Wedding Wagers(25)

Victor wrapped his fingers around his brandy glass. "I'm not a cheat. If I were you, I'd leave right now before I call you out."

A smile bloomed on Southill's face. "You're afraid, aren't you? The most  eligible bachelor, soon to be duke, in all of England. Yet, you won't  marry. What's wrong, Locken? Afraid that putting a baby into your wife  will kill her, just like you killed your mother?"

Victor hadn't realized he'd shoved the table aside and leaped onto  Southill until he'd already driven his fist into the man's nose.  Southill toppled backward, taking Victor with him.

Hands grabbed at Victor, pulling him off Southill. It was a good thing  too, because Victor wouldn't have been able to stop hitting the man.

Southill cursed in pain, and while Hudson restrained Victor, the other  two men helped Southill out of the private room. In the main room  beyond, voices of surprise and condemnation reached Victor. There were a  few cheers as well as Southill continued his escorted walk all the way  out of White's.

Victor only felt numb. His ears were ringing, his hand aching. His  shoulder felt strange, and he couldn't quite catch his breath.

"Are you all right?" Hudson asked, but Victor couldn't respond. Not yet.

The other men came back into the room and put the table and chairs to  rights. The cards were picked up. Someone cleared away a broken glass,  and someone else sopped up the spilled brandy. When the room came back  into focus, Victor stepped away from Hudson. "I'm all right."

"Are you sure?"

Victor nodded and scanned the room. It looked how it did before Southill  ever entered it. Victor's heart rate slowed, returning to normal. His  breathing evened out. Tomorrow, or the next day, he might laugh about  this. But for now, he wanted to forget all about it.         

     



 

"I need a drink," he told Hudson.

"I'll go fetch another bottle," Hudson said.

But before Hudson could leave, a shout went up in the main room.

"He's been hit!" someone yelled.

Men hurried out the front entrance into the dark night. Hudson followed,  and Victor made his way reluctantly to the door. Probably some drunkard  had stepped in front of a carriage. When he reached the entrance of  White's and saw the man everyone was gaping over, his blood chilled.

Victor would recognize the green vest anywhere because he just spent four hours staring at it.

"Is he alive?" someone asked.

"Call for the doctor," another person said.

Victor pushed his way through the crowd and walked up to Southill, who  lay prone in the street. "What happened?" Victor ground out.

One of the men said, "He stumbled into the street, holding his nose.  That horse reared up and knocked Lord Southill to the ground."

Victor looked to where the man was pointing. The horse looked unharmed, and the carriage unmarred.

"Southill," Victor said, bending down and shaking the man's shoulder. "Wake up."

Southill groaned and turned over to his side, cradling his head. He was  already plenty dirty, and he only soiled his clothing more by his  movements.

"Call for a doctor," someone said.

"No." Victor held up his hand. "I'll take him home. He needs to sleep off the drink. Call for his carriage."

"Southill doesn't have a carriage," someone blurted.

Victor spun around. "Who said that?"

The portly Ludlow stepped forward. "Southill's carriage was taken  yesterday by a creditor," he said in a tremulous voice. "He never  delivered payment."

Victor stared at the man. "What is his address? I'll deliver the man in my own curricle."

Ludlow rattled off one of the house numbers at Grosvenor Square. It  wasn't far from Victor's own place, and he was surprised that he hadn't  run into Southill earlier in the season. With the help of a couple of  other men, Victor loaded Southill into his curricle, and soon they were  rattling over the cobblestone streets into the night.

When they slowed in front of Southill's address, Victor was surprised to  see no evidence of occupation. He searched his memory and was sure this  was the location given him. Exhaling a sigh of frustration, he  alighted, walked to the front of the house, and rapped on the door. No  candle burned in any of the windows, but perhaps Lord Southill's  servants hadn't expected him to return this evening?

No one answered, and Victor didn't hear any shuffle of footsteps coming from inside. He knocked again and called out, "Hello?"

