Regency Scandals

August 2020 Outrageous Propositions

September 2020 Dangerous Games

October 2020 Dissolute Ways

November 2020 Disreputable Secrets

December 2020 Unsuitable Marriages

January 2021 Infamous Rogues

February 2021 Never Trust a Rake

March 2021 The Road to Ruin

April 2021 Scandals of the Past

May 2021 Passion in Spades

June 2021 Saved from Scandal

July 2021 Benefits of a Betrothal

About the Author

MARY BRENDAN was always a keen reader of historical romance, especially the Regency period. She also writes gritty sagas under a different pseudonym. She was born in north London, lived for a while in Suffolk, and is now back closer to her roots and her adult sons in a village in Hertfordshire. When time permits, she relaxes by browsing junk shops, or by researching family history.

The Rake’s Ruined Lady

Mary Brendan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-472-04408-2

THE RAKE’S RUINED LADY

© 2014 Mary Brendan

Published in Great Britain 2021

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘Of course I do not understand!’ Beatrice Dewey’s blue gaze was fixed on her fiancé’s face in shocked disbelief. ‘How is any woman supposed to comprehend that the man she believes will shortly be her husband must marry another?’ She pressed pale, quivering fingers to her brow. ‘Repeat to me your news, please, and furthermore tell me why I should accept it.’

Colin Burnett’s deep sigh displayed his regret. He stretched a hand towards Beatrice but she evaded his comfort in a swish of pastel muslin.

‘Tell me, Colin! An explanation—a dozen explanations if I wish to have them—is the least you owe me.’ Beatrice turned back to him, eyes sparking icy fire.

Ten minutes ago Mrs Francis, the Deweys’ housekeeper, had interrupted Beatrice’s letter-writing to announce that Dr Burnett had called on her. Beatrice had joined her fiancé in the front sitting room with a sunny smile, proving her gladness at this unexpected visit. Her happiness had started to wither before he’d uttered a single word: she’d read from Colin’s demeanour that something was dreadfully wrong.

Not for a moment had she believed him jesting when he had quietly informed her that their wedding must be called off. Colin was not one for levity; neither was he a man who liked a drama. Beatrice could tell this predicament was causing him equal embarrassment and sorrow, but was conscious that he seemed nowhere near as wounded as was she at the idea of them parting.

‘You know if there were any other way around this I would take it. I want you as my wife, Beatrice. I love you—’

‘I don’t see how you can love me...not really,’ Beatrice interrupted harshly, ‘if you are prepared to jilt me because you’d sooner have money.’

‘It is not just about the money, my dear.’ Colin sounded pained, and a trifle exasperated by her accusation. ‘My family’s reputation and estates are founded on the baronetcy. The Burnetts were granted the title as long ago as the Norman Conquest and it has passed through our male line ever since.’ He cast his eyes heavenwards, seeking inspiration. ‘If I reject the title and estates everything will be returned to the crown. How am I to explain that to my relations?’

Beatrice gave an impatient shrug. Her fiancé’s logical reference to history and his kin, when her heart was breaking, was simply increasing her indignation.

‘My uncle was not an easy man to fathom,’ Colin continued doggedly, thrusting his fingers through a shock of auburn hair. ‘He was known as an eccentric, but had I for one moment realised what madness he planned I would have privately set lawyers the task of finding a loophole to wriggle out of his stipulations. As it is, I must bow to his whim or lose everything.’

‘So instead of forfeiting your birthright and choosing to remain much as you are: a country doctor of modest means—which is the person I fell in love with—you would dance to a dead man’s tune to have his fortune and his title?’

Now her shock was receding anger was bringing Beatrice close to tears. She wouldn’t beg the man with whom she’d planned to spend her life to honour his proposal, neither would she attempt to shame him into doing so. If he went ahead and married his cousin Stella instead of her then Beatrice knew she would have learned something vitally important and deeply upsetting about Colin’s character. And also about her own: she had previously believed she’d become a reasonable judge of people.

‘If you have chosen to comply with the terms of your uncle’s will, then there is nothing more to be said,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘All I would ask before you leave is that you find the courtesy to explain to my father why he has wasted his money on my wedding day.’ Hot brine squeezed between her lashes and she averted her face.

‘I will of course make any financial reparation necessary,’ Colin vowed stiltedly.

