“Yes, it is some comfort,” she agreed, smoothing a hand over her belly.
Tremble pursed his lips and sent another long look at Edmund’s grave. Meredith felt convinced he relayed a message to the deceased Edmund. When he looked back up, his eyes shone with purpose. He fingered the mussed folds of his cravat. “You need not invite me in. I must get back to Town. Until next time, my lady.” He bowed stiffly.
Replying with equal hauteur, she said, “I doubt we will meet again, Mr. Tremble. I rarely see my way to London.”
“Oh, I am certain our paths will cross again.” A smile played about his lips as he strolled past, giving Nels a wide berth.
Meredith and Nels stood there for some time watching Adam Tremble leisurely stroll down the hill.
Nels finally spoke. “He knows.”
She understood Nels’s meaning perfectly. She crossed her arms and shivered a little in the warm afternoon. She looked up at Nels’s heavily lined face, then back at the retreating figure of Adam Tremble. “What can he do?”
“I can see that he loses his way and never gets back to Town.”
Meredith swung her gaze to the grim set of Nels’s craggy face and knew he did not jest. She sighed. Her moral fiber might have taken a considerable nosedive of late, but she was not so far lost she would conspire in another’s demise.
She squeezed one of his beefy paws. “That’s not necessary. He’s of no account. We won’t give him another thought.”
Although she uttered the words convincingly enough, they were more to reassure Nels and dissuade him from harming Tremble. Because she was in fact destined to worry over Mr. Adam Tremble for many days to come.
Ensconced in a heavily padded and richly upholstered armchair, Nick wondered when he had exactly grown weary of evenings like this. The thick fog of smoke, the crush of people, the din of voices, the whir of roulette wheels, the shouts of jubilation—all served to irritate him. That he grew richer every night the Lucky Lady filled to capacity, nobs tossing their money down a bottomless hole that led directly to his pockets, didn’t mean a hell of a lot anymore.
He craved…something else. The reminder of Oak Run, of air redolent with woods and earth, of land ripe with the seeds of honest labor—of her—lurked in his thoughts.
“Derring is up to his old tricks,” Mac murmured, waving his cheroot in the direction of the duke who sat playing cards with several others. Nick watched the nobleman run an aggravated hand through his hair, sending the locks into wild disarray.
“Appears he’s losing again,” Nick observed dryly.
“Ah, hell. Look what’s crawled out of the gutter.” Mac grimaced and nodded toward the tall, gaunt man winding his way through tables, a curvaceous blonde on his arm. No doubt a hired companion. Pock scars horribly disfigured Skelly Fairbanks’s face, yet as proprietor of several brothels throughout London, he possessed enough blunt to afford pretty companions. For some reason, Skelly viewed Nick as a business rival. Although not proud of his past, Nick would never place himself in the same league as the Skelly Fairbankses of the world.
“Come to check out how the other half lives?” Mac asked as the pimp stopped in front of their table.
Skelly’s lips stretched into a semblance of a smile, revealing brown, rotted teeth. “It’s smart business to know your competition.” His eyes settled on Nick. “Never could figure out how you attract all the swells to your place, Caulfield.”
“Easy.” Nick fingered the rim of his glass. “I run a superior operation. You run a low-grade whorehouse.”
“Full of yourself, aren’t you?” Skelly’s lips twisted into a nasty sneer. “I’d take care, even the mighty fall.”
Cocking his head, Nick returned the man’s fulminating stare. “Is that a threat, Skelly? Come, don’t be vague. If you wish, we can take care of our mutual dislike for one another at dawn. With pistols. Or do you prefer swords?” He knew a duel was too honorable a method for Skelly to settle his differences. He was the type of man who jumped his enemy in a darkened alley, where a knife could find its home in his enemy’s back.
“Always with your airs, thinking you be a fine gent.” Skelly waved long, bony fingers at Nick in contempt. “Just cause you cater to the swells don’t mean you’re one of them. At the end of the day you’re just like me, a thief and a swindler brought up from the streets.”
