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‘I’ve come to settle my debts,’ Lord Westbrook announced. He stood before the wide oak desk in Randall’s office, his appearance as neat as expected for such a meeting. However, heavy circles hung beneath the Baron’s light eyes and Randall tapped the wood, realising how much the debt must be weighing on him.
‘Have you now?’ Randall motioned for him to take a seat, then lowered himself into his own chair, waving at Reverend to lie down on the floor beside him.
‘A gentleman always pays his debts.’
‘Even when they’ll ruin him?’
Lord Westbrook studied the floor. ‘Yes.’
Randall leaned back against the leather, seeing something of his young self in the Baron’s discomfort. He’d taken the same idiotic risks his first year in London, daring the ghost of his father to strike him down for doing everything the old man used to rail against, and more. If Lord Westbrook’s reasons were as shallow as Randall’s, he deserved this punishment. ‘Why did you wager so much?’
Lord Westbrook met Randall’s question with a defiant look. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
Randall laced his hands over his stomach. ‘Try me.’
‘I did it for love.’ Lord Westbrook sat up straight, showing a bit of pluck for the first time since he’d sat down across from Randall at the card table. ‘My income is not substantial and, though my title assures me certain privileges, the family of my intended raised objections to the match. I’d hoped to win enough to allay their fears.’
‘But instead you lost everything.’
‘Everything was already lost.’ Lord Westbrook ran his fingers through his straight hair, his anguish over losing the woman he loved greater than the pain of losing his estate. ‘Now, may we proceed with the formalities? I’ve brought the deed.’
He pulled a yellowed paper from his coat pocket and laid it on the desk. Randall eyed it, but didn’t move.
If only you could be this kind with everyone all the time.
He looked across the polished oak at Lord Westbrook, whose one leg bounced nervously. No, not everyone deserved his kindness, but not everyone deserved to be crushed simply because he could, especially when their motives were more noble than any of his had ever been. ‘Let me offer you another proposition.’
‘You have everything of mine. What more do you want?’ Lord Westbrook cried, jumping to his feet, as panicked as a rabbit caught in a snare.
‘Your time and patience. Please, sit.’ Randall motioned the man back into his seat. ‘Despite a well-cultivated reputation, it’s not my desire to ruin young lords new to London. Therefore, I’ll return your land to you along with your winnings on two conditions.’
Lord Westbrook’s jaw fell open in surprise. Randall could understand his disbelief. He barely believed what he was saying.
‘First, you leave London today and not return for at least three years. That should prove sufficient time to make society forget about you and your losses and believe whatever story you decided to concoct about how you regained your fortune.’
‘And second?’ Lord Westbrook asked, hope colouring his voice.
‘You don’t make public what I’ve done. If you do, I’ll spread such malicious rumours about your ungentlemanly conduct regarding the debt, you’ll never be able to show your face in society again. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, yes, I do. Thank you, Lord Falconbridge.’ Lord Westbrook stood and extended his hand across the desk. Instead of taking it, Randall picked up the deed and laid it in the Baron’s palm.
‘Allow me to suggest, instead of gambling, an investment in the Maryland Trading Company. I have it on good authority it will turn a profit. Go to their offices and speak to a Mr Preston regarding the matter. Tell him I sent you with discretion.’
‘I will indeed, my lord. Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.’
Yes, I do. ‘Good day, Lord Westbrook.’
Randall rang the hand bell on his desk and a moment later the butler appeared and escorted Lord Westbrook out of the room.
Randall stared at the closed door, noticing the scratches at the bottom where Reverend had pawed to get out. No doubt the youth was practically singing in the street with joy. As long as he kept his end of the bargain, Randall didn’t care what Lord Westbrook did.
He looked down at Reverend, who stretched, then came to sit beside him. Randall scratched behind the dog’s head, making the dog’s nose point in the air. ‘I suppose you think Cecelia had something to do with my decision.’
The dog’s ears shifted forward.
‘She didn’t. I simply have no desire to maintain a house in Surrey.’
Despite what Cecelia thought of him, this wasn’t the first kindness he’d performed since she’d last known him. There were others, legions of them, but not for the men or women of society. It was the rare one who deserved it.
Including Randall.
He moved to the table near the window. A ceramic jar sat on it next to a decanter of brandy he kept for guests and as a reminder of his strength in refusing it. He ran his hand over the top of the cold crystal stopper, the old unease pushing him to remove it, pour himself a deep draught and savour the burning flavor. It would kill the regrets and confusion churning inside him, just as it’d killed his innocence and his father.
He jerked his hand away and snatched up the lid to the jar. The clink of the porcelain brought Reverend to his side, his wagging tail making the fringe on the carpet flutter. Randall took out a couple of hard biscuits, then replaced the lid.
If Cecelia learned of his kindness to Lord Westbrook, would she consider him worthy of friendship, or search for something more selfish in his motives?
‘Sit.’ The dog obeyed and Randall tossed him the treat. Reverend caught it in midair, then eyed him, waiting for more, and Randall tossed him another.
Cecelia wasn’t going to learn about it. If he told her the story and it got out, every man he’d ever played would be at his door begging for their losses back and people like Madame de Badeau would laugh at his lenience.
He turned the last biscuit over in his palm. At one time, Madame de Badeau’s skill with gossip had added to his reputation, helping him cultivate the image he craved, the one which kept everyone at bay. Now he felt the mistake in letting people like her define him.
He tossed the last biscuit to Reverend, then marched to the French doors and threw them open. The dog shot past him and down the stairs, scaring up the birds picking through the grass.
A breeze shook the pink roses growing along the edge of the portico where Randall stood. The blush of the petals reminded him of Cecelia’s smooth skin beneath his fingers when he’d clasped the pendant around her neck. Her shoulders had teased him as they had in Sir Thomas’s studio, only this time there were no reprimands to keep him from feeling the heat of her skin, despite the risk of her pushing him away.
Then she’d stood and faced him. In her full, parted lips there’d lingered an anticipation he could almost touch, and he’d realised it was no longer his ego driving him to capture her attention. He wanted her friendship, as much as he’d once wanted the adoration of society, and he craved the freedom to take her hand, draw her down on the sofa and reveal how memories of his father sometimes haunted him at night.
She, more than anyone else, would understand.
Reverend bounded up to him with a stick and Randall took it and flung it across the garden, sending the dog running after it. What did it matter if she understood or not? He wasn’t about to throw himself on her sofa and moan over his father like some weak fop. Instead, he’d enjoy the peace and tranquillity of her house and the brief respite it offered from all the machinations of society and people like Madame de Badeau.
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