Page 3 of Once Ruined, Twice Shy

“Excellent.” He clapped his hands together, then rubbed them. “I’m so glad you’ve agreed. I can feel the luck running through me—today, I’m certain, would be a most auspicious day at the gaming tables. I should take myself there this evening and see what fortunes I may win.”

Hestia moved to the window again and gazed down, unseeing. He would go out, lose all his money, and leave her alone all evening to reflect on the devil’s bargain she’d been forced to make.

Chapter 2

Conall Methuen, Earl of Corsbury, flexed the fingers of his gloved right hand and moved the pencil to his left. It surprised him how long it was taking for his wounds to heal. There’d be no writing with a dip pen for a month or two yet, as he’d discovered—to his intense frustration—it was nigh impossible to produce anything legible with his left hand. And even when he could, he still managed to smudge it. Damn Frederick Ebbworth. Curse that faulty pistol.

Shoving his chair back, he stalked to the long window, all thought of his accounts forgotten. He stared out, noting with pride the trim state of the lawns and the neatly pruned box hedges of the knot garden fronting the main aspect of Spyle Court. The rhododendrons in the landscaped park were less bright now, their petals littering the leaf mould like a snowy battlefield. He’d have to have a word with the gardeners about that.

His focus shifted as he caught sight of his reflection in the rippled glass. Wincing, he took a step back and returned his attention to the room. Good. He mustn’t allow himself to be distracted. There was no time for idle thoughts. Because any moment not filled with activity gave him time to think about Josephine.

Clenching his good fist, he stared at the longcase clock. Stapleton, his man of business-cum-spy, was due at eleven o’clock, and that hour had chimed ten minutes ago. He couldn’t abide lateness—when his day was planned to the last second, it created a terrifying tension in his chest he could barely control.

All because of Josephine. And because of what Frederick Ebbworth had done to them both.

With a sigh, Conall wandered back to his desk, pulled out a drawer and extracted the miniature portrait. Beloved betrayer, angel of torment, his fiancée. Until Ebbworth had returned from the dead and reclaimed her. And she had gone to him so willingly.

He gazed at the chestnut brown hair, the dark eyes, and fine slash of eyebrows captured so cunningly by the painter’s art. Not the colouring favoured by the ton, who preferred the porcelain version of the English rose, but which, combined with Josephine’s perfection of feature, had made her the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. He’d been smitten, besotted, lost to everything else in the six months of courtship they’d shared—so much so his mama, the Dowager Countess, had complained the estate was going to wrack and ruin.

A bitter smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Well, she had nothing to complain about now on that score. But she had, of course, found something else to hound him about—his lack of a wife.

Flipping the lid on the portrait closed, he returned it to the desk drawer, his heart squeezed by a tight, painful band. Admittedly, as the year rolled past, the pain had eased, but his determination to never love again had not. And the physical pain in his hand and face were a constant reminder of that vow. What did it matter if it were not his seed that inherited Spyle Court and the house in Bristol? If they went to his cousin Terence, the estates would still be in the family, would they not? Terence Methuen was no great businessman, but he had a sensible head on his shoulders—he’d do well enough. There was no reason for Conall to put himself through the trauma of courtship again.

There was a knock at the front door. Ah! Stapleton at last. From habit, Conall snapped open his pocket watch and marked the time. Twelve minutes late. Allowing him a full twelve minutes of brooding time. He really must find something to occupy these empty moments of waiting on others, some task that could be easily taken up and just as easily put down, like a woman’s needlework. Whittling. Perhaps he should take up whittling. With whalebone, like the sailors did, or wood. He was smiling at the idea as he opened the study door himself, not waiting for the footman to announce Stapleton.

“Forgive me, my lord,” said the broker as he entered. “That downpour yesterday has left the roads in a pitiful state. My progress was slower than I intended.”

“I must talk to my steward and see if we can’t compel the folk who live by the highway to fill in the potholes as they’re supposed to. Either that, or think about establishing some turnpike roads locally.”

Conall stepped back, closed the door, and ushered Stapleton into a seat in front of his desk. He took his place behind it and gazed at the man expectantly.

Stapleton’s handsome face broke into a grin. “Good news, sir.”

Conall raised an eyebrow, thinking that Stapleton made an excellent spy. Everyone trusted such a good-looking, well-set-up fellow, and his open countenance. Little did they suspect that expression concealed a stiletto-sharp intellect, and an uncanny ability to work out what other men were thinking. It made him a formidable opponent at the gaming tables.

“Yes?” His gaze flicked back to the clock. He needed to get on, and Stapleton was already late. He also needed this ‘good news’ to dispel his earlier gloom.

Instead of answering, Stapleton fished a folded paper out of his pocket and pushed it across the desk. Opening it, Conall saw—to his pleasure—it contained an IOU for ten guineas. “To whom are Ebbworth’s vowels owed this time?”

“Lord Austin.”

“Ah. Excellent. Austin was happy to sell this debt to you?”

“Very happy, sir. As you know, there are many gentlemen out there who think our quarry a liar and a cheat, even if they can’t prove it. None of them would object to seeing him end up in a debtor’s prison.”

“But they enjoy it when they manage to fleece him—am I correct?”

“Indeed.” Stapleton leaned forward, his blue eyes twinkling in the sunlight. “It shouldn’t be long now, sir. He’s been distracted of late, playing badly, investing foolishly.”

“Distracted by that mistress of his?”

The twinkle vanished. “I regret I can’t tell what’s distracting him, sir. I know nothing of the mistress—no one ever sees her. She might be no more than an idle boast.”

Conall sucked in a breath. He couldn’t imagine a golden Adonis like Ebbworth being for long without a woman. His hand went to his eyepatch, making sure it was in place. But as he always sat with his back to the light now, no one on the other side of his desk would be able to see the livid red and white scars. Not that it would matter to a man like Stapleton, but it mattered to him. The accident had shattered his pride. He had built himself up again painfully, piece by jagged piece.

He cleared his throat. “I would not want the wretched sap who now clings to him to be destitute after his fall. See what you can arrange for her, will you? Anonymously, of course.”

“I will do my best, sir. Now, I bring with me the current cost of shares in Lancashire blankets, Midlands hosiery, and iron ore production. In all of which Mr Ebbworth has an interest.”