“Actually,” Mac proclaimed with undisguised relish, “he is a gent. And a titled one.”
Skelly’s laugh died a quick death as he took in the seriousness of Mac’s expression. “What do you mean?”
Mac’s hand swept the air in front of Nick with a flourish. “You’re looking at a bloody earl. The Earl of Brookshire.”
Nick scowled, wishing Mac would stop his blathering. He was not keen on the idea of anyone, much less degenerates like Fairbanks, knowing his personal business. Growing up in Whitechapel, Nick had his enemies—and the less informed they were, the better.
“You’re an earl?” Skelly’s eyes bugged from his gaunt cheeks like overripe berries. “But you grew up on the streets.”
Nick shrugged. “My father didn’t raise me.”
“All those airs weren’t a put on. He’s the genuine article,” Mac guffawed.
“Bloody nob,” Skelly sneered, the hate in his eyes glittering like polished marble. “Shoulda figured you was one of them.” He gestured roughly to the crowded tables around them.
“You’ve seen enough. Why don’t you take yourself off now?” Although worded as a question, the steel in Nick’s eyes left no doubt that it was a command.
With one last sneer, Skelly turned and headed for the door.
Bess approached with a bottle in her hand. “Have a care with that one. He’s got a mean temper. Heard he works his girls over real good, even killed one of them when he learned she was holding out.”
“He’ll never challenge me to my face.”
“His type never does,” Mac agreed. “He’ll bully a woman but never stand up to a man.”
“That’s what worries me. Insult him and he’ll get to you in some way.” Bess sat on the arm of Nick’s chair, trailing her fingers through his hair as she poured more brandy into his snifter. He pulled away from the unwanted intimacy and glanced at her in annoyance. Her painted lips drooped in a pout. Standing, she flounced away, an exaggerated sway to her hips that at one time would have won his appreciation.
Mac chuckled. “You two have a lovers’ spat?”
“We aren’t lovers.”
“That so?” Mac rubbed his chin dubiously.
“Not anymore,” Nick explained. “Bess grew too cloying. Acted as though she had a monopoly on me. No woman owns me.”
Mac stared at Bess, who peeked over her shoulder to make sure Nick watched her provocative method of departure.
“My guess is she thinks there’s a chance of changing your mind,” Mac suggested.
“We were never exclusive. She’ll get over it.”
Mac studied Nick with a bemused look on his face. “When did all this occur? Sometime after you returned from Oak Run?”
Nick sliced Mac with a sharp glance. “What does that have to do with anything? We had simply run our course. Bess and I had a good time while it lasted.”
“Well,” Mac mocked, “if Bess knew the reason for your disinterest was another woman, she might relinquish her claim—”
“There is no other woman,” Nick interrupted, mouth grim. “Why must there be another woman for a man’s interest to dwindle?”
“Hmmm,” Mac mused, his eyes dancing with mischief. “You said very little on the subject of your brother’s widow. Leads me to wonder. Was she a fetching piece of baggage?” Mac held up a hand. “I’m picturing a delicate, fair-haired angel clad in mourning black.”
Nick snorted. “That’s not Meredith.”
“Meredith, is it? Enlighten me. What’s Meredith like?”
“She’s a brunette. Well, in a way. Her hair is reddish brown, especially in sunlight—” Nick clampe
d his mouth shut at Mac’s knowing look.
“You seem to have made a study of her hair.”
“She’s nothing to me,” he asserted, perhaps too forcefully. “She carries another man’s child. I feel a responsibility toward her, that is all. She is a gentlewoman, the prim, proper churchgoing type. The kind who needs a man to take care of her.” He nearly choked on that colossal lie. He had never met a woman who needed or desired a man’s help less.
“If you’ve a yen for her, take her.” Mac shrugged. “Her child needs a father. Perhaps it’s time you settled down, became respectable.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re not getting any younger, Nick. Perhaps it’s time you take a wife.”
