smile eased Rafe’s jaw as the crowd’s excitement vibrated through him, shifting the lingering tension from this morning’s escapade in Gracechurch Street. He’d spent the better part of the past hour walking the streets and considering his options, of which there were few. Cornelia possessed the register and there was no way to raise enough blunt to tempt it away from her. He owed more than he cared to remember to several moneylenders, including the garlic-loving Mr Smith. It was a wonder the cockroach hadn’t scurried out of the shadows to demand repayment since the debt was almost a year outstanding. Rafe wouldn’t even have dealt with the rat if he hadn’t needed money to keep his mother from starving while he was in Paris and to buy his and Cornelia’s passage to France and their way into the most lucrative card rooms. He’d hoped to repay the moneylender with their winnings, but like too many other plans, it hadn’t proceeded as he’d expected.
Now, the outstanding loan was just another of the heavy debts hanging around his neck. With any luck, one of Mr Smith’s less-than-genteel clients would find a more creative way to eliminate his debt and save Rafe from the money man’s foul breath. Rafe doubted he’d get so lucky. Luck had avoided him like the pest house these past few months.
He tapped his pocket, making Mrs Ross’s letter and the pound notes from the sale of the spoons crinkle. It was a shame he couldn’t use the letter to settle the old bet in the book at White’s and prove it was the maid and not the old trollop who’d died in the fire twenty-two years ago. His smile widened at the idea of entering the club and watching a few faces go pale as he held up the missive and collected his money. He could also imagine the stampede to Cornelia’s door. No doubt she’d get rich selling the damning evidence to all those heirs and then where would he be? Certainly not sharing in the wealth.
If I’d have known this was how she planned to repay me, I’d have left her at Lord Perry’s where I found her. He tugged the bottom of his waistcoat straight, not believing his own words. Her father might have been hard hearted enough to consign his own daughter to the pawing hands of Lord Waltenham, but Rafe hadn’t been cruel enough to condemn a young woman to such a fate.
‘Densmore,’ a voice hailed. Lord Hartley, a short fellow made higher by his tall hat, pushed his way out of the crowd, pausing to let a young urchin scurry in front of him before he trotted up to Rafe. ‘I see Napoleon threw you out. Afraid you’d steal Josephine’s jewels?’
‘I wouldn’t be the first to touch her baubles.’ Rafe took the Viscount’s extended hand as the other clapped him on the back. Another cheer went up from the crowd and they turned to watch the smaller of the two fighters stagger back. He quickly regained his footing and landed a sharp hook on his opponent’s jaw. ‘No, I couldn’t stay in France, not with such cultural delights beckoning.’
‘Then you’ll want to bet on the next fight, on Joe James.’ Hartley stepped closer, holding one hand to his mouth and dropping his voice as much as he could in such a racket and still be heard. ‘I spoke to a man who knows his trainer and assures me he can’t lose.’
‘Sounds like a most reliable source,’ Rafe chided.
Hartley shrugged. ‘More reliable than most. Come, what do you say?’
He knew too much about bribed pugilists to risk his money on a fight. ‘No, thank you. I prefer the certainty of cards, where if a man slips a deuce from his boots, justice against him is swift.’
‘Yes, you’ve always been eccentric that way. Come with me anyway. Keep me company while I take my chances.’
Rafe swung his arm towards the two men in the dirty tricorns sitting behind the betting table. ‘Lead the way.’
He followed Hartley around the circle of men, catching glimpses of the fighters over the heads of the ever-shifting mass of bodies. The larger man pounded the smaller one to the delight of the spectators whose bloodthirsty cheers grew louder, eager for the larger man to deliver the coup de grâce and put his poor contender out of his misery.
‘Whatever happened to the delightful little widow I used to see you with in Paris?’ Hartley asked.
The larger boxer slammed his fist into the smaller man’s face, sending him spinning to the ground in a puff of blood and dust. ‘She married the Comte de Vane.’
Hartley’s eyebrows shot up before scrunching down in disbelief. ‘The relic from the Ancien Regime who used to haunt Madame Boucher’s card parties?’
‘The very one.’ The old codger used to enjoy playing Cornelia at the tables, his rheumy eyes raking her body as he tried to capture her interest. Rafe once admired the artful way she’d kept him at bay, flirting with him just enough to encourage more wagers. Never in all the games had Rafe guessed she was scheming to win more than the Comte’s counters.
‘Well, I suppose it’s a more practical way for a woman to earn her wealth.’ Hartley shrugged, more amused than disgusted by the pairing. Unlike Rafe.
‘Apparently.’
Rafe picked at a small chip on a waistcoat button, recalling her saucy smile their first night at Madame Boucher’s when she’d laid down her cards to win a tidy sum and the notice of all Paris society. He’d proudly watched her from across the room as she’d risen from the table and tucked the bills into the small pocket sewn into the front of her stays. She’d been so beautiful, the cunning fox. Her yellow dress hugging her full breasts and emphasising her willowy height had made her a rare daisy among roses. As she’d crossed the gilded and mirrored ballroom, she’d collected every man’s gaze. Then, when her vivid blue eyes and radiant smile had fixed on him, he’d almost forgotten the terms of their arrangement and dropped to his knees to propose.
Almost.
If he had, he certainly wouldn’t be in his current predicament. Though she wouldn’t have accepted him, not with men like the Comte sniffing about her skirts, but he hadn’t known that back then.
His big toe rubbed at the ragged edge of the hole in his stocking. If the soft weight of her cheek on his chest and the delicate tears moistening her lashes during their last night together in Paris hadn’t muddled his thoughts, he might have caught her ruse. Instead he’d strode out to the card rooms like some besotted fool, thinking himself the hero for finding the money to get them home before the impending blockade could trap them in France.
It’d been a nasty awakening when he’d returned to see her driving away in the Comte’s carriage. She hadn’t even possessed the decency to write him a note. Instead, she’d left the empty wardrobe and missing portmanteaus to explain everything, the finishing stanza of her message delivered when he’d overheard Lord Rollingham in a card room discussing her marriage to the Comte.
Never once in all their time together had he thought her so manipulative, so hard hearted and cunning. How wrong he’d been.
The sneaky wench.
The crowd shoved past Rafe, knocking against his shoulders as it surged forward to congratulate the winner. The boxer raised his hands in triumph, flashing a near-toothless smile through a cut lip and one swelling eye.
Rafe ground his jaw at having been so easily duped, but as much as he cursed the Comte for winning Cornelia, he should’ve thanked the decrepit crook for forcing their separation. Marriage was never meant to be part of their partnership. He hadn’t saved her from one disgrace only to pull her into a poverty he couldn’t even describe as genteel, living with his mother in the few habitable rooms of Wealthstone Manor or huddled in his draughty lodgings in Drury Lane.
Two men dragged the unconscious boxer from the ring and into one of the brick buildings flanking the yard. The crowd moved away from the centre, breaking into small groups to commiserate over their losses and plan their next wager.
‘Last chance to bet, Densmore.’ Hartley moved forward in line, eager to part himself from his blunt.
‘No, thank you.’ Rafe stepped to one side to make room for others.
Movement in a small window overlooking the square caught Rafe’s attention.