A Fortunate Miscalculation (The Gentlemen’s Gamble #5)

Prologue

Andrew Langford was far too young to die, and yet here he was.

His feet would not stay beneath him as he held to the bracings of the ship cabin’s berth; they stumbled over one another, his shoulder slamming into the wooden planks lining the wall of The Siren.

Each subsequent wave, seemingly coming on top of one another, was one more opportunity for the small ship to give in to the far superior might of the storm attacking it.

The air tasted of salt, the sound of the storm filling his ears.

He was going to die. He and all his closest friends were going to die.

Again he slammed into the berth, nearly falling atop Rowan where the man sat on the lower bunk.

His friend scrambled to the edge of the thin bed, making room for Andrew, but Andrew shook his head, a fitful, erratic action.

He far preferred to stay standing for as long as he could manage.

It was ridiculous—but he felt if he could just keep his footing, he would maintain some semblance of control over the situation.

His eyes skittered around the small room, hardly large enough to hold the three of his friends that were actually quartered in it, but now full to bursting.

When the sea made known its desire to take each of them to an early grave, all seven of the school friends had crammed in.

Some on the bunks, some on the nailed stools, and some, like Andrew, struggling to remain upright.

If they were to die, they would do so together.

Another wave battered the hull and Andrew tensed, sweat beading on his forehead as his muscles cramped with the effort of remaining upright. Rowan caught his eye again, looking pointedly at the spot beside him, but stubbornly Andrew again shook his head.

They should have risked the additional danger that Sweden declaring war on England would have brought to their Grand Tour. Attempting travel across the Channel during December was by far the greater risk.

And now a new risk had presented itself, in the form of an incredibly idiotic wager.

“I am done with this life of adventure,” Thomas Denby shouted, his flame-red hair sticking up at the back. “I swear it, on my life, I shall marry the first woman I see when we dock.”

“If we dock,” Leonard, with his ever-positive outlook, shouted back.

“When we dock,” Thomas called again, brushing his sweaty red hair from his eyes. Andrew would wager the man was regretting his overlong Titus-style now. “I will be the first of any of you louts to marry.”

Leonard scoffed, but his eyes were on the walls of the cabin, which were creaking ominously. “Fine chance of that. I swear on my life, you will not be the first. Last, perhaps!”

“And if I am—” Thomas paused as a particularly dangerous wave rocked them all to the side. “I shall pay forfeit! One hundred pounds to each of you! And you can pay me one hundred pounds when you are last.” He swept them all with his gaze, a wild look about his eyes.

“Ridiculous,” Andrew shouted at Thomas, when he was certain the contents of his stomach—rather than his words—would not exit his mouth. “I would never agree to such a wager!”

Thomas raised a brow, which appeared particularly crooked as the entire cabin pitched in the wave. Gads, they were going to die. And without a chance of declaring himself to Sophie.

“Is it because you do not believe Miss Renard will agree?” Thomas goaded.

Another friend, Charles, chuckled from his place across the room, seeming entirely at his ease even as they made a valiant effort at capsizing. Andrew’s feet attempted to escape him again, and he was momentarily jealous of the man’s nailed stool anchoring him to the floor.

He knew it was all a distraction—that was Thomas’s specialty—distracting them from the here and now.

And frankly, it was rather appreciated. Another wave pounded at the side of the boat, sounding like both thunder and their Maker come calling at once.

Andrew stopped the lantern swinging beside him before it bludgeoned his temples, the responsibility and level-headedness he’d never been without leaking from him as swiftly as water dripped from the ceiling.

He was meant to be the steadying force among these men, and yet he felt one wave from losing his head entirely.

“Well, we are going to die anyway, so I see no reason not to agree,” Leonard said. The man was far too impassive for how they were all being treated like a rag doll in a dog’s jaws.

Thomas grinned, nodding appreciatively. “That’s the spirit, Lenny!” Then he fastened his eyes on Rowan.

The dark-haired man sighed, straightening. “If I live, I swear I’ll do my duty by Miss Delafield!”

Thomas punched the air. “Hear, hear!”

Andrew shook his head; it was six hundred pounds total. A near fortune, especially for a second son such as Andrew, who would have to fight for every advantage he could manage in society before he could even think of marrying. Dying or not, this was madness.

Rather entertaining madness, to be sure.

“I, Charles Shepherd, swear to fulfill the wager!”

Andrew’s eyes snapped to Charles, and his friend winked, clearly enjoying himself.

For the madhouse. All of them.

Why, then, was a grin stretching Andrew’s mouth?

Tristan repeated the same from beside Charles—he would agree to the ridiculous gamble. Tristan was certain to find a wife, with his constant charm with women. He would be in no danger of losing one hundred pounds to each of them.

One by one, his friends were falling to the heat of the moment, and Andrew teetered precariously on the cusp of giving in.

There was something attractive in the wager, something that drew him in beyond a desire to think of anything but the way only the ship’s too-fragile walls stood between him and certain death.

For months now, he’d been formulating his goals, deciding what he needed to do to prove himself in this world that only valued men like his older brother—men with a position in society and a sure future. Marriage would be the culmination of his success. A wife fit in perfectly with his goals.

One wife in particular—whom he’d spent his formative years catching frogs and climbing trees with, before the burden of responsibility had formed.

“Very well, I pledge that if I marry last, I will pay the required sum,” called Ambrose, holding to the edge of the opposite bunk. The man’s analytical mind had likely already conjured up a plan of action to succeed.

Again, Thomas raised a brow at Andrew. “Come now, of all of us, it is only you and Rowan who already have women waiting.”

Sophie Renard was hardly waiting for Andrew. She likely saw him as no more than a friend. An older brother, perhaps. But still, the challenge was thrown, and his honor bade him see it head on. Honor, plus a healthy dose of reckless abandon.

“Fine!” he shouted as he stumbled backward, slamming hard into the wall. His head spun. “I swear, on my life, that I will marry before any of you ridiculous fools.” Now, he needed only to convince Sophie of it.

The men cheered, and Andrew hit the wall again.

Convince Sophie… and survive the rest of this blasted trip.