As he took her elbow to turn her towards him Beatrice flinched from his touch as though scalded. ‘I think you should go now, sir.’

‘Please don’t hate me, Beatrice...I couldn’t stand it...’

‘I have a lot more to stand than you, I think.’ Beatrice gazed stormily into eyes that were pleading for compassion. ‘Please do not beg me for anything. Especially that I should not hate you for squandering three years of my life and destroying my future happiness.’ She distanced herself from him, an odd lethargy enveloping her. ‘In truth I do not hate you, Colin...I am coming to realise that I pity you for allowing a person you barely knew to dupe you and dictate to you.’ She smiled sourly. ‘I’ve let you kiss and caress me, yet despite our intimacy I never really knew you. I’d not imagined you capable of acting in such a callous and selfish way.’

Beatrice noticed the faint colour rising in his cheeks at her wounding criticism.

‘It is because I refuse to act selfishly that I must give you up.’ Colin cleared his throat. ‘I have a family duty to uphold...’

‘What about your duty to me?’ Beatrice cried. But she knew it was too late. If he were to change his mind and refuse his birthright to marry her instead things would never be right between them. She could never recapture the person she’d been just twenty minutes ago, when excitedly smoothing her hair and gown before speeding down the stairs to joyfully welcome her fiancé and ask him to stay to dine with them.

He too would be different: outwardly Colin might claim to have forgiven her for making him forfeit his inheritance. Inwardly his bitter disappointment might fester and grow until it destroyed the love he professed to still have for her.

‘I made a mistake in giving you my heart, but in time I will appreciate you handing it back to me. The pain will pass now I have come to understand your character better.’ Beatrice paused, a part of her relishing the hurt she had brought to his eyes with that brutal comment. But she was not by nature spiteful and the feeling soon faded. ‘My father is in his study. Please call on him before leaving and do the honourable thing. He is not a wealthy man, as you know, and has scrimped to buy my trousseau.’

‘My uncle was fifty-five and if he knew he was not long for this world he kept it to himself. Had he been old and infirm I would have had more cause to check on the terms of my inheritance.’ Colin strode to block Beatrice’s path as she made to exit the room.

‘I’ve had explanations enough,’ Beatrice rebuffed coolly. ‘There is no need for you to tarry longer. I hope you find your new wealth and status make up for what you and I have lost.’ She withdrew a small garnet ring from her finger and held it out. ‘Yours, I believe. Now, please let me pass.’

Colin’s lips tightened at Beatrice’s frosty tone but he took the gem and pocketed it, standing aside. ‘I’ve suffered too...I’ll never forget you...’

Beatrice heard his plaintive farewell as she closed the parlour door. With her eyes filled with burning water she approached the stairs. She would wait in her bedchamber till Colin left, then go and see her father.

Beatrice knew her papa would need comforting over this calamity as much as she did. Walter Dewey had liked Dr Burnett as his physician and as his future son-in-law. Colin had promised financial reparation and she hoped her father would not be too proud or too angry to accept the cash.

Her sister, Elise, would be shocked to discover she was not shortly to be a matron of honour. Elise lived in Mayfair and had done her best to persuade her kin to join her as permanent house guests following her marriage to Viscount Blackthorne. Alex had a fabulous mansion on Upper Brook Street. But Walter Dewey had insisted a quiet pastoral life suited him. Beatrice had also been happy to remain in bucolic bliss in Hertfordshire as her physician fiancé was living and working in the vicinity of St Albans.

Now Beatrice wondered if Colin had always wished to improve his prospects from that of country doctor, and if so whether he might immediately move to town with his intended wife to enjoy what remained of the season.

At twenty-five, Beatrice accepted that in the eyes of the world she was past her marriageable prime. Most of the friends she’d made during her debut were now married with children. Colin’s future bride was not known to Beatrice—unsurprisingly, as she’d just learned her rival was some seven years her junior and had just made her come-out. Bea had digested that much about Stella Rawlings before shock had snatched away her senses, leaving her momentarily deaf to the horrible details of Colin’s visit.

The light tap on the door brought Bea’s head up off the pillow. She had been dozing on her bed’s coverlet while waiting for the sound of the doctor’s departure from her house, and her life. Beatrice knuckled her tired eyes as she went to the door, realising she’d cried herself into a deeper sleep than she’d wished to have.

