Chapter Three
Had the Earl of Rockford been more of a gentleman, a man of polished character wounded by Caroline’s scheming machinations, she might have felt positively wretched about the blackmail.
But the earl had proved such a snarling, ill-tempered beast that she felt merely queasy instead. She didn’t know much of the man, but she recalled rumors heard about town that he had once been the most debauched sort of character, a rake and a prizefighter.
Given the earl’s almost feral performance last night, the truth had seemingly not been exaggerated.
As second son, he’d gone from nothing to inheriting an earldom in less than a year.
His time living on his wits in the world had left him a rogue, one no decent young woman in society should wish to marry.
Well, I suppose I’m not much of a decent woman anymore. We should suit each other quite well.
Besides, the writer in her found the Earl of Rockford a delight to consider. He was indeed the perfect model for her Devil in Masquerade at Seville . Though she’d already completed the manuscript, after breakfast Caroline resolved to make a few notes in case her publisher should want revisions.
But as she was passing toward the breakfast room, Wilkins found her. “Beg pardon, Miss. His Lordship wishes to see you in the study.”
“Oh dear.” Caroline sighed. “Was he in a cheerful mood or the opposite?”
“I couldn’t quite tell, Miss.”
With a pained grimace, Caroline made her way to her father’s study and knocked.
“Come in,” he said. Caroline slipped inside. “Caroline. Well. What do you suppose I have here?” He flourished a piece of paper.
Baron Devereux was a diminutive man with a great deal of scalp and the fleeting impression of hair sketched around his temples. He was blond, like his daughter, with a pair of spectacles seemingly glued to the bridge of his nose, through which he squinted at the world. From the way he brandished that letter, as though it were a weapon, Caroline had the suspicion she knew who’d sent it and why.
“That wouldn’t be from the Earl of Rockford, would it?” She dropped into a seat before the baron’s desk.
“The earl says he called last night.”
“He did.”
“Moreso, he says here that you blackmailed him!” Her father leaned across his desk slightly, narrowing his eyes and studying Caroline as though she were a riddle he was trying to solve. “Caro, is any of that true?”
“I’m afraid it is. Every word.”
“You demanded he marry you?”
“I did indeed.”
“You threatened him with scandal should he refuse?”
“Yes.” Her stomach clenched again. Being at the point of literal desperation didn’t make her feel any better about the business.
“Caroline Devereux.” The baron sat slowly in his chair and laid the earl’s letter down. Then her father beamed, his whole expression brightening as if a match had been struck within. “You are truly my daughter after all! I’m so proud of you, my darling.”
“Most fathers wouldn’t relish their daughters’ descent into criminality,” Caroline drawled. “But ours has never been the most conventional family.” Caroline knew he wasn’t listening to her; the baron had been swept off into a fantasy world of perpetually paid gambling debts and endless rounds of drinks bought at other men’s expense. Indeed, he seemed to be on the verge of petting the earl’s letter as though it were an adored kitten. It made Caroline feel irritated and rather cheap, to be valued for the lowest thing she’d ever done.
“What gumption that must have taken. And to think, you got your hook into one of the richest men in England! I’m only ashamed I never thought of such a thing myself,” her father said.
“Is that why you kept the old earl’s letter? In case of emergency blackmail?”
“One should keep every bit of gossip and evidence against one’s fellow man safe and secure for the day it is needed.”
“Yes, I recall that in the vicar’s sermon last Sunday,” Caroline muttered. “Directly before he said that our Lord instructed us to steal from poor widows and pinch babies when they’re annoying.”
“If only God said sensible things, I might bother to pay attention in church.” The baron chuckled as he read Rockford’s letter over again greedily. Caroline felt a headache coming on. Her headaches were almost all named after her father. “For years I’ve tried to instruct you children in the ways of the world. You all seemed to resist the truth. Surprising that you, Caro, should be the first to embrace it!”
Indeed, the three Devereux siblings had once been described by the baron as “incurably considerate.” Though perhaps Caroline could no longer be held among the ranks of nice, good people.
Well, at least there was every chance the Earl of Rockford did not desire niceness in a wife. She thought again of his barely restrained fury, his masculine affront at her blackmail. She’d had dreams all night of the two of them arguing passionately upon a windswept cliff overlooking a restless ocean, and she’d woken up with a racing heart and rather itchy palms.
