The pricks of pain along his shoulders where his waistcoat ended and only his linen shirt protected his skin, as well as in his bum and legs, made the whisky in his belly swirl and threaten to reappear. The ceiling above whirled. He closed his eyes, but the blackness spun just as fast.
Pale and sweaty, he sidled along the torture device and requested his jacket. Someone tossed to him, and he used it to pad his forearms to lever himself like a crab onto the carpet where he lay face down, panting.
The young man went to a knee next to him. “As much as I appreciate the view from this angle, my lord, your presence is requested upstairs.”
Luke groaned. Pushing to his knees, he attempted to stand. Swaying, he waited for the nausea to subside.
His friends stood along the rope, having declined to try their luck.
“Be back in a few.” He waved them off and turned to the woman in black lingering behind the game host. Nodding, he followed her to a curtained alcove that held stairs.
Climbing them nearly did him in, but he clung to the banister on the last step and waited again for the world and his stomach to stop turning. When she led him into an antechamber, he collapsed into the closest chair. “Please... may I have water?”
After a few careful sips, voices intruded upon his consciousness. He listened for a moment. ’Twas two ladies, onepresumably the Black Widow, but he could not make out their words.
The same woman who had led him upstairs reappeared from a different door than he’d entered through and gestured to him.
He grabbed his water and stepped through the doorway. Another woman—also all in black, with a veiled hat that covered most of her face—stood behind the desk. He clutched the door handle for balance and tracked his eyes around the room searching for the other—
A familiar figure turned to look at him. Grimacing, she scanned his disheveled hair, clothing and stance. It was William’s widow’s friend, Mrs. Ross, or Rosso. Whatever her name was.
Shaking her head, she said, “Clodpate.”
He bowed. “Wench.”
Chapter Five
Belle clenched herjaw so hard her teeth ached. She should have asked for a name before she agreed to this charade.
At his sloppy bow and rude greeting, she folded her arms. Apparently, the drunk imbecile wasn’t so drunk he’d forgotten referring to her as a wench on their first meeting several months ago.
Charlotte’s young lover had been present—she seemed to recall that the men were friends. William had attempted to smooth things over by referring to this young fool as a clodpate. The moniker stuck in her memory, as it was so appropriate. Then the hungover idiot had sketched a lame attempt at a bow and trotted out a trite apology. Deciding to teach him a lesson, she’d offered a ride home and gave him pointers on how to “beg one’s pardon” or simply beg, ensuring he suffered being awake and lectured for the entire ride. The lesson had clearly not stuck, so how was she to put him on a new path in life?
This was the last thing she needed. Chaperoning an idiotic youth was one thing. A grown man with a bad attitude and friends in common was quite another. For all he was attractive, with that thick head of auburn hair, pale skin that denoted his late-night hours, and long, lanky frame, he was incorrigible.She had husband hunting to do; she was done with catering to privileged lords who thought she was beneath them.
Turning to Bessie, she said, “No.”
The widow tilted her head. “As you said, you do not have a choice. This is part of the price of my services. You are welcome to find another matchmaker to help you hunt for a husband.”
She’d already admitted that. But seeing this young entitled lordling had prompted a last-ditch effort.
Clodpate sputtered, “Husband? You want me to marry her? But she’s a—she’s a—”
Both women turned to glare at him, waiting for the end of that sentence.
“Need I remind you that your debt to my establishment, already substantial, has just doubled?” The widow’s tone was ice. Belle was surprised frost didn’t appear on the lordling’s eyelashes.
He gulped and swayed.
“You can do what I say here, or I can write to your father requesting payment. Your choice.”
Belle glanced around for a rubbish bin when his face paled at that statement.
“No, I—”
When he straightened, she stopped worrying and cut him off. “What makes you think I’d marry you? I can do better. I’m to be your nanny whilst you grow up. Which”—she turned to glare at the widow—“could take much longer than a month.”
“He only needs be sober and have the ability to stay so.”