‘Papa!’ Beatrice frowned in consternation. ‘You should not have come upstairs!’ She sent a searching glance over her father’s stooped shoulder. ‘Did Mr Francis help you with the climb?’

Walter Dewey waved away his daughter’s concern as he made slow progress into her bedchamber assisted by a wooden walking stick. ‘Norman is out hunting rabbits for our dinner.’ He explained the manservant’s absence. ‘My small struggle is nothing to the pain I know you must be suffering my dear.’

Walter eased himself down into the armchair by the window. Raising his tired eyes to his daughter’s wan face he shook his head to indicate he felt lost for words.

‘Dr Burnett has gone?’ Beatrice croaked.

‘He has, and with my opinion of him ringing in his ears.’

Beatrice dropped to her knees by her father’s chair and took a dry, withered hand between her soft palms. ‘Please don’t be upset over it, Papa,’ she whispered, fearful for his health. She could hear his laboured breathing and see a greyish circle outlining his lips. ‘My heart will mend...’

‘You have a resilient ticker, then, my love,’ Walter remarked wryly. How many times now has it been broken in two by some fellow?’

Beatrice knew her father was referring to her past romances that had foundered—usually because the gentleman involved had no money and could not afford to get married. How ironic that this time she must remain a spinster because the reverse were true. Her fiancé had recently received his inheritance and with it a demand to jilt her.

‘Had this confounded Sir Donald not died when he did, leaving his odious terms and conditions, you would shortly have been Mrs Burnett.’

Walter gazed levelly at his daughter’s upturned face. Beatrice had always been a beauty; some said she was fairer than her younger sister, who had bagged herself a nobleman three years ago. Walter thought them equally wonderful, in their own ways, although he wished Beatrice resembled her younger sister in one aspect: Elise had chosen to give her heart just the once, and very wisely.

Two previous rogues—besotted by Beatrice’s golden-haired loveliness, Walter was sure—had encouraged his elder girl to think they would propose, then bitten their tongues at the last minute. In both cases it had transpired that they must fortune-hunt for a bride, being penniless.

Out in the sticks and cut off from the cream of polite society he might be, but Walter was cognizant with marriage mart standards: Beatrice’s chances of finding a spouse diminished with every failed romance and every year that passed.

In Walter’s opinion Beatrice was as lovely at twenty-five as she’d been when half a decade younger. Her creamy complexion was smooth and unblemished and her blonde hair appeared as shiny and abundant as it had been when she was a teenager. Her figure was enviably slender, yet curvaceous enough to catch a man’s eye, and her vivacity made people take to her instantly. Yet still his elder girl remained at home with him because he’d never had the means to provide either of his daughters with a dowry.

Elise had married a millionaire who’d stated bluntly that the privilege of marrying Walter’s daughter was payment enough. Unfortunately a similar good and generous fellow had never crossed Beatrice’s path, catching her eye.

Colin Burnett had come closest to walking her down the aisle, and thus Walter despised him the most.

‘Do you think Burnett truthfully had no idea of the clause in his uncle’s will?’

Beatrice gave a little nod. ‘I believe him sincere on that; as for greatly adoring me and never forgetting me, that I now find harder to swallow.’ Her father’s thin fingers closed comfortingly on hers. ‘Did Colin offer to pay back the cash you spent on wedding preparations?’ Bea asked huskily.

‘He did,’ Walter confirmed, bringing his daughter’s hand to his cool lips.

‘It is only fair you are not left out of pocket because of him. You will take what is due to you, won’t you, Papa?’ Beatrice used the heel of her hand on her cheek to remove a trickle of tears.

‘Indeed I shall!’ Walter forcefully concurred. ‘I admit there was a moment when I felt like telling him to take himself and his money off to rot in hell...but I didn’t.’ He rumbled a chuckle. ‘He might be getting off scot-free from a breach of promise suit but he won’t wriggle out of my expenses so easily. Mark my words, my dear, Burnett will get his comeuppance for treating you so shabbily.’

‘Letters for me?’ Elise Blackthorne jumped up from her dressing table stool as her maid approached, proffering a silver salver.

Excitedly the viscountess rifled through the post, ignoring elegant cards inviting her to society parties, to find what she was looking for. She frowned; it was from Hertfordshire but bore her father’s spidery script rather than her sister’s neat slanting hand.

