Chapter One #2
Downstairs in His Lordship’s blue parlor, Miss Verity Farrington was standing in front of the empty fireplace and studying the portrait which hung above it.
This excellent piece of art showed an imposing man of middle age with a fine head of hair already streaked with silver.
He sat in a high-backed chair in front of a window, and the artist had captured the light on his face with consummate skill.
She studied this face in curiosity. He might once have been called a handsome man, but age had rendered his features hard and cold with an unrelenting line to his set mouth.
Cruel, even, for want of a better word. Not the face of a man it would be easy to like.
She shivered. Hopefully this was not the man to whom her father had dispatched her this morning.
It would be an underestimation to say how disturbing that would be, and probably frightening.
However, she would cope with it if she had to.
She was well used to coping with anything life threw at her and had no illusions concerning her own strengths.
Determined not to be intimidated by a mere portrait, she turned away from it and studied the rest of the opulent room.
The walls were indeed a deep blue, being covered in exquisite silk wallpaper that must have cost a lot of money.
She’d learned from Papa to assess the wealth of a man by many giveaways: his clothing, the jewels his wife wore, his horses, his carriages, his house, and his house’s decorations and furniture.
And this house could not hide the wealth of its owner.
In her travels, she’d seen the inside of a great number of fine town houses in cities such as Paris, Florence, Vienna and Rome, and recognized this as one of the most impressive.
Long windows opened onto a well-laid-out garden of surprising proportions for London, with a broad terrace and steps down into a verdant area already thick with summer flowers.
A little sigh escaped her lips. A garden, with all its connotations of permanence and slow fruition, represented the stability she’d not known for years.
A garden to walk in and inhale the many scents that must be hanging in the air.
Maybe she would be able to do so occasionally if this encounter went well.
She turned away from that enticing vista and surveyed the rest of the room, anxious to learn clues about the man Papa had sent her to call upon.
More portraits hung on the other walls. This was a family fond of images of themselves.
Opposite the fireplace another large painting showed a beautiful, dark-haired young woman dressed as a shepherdess, a style that had once been made popular by a certain French queen.
She sat on the ground beneath the spreading branches of an oak tree, a little boy of about four or five standing by her side.
In the distance, water glimmered and, beyond that, the shadowy form of an enormous house appeared almost ghostlike.
The woman was dark in appearance, with abundant curls hanging down her back.
She didn’t look English at all. Perhaps Spanish?
The little boy, a sweet expression on his chubby, baby face, matched her, his hair the blue-black of a magpie’s wing. An interesting picture.
Verity had seen a lot of good paintings in a variety of houses on her travels across Europe with Papa.
As Mama had been of Breton origin, both she and Papa had been able to pass themselves off as French with ease, and thus had gone for the most part unmolested in a Europe that had been war-torn.
She’d seen Venice and Florence, lived in Rome for a few years, been to Spain and Austria and Switzerland and more lately France itself.
Although she and Papa had not been back to Brittany, Mama’s home country, since her mother had died there.
Never to Brittany. Papa had flatly refused.
It had only been her father’s ill health that had brought them back to England a few short weeks ago. And since then, things had not gone well for them.
She abandoned the painting of the intriguing woman and the raven-haired little boy and returned to the window.
She’d visited the Palace of Versailles and walked in the Jardin du Luxembourg in Paris, as well as the rose gardens at Malmaison, so she knew a well laid out garden when she saw one, and recognised the hand of a woman on this one, but most likely some time ago as the garden was mature. Possibly a French woman. Interesting.
Was there a woman here still, or did this earl she was seeking live here in this huge house alone?
That he was unmarried, she was certain, for even in the circles she and Papa moved in, she’d heard of the Black Earl.
And Papa would not have sent her here at all had he been happily married.
That he was a gambler and rake went without asking, or Papa would never have crossed paths with him.
Perhaps, knowing his reputation, there was a mistress in residence who liked to walk in that beautiful garden she was already envying?
A large part of her hoped this might be true, with what she had to do today in mind.
She’d walked around here from the lodgings she and Papa were sharing first thing this morning, not having wanted to delay things.
If she’d thought about it any longer, she might have refused to go, and that would have been a mistake with terrible consequences.
For Papa and possibly for herself as well.
Almost certainly for herself if she stopped to think about it, as her fate was so closely tied to Papa’s.
And now she’d been waiting here in this beautiful, overblown parlor, that she was beginning to despise for its decadence, for almost two hours.
What time did earls get up? Surely before half past eleven?
The steady ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece had kept her apprised of the time.
As a habitual early riser herself, she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to waste half the day lying in bed.
Although, of course, that was what Papa did most of the time, and more so now he was so unwell.
The stiff-backed valet with the snooty expression had come to see her over an hour ago now and informed her that His Lordship was indisposed but that he would inform him of her arrival.
As indisposed as Papa was this morning, no doubt, or she wouldn’t be here.
She’d left her father snoring in his bed, the stench of alcohol on him strong enough to make her lightheaded.
She knew better than to disturb him on the morning after a bout of gambling and heavy drinking.
She frowned. If His Lordship was anything like Papa, then when she finally met him, he, too, was unlikely to be in a good mood. Papa was anything but his best on the morning after a long gambling and drinking session.
Pursing her lips in resignation, she turned back to study the richly upholstered, and not very inviting, seating and chose a demure pink velvet chair to settle on.
She’d tried each seat in turn during her vigil, and this was the only one she’d not perched on so far.
She smoothed her skirts down, regretting the fact that she had no smarter clothing to have worn.
