London, 1816
Nothing in Anthony’s upbringing or experience had taught him the proper etiquette for taking delivery of a woman won in a card game. Had his prize been a courtesan, his imagination might have been adequate to the occasion. But this girl—what was her name? something outlandish like Robina or Jacinta—was the niece of a baron, the blood relation of the man he’d defeated at piquet. However awkward he might feel under the circumstances, Anthony consoled himself with the reflection that it must be far worse for the uncle.
Good. Candover’s discomfort was his goal. And he intended to make sure it greatly increased by the time he had finished with him.
“Lord Candover, my lord,” announced the butler, who had been told to show the visitors directly to the library.
The old debauchee was alone and wore a furtive look that clashed with his gold-embroidered purple waistcoat. Candover must have decided the correct protocol was to leave the girl in the carriage. Just as well, perhaps. What the devil would the servants think if she were delivered like a parcel and abandoned in his respectable household? Anthony could imagine the tittle-tattle. And though gossip was certainly his goal, he’d prefer to control it until he’d made up his mind what form it should take.
“Candover,” he said with a polite bow. “I take it you’re here to settle our bet.”
“Storrington.” Candover returned Anthony’s courtesy with a creak of corsets. Then he cleared his throat but said nothing more. His face darkened to an unbecoming puce, and perspiration glistened on his forehead.
As Anthony covertly observed his distress, Candover’s eyes shifted to a tray of drinks on the marbled-topped rosewood table in the center of the room. Anthony toyed with the notion of ignoring the hint. He knew everything about Candover’s habits, including just how long he usually went without alcoholic stimulation. Not very long. Spirits and sweets were addictions the man never resisted, as testified by his complexion and his girth. Anthony tamped down his hatred and rage. Time enough to reveal himself to his enemy when victory was complete.
Like a courteous host he walked over to the table and picked up a decanter. “Brandy?” Without waiting for a reply he poured a generous measure.
Candover seized the offered glass, tipped back his head, and drained it. A few drops of spirit dribbled from the corner of his flaccid mouth, down his chin, and onto his protruding belly.
“About our bet…” he began, then faltered. “I can’t meet the terms.” He looked away to avoid Anthony’s eye.
Anthony was surprised that Candover owned scruples enough to regret his shocking wager. He’d been eager to offer his niece as Anthony’s mistress in an effort to recoup a loss of ten thousand pounds, had goaded Anthony to accept the terms. Anthony forced himself to remain as unemotional as he always did at the piquet table. With Candover the game didn’t end when the last card was played.
“Might I suggest, Candover,” he said with gentle reproach, the tone he might take with an erring friend, “that you shouldn’t have wagered something you weren’t prepared to part with. Not, of course, that I don’t understand your reluctance to part with your niece.”
“Reluctance, be damned,” Candover growled. “I’ve never reneged on a debt of honor in my life. You could have the girl and be welcome to her if I could deliver her. But I can’t. The chit ran away.”
“Dear me,” Anthony murmured, enjoying Candover’s embarrassment. “Do you mean she wasn’t willing to come to me?”
“Willing or not, she’d do as I ordered.” Candover’s temper, never easy, was fraying at the edges. “But the bitch ran off with my cook, my French pastry cook. Eloped in the night! Damn it,” he shouted in an explosion of ire, “I’ll never find a hand with pastry like Jean-Luc.”
“I regret the loss of your cook, Candover.” Anthony found it difficult to keep his features impassive. “And of your niece too, of course. Do you need a few days to arrange your affairs before settling with me?”
“If you’d be good enough to wait,” Candover replied, “I’d be grateful. It’ll take me a day or two to raise ten thousand.”
“Twenty thousand,” Anthony reminded him quietly. “Twenty thousand. If you recall you were already down ten when you staked your niece against your previous losses.”
Candover gulped. “Twenty it is, Storrington.”
“A most unfortunate run of bad luck. Take your time.” Anthony positively oozed false sympathy. “Shall we say one week?”
Inwardly he exulted. Twenty thousand was a vast sum, difficult for any man to raise in such a short time, even one in better financial health than Candover. It might well be enough to tip him over the edge into utter insolvency. At the least his enemy would endure a miserable seven days attempting to meet his debt of honor.
Revenge was most definitely a dish best eaten cold.