Page 4 of Once Ruined, Twice Shy

Conall scanned the notebook which was handed to him. Grim news for the country, and much of it resulting from the end of hostilities with Napoleon. England had been pumping all its resources into the war—now it needed other uses for its iron and coal, most particularly in the creation of industrial machinery. Which regrettably meant loss of employment for the workers who had previously performed their tasks by hand.

He chewed on a finger. “I think we’ll let Ebbworth keep his stakes in those industries. They need all the financial support they can get, so the workers can be paid a decent wage. We’ll concentrate on breaking him through his gambling habit.”

Stapleton tapped his fingers excitedly on the gold-tooled leather of the desk. “I expected you to say that. But one might take advantage of the temporary collapse in the value of shares in the Butterley company.”

Conall raked his memory. “Ah, yes. The potential riot up in Derbyshire. It has made investors edgy, has it?”

“Indeed. They’re selling off shares like penny loaves on a market stall. Should the company collapse—”

“I’ve no wish to contribute to the collapse of the company. I say we do the opposite. Purchase Ebbworth’s shares at a rock bottom price, then do what we can to ensure the Butterley company stays afloat. He’ll kick himself for selling when he did. And will return to the gambling tables with the money from the sale so he can increase his capital. I need you to take him on again, Stapleton. But don’t accept any vowels from him. Insist on having your winnings in cash or kind.”

The broker steepled his fingers together and stared steadily at Conall. “In your attempt to bankrupt one man, you’ve poured a great deal of your own money into tottering companies. I fear you will be ruined before your victim.”

Conall rose, and Stapleton followed suit. “I trust you to ensure we never overstep the mark. And don’t forget, when we take Ebbworth for all he has, our coffers will be refilled. Let me reassure you that I’m governing my estate with clockwork precision, and despite the bad harvests and poor weather of late, we are still in surplus, and likely to remain so until things improve. Spyle Court is a long way from ruination.”

“Very good, my lord. I shall see myself out.”

“Report back if you manage to tempt Ebbworth to a game. And help yourself to whatever stake you need to secure his interest.”

“I appreciate your trust.” Stapleton dipped his head in salute, then disappeared off into the hall.

Conall picked up the paper with Ebbworth’s ten guinea promise to Lord Austin—which was now a promise to himself. He pulled out a drawer of his desk and removed a small walnut box which he undid with the tiny key suspended from his watch chain.

The box was stuffed with an assortment of small pieces of paper, each written in the same hand, guaranteed by the same signature. Frederick Ebbworth. He placed the latest IOU on top, then locked and replaced the box, a thin smile curving his lips.

“Not long now, Ebbworth,” he murmured, his jaw tight. “Before summer’s end, I shall crush you under my heel as befits the snake you are. There will be no mercy. And Josephine will be avenged at last.”

Chapter 3

Hestia spurred her mount into a gallop, fuelled by anger. This was the stupidest thing she had ever done, even more foolish than eloping with Frederick in the first place.

She’d used every means at her disposal to persuade him to marry her, as they’d planned— short of weeping and wailing, for she was too proud for that. There were no manuals to teach a fallen woman how to secure her man and lure him into marriage. How could such a thing be achieved when the woman had already given all she had to give?

She was forced to trust Frederick would keep his word—that they would be wed as soon as Methuen’s hold over him had been broken. If she could then keep her husband away from the gaming tables, they would have enough to live on, and could raise the family for which she was so desperate.

As the speed of her passage threatened the security of her bonnet, she tugged on the reins. It would do no good to fall off at such a pace—she would like as not break her neck. She’d been practising falling off her horse in the fields and hills around Bath, and had mastered a slow slide that allowed her to almost reach the ground, before tumbling over. Generally, she aimed to pitch herself into a bush, if one could be found. They provided the safest landings.

She’d developed a lot of bruises, which might be a problem. If Methuen called a doctor for her, they would query the presence of so many bruises sustained before the ultimate fall. Would anyone believe it if she claimed she was only now learning to ride, having been unable to as a child for some reason? A reason she would need to invent, piling one untruth upon another. Lying went against the grain and she suspected the more lies one told, the more embroiled in wickedness one became.

The fury surged in her again. This wasn’t right, but now there was no time to think of an alternative. She had almost reached the spot on the drive of Spyle Court where Methuen should be walking.

She prayed there’d be no one there, that Frederick was mistaken in saying their quarry was a man of meticulous regularity. She’d wheel the horse around and head back to the Red Lion, her conscience unsullied.

But there was a gentleman striding down the drive, swinging his cane. At this distance, she could just make out the dark hair and the eyepatch. The earl himself.

Her heart was granite in her chest, and beads of perspiration broke out on her brow. This was it—no turning back now. There were rhododendron shrubs on either side of the road with thick, glossy leaves which looked as if they would break her fall. She performed the manoeuvre she’d been practising all week—pulling her steed to a violent stop, making it shy, then sliding off it into a bush.

She uttered a shriek. Rhododendrons were not so soft a landing as she’d surmised. Beneath the foliage was a network of hard, springy branches that gouged at her flesh. She’d twisted her back as she fell, a hot, tearing pain that made her groan. A curse upon Frederick Ebbworth and his perilous schemes!

Through the mist of pain and alarm, she heard a man’s shout and the sound of running feet. She tried to shift, and more pain lanced through her, eliciting a yelp. God, but this scheme had better work. She recalled what Frederick had told her—that Methuen was vile, a poor excuse for a gentleman, and deserved all that was coming to him. She need feel no guilt in deceiving him. Swallowing hard, she screwed up her courage and readied herself to be pleasant to the detestable fellow.

There wasn’t much else she could do. She was helpless, on her back and ensnared by rhododendron branches, like a fish in a net.

“Devil take it. Not again!” The man bent over her.

He didn’t sound detestable. He sounded horrified and concerned. Frederick had insisted she meet Methuen as the result of a riding accident—it would make him easier to manipulate, her lover had said, though he’d not been prepared to vouchsafe the reason.

“Madam, are you hurt?” The voice was deep, given a hard edge by anxiety. “Don’t try to move. Just answer if you can.”