In this lush room her gown looked even more faded than it had done when she’d set out, and she was acutely aware of the hopefully invisible darning she’d done on the right elbow of her navy-blue spencer.
Glancing down at her feet, it dawned on her that her boots, too, gave away her impecunious state, so she tucked them under the hem of her gown and got on with what she was good at doing. Waiting.
The ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece filled the room.
Being at the back of the house, no street noises could venture inside to disturb the peace.
Only it was not peace. Not for her anyway.
She felt anything but peaceful and, within the confines of her stays, her poor heart pattered in anxiety.
She was like a duck, outwardly serene as she glided over the water, but with her feet paddling like mad out of sight.
She bit her lip. Should she stay any longer?
She could leave right now, and he would never know who had called on him this morning.
Only if she did, what would happen to Papa, who didn’t have the money to settle his debts to this obnoxious, spoilt, and entitled member of the aristocracy?
She hadn’t spent her formative years in France without gaining a healthy dislike of the aristos.
And this particular one had the power to send poor Papa to prison—to the Marshalsea or the Fleet, or even Newgate, and she wouldn’t be able to get him out because she would never be able to find the money to repay the debts he owed.
That she would be alone in the world didn’t matter. What mattered was Papa.
The door opened.
Her head swung round.
A man stood in the doorway.
Their eyes met.
He was tall and slim, his wide, muscular shoulders clearly visible as he was not wearing a coat of any sort, only an unbuttoned brocade waistcoat over a loose white shirt.
Dark, wavy hair in such a state that it gave him the look of someone who had just got out of bed, which she assumed he probably had, curled about a face so handsome it almost took her breath away.
Black eyebrows winged across his forehead over a strong, aquiline nose.
Beneath the nose curved a mouth that could have been as cruel as the one belonging to the man in the portrait, who must surely be his father.
However, at this precise moment, it hung slightly open as though in shock.
Perhaps he’d been expecting her to look different.
He came in and closed the door behind himself and bowed. “Dunster at your service, madam. I do not have the pleasure of your name.” His voice was deep, but his tone a little curt as though having been disturbed before midday had annoyed him.
Let him be annoyed. His annoyance could not compare to hers.
She rose to her feet, forgetful of the need to hide her shabby boots.
“Verity Farrington, my lord.” And she curtseyed, acutely aware of the uncomfortable sensation prickling over her that he knew what she looked like naked.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. This was not going to be easy, especially as he didn’t appear to have recognised her name.
Could he have forgotten last night? Might she have the chance, even now, to escape?
But only if he’d also forgotten how much Papa owed him. And that would be unlikely.
He took another step towards her, puzzlement now mixed with something akin to acquisitiveness. “Please, be seated.” His brow had furrowed slightly, but he’d remembered his manners. His face had the same sort of gray tinge to it Papa’s had when he had a terrible hangover. That might be in her favor.
Obediently, she did as she was asked, remembering to hide her boots beneath her skirts again. However, she was not feeling in the least bit obedient.
He moved to the fireplace and rested a negligent hand on the mantlepiece near the clock. Did he need its support to remain upright? Possibly. He had long, elegant fingers, on one of which a heavy gold ring glittered.
He managed the slightest of smiles, his brow puckering as though doing so had given him pain.
Definitely a hangover. Verity could spot one a mile off.
She’d seen enough in her time. “And what might I be able to do for you… Miss Farrington?” He raised those black brows in a question, which only served to render him more handsome.
And, from the wince he gave, give him more pain.
She couldn’t help but think that a good thing.
He deserved some pain as he’d caused Papa so much of it.
However, she must not become distracted. This whole affair called for concentration and resolution, and determination on her part. She sat up as straight as possible and drew in a fortifying breath. “I have come to settle my father’s debt to you, my lord.”
His dark eyes remained disconcertingly blank as though this meant nothing to him.
Once again, she found herself wondering if he could have forgotten.
A sense of indignation that he could have cast from his mind so fateful a wager rose in Verity’s breast. That he would have forgotten it had never occurred to her until now.
If she’d guessed, she most certainly would not have come.
But she was here now, so she had to continue.
He frowned. “Your father’s debt? He owes me money? Who is he? Do I know him?”
Ignoring what many others might see as an insult, she swallowed.
“My father’s name is Anthony Farrington.
” How difficult it was to keep her voice steady.
“Last night he lost heavily to you at cards. I do not know what game you were playing as I was not present, but…at the end, he found he had only one thing left to stake, and as gambling is in his very blood, and without a doubt he was in his cups, he staked it. And he lost. I am here to settle his debt.” She bit her lip again.
“You come bringing me money?” his lordship asked, eyeing her shabby attire up and down as though, rightly, he suspected she had none. There was a cruel and calculating curl to his lip that robbed him of his good looks and rendered him frightening. But she would not be cowed.
She shook her head. “No. My father lost the last of our money at the card table, as you must know.” He must have been very drunk not to remember this.
More drunk than Papa, probably, which was saying something.
She began to wish Papa had not remembered as well.
“As I have said, he found he had only one thing left to stake.” She paused, sat up a bit straighter and looked him boldly in the eye. “Me.”
“You?” His dark eyes widened and his voice rose in incredulity. “Your father staked his daughter in a bet?”
This was more difficult than she’d expected. Vexed by his tone, she scowled at him. “Yes. He staked me, and he lost. I have come here to surrender myself to you and save my father from incarceration in the debtors’ prison.”
He was staring at her in what had to be amazement. Or plain shock. “Are you are telling me that I have won you at cards?”
She nodded. “Yes, my lord, you have.”