‘I shall not need you for an hour or so, Maria.’ Before the maid left her bedchamber Elise asked, ‘Is the viscount eating breakfast?’

‘He has gone to the stables, my lady. Shall I send one of the boys to give him a message?’

Elise shook her head, satisfied she would see Alex before he went about his business for the day. She still felt sated from his lovemaking that morning and knew she should get dressed. If he came back to find her in a lacy negligee they might once more tumble onto the silk sheets, limbs entwined. Elise wanted to get to Pall Mall early today because the dressmaker there had recently given her a fitting and she was impatient to see the beautiful blue satin gown she would wear when matron of honour at Bea’s wedding.

Elise corresponded regularly with her sister and relished reading about all the wedding preparations. A local seamstress was making Bea’s gown, although the bride to be was keeping the style of it a secret. Mrs Garner had a workshop based in St Albans and had served the Dewey family for over a decade. Walter had never had the means to provide his daughters with many new clothes when growing up and their debuts had thus been modest affairs.

‘What have you got there?’

Else twisted about at the sound of her husband’s husky baritone.

Alex came closer and dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. His fingers continued to caress his wife’s satiny skin as he glanced at the parchment in her hand, recognising the writing.

‘Your father has sent you a letter.’

Elise twisted about in the circle of her husband’s arms. ‘I’m just about to read it, Alex, so don’t...’ Her breathy plea was cut off as his mouth slanted over hers and he drew her closer.

‘Oh...Alex...’ Elise giggled, but her protest was half-hearted as she melted against him.

‘It’s your own fault,’ he growled. ‘What’s a man to do when his gorgeous wife parades about half naked?’

‘Whatever he likes, I suppose,’ Elise breathed against his preying mouth.

‘Right answer, sweetheart...’ Alex purred and, swinging her up in his arms, headed for the bed.

Chapter Two

‘There was a time when it was hard to shake you off my shoulder; now I need to make an appointment to see you?’ Alex Blackthorne’s ironic comment drew an apologetic grin from his best friend. However, the fellow’s narrowed gaze remained fixed on the razor sweeping a path through stubble towards a lean cheekbone.

Hugh Kendrick swirled the implement in a china bowl filled with soap-floating water before turning to face the viscount. ‘You know I’d sooner come to watch the fight with you, but I’ve promised Gwen a trip to Epsom races this afternoon.’

Alex sank into a hide chair in his friend’s bedchamber. Obligingly he shifted to one side, allowing Hugh’s startled valet to rescue an elegant jacket that his master had discarded over the back of the upholstery.

‘Besides, if your wife wasn’t out of town you wouldn’t want my company, would you?’ Over the top of the towel mopping his face Hugh hiked a dark eyebrow at Alex.

‘True...’ Alex sighed, flicking a speck from a thigh breeched in fawn cloth.

He was feeling at a loose end since Elise had gone to Hertfordshire to visit her family. It was puzzling that Walter Dewey had written a letter containing a coded message that he would like Elise to visit as soon as she was able.

Alex felt rather guilty now for distracting his wife from immediately reading her note on the morning it had arrived. It had been some hours after the post was delivered that Elise had finally retrieved the paper from amongst their warm, crumpled bed sheets. Mere moments after breaking the seal she’d thrust the letter beneath Alex’s nose, announcing that she’d deciphered her father’s few odd sentences and was certain that a crisis had occurred. Elise could never bear to be parted from her infant son, so Adam had gone to Hertfordshire too, and at Alex’s insistence Maria had accompanied mother and child in one of the luxurious Blackthorne travelling coaches.

‘You look browned off,’ Hugh remarked, shrugging into his shirt. For several minutes he had been contemplating Alex’s frowning expression as he stared into space with his chin resting atop fingers forming a steeple. Hugh guessed his friend was already missing his beloved wife and son.

The two men had been friends for decades, despite the fact that for most of that time their statuses had been poles apart. Hugh had been the underdog, with nothing much to claim to his credit other than his popularity and his family connections. His late father had been an upstanding fellow, a minor peer of the realm who had seen the best in everybody. Unfortunately that blind faith had been particularly strong where his heir was concerned. Others, however, could see what a corrupt, calculating character was Toby Kendrick. On taking his birthright following his father’s demise, Hugh’s brother had become even more of an unbearable wretch.