“When shall we announce the wedding?” her father asked.
“Let’s first make certain Lord Rockford has agreed. I’d imagine in the letter he said he rejected my proposal?”
“Oh, indeed.” The baron looked over the paper once more. “Yes, just here. He says he would, and I quote, ‘rather marry a carp in a bonnet.’ Ha! What a turn of phrase. Yes, I think you two shall do well together.”
“Aren’t you worried at all?” Caroline had to ask; his relentless cheer was starting to offend her on Rockford’s behalf.
“Worried? About what?”
She could have screamed; he really had no idea at all what they were risking.
“The earl’s retribution! I’ve heard he was supposed to have fought bare-fisted throughout the whole of England and Scotland. Supposing he turns up at our door prepared to settle this in such a manner?”
The baron appeared startled. “Caro. I can’t think any gentleman would wish to box against a lady. And even if he does, I’m certain you can be taught to throw a punch.”
He was being utterly serious. Caroline’s temples started to throb.
“Not me! I mean you, Father. What if the Earl of Rockford wishes to fight you for return of the letter?”
“Why should he target me?” The man appeared shocked.
“Because you’re head of the household!” she cried.
A useless head is still head, after all. She kept those thoughts to herself.
“Now why should he wish to go after me? I’ve a strapping son of my own, one much closer to the earl’s age! That would be a fairer fight, and Edmund would do anything for me. You know that.” The baron appeared quite defensive now.
“Yes, I do know that. Eddie would be on the floor in minutes. He can’t bring himself to use a riding crop on a horse, bless him. He could never win a fight against a top-shelf boxer.”
“Well, I’ve two sons, don’t I?”
Caroline’s eyelid twitched. “Simon is eight .”
“If you thought this blackmail business would put your brothers and me at risk, Caroline, why ever did you do it in the first place?” Now that the baron himself might be inconvenienced or possibly injured, his glee had vanished. For the first time he appeared displeased with what she’d done. “If it’s such a risk, why subject us to it?”
“Why did I do it?” Caroline hadn’t wanted to bring this bit up. She’d wanted to keep it to herself so that she alone would be worried. But if her father demanded answers, he would have them. “I received a letter from my publisher the other day.”
“Oh. Are sales strong?” He always wanted to know about money first.
“That wasn’t the point of the letter. Mr. Dunwell informed me that a man had been around the offices in Cheapside twice over the course of a week. He was, as Mr. Dunwell described, ‘a large, rough-looking sort of character with the air of a money collector.’ This man asked, or rather, demanded to know the identity and address of Mr. C.D. Winthrop.” All the worst possibilities had floated through Caroline’s head. That the man would break her father’s and Edmund’s arms before demanding every penny Caroline had earned. That the whole family would be sent to Newgate Prison, that her writing would end up bringing more disaster upon the Devereux household than aid. She’d been sick for days thinking it over, working the problem through until she’d written that blackmail letter to Rockford.
“Ah.” The baron froze behind his desk, his mind clearly whirling along. “Money collector, you say? So you suspect somebody knows you are Winthrop? But why should that matter? Perhaps this fellow merely wants an autograph!”
“He asked the identity, not just the address. He was described as looking like the rough, collecting sort. I’m afraid that your creditors have realized you’ve another source of income. Or rather, your daughter has.” But as she was scarcely her own person in the eyes of the law, what belonged to her in some sense already belonged to her father. The baron finally understood.
“You think they’d put a lien on all Mr. Winthrop’s profits going forward? Until the rest of the debts are fully paid down?”
“I’m afraid that’s precisely it.” Caroline’s stomach tightened. “To say nothing of you being roughed up. I give you enough to keep from going to prison, but I must use the rest for food and necessities. If they take all my earnings, we’ll have nothing left! And if they break your legs, heaven forbid, where will the money come from to pay for the doctor if they’ve snatched it all?”
Her father sighed. “So, this is why you’ve taken such a step with Rockford?”
“I didn’t want to, but we may be short on time until they learn my identity. Then we’ll be rather stuck.”
“Well. Anyway, it’s not as if you’re the only Devereux capable of bringing in money, you know!” Her father looked a bit insulted now. “I made seven pounds only the other night.”
