Anabelle Bryant - The Last Gamble

‘Don’t bother throwing me out.’ He strode towards the front door. ‘I’m already leaving.’

‘Good. Leave.’ She sounded a petulant child, or worse, a peevish shrew. ‘And don’t come back.’

She doubted he heard her last declaration, the slam of the door punctuating their argument effectively. Locked in another room, Biscuit barked his approval.

‘Where is he?’ Jonathan Wraxall, Viscount Dursley, stormed across the hell floor to the corner where Cole Hewitt and Maxwell Sinclair, proprietors of the exclusive gambling establishment, loitered in conversation and assessment of the night’s activities. ‘Where’s my bastard brother? I need to see him now.’

‘Not here, Dursley.’ Cole hardly spared him a glance before he flicked his dismissive attention from the mottled-faced aristocrat to the piquet table.

‘Something wrong?’ Max offered the man a bemused smile. ‘Out of funds? I can arrange for an extension of credit.’

‘You know what I’m talking about. I’m here to see Reese.’ Dursley, a prig of a corpulent peer who’d allowed himself to go soft through the middle, huffed a breath, impatient in the assumption his bluster would gain him the result desired.

‘Can’t help you then.’ Cole took a step forward, bored with the conversation and anxious to be done with Dursley the same way one swatted a pestering gnat. ‘I’ll let Luke know you stopped by once he returns.’

‘He stole something of mine.’

A bit of spittle accompanied the angered statement and Cole slanted left to avoid the spray.

‘Then that settles the score, doesn’t it?’ Cole continued his journey across the floor, greeting the regulars in disregard of the viscount, who padded after him in full-blown fury, anxious to cause a scene that might better his advantage.

Cole ignored him. The card tables were busy. Good. Liquor was flowing. Excellent.

‘What does that mean? What has Reese told you?’ Dursley raised his voice and garnered further attention. ‘I’m talking to you, Hewitt. Look here.’

Cole had heard enough. He whirled on the viscount, collecting the man’s lapels in both fists and gingerly moving him backwards towards the door. Dursley’s feet failed to find purchase on the carpet. ‘No, you look. You’re not welcome here. We strive to keep the worst element outside these walls. You’re not fit for The Underworld.’ Releasing the man’s coat, he shoved Dursley at the exit and, with a sharp hitch of his chin, signalled two men waiting for the anxious opportunity to flex muscle and exert their strength.

Cole brushed his palms together, the symbolic motion figurative and literal. He would have liked nothing more than to wash his hands of Dursley, but until Luke returned his son home safely, he’d tolerate the man as best he could.

Life in Coventry proved lovely. An early-morning shower had laced Georgina’s cottage with an iridescent sheen and kissed the flowers along the slated walkway with a glimmer of dewdrop. There was no reason to leave the idyllic setting for the horrid reality in London. Coventry was very fine indeed.

Even now, as she walked towards the town centre, past sprawling fields of clover and alfalfa-blanketed countryside, the crisp, blue sky above and Biscuit at her heels, she couldn’t imagine a more peaceful respite. Homes, farms and fields spanned in pockets as far as the eye could see. If she forced her eyes to the horizon and stuffed unfinished emotion and contradiction farther down into her soul, she could live some resemblance of a pleasant life here.

With her reticule looped on her arm and the letter to her parents clutched in her hand, she strode towards town intent on posting her message and forgetting her abominable behaviour from the night before. With a Herculean effort to absorb the tranquil landscape, Luke almost escaped her notice, but there he was, keeping pace with her on the opposite side of the roadway almost as if he’d watched her house in wait of her departure and now stalked from fifty yards. Which, most likely, was exactly what he’d done.

He needed to find his son. She would have taken the same course of action.

She glanced in his direction a second time and could only have unwittingly encouraged his interaction because the detestable man crossed the roadway before she could object.

‘Off to send a letter?’ He didn’t bother with the good morning that would have composed a civil, obligatory greeting.

She noticed a similar missive in his hand. Could they both intend to visit the post this morning? It seemed an odd coincidence.

‘Leave me alone.’ A strict catalogue of indoctrinated manners forced her to gentle the request. ‘Please.’

‘Now why would I do that?’ He fell in stride as if she’d invited him to stroll.

‘I shall scream if you insist on badgering me this morning.’ The threat hardly sounded propitious.

‘No, you won’t.’ Sarcasm, mockery, or some equally rude emotion danced in his eyes. ‘You don’t wish to be noticed any more than I do.’

She scoffed, unable to argue with his logic. ‘Are you writing to Viscount Dursley?’ There was no need to mince words. Biscuit already objected to Luke’s company. Best to carry on in a pleasant fashion in hope the pug would cease his complaints.

‘Are you?’ His steely grey eyes, the same ones which had heated her to the core last evening, glinted with cold regard in the slanted sunlight.

‘Of course not.’ Did he think her in collusion with his half-brother, the same man who’d abducted Nate? Botheration, that insult trumped any offence which came before. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’

Her remark may have touched a nerve. His expression softened a notch.

‘You’re right, it was.’ He swallowed audibly, the taste of contrite remorse apparently a new flavour on his tongue. ‘Accept my apology.’

‘For your rude insinuation?’ She wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily.

‘For a number of things. Thank you for a delicious dinner and kind conversation.’ He paused. ‘It was wrong of me to try to kiss you…’

Pity you have regret when nothing has ever felt so right.

‘…And pressure you to come to London. You should know the two were unrelated, isolated actions.’

She purposely viewed him with an expression that questioned whether or not he was stupid? Biscuit growled as if on cue.

‘Why doesn’t your dog…?’ He shot a suspicious glance downwards.

‘Like you?’ She readily supplied the words.

‘I suppose. He’s already had the last word and I’ve the puncture wounds to prove it.’

She quirked the smallest smile. ‘Biscuit is normally a cheerful pup and has never shown poor behaviour before.’ She eyed the dog where he wandered a few paces before them. ‘I can only surmise he reacts to my caution. He is protective and loyal above all else.’

Loyal? Infinitely so. The pudgy pug possessed the tenacity of a lion. Luke had told himself to surveil the cottage from afar and merely observe what the good governess was up to this morning, but for some reason he could not yet identify, he’d moved across the street and fallen into stride as if a glutton for further punishment. And too, he’d noticed she’d left her hair unbound, the glorious sheen of mahogany tresses well past her waist. He’d clenched his fists with the desire to thread his fingers through it, measure its weight, hold the silky strands against his mouth for a kiss. Would her hair smell like apricots this morning?

Damn, if the governess didn’t cause him to feel things, inconvenient emotions when he most needed to be clearheaded. He had one purpose for pursuing Miss Smith and he didn’t need to muddle the issue with sexual impulse.

And while he’d convinced himself the paper in her hand was likely a shopping list for ingredients to another scrumptious meal, the illogical suggestion it could be a warning sent to Dursley would not abate. Therefore, he rationalized a conversation was in order.