Page 1 of The Companion’s Secret

Chapter 1

London, May 1798

Gabriel Finch, Marquess of Ashborough, played by his own rules—one of which was never to hold his cards during a game. A fan of cards amplified the movements of a man’s hand: his nervousness, excitement, shock. Besides, staring at them had never yet forced the pips into a different configuration.

In response to the dealer’s silent call, Gabriel squared the small stack lying on the table in front of him before turning over the topmost card. The gesture was quiet, efficient. Only reckless men proclaimed loudly when they had been beaten. Or when they won.

Like the fools at the far table, who had been making raucous demands all evening—of their dealer, the servants, the painted ladies employed to distract the cardplayers. Years of practice had proved insufficient to tune them out. Now, one man’s voice pierced the miasma of smoke and sweaty desperation that hung over the gamblers like fog.

“You know I’m good for it,” the familiar voice wheedled. “Or will be. Why, right this moment I could raise a mortgage on Stoke that would be worth ten times that pot.”

Gabriel pushed away from the table and stood.

A footman hustled to his side, gathering his winnings, while the dealer praised his luck, subtly goading him to continue. The owners of this particular establishment used every trick in the book to encourage patrons to play longer than was wise. Good food, though not so rich that a man would feel drowsy. Plentiful drink, though not so much that a man would realize he was drunk. Painted windows and plush furnishings masked light and noise from the street, making it impossible to tell how many hours had passed. But there were always clues, if one knew where to look. Six-hour candles had dwindled to stubs. It must be nearly dawn.

Across the room, play continued. With a nod to the others at his table, who protested his departure with a mixture of groans, self-deprecating laughs, and sighs of relief, he took the bundle the servant handed him and was gone, his pocket bulging with scraps of paper—banknotes, vowels, and, if he was not mistaken, the deed to a square of land in some backwater shire.

The night had been a profitable one by any measure, but its most important gain had been intangible. Just a few words. A mortgage on Stoke. Interesting, very interesting. Would anyone take that bet?

Gabriel had been gambling too long to imagine the answer was anything but yes.

Damp air filled his lungs when he stepped into the dim, quiet street. As he had suspected, the hour was late—rather, early—enough that the girls who called to him from beneath the arcades of Covent Garden offered nothing more than moldering fruit. He paused to drop a handful of coins into the outstretched palm of a waif who in another week would surely be offering herself in place of the desiccated orange she pressed into his hand in return.

With a roguish smile, he tossed the fruit into the air, caught it, handed it back to the half-starved, wide-eyed girl, and resumed walking. A gamble, yes.

Why, he was tempted to lay a little wager himself.

When he reached his rooms in St. James’s, his manservant, Arthur Remington, opened the door and held out his hand for his master’s greatcoat. Instead of shedding the garment, Gabriel reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the wad of notes. Warily, Remington took the lot, looking as if he expected the papers to reek of brimstone. Perhaps they did. Gabriel had grown inured to that particular scent.

As Gabriel moved toward his study door, Remington spoke. “You’ll find Mr. Fox inside, my lord.” A smirk of satisfaction edged the man’s voice.

Of late, Christopher Fox had been urging Gabriel toward pursuits that involved sunlight and fresh air and other things he generally avoided. His friend’s well-meant interference had kept him from sliding headfirst into hell years ago, and for that he was mostly grateful. But nothing would keep him safe forever.

Gabriel’s final destination was assured.

“Ah. Coffee, then, Remy,” he called grimly over his shoulder. “A vat of it.”

“Very good, my lord.” This time, the smirk reached Remy’s eyes.

Dressed for riding, Fox stood with his back to the door, perusing the bookcase. “Isn’t it time you settled down and gave up these larks, Ash?” he asked without turning.

“Oh, Foxy. Only you would call my gaming and wenching ‘larks.’” Gabriel’s skill at the tables—and elsewhere, for that matter—was the stuff of legend.

“What’s this?” Fox plucked a book from the shelf and turned with a flourish. “A guide to the peerage? Surprised to find you in possession of such a thing, Ash.”

Snatching the battered volume from his friend’s grasp, Gabriel settled into the buttery-soft leather of the chair closest to the window. “Is it so strange that from time to time a man would wish to recall the history of his family?”

“You?” Fox tilted his head and his gray eyes narrowed with interest. “Yes.”

Gabriel dropped his gaze to the book, whose broken spine had flopped open on his knee, evidence that certain passages had received a great deal of study. Intersecting lines crossed the paper, resembling less a family tree than a scrub or a stump. He felt conspicuous on the page, which contained not only his name, but also the date of his mother’s death—or his own birth, if one would have it so. The final entry was the date he had assumed the marquessate, the date of his father’s untimely relinquishment of it. At the top of the page the name of the family seat was set off from the rest by italic type: Stoke Abbey, Shrops.

Many would insist that an estate and its people could suffer no graver misfortune than the infamous Lord Ash’s inheritance of it. Gabriel was inclined to agree. But would those naysayers change their tune if they too had chanced to overhear a few words exchanged at a neighboring card table?

For all his sins, at least Gabriel had never attempted to gamble his legacy away.

“I happened to catch my cousin Julian in the act of laying a rather extraordinary bet,” he said, “against the value of his future inheritance.”

“But your uncle’s estate is said to be mortgaged to the hilt already.” Fox took up the chair opposite.