“What? How?” Caroline had no sooner asked the question than her eyes fixed upon a newly bare patch of wall directly behind her father’s desk. Realization was swift and disappointing. “Papa. What happened to Claudius?”
Claudius had been the children’s name for the mounted head of a Bengal tiger the baron had placed in his study. He had roared silently at Caroline for over twenty years, and now he’d packed up his roar and gone elsewhere.
“The Viscount Lorne came over for a drink two nights ago and felt rather attached to the creature. I parted with old Claudius for seven pounds. That’s two pounds more than I paid for him! It’s good economics.”
Caroline felt tired already, and it was only morning. The Devereux family had been slowly selling themselves to the ton piece by humiliating piece. Yet another reason to blackmail the Earl of Rockford. She gave a heavy sigh. “Well. I don’t mind that Claudius is gone so much if it’s got us seven pounds, but—”
“Actually, there are now ten shillings left.” The baron gave a slight shrug, the same way a naughty child might after being caught running away from school. Caroline had to count to five slowly before she was sure she would not shout.
“How did you go through seven pounds in two days?”
“A man’s got to have room for his own luxuries, Caroline!” The baron appeared rather indignant. “I’ve debts at my tailor and the wine merchant. I can’t be spending every last penny on you children, you know. You and Edmund are both grown. All these things you require, ink and hair ribbons and books for Simon and, and—”
“Food?” Caroline asked. “Clothing? Candles so we can avoid tripping over objects after dark?”
“Yes, and selling off our things has reduced the amount of superfluous furniture scattered heedlessly about the place. You are far less likely to trip, so the dark is more economical.”
“Perhaps breathing is also a needless expense. Would you rather the boys and I stopped breathing, Papa? It would undoubtedly bring down costs.”
“Now, don’t be absurd. They don’t charge for air, you know.” The baron folded Rockford’s letter. “Of course, if they did , we’d have to strategize.”
Caroline slumped back in the chair, not giving a damn if it wasn’t ladylike.
Most fathers in the novels she’d read and written fell into one of two categories: dead or overly strict. She certainly didn’t wish her father into the former category, but she’d often dreamed of having one in the latter.
In Gothic tales, young women usually chafed against a restrictive male guardian who refused to let them out into the world, lest their virtue become sullied. Caroline yearned for such restrictions. They would allow her to get some bloody rest.
But she was not so much her father’s daughter as the custodian of a particularly well-dressed and irrepressible orangutan.
“Anyway. Possible fisticuffs notwithstanding, I called you here to say that I’m proud of you, Caro. Really. After all these years of scribbling, to think something you’ve written has finally paid off for us! And you only had to write a single letter, not some silly novel.”
Caroline pressed her lips together firmly. She didn’t mind sacrificing so much for her father, but being insulted about it all was several bridges too far.
“Those ‘silly novels’ have paid for tea and meat in this house more than once. They also managed to repay that one gambling debt that would have seen you off to prison at Newgate!”
“Yes, yes.” Her father brushed aside the comment as he settled behind his desk. “You’re a good daughter, Caro. I’ve always said to the men about town, mind you, that you’re my pride. A damn shame you weren’t a son; you’d have been a much finer heir than Edmund, that’s certain.”
Caroline didn’t want to hear insults for her brother or praise for her blackmail. She’d already a headache, and she’d not had any tea yet.
“Remember, Papa. Speak of our engagement to no one. I’ll inform you when we should next move.” She paused on her way out the door. “Oh, and no more cards at your club for a while. We can’t afford any new gambling debts just now, especially with the creditors hunting C.D. Winthrop.”
“One would think I wasn’t the master in my own home,” the baron grumbled.
If bloody only, Caroline thought as she made her way to the breakfast room. After a conversation with her father, she was often left feeling more frazzled than before. And she was exceedingly frazzled on the best days.
Caroline entered the breakfast room at last.
Simon had already come and gone, as he’d lessons this morning, but her elder brother, Edmund, smiled and looked at her over the paper as she entered. At twenty-six, he still resembled a schoolboy with his shock of curling blond hair and dimpled grin. Nothing had ever seemed to disturb Edmund. He moved through life with as much ease as a cheerful duck in a pond.
“Morning, Caro! How’s the authoress today?”
Eddie was proud of Caroline’s writing. She smiled as she took a seat and poured some tea.
