raised his glass in slow salute. “Well then, let us cry friends and say no more on the subject. You know that as your closest friend I only wish the best for you, Adrian, but it seems you have everything worked out, down to the last nail ...” A sigh, eloquent in its skepticism, sounded, followed by a further mutter. “I just hope it isn’t sealing your own coffin.” He swirled what remained of his champagne, then downed it in one gulp. “I shall forbear saying that I wish you luck, knowing your sentiments on that subject, and merely repeat that I wish you happy.” Under his breath, he couldn’t help but add, “However, to achieve that, I fear that you are going to need more of luck’s help than you think.”
Chapter Two
"You what!"
“I’ll not have it, my own son ringing a peal over my head.” The voice was querulous, its tone wound even tighter by the goodly amount of port the Earl had already consumed. He reached for the bottle as he spoke, but the Viscount knocked it from his hand. The glass shattered on hitting the floor, spreading a dark stain the color of newly spilled blood across the unswept wood. Both men watched it begin to seep toward the threadbare Aubusson carpet beneath the desk. “Now look what you’ve made me do. That piece was bought by your grandfather and now it will be ruined.”
“Ruined? You dare talk of Linsley heritage as if it actually meant anything to you?” Marquand knelt down and removed a handkerchief from his pocket. “Shall I remind you that until six months ago this carpet graced the library of Hadley Hall, until you lost that estate to Strickley at the roulette table—or was it faro?” With a ragged sigh he set to blotting up the sticky liquid. “I am heartily sick of always having to clean up after you, Father.”
To the Viscount’s vague surprise, his father reacted not with the usual, voluble show of indignation at having his judgment questioned, but rather collapsed in a nearby chair, his lower lip trembling.
“I have stood by while the family fortune carefully built up by our forebears has been bled dry by your profligate habits, voicing only the most moderate of suggestions as to how to keep from utter ruin,” he continued. “And on more than one occasion it has been the savings from my own prudent investments that have bailed you out of the River Tick, at no small cost to several . . . projects that meant a great deal to me.”
The Earl of Chittenden hung his head.
“In return, you made me a solemn promise.” Marquand’s voice couldn’t help but rise several notches. “You promised never to wager the Hall on your cursed games, Father. That you chose to throw away your money and the rest of your considerable lands was not something I begrudged, as long as you left Woolsey Hall untouched. But now that you have broken that pledge and lost it all on the turn of a card—”
“But I didn’t,” whispered the Earl.
The Viscount’s lips compressed in some contempt. “Ah, forgive me—was it the rattle of the dice instead?” he said with cutting sarcasm. “You may find such nuances of some importance, but I do not—”
“Not dice either, Adrian, I . . . didn’t break my promise. Not exactly.”
“I tell you, I care as little for your play with semantics as for your other games, Father. The cold fact is that Woolsey Hall is lost—”
“But it isn’t! N—not yet.”
His son turned to stare at him. “What is that supposed to mean? You just were telling me how you wagered it to the Marquess of Hertford in some desperate attempt to recoup yet another round of losses.”
The Earl brought his hand to his brow. “I did, but it is not what you think. The Hall is not yet lost, it is pledged, not on a game of chance, but rather one of . . . skill.”
Marquand’s eyes pressed close. “Good Lord. And what skills do you imagine you possess, other than becoming foxed in the blink of an eye or frittering away a fortune?”
“N—none.”
The