Nick leaned forward in his chair and looked around him as if searching for someone. Appearing not to find whomever he searched for, he swung back to Mac and pointed at him. “Have you seen Mac? Because I bloody hell don’t know the man sitting across from me.” Nick ceased pointing and slammed his hand down on the table between them, heedless of the stares sent their way. “I don’t see you with a wife and gaggle of kids.”
Mac’s eyes widened with dismay. “Me? No woman would marry the likes of me. Some men can’t be civilized.”
“Oh, and I can?”
Mac’s expression grew serious. “Aye. You’re the type.”
“Nick, love,” Bess interrupted. Given the conversation, Nick was grateful. “This fella wants a word with you.”
Nick eyed the gentleman behind her and blinked. The scarlet red cravat at the fellow’s throat was blinding. Nick waved his hand to a vacant chair. “What can I do for you, sir?”
The man glanced pointedly at Mac as he eased himself into the chair. “I prefer that we speak alone, Lord Brookshire.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Anything can be said in front of Mr. Swell, we are business partners.”
Waving a lace handkerchief beneath his nose as though the smoky room offended, the gentleman warned, “This is a personal matter, not business.”
“Since you’re a stranger, I doubt what you have to say is too personal.”
The stranger’s eyes alighted in challenge. “Oh? Have you no personal involvement with a Lady Meredith?”
The hair at his nape began to prickle. Voice hard, he demanded, “Who are you?”
“My name is Adam Tremble. I was a close friend to your brother.”
“Half brother.” Nick felt compelled to point out the distinction.
“Yes, I know.” Tremble fluttered a hand as if that were of no consequence. “I recently met Lady Brookshire.”
“You and her husband were close, but you never met her before?” Mac asked skeptically.
“Of course not,” the man replied haughtily. “Edmund had nothing to do with her. He hadn’t seen her in years, which is why I’m here.” Tremble’s eyes fixed steadily on Nick. “The brat she’s carrying is not Edmund’s.”
Nick clenched his snifter tightly and narrowed his eyes on Tremble. “You better be certain about what you’re saying. Perhaps Edmund visited her without your knowledge. You could not know the man’s every move. I don’t care how good a friend you were.”
“I am certain. I tell you, she’s trying to pawn some other man’s bastard off as Edmund’s. I knew Edmund well enough to know that he only married her to satisfy his father. The old man pressured Edmund to wed, threatening to disinherit him if did not. Edmund did not so much as consummate the marriage.”
“Now I know you’re lying,” Mac snorted. “What kind of man wouldn’t take an available and ready chit to bed?”
Tremble sniffed in disdain, his fine-boned features strained as if he smelled something foul in the air. “Edmund, for one. And I, for another.”
Nick studied Adam Tremble across the table. He took a long sip of brandy, trying to suppress the rolling emotions in his gut, murmuring, “How long were you and Edmund friends?”
“For ten years, but we were special friends for eight.”
“Gor!” Mac sputtered, lurching up from his armchair, at last coming to the conclusion Nick had already reached. “You mean you and he—” Mac looked at Nick for confirmation. “Your brother was a…a…”
“Apparently that is what Mr. Tremble is trying to tell us, if we are so inclined to believe him,” Nick said drolly.
“Why would I lie? I have nothing to gain.” Tremble pulled his handkerchief away from his nose to give Nick the full benefit of his glare.
“You are certain Lady Brookshire and Edmund never actually consummated their marriage?” Nick pressed.
“How much more clear must I be?” Tremble gesticulated wildly, handkerchief flying. “Shall I shout from the rafters that I was Edmund’s lover? That he had no desire to be with a woman? That he had never been with a woman?”
“Perhaps he wanted a taste of something different,” Mac offered helpfully.
“I think not. Edmund taking a woman to bed would be as intolerable to him as you taking a man to bed, I suspect.” Tremble smiled archly at Mac’s grimace. “Besides, he did not describe his wife in flattering terms. Said she was quite the frump. Red hair. Freckles. Nose in a book. If Edmund wanted to experiment with a woman, it would not have been her. I do hope you stop her from this…this fraud. She could be trying to pass off some miscreant’s brat as Edmund’s. It would simply mortify me for our friends to think that Edmund had been unfaithful to me and fathered a child with his wife.” Tremble’s expression grew pained and he shuddered as if a snake slithered across the toe of his boot.