“I believe I might have finally written the thing that will change our fortunes for good,” she said, deliberately evasive.
Her brother chuckled as he returned to his paper. “I’ve no doubt of it. You’re the brains of the family, I’ve always said.”
Eddie and Simon had always depended on Caroline as “the smart one” in the Devereux household. Since Lady Devereux had died, it had sometimes felt like all three children were playing house while waiting for the actual adult to come home.
Caroline sighed as she tapped the shell of a soft-boiled egg. While she ate, she tried to plot out the day. First the menus, then they needed to see what they could get from the butcher on credit, followed by reviewing Simon’s lessons, writing the dramatic, fiery ending of Dreadful Curse of Ashfield Terrace … What else?
Oh! Of course. Caroline would have her walk with Sybil through the square. The outing couldn’t have been better timed. There was some life-altering gossip she needed to spread.
…
“My lord?” Smith, the butler, looked in on Gabriel as he trounced a punching bag. “You’ve a visitor.”
“Eh? Already?” Gabriel wiped sweat from his brow and stopped his punching. The leather bag swung backward and forward in abject surrender while he splashed some water into a bowl and then onto his face. “It’s a bit early in the day, isn’t it?”
“It is almost eleven, sir. Quite an appropriate time for morning callers.”
Of course. Morning calls and afternoon calls were not the same sort of thing, and luncheons were not dinner invitations, which were not supper invitations, and on and on the nonsense whirled. Gabriel had no patience for this sort of society frippery, but if he was going to be an earl, and a good one, he had to learn tolerance.
“Who’s to see me today?” He half hoped and half dreaded it would be Miss Devereux. It had been three days since he’d last heard from the girl. He’d sent that letter to the baron and received nothing back.
Gabriel had considered pushing in and telling the whole Devereux household off in the strictest terms, but perhaps he needn’t do any such thing. Perhaps the family had retreated already, scared off by his pique.
Damn shame. He’d have liked to talk to that saucy Miss Devereux at least once more…
“The Viscountess Weatherford is here to see you, sir.” Smith offered the viscountess’s card on a tray. Gabriel was suitably impressed; the viscountess was one of the most respected members of the ton . All of society clamored for her attention.
“I wonder why she’d call on me.” Perhaps to offer condolences on his father’s death last year and congratulations on his title? Mystified, Gabriel put on his shirt, jacket, and cravat. Smith did a hurried job of seeing his master had every hair and button in order before being presented to a lady, and then Gabriel went to receive his guest.
As he walked down the stairs, Gabriel tried to settle himself into an easy stance, but his shoulders remained tight and his jaw clenched. He wasn’t the sort of man who’d ever felt comfortable socializing with people of “good” character. With sailors, barmaids, merchants, and whores he got along splendidly. In the world of normal people, you spoke your mind, you fought when you needed to, and you enjoyed yourself to the hilt when you’d the money. It was simple, straightforward, and Gabriel loved it.
In the ton , though, a smile could be an invitation or a concealed weapon. He didn’t see the point of living a life for the benefit of spectators. He’d always been a quiet, brooding sort, and his natural standoffish tendencies went against every social rule.
He was bloody trapped in the wrong life, a prisoner hammering his fists against the gilded bars. Forever.
But I’ll do it for you, Philip. Gabriel took a deep breath as he entered the parlor.
The Viscountess Weatherford was standing by the window when Gabriel entered.
A charming woman with light brown hair, she smiled as she extended her hand. “A pleasure, my lord. I’ve wanted to make an introduction since you officially inherited your title.”
Gabriel bowed his head over her glove. There, he could at least present himself as something of a gentleman. He only felt truly free when he was going rounds on the bag upstairs, when he could recall the cheers of a prizefighting crowd watching from the sidelines as he pummeled an adversary. This new life fit him about as well as a pair of trousers fit a hedgehog.
“It was good of you to call, Lady Weatherford. I only recently returned to London for the Season, and I must admit I hardly remember the ton ’s rules of engagement.”
“You make us sound rather a combative bunch. Perhaps we are.” The viscountess seated herself. “As a matter of fact, an engagement is rather the reason why I’ve come.”
Gabriel could feel the blood drain from his face. He forced his neutral expression to remain in place; swearing in front of a viscountess would not be his wisest move. If this was about Caroline Devereux, he might actually combust.
