The Regency Season: Wicked Rakes: How to Disgrace a Lady / How to Ruin a Reputation. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
touch it anyway.’ It had occurred to him years ago that in order to be truly free of his father, he could not be reliant on anything his
father offered, the usual second-son allowance included. The allowance lay tucked away in an account at Coutts and Merrick chose instead to live by the turn of a card or the outcome of a profitable wager. Usually it was enough to keep him in rent and clothes. His well-earned reputation for bedroom pleasure did the rest.
His father could halt the allowance for as long as he liked. That wasn’t what bothered Merrick. It was the fact that his father was coming at all. The one thing they agreed on was the need for mutual distance. Merrick liked his father’s jaded ethics as little as his father liked his more flexible standards. Coming to London was a death knell to his Season and it was barely June. But Merrick wasn’t outmanoeuvred yet.
He needed to think and he needed to think with his brain as opposed to other body parts. That meant the twins had to go. Merrick shut the door and turned back to the twins with a short, gallant bow of apology. ‘Ladies, I regret the emergency is immediate. You will need to leave.’
And so they did, taking his chance at two hundred pounds with them at a point where money was tight and his time was tighter.
* * *
‘Fillmore, how much do we owe?’ Merrick sprawled on the now significantly less-populated divan. He ran through the numbers in his head; the boot maker, his tailor and other sundry merchants would need to be paid before he left. He wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction of seeing to his debt. It might create the illusion his father had room to negotiate.
Damn, but this was a fine pickle. He was usually an adequate steward of his funds and usually a fair judge of character. He never should have played cards with Stevenson. The man was known to cheat.
‘Seven hundred pounds including this month’s rent on the rooms.’
‘How much do we have?’
‘Around eight hundred to hand.’
It was as he’d thought—enough to clear the bills with a little left over. Not enough to survive another month in the city, however, especially not during the Season. London was deuced expensive.
Fillmore cleared his throat. ‘Might I suggest that one way to cut expenses would be for us to stay at the family town house? Rent for rooms in a fashionable neighbourhood is an extravagance.’
‘Live with my father? No, you may not suggest it. I’ve not lived with him for ages. I don’t mean to start now, especially since it’s what he wants.’ Merrick sighed. ‘Bring me the invitations from the front table.’
Merrick searched the pile for inspiration, looking for a high-stakes card party, a bachelor’s weekend in Newmarket that would get him out of town, anything that might assuage the current situation. But there was nothing amusing: a musicale, a Venetian breakfast, a ball, all in London, all useless. Then at the bottom of the pile he found it: the Earl of Folkestone’s house party. Folkestone was hosting a party at the family seat on the Kent coast. Originally, he’d not considered going. It was three days to Kent on dry roads to even drier company. But now it seemed the ideal locale. Folkestone was a crusty traditionalist of a man, but Merrick knew Folkestone’s heir, Jamie Burke, from their days at Oxford, and he’d attended a soirée hosted by Lady Folkestone early in the Season, which explained where the invitation had come from. He’d been a model guest, flirting with all the wallflowers until they had bloomed. Ladies liked a guest who knew how to do his duty and Merrick knew how to do his superbly.
‘Pack our bags, Fillmore. We’re going to Kent,’ Merrick said with a finality he didn’t feel. He didn’t fool himself into believing a house party in Kent was an answer to his woes. It was merely a temporary salve. London was expensive, yes, but his freedom was proving to be more so.
* * *
The road to Kent was clearly not to be confused with the road to Hell, Merrick mused grimly later after three days of riding. For starters, there were no good intentions in sight. But there were apparently two highwaymen in broad daylight. Merrick slowed his horse and swore under his breath. Damn and double damn, he’d been a short two miles from the salvation of Folkestone’s bloody house party. His hand reached subtly for the pistol in his coat pocket.
It was deuced odd for highwaymen to attempt a robbery at three in the afternoon when the polite world was ready to settle in for tea. But given the state of the current British economy, he wouldn’t put it past anyone. It was unfortunate he was alone just now, having ridden on ahead of Fillmore and his luggage.
‘Is the road out, my good fellows?’ Merrick called, wheeling his horse around in a flashy circle. Their horses looked sleek and well fed. Great. He’d run into a set of the more successful brand of highwayman. Merrick’s hand tightened on his pistol. He’d paid his bills and his last pound notes were tucked safely in his pocket. He wasn’t about to surrender what financial surety he had left.
The two bandits, masked below their eyes with black scarves, looked at each other. One of them laughed and parodied his politeness. ‘It is to you, good sir.’ The man waved his more obviously displayed pistol with the casual flourish of a man long accustomed to handling firearms with ease. ‘We don’t want your money, we want your clothes. Be a good fellow and give us a quick strip.’ The green eyes of the second bandit flashed with humour.
The sun caught the glint of the pistol butt. Merrick’s hand eased on the grip of his weapon, a slow sure smile of confidence taking his face. Merrick stilled his horse and faced the two ‘bandits’. ‘Why, Ashe Bedevere and Riordan Barrett, fancy meeting you here.’
The green-eyed man with the pistol yanked his scarf down. ‘How did you know?’
Merrick grinned. ‘No one else in England has emeralds embedded in the butt of their pistol.’
‘Damn it, it was a good prank.’ Ashe gave his gun a rueful glare as if the weapon alone were to blame for ruining the gambit. ‘Do you know how long we’ve been sitting here, waiting?’
‘Waiting in the sun is dusty business,’ Riordan put in.
‘What were you doing, waiting at all?’ Merrick pulled his horse alongside his two friends and they continued down the road three abreast.
‘We saw your horse outside the inn last night and the ostler said you were headed over to Folkestone’s for the party,’ Ashe admitted with an impish grin. ‘Since we’re going, too, we thought we’d plan a little reunion.’
‘We could have reunited over a pint of good ale and rabbit stew last night,’ Merrick put in. Accosting friends with pistols was a bit demented even for Ashe.
‘There’s no fun in that; besides, we were busy with the barmaid and her sister.’ Riordan pulled out a pewter flask and took a healthy swallow. ‘There hasn’t been any fun all Season. London’s been an absolute bore.’
So boring that even a house party in Kent held more charm? It seemed unlikely. Merrick peered closely at his friend. Riordan’s face bore signs of weariness, but there was no time to pursue that avenue in the wake of Ashe’s next pronouncement.
‘How about a bathe?’
Merrick’s head swivelled in Ashe’s direction. ‘What? A bathe?’ Had Ashe finally gone around the bend? He’d long suspected Ashe wasn’t as sane as the rest of humanity, always the risk taker.
‘Not in a tub, old chap,’ Ashe replied, easily reading his mind. ‘Out here, before we get to the house party. There’s a pond—a small lake, really—over the next rise and off the lane a bit, if I remember this stretch of road right. It will be a chance to wash off the grime of the journey, a last chance to exist in nature before we embrace the unnatural formality of a country party where...’ Ashe paused for effect and went on with great exaggeration ‘...everything should be natural, but most unfortunately is not.’
‘Splendid idea, a bathe is perfect. What say you, Merrick? A bathe before high tea and the ladies?’ Riordan voted with