The Daughter of an Earl (31 page)

Brett's patience with the mewling bastard snapped. He was done with the man. When Drummond brandished the gun and his arm swung high, Brett seized the moment and lunged. He caught Drummond's arm in a viselike grip, thrusting it upward.

A vicious expletive tore from Drummond as he fought Brett's grasp.

Daniel and Drew rushed to aid him.

In the scuffle, the pistol fired, Emily screamed, and hearing her cry, Brett's heart stopped dead.

He abandoned Drummond to Daniel and Drew, and whirled.

The seconds between the gun blast and his locating Emily safe in her father's arms were the longest of his life. Heart hammering, he nearly collapsed with relief.

The bullet had cracked and splintered a strip of molding along the ceiling.

The two Runners, who had been posted outside to escort Drummond away, burst into the room. Drew and Daniel relinquished Drummond into their custody. The Runners then escorted Drummond's defeated figure from the room, Lord Roberts following.

And just like that, it was over.

Brett did not give a damn. He had eyes only for Emily. When her father released her, she flew into his arms, and he crushed her close. She was all that mattered. Safe, warm, and in his arms.

“What were you thinking? Stop trying to catch bullets with your hide or your head. I cannot bear it,” she cried and buried her face against his chest, hugging him tight.

She was perfect. He pulled her away and gripped her shoulders. “Lady Emily Chandler, I adore you.” Oblivious to their audience, he lifted her off her feet and swung her around, her laughter mingling with his. When he set her on
her feet, he was unable to let her go, but curled his arm around her waist and beamed at her.

Drew stepped forward and bowed. “I trust you to keep him out of trouble, because now that my debt is paid, I have my own woman to woo. She thinks I am a lying, deceitful bastard, so it might take some time. But I have faith.” He winked.

Daniel slapped Brett on the back. “Congratulations again.”

A snort broke through the felicitations. “Taunton, surely you cannot sanction this. An earl's daughter with—”

“The man she loves, and who has proved his worth by saving her life, not once, but twice after today. No approval is necessary. She has made her choice, and it is a wise one.”

Wentworth fumed, but eyeing the group that had closed ranks around Brett, he snapped his mouth shut and stormed out.

“My protector.” Emily tossed her arms around Brett's neck. “Thank you for helping me win this battle.”

Brett ignored the quiet exodus behind him as the group gave them a moment of privacy. He pressed his forehead to Emily's temple and smiled. “It is about time you surrendered to me.”

“And you to me. Now we can savor the spoils of war.”

“Another one of your brilliant plans, my love.” He leaned down to kiss her lips.

Best damn alliance he ever
made.

T
URN
THE
PAGE
F
OR
A
LOOK
AT
V
ICTORI
A
M
ORGAN
'
S

For the Love of a Soldier

O
N
SALE
N
OW
FROM
B
ERKLEY
S
ENS
ATION
!

LONDON, ENGLAND

MAY 1855

S
OMETIMES
a woman runs out of choices.

Alexandra Langdon glowered at the door, willing herself to turn its brass knob. She didn't belong inside the chamber. She risked discovery, expulsion, and scandal. Her stomach growled and reminded her why she was entering anyway. What did the pampered heirs inside their exclusive enclave know about hunger? The hollow, empty rumble of it. The slow, insidious gnaw of it. She had experienced it for so long, it was like a familiar adversary. One she vowed to conquer.

That is, if she could open the damn door and cross the forbidden threshold.

There was money to be had inside the gentleman's card room. The Duke of Hammond hosted the grandest balls of the season. The cream of society attended, and while wives and debutantes danced the night away, husbands and bachelors sought refuge behind these doors. Rich men with
fortunes to win or lose at the turn of a card. Alex just needed to possess the winning hand—and she would.

Her father had given her a gift and she planned to use it. It was the only thing he had given her. For this, she loved and hated him.

She shook her head, wiped her clammy hands down her black dress trousers, resisted the urge to readjust her masculine wig, and once again, crossed into forbidden territory.

The familiar smells assaulted her first, a mixture of cigar smoke, whiskey, and men. The noise hit her next, the murmur of conversations, the rumbles of masculine laughter, and the crack of billiard balls striking together.

Burgundy carpet covered the floor, and dark wood-paneled walls were crowded with the familiar paintings of foxhunts. Red-coated riders leaned over straining horses, galloping after their prey. Alex's sympathies lay with the fox. She knew the desperation of seeking safety in hidden crevices, the terror of being hunted. Her lips pressed into a determined line. Like the fox, she needed to keep alert for fear of getting caught.

Alex stepped farther into the room, eyes locked on the card table in the far corner. A game had broken up and new players were claiming the vacated seats. One of those chairs was hers. If she reached it in time.