“Aye, how unnatural,” Mac muttered, rolling his eyes heavenward. “His own wife.”
Nick stared at Adam Tremble, but saw only one thing—a pair of large, guileless green eyes. “This is my concern now. I appreciate you coming forth with your information, but I’ll handle it from here.”
Tremble stood. “Just be sure she gets what’s coming to her.”
Nick smiled thinly, thinking of all the lies she had woven around him. He quickly recounted the times he had expressed concern for her and the baby. Now he knew it hadn’t been his imagination. She had been hiding something. Every second they had been together she must have been laughing over what a fool he was. He had even gone so far as to contact the Royal College of Surgeons upon his return to London to acquire the names of a few specialists. “I assure you, she shall get what she justly deserves.”
As soon as Tremble left, Nick rose to his feet.
Mac set his drink down with a thud. “Where you off to?”
“Oak Run, of course. I’m quite eager to have an audience with Lady Brookshire.” Nick stalked from the table, seeing little beyond the red haze of rage clouding his vision.
Mac followed, muttering, “God help her.”
Chapter 11
Nick gave the brass lion head knocker two solid raps and waited, tension thrumming through his veins. Several moments passed before Nels opened the front door, nearly filling the threshold to capacity. He eyed Nick and Mac in guarded silence.
“Nels,” Nick finally greeted, inclining his head.
“Lord Brookshire, we were not expecting you.” Nels’s words were polite enough, but his craggy features did not crack a smile.
“I was not aware I need warn of my arrival in my own home. Is Lady Brookshire in?”
“She’s in the salon with her aunt.” Nels hovered in the doorway like a giant sentinel, barrel chest puffed out. He did not in any way appear ready to move.
“Might we see her?” The edge to his voice made it clear he would gain entrance one way or another.
“Wait here. I’ll announce you.”
Nick glanced at Mac, who raised his brows over such a coarse, seemingly out of place butler. Stepping over the threshold, Nick shut the door behind them with a firm click and fell in step behind the butler. He wanted to see Meredith’s face the precise moment she learned of his presence.
Nels looked over his shoulder and hesitated, indecision flickering in his eyes when he
realized they had ignored his command. Clearly, he debated whether to protest. Nick almost wished he would. In his present mood, a good brawl would relieve some tension. With a final glance at Nick, Nels sighed and led the rest of the way to the salon, knocking once on the door before pushing it open.
“My lady, Lord Brookshire is here,” Nels announced, before bowing out of the room. The soft click of the door resounded in the still air.
Meredith looked up from the book in her hands, the color draining from her face as their gazes clashed. Careful to suppress the fury he had nursed since Adam Tremble’s informative visit, Nick pasted a cool smile on his face. A shrewd gambler never tipped off his hand.
Her book slipped from her fingers and slid down her skirts to the floor with a swish. He stepped forward and picked it up. His eyes sought and found the swell of her abdomen beneath her dress. Fury spiraled inside him. From all appearances, she looked to be increasing with child. And that could be the case, he warned himself. She could be carrying a child. If that were so, he would have the man’s name and gladly kill him.
But the gambler in him was willing to bet she wasn’t pregnant. That was why he had brought Mac along. To help flush out the truth. Despite the conclusion jumped to by Adam Tremble, he knew in his gut that she had never known a man, not intimately at any rate. The signs had been there. He could recognize that now, even if he hadn’t been able to admit it before. She might possess a treacherous, black heart, but her modest manner—her nervousness around him—declared her a virgin.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” Bowing, Nick extended the book to her, noticing that her fingers shook as she accepted it.
“Lord Brookshire,” Miss Eleanor greeted, “how splendid to see you again. I see you have brought a friend with you.”