With that perplexing statement circling the walled garden, her future husband left her to the impending storm and her immense sorrow.
He couldn’t let this dog lie, Sebastian Fitzgerald Tremont, fifth Duke of Ashcroft determined as he climbed into the unmarked carriage and thumped the trap to alert the coachman. A crested conveyance presented too much temptation in the lower reaches, which is precisely where he was headed. Also, he appreciated the anonymity of racing through London’s streets without acknowledgment.
Until he stepped from the coach.
Then, the acknowledgment was ghastly.
He liked Finn, had been in the supernatural trenches with the Alexander family for going on seven years, and if the boy loved, genuinely loved Victoria Hamilton, Bastian couldn’t stand in the way. Even if his offer was the best she’d ever receive. The smartest decision she could make if one didn’t factor affection into the mix.
Her heartbreaking expression came to mind.
If those morose looks were a common occurrence, Bastian questioned being able to perform his husbandly duty. Her misery would color every facet of her life and his, he knew this well enough from a mother who’d been categorically miserable. How could he bed a woman who looked as sad as the dowager duchess always had? Wasn’t an heir, aside from the lady’s amazing ability to filch heat from his fingertips, the reason he’d agreed to this?
There was the added benefit of Victoria Hamilton being quite lovely.
Quite lovely and in love with a friend.
What a muddle, he decided, and leaned as his coachman took the curve too quickly, which Bastian had instructed him to do. He had a reputation for navigating London’s streets at a breakneck pace, and he saw no reason to adjust course. Firestarter, scoundrel, soldier. He’d thought to add husband to that list and occasionally relieve himself of the first, but that intention was looking bleak indeed. To make matters even more wretched, Angelica, his current paramour, had heard of the impending marriage and reacted badly. So, he had the choice of letting that relationship cool or swinging by his jeweler to purchase a suitable apology.
Bloody hell, he thought, tugging at the leather ceiling strap as the coachman made a move that had the carriage springs squealing. Perhaps a period of celibacy was a good idea. He could retreat to one of his country estates, that utterly remote, crumbling one in Scotland, catch up on his reading and his many business obligations, and set fires at will. Or he could spend the rest of the summer at Harbingdon and work with Piper on controlling his gift. Maybe Lady Hamilton would assist in a strictly platonic capacity, once he gave young Finn the swift kick it looked like he deserved.
Viscount Beauchamp’s repeated advice about happiness being possible for people cursed with mystical abilities had not only influenced Finn, it had also made Bastian consider if he was as lost as his friend alleged. Observing Julian and Piper’s hushed communication and glowing looks over the years had polished him to a high sheen when he didn’t want to shine. He was surrounded by former soldiers from his regiment. Women. Supposed friends. Sycophants, servants, solicitors, tenants, beneficiaries.
As if a duke could ever be lonely.
When he arrived, the Blue Moon was a disaster, men spilling from the entrance, the night’s winners striding down the street to the next adventure, the losers slumped against the bricked stoop looking as if a fierce wind would send them tumbling. Coaches and hacks lined the road, waiting to discharge more into the mayhem. Two hulking porters stood by the baize-covered door, a crimson beacon winking in the night, admitting only those on the membership list. The activity reminded Bastian of a swarm of bees, a sting the one thing in the world he was fearful of—and deathly allergic to—so he left his carriage a block away and circled around, arriving at the gaming hell’s back entrance. He made quick work of the padlock, thinking to alert Finn to how easy it had been to pick. He’d spent many an evening here, often while praying a streak of good fortune wouldn’t have him accidentally setting the place ablaze. There’d only been the one instance, minor destruction to a velvet drape and window frame a quick-acting croupier had extinguished.
When he entered the main salon, ribald laughter, drunken shouts, the clack of dice and shuffle of cards swept over him, as did the scent of macassar oil and burnt tobacco. He wove between tables offering hazard and vingt et un, lifting his hand in greeting to those who called out but not halting, working his way to the back parlor, a private room that held other, more delectable, enticements.
That jackass, Bastian deduced the moment he laid eyes on the boy—his heart taking a little dive as he said goodbye to Lady Victoria Hamilton and her ability to erase his curse.
Because Finn was a rake on all counts, true, but a reserved one most of the time.
This was a show.
Bastian sighed and crossed the room. He’s as in love with her as she is with him.
Finn had a cheroot anchored between his teeth, long legs unfurled before him, a woman of indiscriminate everything draped across his lap, and a circle of saccharine admirers surrounding the table where he held court. “That face,” Bastian groused beneath his breath, “is more trouble than it’s worth.” As he approached, the indiscriminate everything’s hand snaked up the back of Finn’s coat, and Bastian could only think he’d arrived in the nick of time.
“Alexander,” he said and slipped into the empty chair that had materialized with his arrival.
Finn blinked drowsily, a challenging smile twisting his lips. “Your Grace.”
Bastian rolled his eyes. Foxed and belligerent. This endeavor promised to be amusing. “I thought you and I might have a little run on the hazard table. I’m feeling lucky.”
Finn gave the woman in his arms a suggestive wink. “I am as well, Ashcroft.”
“May I say, I think your current predilection is a mistake.”
Humor sliding from his face like mud down a slippery slope, Finn gave his temple one hard tap. “I know she wants me to stay. My mind is full, nothing blocking if you grasp my meaning. So stay I shall.”
“What’s it to you, your bleeding grace,” a man across the table that Bastian believed to be a baron of considerable ill-repute but significant wealth mumbled. His clothing was rumpled, his hair disheveled, his face bloated. Unsteady hands, weak posture. The soldier in Bastian, even if he’d left those rigid mores behind long ago, was disgusted. “Don’t be ruining our fun because you had to go and muck up yours with that Hamilton chit. Not worth the trouble, that one, if what I’ve heard is truth. Too bad she outwitted you, the conniving she-devil.”
Bastian had little time to react as Finn vaulted over the table, scattering glasses and conversation, the indiscriminate everything’s ample bottom plopping to the floor amidst a shower of brandy and silk. Without hesitation, Finn launched his fist into the baron’s face, sending the man sprawling and the table flipping, which allowed for another explosion of liquor and crystal.
“Holy hell,” Bastian growled and stumbled back in time to avoid the baron’s badly-thrown return swing, which, even in its inaccuracy, clipped Finn’s jaw.
Grabbing Finn by the collar and dragging him out of the fray, Bastian shouted orders to the men, who jumped into action like they were members of his regiment. Escort the baron to a carriage. Help the lady to a resting room. Return the parlor to rights. His fingertips tingled throughout, leaving his skin moist and his breathing shallow. “Control,” he repeated, hearing Piper’s soft voice ringing in his mind. This was not the time, not the place.