Page 45 of What a Scot Wants
An evening with his brother-in-law had seemed like a small price to pay, though now he was regretting the overture, given the man’s delight in tormenting him.
“She hasnae run anywhere,” he growled. “No’ yet.”
Julien’s eyes brightened with interest. “Wait a moment. Are you saying that youmeanto run her off?”
“I dunnae want to marry, Jules,” Ronan said. “Ye ken that. And Lady Imogen and myself, we arenae suited.”
You were well suited two nights ago, a voice reminded him. It was followed by an image of Imogen, head thrown back, eyes closed, her full lower lip caught between her teeth as his fingers moved between her legs.
He huffed a shallow breath as his nether regions twitched and tamped down the sudden fire in his blood. Christ, he had to do something.
“Truly? Because that look on your face says otherwise.” The smirk Julien was known for appeared, and Ronan had the urge to smash his fist into his brother-in-law’s smug mouth. For the fifth time, he cursed himself for not staying at home. Julien was too sharp by half.
“Aye.Truly. Anyone else would suit better.”
His bluster didn’t work. “Should we be visiting the upstairs rooms at North’s gaming hell?” Julien asked slyly. “What’s it called? The Cock and the Crown?”
The idea made Ronan pause for one second. If he visited a woman there, his discomfort might be eased. He instantly discarded the thought. Even under a sham betrothal, he would not play Imogen false. She did not deserve it. No woman did, and he was not that kind of man. Honor meant something to him.
“Nae. We’ll adjourn to the dining room,” he said, draining his glass of whisky and standing after making sure his lower half was presentable. He eyed the marquess hopefully. “Unless, of course, ye have other plans.”
Julien grinned. “Oh no, dearbràthair, I’ve cleared my schedule just for you.”
Hell, now his sister was teaching the insufferable man Gaelic.
Once they were settled in the opulent dining room, their meals were served. Ronan opted for the roasted pheasant while Julien went with tender beef in wine sauce. He eyed his brother-in-law as he nodded to several men he knew and narrowed his eyes in contemplation. Perhaps this dinner would not be a complete loss. The Duke of Bradburne and the Earl of Langlevit hadn’t known much about Silas Calder. Julien had lived on the Continent, and France wasn’t that far from Italy. Ronan had nothing to lose.
“Have ye heard of a man called Silas Calder?” Ronan asked.
Julien’s fork stopped in midair, his normally pleasant-faced mien turning dark. “Why do you ask?”
“I ran into him at Bradburne’s ball,” Ronan said. “I didnae like him. I see from the look on yer face that ye dunnae think much of him, either. Neither did the Earl of Langlevit.”
Julien set his silverware down and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I only know him from some business dealings. He’s used my fleet for shipments from Africa and India, but I cut off business with him. Apparently, the man is known for cheating his partners, and I did not want to be caught up in anything illegal.”
A chill fell on Ronan’s shoulders. “Illegal?”
“Smuggling.” Julien hesitated. “He’s a fortune hunter, and a clever one, because he’s never been caught. Fancies himself a gentleman. Tried his hand at an English heiress once.”
The chill on Ronan’s shoulders turned to ice. “Go on.”
“He used to live in London, but he was chased out of England nearly ten years ago by Lord Paxton,” Julien said, taking a long draught of his wine.
Ronan took a sip of his, knowing he would need strength for what he sensed was to come. Eleven years ago Imogen would have been eighteen. According to Stevenson’s notes, she’d been engaged to the bounder a year earlier.
“How so?” Ronan asked.
“It was a foul business that was quickly covered up and neatly swept away. Apparently, he’d compromised Paxton’s daughter, hoping to get a marriage and a step-up out of it. The chit was fifteen years old at the time.”
Disgust filled Ronan’s stomach. Fifteen. No more than a child. His food turning sour, he nodded for Julien to continue.
“That’s not the worst of it,” he said. “I’m guessing Silas Calder only returned to London because the Marquess of Paxton recently died. Under highly suspicious circumstances, mind you. He was attacked by vandals at Vauxhall.”
Ronan blinked. Had Calder returned to London to court Paxton’s daughter now that the father was out of the picture?
“Where is the marquess’s daughter now? Is she here?”
Julien’s eyes met his, and the sadness in his green eyes nearly floored Ronan. “No. Unable to endure the scandal, she threw herself into the Thames several weeks after Paxton ran Calder out of London.”