But Hugh no longer had reason to feel resentful over the bad hand life had dealt him as the second son of a gentleman who believed in primogeniture. Neither had he reason to feel lucky that Viscount Blackthorne had chosen him as a life-long comrade. Hugh might not have a title to polish, but he now had every other advantage that his illustrious friend enjoyed, including a fortune that his acquaintances coveted and that dukes would like their debutante daughters to share in through marriage.

‘It’s odd for my father-in-law to call Elise home.’ Alex finally stirred himself to answer while standing up. The last time his wife had been summoned in such a way Beatrice had sent word because their father had fractured his collarbone in a fall. Naturally Walter had wanted to have both his beloved daughters by his side...just in case the injury had proved fatal.

‘Do you think some harm might have again befallen him?’

‘Walter wrote the letter himself, so I doubt he’s bedridden.’ Alex shrugged. ‘It’s probably all about Beatrice’s wedding day. Elise is matron of honour...’ He grimaced bewilderment at the workings of the female mind.

Hugh glanced up to find his friend’s eyes on him. ‘Yes...perhaps it’s just about the wedding,’ he muttered, resuming buttoning his cuffs.

‘You don’t ask about Beatrice any more.’ Alex began adjusting his cravat in the mantel glass now Hugh had left the space free.

‘Does she ask about me?’ Hugh countered, picking up his jacket and pegging it on a finger over a muscular shoulder. He preceded his friend towards the door.

They were heading towards the top of the stairs before Alex answered. ‘You can’t blame Beatrice for wanting to forget all about you after the way you behaved.’

Hugh’s mouth tilted sardonically. ‘Indeed...so it seems a bit pointless asking about her, doesn’t it?’ He plunged his hands into his pockets. ‘A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then...’

‘And for you...most of it flowed in India...’ Alex remarked dryly.

‘So it did...’ Hugh said in a similar vein. ‘I hope everything goes well on the big day.’

He moved ahead of Alex, descending the stairs at quite a speed.

On reaching the cool marble vestibule of Hugh’s grand town house the friends waited for the butler to announce that the curricle had been brought round. A moment later they clattered down the stone steps, then stopped to exchange a few words before going their separate ways.

‘Come along to Epsom with us if you’re kicking your heels. You might back a few winners and cheer yourself up by raising your bank balance.’ Hugh was speaking ironically; he knew very well that his friend’s accounts were in no need of a boost. It was his spirits that were flagging.

The startling change in his own fortunes still gave Hugh cause to smile inwardly. Just two years ago he’d had reason to watch carefully every penny he spent. Now he could purchase a stable of prized Arabs and watch them race at Epsom—or anywhere else—if that was his whim. Yet Hugh realised that his enthusiasm for a day out with his favourite mistress was waning and he felt oddly deflated.

‘You expect me to play gooseberry to you and the lovely Gwen?’ Alex scowled. ‘I don’t think I will, but thanks for asking.’ He clapped a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. ‘See you in White’s later in the week, I expect.’

‘It’s a bit late to let Gwen down with an excuse.’ Hugh sounded irritated by his conscience.

‘Quite right...keep the lady happy,’ Alex mocked.

Gwen Sharpe was a celebrated Cyprian known to select as lovers affluent gentlemen who could provide her with the finer things in life. Hugh certainly fitted the bill, following a bizarre stroke of luck that had made him one of the wealthiest men in the country.

‘I’ll be back before ten tonight. Do you fancy a visit to the Palm House to cure your boredom?’ Hugh called over a shoulder as he approached the kerb to take the curricle’s reins from his tiger.

Alex snorted a laugh. ‘I’m a married man...are you trying to get me hung?’

Hugh shook his head in mock disgust. ‘You’re under the thumb...that’s what you are.’

‘And I’ll willingly remain there...’ Alex returned, grinning.

The Palm House was a notorious den of iniquity where gambling and whoring went hand in hand. Men of all classes—from criminals to aristocracy—could be found mingling in its smoky environment from midnight till gone daybreak. At early light the club would spew forth its clientele, the majority of whom would stagger off with sore heads and empty purses.

