Chapter Twenty
He awoke alone the following day, stark naked, sideways across his bed, and chilly. His pillow smelled like her, and so did
his skin. His cravat was trailing from his open hand. The memories came in such a vivid rush that his breath went short.
He forced himself to move when what he wanted to do was savor, and remember. But if the maids came in and found him like this
he’d likely be evicted like the rules threatened.
He had an important meeting today. So he washed and shaved and dressed in crisp clothing. In the little mirror in his room
he looked like a man who had shagged all night. It was a good look for him, he decided.
At ten o’clock, Farnham, Sydenham’s footman, brought Marchand up to a room lined with bookcases and furnished in mahogany
and gilt.
Sydenham rose from behind a fine desk—not nearly as fine as the one Marchand had in his office, he ascertained—to greet him.
“Mr. Marchand. Always a pleasure to see you. Imagine my delight when you wrote to me to request a private conversation. Have you a business proposition in mind? Something juicy, perhaps?”
He gestured to a chair and Gabriel sat down across from him.
He didn’t reply.
He merely regarded Sydenham wordlessly, expressionlessly.
Fixedly.
Long enough for the earl’s smile to drift away from his face and for unease to settle into his expression.
“I know what you did,” Marchand said finally.
And because he noticed everything, he saw the minute tensing of the Earl of Sydenham’s jaw. The spasm of muscle at his cheekbone.
The twitch of a brow.
It wasn’t shock.
It was guilt.
For a moment, it didn’t seem as though the earl would respond.
“I beg your pardon, Marchand?”
“I know that you drugged the young Earl of Highgrove’s brandy that night at Lucifer’s Fall.”
The earl’s mouth parted slightly.
No sound emerged. His eyes had flickered to blankness for an instant, in shock.
Marchand continued calmly. “I know you put a so-called headache powder known to cause hallucinations in the earl’s brandy.
And then you proceeded to take advantage of his resulting incapacitation to win fifteen thousand pounds.” He shook his head.
“Hardly sporting of you, Lord Sydenham. Very, very, very against the rules you agreed to when you became a member.”
Marchand’s heart was now, in fact, thudding like a war drum.
He’d been seething ever since he’d confirmed this.
“Come now, Marchand.” The earl gave a little laugh. “I’ve never known you to be irrational.”
“We have a witness to your deed.”
He’d told Ginny that he never lied anymore. But this lie was strategic, and necessary. He had Hogarth’s word. And he believed
him.
He wanted to see what happened to the earl’s expression when he said it.
The earl was a novice at this sort of thing, clearly. He’d gone absolutely motionless for a few seconds longer than mere surprise
would dictate. And that, Marchand knew full well, was the telltale sign of someone internally scrambling to get their story
together.
“I can’t imagine why you believe you have a witness for something that never happened,” Sydenham finally said, with a little
laugh.
“I have eyes everywhere on the betting floor. It’s my responsibility to keep every single man in my establishment safe, after
all. My reputation and my livelihood are staked upon it, as are the lives of some of the finest men in London. And when I
made a few subtle inquiries, it was just a matter of the right person coming forward. We know for a fact that the only person
from whom the young Earl of Highgrove accepted a drink was you. He was sober when he arrived at Lucifer’s Fall.”
The earl’s mouth worked, but no sound emerged. He was clearly unaccustomed to thinking quickly.
“Oh, and also?” Marchand reached into his coat and retrieved two folded documents.
“This is a signed statement from the apothecary from whom you bought the headache powder stating that you did indeed buy it from him and were indeed aware of its properties. And this is the receipt with your signature on it. Dated a day before the event.”
He unfolded both of them and held them up so the earl could read them. Sydenham leaned over his desk to peer at them.
Color fled his face, leaving it gray.
“These documents are not proof that I did anything.”
Yet he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from them.
Marchand ignored this.
“I take it very, very personally that a young man who paid for a pleasant experience, someone who not only trusted me, but trusted everyone there, was so grossly abused.”
Sydenham finally risked looking up at Marchand then.
He recoiled from the look in his eyes.
“Come now, Marchand,” he cajoled, sounding hoarse. “I only meant to have a bit of fun. A sprinkle of powder couldn’t have
killed the lad. Call it an initiation, of sorts, for a new member. I thought it would be amusing, and it was! I’ve never seen
anyone dance on a billiards table before, have you?”
Marchand prayed for restraint. His hands twitched to close around the man’s throat.