A group of men blocked her path. Her head barely topped their shoulders as she circled them, threads of their conversation drifting to her.

“Kendall is back.”

The name echoed, ringing familiar to her. It had circulated throughout the house since her arrival downstairs, voiced in hushed tones that reverberated through the guests like a rippling tide.

“I thought he had returned last fall.”

“Well, he's in town. And word's out that he's here tonight.”

“Christ. Does Monroe know?”

“More important, does Monroe's
wife
know?” Laughter followed.

“
Only
Monroe's wife? What about all the other women?”

Alex had no interest in the antics of some Casanova. The room overflowed with them. Oiled hair neatly groomed, snow white cravats, and hands curled around crystal brandy glasses. It was no surprise that these men would be petticoat chasers. The sport didn't give blisters, mess their hair, or soil their jackets. Bitterness washed over Alex as she sought to bypass the group, but their next words brought her up short.

“Last time he sat at a table, he lifted a fortune off Lambert and Eldridge.”

“Didn't Samson challenge him to a duel?”

“Rumors have circulated, but unlike you, Peters,” a man drawled, “Kendall is mute on the gossip he generates, and Samson has disappeared.”

“Remind me to avoid Kendall's table,” someone muttered.

A gambler and a rake
. Her dislike for the man grew.

Dismissing him, she continued forward, intent on her goal. Two seats on opposite sides of the circular card table remained vacant.

She set her sights on the closest empty chair. As she neared it, she studied the four men already seated. She recognized the two viscounts conversing with each other, Lords Linden and Chandler. Lord Richmond, an earl, had been introduced to her once before. Lord Filmore was a welcome sight. She had lifted fifty pounds from the rake in their last encounter.

But that was over six months ago, and the money hadn't gone far.

None of the gentlemen rose to greet her, nor did they draw back her chair. It always surprised her, but it shouldn't have. They nodded, murmuring her surname in that familiar greeting men exchanged, dropping titles and first names.

Before she breached society's rules and claimed her seat, she studied her surroundings. A mahogany bar lined the wall opposite her. Light from the chandelier danced off the crystal decanters and glasses littering the bar surface. A
gilded frame mirror hung above the setup. Alex didn't immediately recognize the stranger staring back at her. When she realized it was her own image reflected in the glass, she drew in a sharp breath.

A young man with brown hair, startled blue eyes, and a crisp white cravat tied about his neck returned her stare. A red flush climbed her throat and stole over hollowed cheeks. She tore her eyes from the reminder of her gaunt appearance.

Her blue jacket had needed to be taken in further, only the padding filling her out now. It was little wonder she sweltered and yearned to yank off her cravat and draw a cooling breath.

The disguise was a necessary evil if she wanted to play for these stakes. Card rooms existed for women. She could try her hand at the genteel games of piquet or whist, but no fortunes would be laid on the tables, no hundred-pound bets. She needed to be here where serious money could be won.

She lifted her chin in determination and braced herself to wish the man in the mirror luck, but her view was blocked.

A new player had claimed the remaining chair opposite her.

Her eyes rose from his pristine black evening jacket, tailor-fitted over a tall, muscular frame to study his face. This time, she did retreat a step. Not because the man was handsome, though his classic aristocratic features were striking. He had chiseled cheekbones, sensual lips, and an enviable mane of thick, raven black hair. The room held a banquet of beautiful men, and while Alex was aware of them, her hunger was directed elsewhere. There was something more about this man, something beyond a handsome face and figure.

It was in his eyes. They were storm-cloud gray, cold as slate and hard as steel. Alex couldn't look away. They were hypnotic, riveting. He frowned, shattering the spell that had held her transfixed.

Weak-kneed, she circled her chair to drop into her seat. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

He knew.

It was the only possible reason for the black scowl directed at her, for she had never seen the man before in her life. Her eyes snapped back to his but he turned away, dismissing her. He collected a brandy from the tray of a passing waiter and folded his tall, lean body into his seat. He set the glass on the table but did not drink from it, instead shoving it out of reach and turning to respond to a comment from Richmond.

This man had no interest in her. Her tension eased and she exhaled. She needed to remain focused.
Focused players win
. She eyed his untouched glass of brandy.
Sober players win
. Her father's words echoed. Drawing a steady breath, she started to remove her gloves, but paused. Her hands would give her away but it couldn't be helped. The risk had to be taken. She slipped the pair off and lowered her hands to her sides.

Richmond addressed the group. “Kendall, you know everyone?”

Her eyes shot up.

Kendall.

The womanizer and gambler. But of course. It was inevitable that fate would seat this man at her table. Of late, fate had been less than kind to her.

“Actually, I don't.” Those compelling eyes leveled on Alex.

