard was bad enough, but being paraded in fetters in front of gawping staff—some of whom a few days earlier had waited on him at dinner as if hebelongedat the club—was somehow even worse.
And then there was his dear Lando. He couldn’t even begin to think about him. Not yet.Trust me, he’d said, and those silvery, glittery eyes had searched Kit’s face as if it held all the answers to the universe and beyond. And Kithadtrusted him. He still did, even now, though Lando had as good as denounced him in front of Clark. Who could blame him? Their Gartside scheme would have toppled if he hadn’t, and all their efforts would have been reduced to nought. Whatever he and his brother had concocted, had been too little, too late to change the course of the tides. Clark had caught up with him, as he always would, and that was that. Even his precious, clever Lando wasn’t infallible. Or above the law.
But how the devil had Clark tracked him down to White’s? Perhaps he’d staked out Grosvenor Street or sent a lackey in his place after someone had caught sight of the Rossingley crest when the carriage had pulled up outside the boarding house. Not that it mattered now.
Mr Christopher Angelof Sindell Street, London,I’m arresting you for heinous wrongdoings against multiple honest gentlemen of the town. For false representation of yourself. For misleading others. For gross larceny amounting to more than one shilling against Sir Ambrose Gartside, amongst others. Crimes punishable by certain death.
Such an exhausting, convoluted way to pronounce a man a common thief! Despite the invidiousness of his position, Kit almost smiled. Any sum amounting to more than one shilling was, indeed, punishable by death according to the letter of the law. But it was a damned fancy way of calling out a purse-snatcher and a card sharp. He wondered why Gartside had been singled out—the snuff box during their game of loo, probably. That alone was enough to get a man hanged. It was the last item he’d pilfered and one of the nicest he’d pinched in a while, that shiny bauble would have fetched a tidy penny. But it was nothing compared to a two-hundred-pound bribe. Imagine if Clark got a whiff of that? Kit would be hung several times over.
The bawdy chatter and cheery clatter of the front rooms receded the deeper he was marched into the depths of White’s. Soon, the rhythmic slap of two pairs of boots on cold stone floors was the only sound, and with it, Kit felt oddly calm. Perhaps the calmness came from knowing a probable death sentence lay ahead, and he was powerless to prevent it. Perhaps this emptiness of mind was common to all men with nothing but the gallows to contemplate, one’s body’s protective instinct. If so, then Kit was grateful. It saved him from picking over all he was set to lose. Because if he dared let a fraction of that out, a sheer, unstoppable torrent would follow.
Clark’s grip on his arm was unnecessarily tight, as were the shackles numbing his hands. The runner waltzed Kit towards the back of the establishment at such a fast lick that, twice, Kit stumbled and almost fell. Older and unfit, Clark’s mouth hung open. His breath sawed in and out in quick gasps, and the air in front of Kit’s face filled with the rancid stink of a rotten tooth. Unable to cover his nose, Kit focused his mind on Lando’s fragrant mouth instead. On their own silent waltz and how light and blissful his lover had felt in Kit’s arms. On his lips like ripe cherries, on the joy of his rare, sweet smile. On Kit’s short-lived, allotted portion of joy and what could have been.
With a draught of cooler and blessedly fresher air, they reached an unprepossessing rear entrance. Flinging it wide, Clark gave Kit a rough shove. “Off you go. God willing, you smash your head on the ground at the bottom and break your scummy, bastard, thieving neck.”
With no time to come up with a suitable riposte and only a second to acknowledge Clark’s dark hopes for him had every likelihood of coming to fruition, Kit flew, arse over tit, down a steep flight of stone steps, each one deliberately designed to smack against his hip, his ribs, and his blasted head. He reached the bottom, miraculously still in one piece, whereupon his momentum propelled him headfirst into a waiting carriage, bringing him to rest in a disagreeable heap of battered limbs on the floor, his wrists still locked uselessly behind his back and his legs dangling outside. Two strong hands under his armpits hauled them inside, and then, in the dim recesses of his mind, he heard the carriage door slam shut behind him. With a brisk jerk—doing Kit’s abused head and wrenched shoulders no favours whatsoever—they set off.
