Miss Westlake's Windfall Read Online Free Page B

Blue Ruin.
    “Said no again, did she?” Leo had taunted with the unmerciful callousness of an old boyhood chum. With his sources, Leo likely knew of Ada’s answer before Chas did. Then again, Chas and Ada had been yelling like fishwives, so it was no wonder the turning down of his tenderly tendered troth was so quickly common knowledge. But the viscount wasn’t going to think about that now.
    Leo had gone on to tease about monthly curses, and how Ashmead had found the only female in the kingdom who was not fickle. “Damned if your Miss Westlake isn’t the steadfast sort.”
    He’d ignored the viscount’s muttered, “She’s not my anything.”
    Leo’d grinned. “Didn’t want you last month. Doesn’t want you this month. Won’t want you next month. I admire a woman who knows her own opinion and sticks to it, don’t you?”
    Chas hadn’t bothered mentioning that there would be no next month, that addlepated Ada had made him swear not to ask again. He’d just gritted his teeth and called for another bottle, trying to distract his now-former friend with speculation as to the Frenchman’s whereabouts. Had he missed the boat? Found another way across the Channel? Changed his mind about selling his information to the Crown?
    Trying to find a more comfortable spot against his pillows, Chas tried to make a mental note to ask his valet about the sack of coins that was to be Prelieu’s payment. He knew he’d had it at the alehouse, because he’d made sure the purse was tucked away when the fight had broken out.
    Nursing what he was sure would become a lurid black eye, Viscount Ashmead had started riding for home on his young chestnut gelding, Thunderbolt. Try as he might, his lordship could not recall meeting up with the Frenchman or being set upon by thieves. If Purvis hadn’t taken the pouch of coins from Chas’s pocket, then the small fortune must still be in his saddlebag. Leo was the only one who’d known of the planned payment, besides Prelieu, of course, and Chas trusted the smuggler with his life, if not with his pride.
    On his way home, Ashmead’s whiskey-riddled mind had chosen to trot through the orchard that separated Westlake Hall from the Meadows, where he knew Ada would be picking apples the next day. She’d told him so before the argument, promising to save one of Cook’s apple tarts for him if she found enough fruit. Before she’d sent him to the rightabout.
    Chas had thought of surprising Ada there, perhaps stealing a kiss or two in the privacy of the empty orchard.
    Chas remembered Thunderbolt being spooked by an owl, but he hadn’t fallen, not then. He’d played the mooncalf instead, mourning those lost kisses, regretting that he would not get to admire the sun on Ada’s face, her gown stretched taut as she reached for a branch, her skirts showing a hint of ankle—No, he would not think about the heartless jade. Or her orchard. Or standing up on the back of a nervous, high-strung horse. Oh, God.
    No, his lordship assured himself, he would never try such a totty-headed stunt, not even in his cups.
    He next remembered arriving at his stables, where his head man, Coggs, was waiting up to put Thunderbolt to bed, no matter how many times the viscount had told the old man he was perfectly competent to rub down his own mount.
    “Aye, I can see how competent you are tonight, lad.” Coggs took the chestnut’s reins, muttering, “The fumes on your breath be enough to set the stables on fire. Turned you down again, did she?”
    Then Coggs had noticed how awkwardly the viscount dismounted, and how he had his left arm tucked between the buttons of his coat.
    “What’s this, then, lad? Here, let’s take a look.” Coggs had let the tired horse stand while he led the viscount toward the hanging lantern and an upended barrel. He whistled through his teeth when he saw the raw scrape on the viscount’s cheek. “B’gad, looks like a peeled tomato.” He gently reached for Ashmead’s arm,