AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter Twenty-One
James Whittiker spat out a curse and slammed down his losing cards.
‘No luck?’ It was a question from a rival gamester seated on the opposite side of the baize-topped table.
James knew the fellow’s sympathy was as false as his smile: both held a hint of vicious satisfaction. The pot was large and many pairs of eyes were avariciously lingering on it. The atmosphere was becoming increasingly hostile as slowly individuals withdrew from the contest for want of funds, or courage to continue bluffing on a hand that lacked royalty.
James shoved back his chair, stalking off to find a steward to fetch him a cognac, hoping he wasn’t about to be embarrassed by a refusal because he’d not yet settled a long-overdue shot. An ugly grimace hiked up his top lip at the thought.
Not long ago he’d been confident that Blackthorne would come up trumps and protect Elise Dewey’s reputation with his cash. But Whittiker hadn’t received a penny. Neither had he received any response to the two coded threats he’d sent to Upper Brook Street so he had gone again in person. The insolent butler Blackthorne employed had told him the viscount was still out of town and when he might be back was unknown.
Robinson’s curt dismissal had prompted Whittiker to act rashly while fired by Dutch courage and a burning resentment. By the next morning the gossip he’d started in the Palm House—a den of iniquity for gentlemen who liked to gamble and whore under the same roof—had spread far wider than he’d anticipated. Despite his thumping hangover twinges of doubt had immediately set in...not from conscience, but because he questioned his own tactics.
He now knew he should have waited longer, allowing Alex Blackthorne to return so he might again inveigle him for cash. If nothing else, he’d hoped Alex might agree to give him a few hundred pounds simply to get rid of him.
Yesterday James had bumped into Dolly Pearson and Edith Vickers in Pall Mall and had deduced from twin despising stares that they’d heard the gossip and knew who’d started it. James realised there was now nothing left to gain from the débâcle other than revenge, and even that advantage was turning sour. Usually the beau monde loved nothing better than to topple heroes from pedestals and eject damsels from ivory towers, but it seemed Alex Blackthorne and Elise Dewey had steadfast friends who were dousing the flames of the scandal before it could spread. James had not been fêted, as he’d hoped, for unearthing a juicy titbit concerning the eminent viscount and the country miss, but rather shunned.
‘Whittiker...’
James pivoted about on hearing the shout. Hugh Kendrick was bearing down on him, a paper in one hand and a tumbler in the other.
Hugh clapped a hand on James’s shoulder. ‘Just the fellow I wanted to see,’ Hugh exclaimed, then took a swig of brandy.
James’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He knew very well that Blackthorne’s friend disliked him as much as the man himself did.
‘Have you heard the wonderful news?’
‘News?’ James parroted. But his mind was agile and he speared a glance at the gazette under Hugh’s arm.
‘Here, have my copy and read all about it,’ Hugh said, all generosity, whipping out the paper. ‘See...I’ve even turned it to the right page for you.’ Having despatched his drink in a single swallow, Hugh started on his way. ‘Can’t stop; I’m off to my tailor to see about a suit of wedding clothes. There’s bound to be a grand reception in due course.’ A gleeful bark of laughter flowed back over Hugh’s shoulder, but he didn’t turn around. Had he done so, he would have seen Whittiker’s teeth snap together in a snarl of frustration because he’d located and digested a paragraph Hugh had boldly circled in black ink.
James tossed the paper on to an empty table on striding to the door. He now knew what, or rather who, had been keeping Blackthorne out of town. He also knew where the viscount was sure to be found: St Albans in Hertfordshire because that was where the confounded chit he’d seduced lived with her father and her sister. Hugh Kendrick’s delight about the forthcoming marriage had been genuine and Whittiker felt livid at the idea that instead of causing Blackthorne great inconvenience he might have precipitated the fellow’s wedded bliss.
* * *
Whittiker wasn’t the only person to feel cheated on reading that Viscount Blackthorne and Miss Elise Dewey were shortly to be man and wife. The groom’s mother seized her lorgnette and employed it for several minutes, reading and rereading the notice that announced her son’s nuptials in a few days’ time. Finally she pushed the paper away and returned her attention to her buttered toast. ‘Well, really, Alex,’ she sighed, taking a dainty bite and swallowing. ‘Just because I told you I approve of the girl doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have liked an invitation to the wedding.’
