Page 2 of The Companion’s Secret

“Not my uncle’s estate.” With one fingertip, he traced the line that joined his father’s name to his only brother’s equally short branch of the family tree. “Mine. It seems he has been gallivanting around town styling himself as my heir presumptive.”

Remington chose that moment to appear with a tray and placed it on the table between them. Beside the silver coffeepot and two cups in saucers lay the papers Gabriel had brought home, now smoothed and neatly stacked.

“Only one way I know of to prevent it, Ash,” Fox said as he accepted a steaming cup from Remy.

“Oh, and how’s that?”

“Why…marry.” For some time now, Fox had been hinting that a woman of impeccable birth could help restore Gabriel to the bright and airy sociability of the ton after a lifetime spent in the more comfortable darkness of the demimonde. With an expression caught between coaxing and condemnation, he added, “Rumor has it you’ve a way with the ladies.”

This, Gabriel could hardly deny. From somewhere, he mustered a laugh. “With women, old friend,” he amended. “Never ladies.”

Reluctant amusement danced in Fox’s eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t think too much on a bit of bragging at the tables. Julian Finch is little more than a foolish puppy—”

“Once, I would have agreed with you. But the man I saw last night…?” Gabriel shook his head, recalling the note of desperation in his cousin’s voice.

To Gabriel, Stoke Abbey was the most haunted dwelling place in England, a status that had nothing at all to do with the ghosts of long-departed monks and nuns. Since his childhood, he had spent no time there. But he had never truly abandoned it. Did he mean to do so in the end?

Perhaps Fox had the right of it. Perhaps it was time to think less of his past and more of his posterity.

Marriage to a lady of spotless reputation would—well, not repair Gabriel’s standing as a gentleman, for that implied it had some prior existence, but establish it. A proper bride, a place in society, and an heir apparent in due course…his uncle would choke on the news. Ten years ago, it would have been insufficient punishment for all the man had done to him. Now, however, he saw an elegant simplicity in taking such an ordinary form of revenge.

There was only one problem. No decent young woman or her family would willingly form an alliance with him, despite his wealth and title. Fox knew it. And so did his uncle and cousin. In fact, they had obviously been counting on it.

Absently, he laid aside the book and picked up the pile of notes instead. Pausing over one particular piece of paper, he rubbed its edge between thumb and forefinger. Julian was not the only fool who had played too deep last night. “Tell me, Foxy,” Gabriel said after a long moment, “what do you know of the Earl of Merrick?”

“A true gentleman, by all accounts. They say he’s a force to be reckoned with in the Lords, though too Whiggish in his votes for my father’s taste.” Fox snatched the guide to the peerage from the arm of Gabriel’s chair and flipped through its pages. “Here you go,” he said, turning and proffering the open book. “The Trenton family. Of Derbyshire.”

Gabriel accepted the book but did not look at the page Fox indicated. “As it happens, I’m somewhat acquainted with Merrick’s…situation. Substantial properties in Wales and Northumberland, in addition to the Derbyshire estate. All entailed. One son, Lord Trenton, who was sent down from Cambridge last autumn and has since run up debts all over town.”

“Some of them to you, my lord,” Remington interjected as he poured Gabriel’s coffee. “If all those little scraps of paper you bring home are to be believed.”

Gabriel raised his eyes to his servant. “Collect the rest for me, will you, Remy?” Once more he handed over the bundle of papers, this time in exchange for the cup.

“You want a tally of the young man’s debts?” Remington asked, not a trace of surprise in his voice.

Of indeterminate age and uncertain origins, Arthur Remington was not the typical gentleman’s gentleman. Gabriel had a vague notion that Remy had spent some time in the army, for he could spit-polish boots to a mirror shine but had no patience for the intricacies of a well-tied cravat. Whatever his history, it had supplied the man with a host of far more useful skills, one of which was the ability to wrest information from even the most unwilling.

“Not a tally,” Gabriel said. “The debts themselves.” In a matter of days, Merrick’s son—why, the earl himself—would be his to command.

One grizzled eyebrow arched, but the man gave a crisp bow. “Yes, sir.”

“Merrick also has a daughter, has he not?” Gabriel asked almost before Remington had shut the door behind him.

“Er…ye-es.” Hesitation rippled Fox’s voice. “Pretty girl. Had her come-out last spring. Expected to make a brilliant match, until—”

“Until her brother gambled away her dowry,” Gabriel finished for him.

Fox eyed him uncertainly. “What are you about, Ash?”

One last gamble. “Were you not just suggesting I marry? I’m arranging a…well, let us call it an introduction to Lady Felicity Trenton.”

Fox’s brows dove downward, shadowing his eyes. “Surely even you are aware there are more conventional ways to meet proper young ladies.”

As a general rule, Gabriel cared very little for either convention or proper young ladies. Sometimes, however, a tiger might be forced to change his stripes. “In the face of certain social realities, a man must on occasion resort to cleverness to get what he wants…er, needs.” The Earl of Merrick was a respected member of the peerage. So respected that, had his son not driven the family to the brink of ruin, he would never have permitted Gabriel even to speak his daughter’s name. “When Merrick learns I hold all his son’s debts,” Gabriel said, “he will be glad enough to accept whatever terms of repayment I offer.”

“And Lady Felicity’s hand is to be your price.” Fox chewed each word and, by his sour expression, apparently found them difficult to digest.

Closing the guide with a snap, Gabriel traced the deckled edges of the paper with the tips of his fingers, as if neatening a stack of playing cards, a gesture his adversaries at the table had come to recognize as the sign that their loss was about to become Lord Ash’s gain.