“Right. Alex Daniels is new to you,” Richmond said by way of introduction. “Daniels returned from abroad last year, grand tour and all.” He addressed Filmore, a slow smile curving his lips. “Filmore, you remember Daniels, don't you?”

Daniels. She had chosen the name from a stallion who had triumphed at Ascot despite one-hundred-to-one odds against him. She hoped for similar luck.

Filmore grinned. “I do. You left with my money the last time we shared a table. You've been scarce these last few months. Good of you to make an appearance. I like to be given the chance to recoup my losses.”

She opened her mouth to respond but noticed Kendall frowning at her again. She didn't like it, or the effect it had on her pulse. If she'd had a fan, she would have snapped it open and given him the cut direct. Without her fan, she turned away from him to respond to Filmore, lowering her voice to do so. “My apologies, Lord Filmore. I so enjoyed spending your money that I've returned for more.” She couldn't bring herself to drop his title, cross over into the intimate address of men.

Chandler grinned. “The gauntlet has been tossed. Let's hope you brought your purse, Filmore.” He lifted his glass in a mocking salute.

Filmore settled back in his chair and eyed his friend. “Did you bring yours, Chandler, or are you wagering another one of your father's prized stallions?”

Chandler laughed, unperturbed. “The earl managed to reclaim him. Admittedly, not at the bargain price at which he'd originally purchased him.” His grin was unrepentant.

“He must not have been too upset over your bartering his prime bloodstock. After all, you still live,” Linden commented dryly.

Chandler shifted in his seat. “There was a bit of a row, but there are benefits to being the earl's only heir—no spare.”

The men laughed, with the exception of Kendall. Alex didn't know where Kendall had left his sense of humor, but she abhorred these fops' cavalier attitude to betting their estates, their father's stables, or treasured family heirlooms. If they didn't need their pampered luxuries, there were those less fortunate who did.

“Shall we deal the cards, gentlemen?” Richmond asked, lifting the deck and waiting for Filmore to cut before he dealt the first card to Kendall. “Opening bid is twenty-five pounds.”

Beneath the table, Alex's hands clenched her thighs, her fingers digging deep. She had pawned her last piece of jewelry to enter this game, hoping to double its value. Glittering baubles were of little use, for there would be no more Seasons for her.

The round circled and returned to Kendall, who drew two cards and addressed the group. “Gentlemen, I'll raise you fifty.”

“Aren't you missed in the ballroom?” Linden muttered as he tossed in his note, flicking off a piece of lint from his bright blue jacket. “Not by the men, but by the ladies?”

Kendall merely raised a brow, refraining from comment.

Alex ignored the banter. Good Lord, seventy-five pounds. Her necklace had garnered a mere hundred. She studied her cards. It was a good hand.
Langdon luck.
Her father's voice bolstered her flagging courage, and she added her note to the growing pile, stamping down her nerves.

“Recently returned to town, Kendall? I haven't seen you at White's or the last few balls,” Linden said.

“Unlike you, Linden, I'm selective in the invitations I accept,” Kendall returned, his eyes on Chandler, who scowled at his hand.

Filmore suppressed a laugh, but kept his attention focused on his cards.

“You have something in common with Daniels here.” Richmond nodded to her.

“He's been scarce as well.”

“Yes. Well, I've had other priorities.” She waved a hand. Her eyes met Kendall's, and his narrowed as if he heard the lie in her words. She cursed him for appearing to read her so well, for looking so damn arrogant and handsome.

He was a distraction she didn't need.

“You both missed quite a spread at Warden's.” Chandler added his note to the pile. “This season's debutantes are prime stock. I fully intend to sample a few of the fillies.”

“Bloody hell, Robbie, haven't you had enough problems with horses?” Filmore snorted. “Gentlemen, shall we raise the bet another twenty-five?”

The cards circled to Linden and he folded his hand. “I'm out.”

Alex did the math, calculating that after the round she would be left with . . . with nothing. Nothing didn't go very far. Past experience had taught her that stark, bitter lesson.
But she only needed one more card.
Just one more.
She wondered where her heady rush of Langdon luck was and feared it sat at another table.

She gnawed on her lower lip, then froze—no tells. She surveyed the table, but they appeared unaware of her frayed nerves.

The room was stifling. Why did men wear cravats? Like a noose around one's neck, they choked. She glanced up and noted Kendall appeared to have once again read her mind, for he removed his black evening jacket.

The man proceeded to brazenly roll up his sleeves and bare his forearms. She was riveted to every movement of his crisp white dress shirt sliding back to reveal his muscular, bronzed arms. She swallowed. Good Lord. It was indecent. He cocked a brow at her, and she stiffened. It was her move and all eyes rested on her.