Free Devil's Match by Anita Mills

two things—four hundred pounds in winnings and new hope. The widowed sister of his host had shown a marked interest in him, and it had been more than that speculative gleam he usually got from women who merely wanted a little dalliance. Not that he was interested in Anthea, of course. But then, if a perfectly respectable widow dared converse with him, then perhaps not all was lost. His thoughts turned to Caroline Ashley. Now, if he’d been received, if he were somehow respectable, perhaps she would not have been so precipitate in her refusal. That refusal still stung. Devil Danvers! He’d heard the appellation a hundred times, but it sounded different coming from men. And what could she know of him, anyway? Resolutely he put her from his mind and reached for the correspondence tray.
    He sifted through the usual assortment of tradesmen’s bills, a letter from an antiquities scholar, and a theater subscription before Bertie’s envelope caught his attention. He picked it up, examined the irregular handwriting on the front of the envelope, and sighed. Poor Bertie. Knowing him was somewhat like owning an untrainable pup—one came to feel responsible for him. Not that Bertie had not proven himself a hundred times during Patrick’s troubles, of course. But Bertie’s miserable attempts at writing defied patience, and Patrick was in no mood to attempt unraveling and piecing together the puzzle of his letter. He set it aside while he poured himself a glass of port.
    He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair to prop his booted feet up on a stool. Sipping his wine, he stared speculatively at the letter, wondering what on earth Bertie needed now. He’d been gone only two and a half days, but it didn’t take Bertie long to get into a scrape. With another sigh of resignation, Patrick tore open the envelope and drew out the paper inside. Absently he pulled the brace of candles closer.
    Reading a few lines, he was making no sense of it until he got to what appeared to be some sort of reference to Caroline Ashley. Cursing Bertie’s miserable spelling and cramped style, Patrick deciphered the words “France,” “follow,” and “abduction,” all spelled incorrectly. “What the deuce,” Patrick muttered as he tried to piece together Bertie’s meaning. The letter now had his full attention as it dawned on him that Bascombe had abducted Caroline Ashley for whatever reason and carried her off to France.
    â€œThe fool—the bloody fool!” Patrick exploded. “Damn his interference! Of all the cork-brained—” He stopped and reread the offending message again in the hope he’d misunderstood it. “Damn him! Crump!” he called out as he lurched to his feet. “Crump!”
    â€œMilord?” the butler responded promptly.
    â€œTell Jenkins to pack for France—I leave within the hour.”
    â€œBut, your lordship—”
    â€œI know, I know,” Patrick muttered further, “I’ve but got here and the horses are tired. Tell Barnes to hitch the bays instead, if you will … and Crump …”
    â€œYes, milord?”
    â€œBest have Mrs. Winters pack something that’ll keep—I doubt I have time to stop anywhere to eat.”
    â€œBegging your pardon for asking, sir—but is something amiss?”
    â€œI have not killed anybody—yet—if that is what you are asking, Crump. But I cannot vouch for what I’ll do when I catch up to the wretch.” Patrick caught the butler’s curious expression and snapped, “Well, do not be standing here gaping, man—I’ve a long way to go tonight!”
    Abovestairs, Jenkins greeted the news with consternation. “Tonight?” he wailed. “But we’ve just arrived! And his bath—I’ve had his bath drawn! Are you sure you heard him aright, Crump? An hour! And did his lordship tell you if I am to