“Whatever could you mean, my lady?”
“The talk has been all over town the last few days. I felt I should come and inquire after this before anyone else. Most of the other ladies will leap to conclusions before they’ve gathered all the necessary information.”
Gabriel wondered if his face was growing red with apoplectic fury. So after his refusal, Miss Devereux had simply gone round to the whole of London continuing to put her plan into action as if Gabriel himself had no say in the matter. He smiled, determined to look like the jolliest angry person in London.
“I’m afraid I still don’t know what you mean.”
“Forgive me. We’ve all had it on good authority from the Marchioness of Rexbridge that you are courting the Honorable Miss Caroline Devereux, Baron Devereux’s only girl. In fact, the marchioness is quite firm that you will be proposing to the young lady before the end of the Season.”
How the bloody hell had Caroline managed to rope the Marchioness of Rexbridge into her schemes? Miss Devereux had seemed like a flighty young thing, but apparently, she was more resourceful than Gabriel had imagined. Gabriel knew enough of this world to realize if the gossip was coming from such a highly esteemed lady of the ton , he couldn’t simply barge around denying it. That would humiliate the marchioness, and that would only make his life as an earl in this posh level of hell that much worse.
“Hmm,” was his only reply. Inside, he was delivering a plentiful volley of swears that would cause a vicar to question his faith.
“I admit it seemed odd to me. Miss Devereux is not known for her, ah, collection of suitors. To be frank, my lord, you are now the most eligible gentleman on the London marriage mart, and as such it seemed a touch…unbelievable.” The viscountess did not seem to be prying out of meanness; rather, her curiosity was genuine. “I decided I might ask you directly. Is there truth to the marchioness’s tale?”
Gabriel had once been chased through the port of Constantinople by a Spanish sailor who claimed he’d cheated at cards. The fellow had brandished a pistol and fired at Gabriel twice while he ran. That had been far less terrifying than this.
To die was one thing; to be humiliated before London society matrons was the worst kind of torture. He couldn’t let this canny Miss Devereux maneuver him into defeat, but he also couldn’t risk alienating the marchioness. If he said she’d gotten the wrong information, it made her look a liar at worst and easy to dupe at best. Her pride would never forgive either.
“The young lady and I are not as serious as an engagement,” he said at last.
“Not yet, you mean?” The viscountess’s face relaxed in pure surprise. “My word. So there is truth to the tale after all?”
“I think perhaps the marchioness is overenthusiastic.” Gabriel fumbled for words, feeling the right ones slip through his fingers like so many grains of sand. “I am not off the marriage mart yet, but…Miss Devereux has a peculiar charm. Doesn’t she?”
“She certainly does. I find her original and quite funny.” That seemed a genuine compliment.
“But others in the ton do not?” Gabriel asked.
The lady hesitated. “Our world can feel rather narrow sometimes, particularly in its expectations of young ladies. I’ve liked Miss Devereux for a long time, and I should like to see her comfortably settled.”
If only he could comfortably settle her into a box and ship her comfortably off to South America. She’d probably find plenty of original things to write about that experience. Gabriel only smiled.
“We shall see, my lady. I hate to be rude, but I’m afraid I’ve a pressing engagement this morning.” He needed to exit the house, take a brisk walk over to Caroline’s, and potentially hang her father by his ankles from the ceiling. He was flexible on the details.
“Of course. Thank you for clarifying, Lord Rockford. Best of luck.” The viscountess made a charming curtsy and departed.
Alone in his parlor, Gabriel clenched his fists and had to keep from pacing about and knocking expensive-looking objects off tables and mantelpieces in a fit of sheer pique. His first nanny once said he became something of a tomcat when he was enraged.
“My lord?” Smith appeared beside the earl. It was evident from his curious expression he had eavesdropped on the viscountess’s call. “Is there anything you require?”
Gabriel thought of Caroline. He thought of her ink stains, her wide eyes, her petulance, her arrogance. He’d never met a woman like her, it was true. He never wanted to meet another, and he wanted even more to have un-met Miss Devereux. His blood was up, and he was ready for a fight. And when he fought, he always bloody won.
“Get my coat and hat, Smith. I’m off to pay a call on a young lady.”