Page 67 of A Duke to Steal Her
Chapter Twenty-One
“Your Grace,” Flint rose from his chair as Ambrose entered the private study.
The transformation was remarkable—gone was the rough man from their previous meetings, replaced by someone who could easily pass for Spanish nobility. His posture was more refined, his speech carefully modulated, even his clothing had been upgraded to reflect his supposed status.
“Well,” Ambrose replied with a slight smile, taking his seat behind the desk. “You’re looking every inch the Conde de Cervera.”
Flint, now a Spanish earl, inclined his head graciously. “The role becomes easier with practice, Your Grace. And I must say, the performance at Lord Pemberton’s garden party exceeded all expectations.”
“You did give a very good performance. I was almost fooled myself.”
“Indeed. Lord Hartwell was practically begging me to consider his shipping venture by evening’s end. It seems he was quite impressed by my tales of Spanish trade routes and the fortune I supposedly amassed during my exile.” Flint’s smile was sharp. “He’s already withdrawn his support from Peirce’s Mediterranean venture to invest in mine instead.”
Ambrose poured himself a brandy, satisfaction warming his chest. “And the others?”
“Lord Pemberton himself has shown interest in my mining consortium. Sir Charles Whitmore is eager to discuss my supposed connections to Spanish banks.” Flint consulted a small notebook. “In total, I’ve managed to convince seven of Peirce’s former partners to redirect their investments. Each one more profitable than what they had with him, of course.”
“Of course. We wouldn’t want them to regret their decision.”
“The beauty of it,” Flint continued, “is that they believe they’re the ones who discovered this opportunity. A mysterious Spanish count with recently unfrozen assets, grateful for English friendship after his political difficulties. They think they’re being terribly clever, getting in early on my ventures.”
Ambrose swirled his brandy thoughtfully. “And Peirce’s reaction?”
“Growing desperate, from what I hear. He’s been calling in favors, trying to secure new backing, but word is spreading that his luck has turned sour. The widow’s family is beginning to ask uncomfortable questions about his finances.”
“Excellent.” Ambrose set down his glass. “How long before his position becomes untenable?”
“At this rate? Another month, perhaps two. His creditors are growing impatient, and without the income from his partnerships…” Flint shrugged eloquently. “A man can only survive on reputation for so long.”
“And when he falls?”
Flint’s smile turned predatory. “Then Conde de Cervera will mysteriously decide to return to Spain, taking his fortune with him. Leaving behind only grateful English investors who’ve made handsome profits and have no reason to look too closely at where their windfall originated.”
Ambrose nodded slowly. The plan was working better than he’d dared hope. Soon, Peirce would be ruined through the simple mechanism of greed and social ambition turned against him. The perfect revenge.
“One thing troubles me, Your Grace,” Flint said carefully.
“Oh?”
“Peirce isn’t a fool. Eventually, he’ll realize that his misfortunes aren’t merely bad luck. When that happens…”
Ambrose’s expression darkened. “When that happens, we’ll be ready for him. Continue as planned, Conde. Let me worry about Peirce’s eventual desperation.”
As Flint departed, Ambrose remained at his desk, staring out the window at the London streets.
Soon, very soon, my revenge will be complete.
Emily lay sprawled across the silk sheets, her body still thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Her breathing was slowly returning to normal, but the ache inside her that Ambrose had awakened but refused to fully satisfy seemed to grow stronger with each encounter.
She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as he rose from the bed and pulled on his trousers. When he moved to his desk and began reviewing correspondence, she could see the flex of his forearms as he wrote, the elegant strength in his hands that had just driven her to the edge of madness.
It wasn’t enough anymore. These moments of pleasure, exquisite as they were, only left her craving more.
Emily reached for her silk wrapper, drawing it around her breasts as she padded barefoot across the carpet to where he sat.
“Ambrose.”
“Hmm?” He didn’t look up from his papers, though she caught the slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