Hugh set the greys to a trot, wishing he could shake off the feeling that he’d sooner return home than go to Epsom with Gwen. His mistress was beautiful and beguiling, if gratingly possessive at times. Any man would want to spend time with her... And yet Hugh, for a reason that escaped him, wanted solitude to reflect on a romance that had long been dead and buried. The woman he’d loved three years ago was now about to become another man’s bride, so what purpose would be served by brooding on what might have been?

With a curse exploding through his gritted teeth Hugh set the horses to a faster pace, exasperated by his maudlin thoughts and the fact that his friend had chosen this morning to remind him that his sister-in-law’s marriage was imminent. Beatrice Dewey was firmly in his past, and Gwen and Sophia, the courtesans he kept in high style, would serve very well for the present. If in need of deeper emotion he could head out to India and spend some time with somebody he’d grown to love...

‘What do you want?’

‘That’s a nice greeting, I must say.’

‘Are we to pretend I’m pleased to see you?’ Hugh folded the newspaper he’d been reading whilst breakfasting and skimmed it over the crisp damask tablecloth. He lounged into a mahogany chair-back, crossing his arms over the ruffles on his shirt. Sardonically, he surveyed his older brother.

Uninvited, Sir Toby Kendrick pulled out the chair opposite Hugh, seating himself with a flourish of coat-tails. He then stared obstinately at a footman until the fellow darted forward.

‘Coffee—and fill a plate with whatever is over there.’ Toby flicked a finger at the domed silver platters lining the sideboard whilst giving his order. He turned sly eyes on his brother, daring Hugh to object.

The servant withdrew with a jerky bow, a fleeting glance flying at his master from beneath his powdered wig. Hugh gave an imperceptible nod, sanctioning his brother’s boorish demand to be fed.

All of the servants knew—in common with the ton—that Hugh Kendrick and his older brother did not get on.

Sir Toby’s dislike of his younger brother had increased since Hugh’s wealth and standing had eclipsed his own. Toby had relished what he deemed to be his rightful place as loftiest Kendrick. Now he’d been toppled, and in such a teeth-grindingly, shocking stroke of luck for his brother that Toby had been apoplectic when first hearing about it. Knowing that he wasn’t alone in being bitter was no consolation to Toby. His brother was popular, and more people had been pleased than jealous of Hugh’s success.

Their mother and their sister had been overjoyed—no doubt because they’d both benefited from Hugh’s generosity. Toby had received nothing from Hugh other than a bottle of champagne with which to toast his luck. In the event Toby had refrained from smashing the magnum to smithereens on the step and downed the prime vintage at record speed, drowning his sorrows.

‘No broiled kidneys?’ Toby used a silver fork to push the food about on the plate that had just been set before him.

‘I don’t like kidneys,’ Hugh replied. He sat forward in his chair. ‘Neither do I like being disturbed by visitors at his ungodly hour of the day.’ He got to his feet. ‘Are you going to tell me what you want? Or have you just turned up for a free breakfast and the opportunity to try my patience?’

Toby shoved away the plate of untasted splendid food, a curl to his lip. ‘All that cash and you can’t find yourself a decent cook?’ he chortled.

‘As you’ve no appetite, and nothing of moment to say, it’s time you went on your way.’ He addressed the footman. ‘My brother is leaving. Show him out.’ Turning his back on Toby he strolled to the huge windows that overlooked Grosvenor Square, idly surveying the busy street scene.

The servant attempted to conceal his satisfied smirk on springing forward to do his master’s bidding.

‘You’re getting a bit too high and mighty, aren’t you?’ Toby barked, his cheeks florid.

‘Perhaps I spent too long studying you when growing up,’ Hugh drawled over a shoulder.

Toby whacked away the footman’s ushering arm, stomping closer to Hugh. ‘Very well...I have something to discuss,’ he snarled in an undertone.

‘Go ahead; but be brief. I have an appointment with my tailor.’

‘Might we repair to your library and be private?’ Toby suggested sarcastically.

Hugh glanced back at the servants clearing the breakfast things. He sighed. ‘If we must...’ He strode for the door without another word and once in the corridor approached the library at the same exasperated speed.

Toby trudged behind, his footsteps muffled by the luxurious carpet. Inwardly he squirmed at having to come here, cap in hand, and beg his brother for a loan. Not so long ago he had been the one the others in the family came to when in need of cash. It had given Toby immense pleasure to make them dance to his tune for their coins; even his mother had had to humble herself to extract her allowance from him. But now she had no need to because Hugh had provided her with a generous pension—something her dear late husband had omitted to do.

