Free To All the Rakes I've Loved Before (A Honeycote Novella) by Anne Barton Page B

“I shall keep one, but I shan’t say which.”

Chapter 11
    Miss W. is attending a ball?
    Surely, the end of the world cannot be far behind.
    —from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
    Savage leaned back in his chair, drew on his cigar, and pushed a box across his gleaming desk toward Stephen, who sat in a chair opposite him. “Care for one?”
    “No, thanks.” Stephen tried to keep his breathing easy, slow the pounding of his heart.
    “This is McGee,” Savage said, jerking a thumb at the henchman who stood behind him. “I believe you’ve already met Maltby.” He nodded toward the man standing guard by the door.
    Ah yes, the oaf who’d blackened Stephen’s eye. Charming fellow.
    “I’m here to settle my debt.”
    “Excellent. Let’s see it then.” Turning to McGee, the gaming hell owner asked, “What does he owe me?”
    “One thousand pounds.” McGee ground a fist into his palm—unoriginal as threatening gestures went, but effective. Stephen’s neck broke out in a cold sweat.
    “I don’t have cash,” he said smoothly. “But what I’m offering is worth considerably more than one thousand pounds.”
    Savage snorted and smoothed a palm over his slicked-back hair. “I’ve no use for family heirlooms, Brookes. Not unless they can be melted down or sold. But I’m listening.”
    “My curricle is parked out front, with a fine pair of matching horses. They’re yours—if you’ll release me from my debt.”
    Savage puffed on his cigar for a long moment then waved it at Maltby. “Go inspect it. If it looks like something my great aunt would ride in, I’m not interested.” To Stephen, he said, “It would appear that my assistants made an impression on you.”
    Stephen grunted. They’d left their marks, all right, but they’d also done him a favor—they’d driven him to Amelia’s doorstep. Hell, he should buy them all drinks.
    He and Savage sat in uncompanionable silence while McGee hovered. When at last Maltby returned, huffing from hauling his twenty-stone body up the stairs, he said, “Nice gig. Fine horseflesh.”
    A gross understatement. The curricle and horses were easily worth 1,500 pounds. A lavish gift from his brother when he’d turned twenty-five, they were his most prized possessions. But he’d gladly hand them over to Savage if it meant he could go to Amelia with a clean slate.
    “Fine,” Savage said. He clamped his cigar between his teeth and stuck out a pudgy hand. “We have a deal.”
    Relief coursed through Stephen as he stood, shook his hand, and turned to leave.
    “You know,” Savage called out. “Now that you’ve paid up, I can extend another line of credit. Why don’t you go downstairs and have a drink on me? Try your luck at some of the tables. Who knows? You might even be able to win your curricle back.”
    Stephen hesitated, not because he was tempted by the offer but because, for once, he wasn’t. “No thanks. I’ve got a long walk home.”
    He didn’t really let out his breath until he’d stalked out of the gaming hell and started down King Street. He had a lot to think about during his walk.
    Tomorrow, he’d talk with his older brother, Charles, the Marquess of Greystone, about playing a bigger role in the management of the family estate—about making a contribution, somehow. Stephen was tired of playing the part of a dissolute rake. He might be a younger son, but he could do more than drink, gamble, and whore. At least, he was fairly certain he could. It was time he found out.
    Stephen also planned to have a conversation with his mother. She was always begging him to give up his debauchery and marry a nice young lady from a respectable family. Well, he’d found a nice young lady. He had a sneaking suspicion his mother wouldn’t approve of a family whose fortune came from a brass mill in Bristol, but he didn’t care. He loved his mother and didn’t want to hurt her, but she was wrong if she thought that Amelia wasn’t good enough