Nothing.

Victor left the front entrance and walked around the house, finding a  side door that probably led to the kitchen. He knocked on that door, and  in a few moments was gratified when someone from the inside unlocked  the door and cracked it open.

An older woman, who had clearly been roused from sleep, blinked up at  him. She must be the housekeeper or one of the kitchen maids. Her eyes  widened as she took in the whole of Victor, another odd thing. Surely  she'd been around gentlemen of the ton before.

"Hello, ma'am, I'm Lord Locken, and I have Lord Southill in my  curricle," he said. "Your master's taken ill, and I've brought him home.  Is there a butler or groomsman who can help me get him to his rooms?"

The woman's mouth gaped, then she tried to shut the door.

Victor shot his hand out to stop her. "Is this not Lord Southill's residence?"

"Was," the woman said in a voice that cracked. "He was booted out this  morning. The creditors forced him." She attempted to shut the door again  in Victor's face.

He held it firmly open. "Lord Southill needs his bed."

"There's no bed here for a louse like him," the woman continued.

It seemed this woman's high-and-mighty attitude was far above her station.

"Are you his employee?" Victor pressed.

"No longer," she said. "He's paid none of us last quarter, and we stayed  on until we could find something else. I've been kept on for the new  residents, who will be arriving within the week."

Victor dropped his hand, and the woman seemed to comprehend the frustration in his eyes, because she kept the door open.

His mind raced. He had a drunk man in his curricle-a despicable drunk man. "Where did he take his things?" he finally asked.

"That I don't know," she said with a shrug. "He had few friends that I  know of, and no one to put him up. He might have sent them to his home  at Southill Estate."         

     



 

Yes, Southill Estate. If Victor remembered right, the place was at least  a two-hour ride from London. Not something to attempt in the dead of  night. But . . . what other choice did he have? He could leave Lord  Southill on the side of the road, or he could deposit him at an inn, but  then the gossips would speculate. So Victor decided to take him home  and be done with him for good.

"Thank you, ma'am," Victor said, his mind reluctantly made up. "I apologize for disturbing your rest."

The woman nodded, then slowly eased the door shut. Victor stood outside  the closed door for a moment, arguing with himself. He had no  responsibility toward Southill. If anything, the man deserved what he'd  gotten. He was a cheat, a drunk, and broke as a result. But the  knowledge at the back of Victor's mind pushed its way to the forefront.  Southill had a sister who could take over the care of her brother.  Victor would deliver Southill to his sister and then wash his hands of  this whole event.

Victor strode back to his curricle, hoping he could find Southill  Estate. He knew the general direction, and the nearly full moon would  offer plenty of light. Victor settled into the driver's seat while Lord  Southill slept behind him. The man's scent had become rank, and Victor  didn't want to guess why. Two hours, he told himself. This would all be  over in two hours.

He only had to ask for directions once, and by the time he reached  Southill Estate, he was so tired, he could have slept sitting up.

Victor turned up the long road leading to Southill Estate according to  the directions he'd received. He drew the curricle to a stop and climbed  out, stretching his legs. Victor looked toward the towering manor. In  the moonlight, the place had an imposing, solid look. A decent estate by  the looks of it, but there was something melancholy about the place.  Perhaps because its wayward master had bungled up the finances that were  meant to care for such a legacy.

Then, Victor noticed signs of renovations in process, although they  appeared to have been abandoned. A crumbling gazebo to the left of the  house had a few wood braces in place, and a pile of rocks was not too  far from where the stone fence that probably surrounded a garden had  fallen into disrepair.

Not a glimmer of light appeared in any of the windows. Surely, he'd be  waking up the staff; it was nearly two o'clock in the morning. But it  couldn't be helped. Victor would haul Lord Southill into the house, then  Victor would make the long journey back to London and sleep the morning  through. By the next evening, the man would be only a sour memory in  Victor's mind.