“Anything could kill anyone, given the right conditions, Lord Sydenham. Ask me how I know.” He smiled almost tenderly.
The earl went still. For the first time, rank fear flared in his eyes.
“The main thing is that what you did wasn’t sporting at all. In fact, I consider it cheating.” Marchand said this silkily. “And I think you know how I feel about cheating. And what I do to cheaters.”
Sydenham was dead quiet now. A neat row of sweat beads had appeared at the earl’s hairline.
“But I’m giving you two choices. You can tell Miss Woodville that you’ve decided to tear up her brother’s vowels out of the
goodness of your heart in order to honor your friendship with her parents”—he gave that word the most ironic frisson imaginable—“and resign your membership from Lucifer’s Fall. If
you choose not to do that, I will ban you without comment from Lucifer’s Fall and strike your wager from the books, as per
our rules regarding cheating, and allow the ton at large to talk as they may. If questions are asked about the reasons for
your absence, I will not hesitate to answer them truthfully. In both instances, you will forfeit your membership fees, which
will become the property of Lucifer’s Fall. Either way, you’re never welcome on the premises again. And if I witness or hear
about any comment, protest, or slander regarding me or the Woodvilles from you, concerted steps will be taken to stop it.”
A long, long silence followed.
“I can ruin you, Marchand.” The earl’s belligerence was unconvincing. His voice shook.
“You’re certainly welcome to try.” Marchand smiled politely. “I do wonder, however, Sydenham, what you think I’m unwilling
to do in order to exact retribution.”
And with that, he saw the fight leave the earl. The man was sickly pale and resigned.
Had the ancient, festering wound of losing Ginny’s mother to his rival driven the earl to this?
Had he remained close to Ginny’s father only for the opportunity to be near Ginny’s mother?
Was he witnessing how thwarted love could warp a man?
A chill traced Marchand’s spine. Such a long time to grieve a lost love.
“I’ll just sit right here while you write the letter to Miss Woodville, shall I?”
Sydenham’s hand trembled as he reached for his quill.
A few hours later, Marchand witnessed the crushing weight of the debt lift from Ginny when she read Sydenham’s letter. The
very shape of her face and the way she held her body transformed, softened.
He’d given it to her in the little park in front of the Grand Palace on the Thames, because that’s where she was when he’d
returned from the earl’s house. And for a shining, futile instant, he imagined coming home to her every day, to a garden just
like that one. Longing sliced right down through him.
Finally, she closed her eyes and exhaled at length.
She sat silently, clearly refamiliarizing herself with how the world felt now that a sword suspended by a single hair, à la
Damocles, wasn’t dangling over her.
They sat quietly together.
It made his throat tight with emotion. Gratitude, and guilt, and grief.
Did he deserve the guilt? Did he blame himself at all? Should he?
Should he extend to himself grace?
He didn’t know the answers.
He had created the only kind of life he’d known how to create. Her brother had walked in and gambled their life away.
If that debt had never existed, he never would have met Guinevere Woodville.He’d known a weak moment or two when he’d wondered
whether that would have been more merciful for both of them.
But at last he’d fixed it.
Now she was free to go home, negotiate marriage settlements for her sisters, and marry the third son of a duke, should Francis
get around to proposing. If that’s what she wanted to do. She would fulfill her mother’s final wish for her. She would have
the life she’d long anticipated, as secure a life as fate would allow anyone.
He’d done what he could to take care of her, and that was really all that mattered.
“I’ve had another surprise, too,” he said. He produced Hogarth’s letter, which had at last arrived.
“I agreed his plan to pay off his debt by teaching was a sound and fine plan, and I’ve written to tell him so. I will have
contracts drawn up for him to sign soon.”
He was hard-pressed to imagine a greater pleasure than the expression on Ginny’s face in that moment. Amazement and pride
and relief. “Do you see, Gabriel? He’s a good person, isn’t he? I’m so proud of him.”
“He is,” Marchand confirmed. “You did a good job raising him, Ginny.”
“So . . . it’s over? All of it? Just like that?”
“Just like that. I’ve stricken all of your brother’s debts from the books at Lucifer’s Fall. You are all free.”
He lost himself in the luxury of her gaze for a moment.
“Gabriel . . .”
“Yes?”
“Did you have anything to do with . . . any of this? With Sydenham’s decision or Hogarth’s proposal to be a teacher?”