Sir Kenneth Kendrick had relied on his son and heir to provide fairly for his successors, proving that he might have doted on Toby but he had never come to know his eldest son’s true nature.

‘I need two hundred pounds urgently,’ Toby blurted as soon as the door was closed behind him.

‘Is that a request for a loan?’

‘You know damn well it is,’ Toby spat. He swiped a hand about his mouth, aware he’d need to control his temper if he was to get the cash and keep the duns at bay. Hugh might be open-handed where his mother and sister were concerned, but his generosity to Toby was a different matter.

Hugh leaned on the library table that almost spanned from one end of the oak-panelled room to the other. He drummed his long fingers in slow rhythm on the leather-topped furniture. ‘I’ve already handed over a thousand pounds in less than six months.’ Hugh watched his brother’s lips whiten in anger at that reminder.

‘I didn’t realise you were keeping a tally of the paltry sums.’ Toby flung himself down in a chair, affecting ennui.

‘As I recall, one thousand pounds wasn’t a paltry amount when I came to you many years ago and begged for your help in securing Sarah’s future.’

Then Toby’s meanness had run so deep that he’d denied his only sister the cash she desperately needed after she’d been compromised during her debut. With their father gone it had fallen to Hugh, impecunious at that time, to rescue Sarah’s reputation. He’d managed to scrape together a dowry—the majority of the cash borrowed from Alex Blackthorne—thus tempting a decent chap, lacking prospects, to put a ring on his disgraced sister’s finger.

Inwardly Toby railed at himself; he’d laid himself wide open to that barb. ‘The little madam deserved to be taught a lesson for acting like a strumpet.’

‘Our sister did nothing wrong other than to trust one of your friends to act as a gentleman. She was seventeen and not worldly-wise,’ Hugh coldly reminded him.

Toby snorted derision. ‘Well, she was worldly-wise after her folly...so a lesson well learned about promenading after dark with randy men. You—and she—should thank me rather than criticising.’

Hugh moved his head in disgust. ‘I wonder sometimes if we are related. You really are the most obnoxious character.’

‘Are you questioning our dear mama’s virtue?’ Toby guffawed. ‘She’ll not thank you for hearing that repeated. Perhaps I might tell her.’

He eyed his sibling calculatingly, feeling confident that Hugh would relent rather than risk upsetting their widowed mother. The dowager was approaching sixty-five and would be distraught to know her elder son risked a spell in the Fleet because his debts were out of control.

‘I’ve had enough of you...take yourself off...’ Hugh snapped in exasperation, turning for the door.

‘What’s wrong? No money left? Sent too much out to India, have you? Toby’s voice was low and sly and he concealed a smirk at the look of intense hatred he’d brought to his brother’s face.

‘I’ll arrange for a bank draft later in the day,’ Hugh said, just before quitting the room. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I need to be elsewhere...’

Toby strutted after him, looking exceedingly pleased with himself.

‘If you come again demanding me to bail you out of gambling debts you’ll be wasting your time. I won’t care what you say...’

‘Won’t you, now...?’ Toby drawled provocatively. ‘Gambling debts?’ He smoothly changed the subject. ‘It’s nothing so vulgar, my dear fellow. Serena has expensive tastes in jewellery, if you must have the details...’

Toby wasn’t referring to his prospective fiancée’s taste but to that of his mistress. Hugh knew his brother had set up Serena Worthing in a smart apartment, and even with a marriage contract under discussion it seemed Toby had no intention of putting her off to concentrate on his future wife.

‘Well, whatever it is...whoring, drinking, gambling...you’ll pay for it yourself in future.’

‘If ever our positions return to what they were...what they should be...I’ll remember this conversation and all those others where you’ve had the damnable cheek to moralise.’ Toby pointed a stout finger at his brother. ‘Before you got rich and Blackthorne got married the two of you were constant petticoat-chasers. Blackthorne might have eased off now, but you’re worse than ever since you got back from India.’ Toby thrust his face close to Hugh’s jaw. ‘Tell me...what it is about an exotic beauty that fires a man’s blood so...?’

‘You sound jealous of my popularity with the ladies.’ Hugh shoved his brother away and strode on along the corridor. ‘Show yourself out.’

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