‘Are you sure there is nobody else in the running?’
This wasn’t the news Owen had wanted to hear because it certainly would not put his racing mind at ease. Not after he had seen the horror in Lydia’s eyes first-hand when he had been the one to inform her of her fate.
He wasn’t proud of himself for doing that either. It had been churlish, bordering on the vindictive, borne out of some petty desire to put her in her place after she had tried to put him in his. He had learned to ignore those who looked down their nose at him, enjoying the challenge of winning them over and then happily taking their money when they lost it at his gaming tables. Unfortunately, all bets were apparently off when it came to her. With her he was constantly all at sea and nearly always without a paddle. Never quite in control when he diligently controlled everything else. Lydia vexed him—far more than a ghost from his past should.
‘Not unless they are keeping their cards very close to their chest and are still negotiating.’ Randolph shrugged his shoulders. ‘Which I am reliably informed there is no evidence of. He’s dined at the house twice this week already and has been the family’s only guest. It’s definitely Kelvedon.’ His best friend and business partner paused and watched him closely for his reaction. ‘Why else would he have made an appointment to meet with the Bishop of London yesterday? He’s procured a special licence.’
Owen nodded curtly and pretended to focus on tying his cravat in the mirror in case the sudden burst of rage at this news gave him away.
This was all happening so blasted fast he could barely keep up with it all, and worse, he had no earthly idea why he was compelled to keep up with it all in the first place. It wasn’t as if he wanted the vixen. Not in that way any more at least. Lydia was dangerous to his liberty and his sanity. Why should he care who she married? She wasn’t his problem, thank the Lord.
Even so—poor Lydia.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he felt for her beyond a combination of anger, hurt, nostalgia and fascination—but nobody deserved that fate, no matter what they had done. The Marquess of Kelvedon was a leering, sweating pig of a man more than double her age, renowned for his wandering hands. Owen had had to warn him twice in as many months to keep his filthy paws off the hostesses in his club. Once more and the lecher would be barred from Libertas for life no matter how much he spent at the tables. The thought of those hands mauling her…
Irritated at his unhealthy preoccupation with a woman who did not deserve his concern, his sudden inability to control his swirling emotions and his own ineptitude at tying a neckcloth, he tossed the third ruined strip of linen on the bed and snatched up another one.
‘I hate these things!’ His continued obsession with the minx was unhealthy. It was one thing when he’d been a green eighteen-year-old lad who’d worn his heart on his sleeve and only saw what he wanted to see, another entirely for a grown man of almost thirty who knew exactly what she was! He had been sport. Nothing more. A dirty secret. Someone to flatter her ego and practice her wiles on, then someone to discard and deny all knowledge of simply to save her own precious reputation!
He wound the fabric clumsily around his neck and tried again, not holding out much hope for success and conscious he was at risk of arriving late to the opera—a social faux pas in a society that put too much stock in ridiculous rules which put appearances over people.
‘Why the blazes is the measure of a gentleman determined by the knot in his cravat? And in this time of industry and brilliance, why the hell hasn’t some enterprising fellow invented one which is pre-tied and prettified and only needs one tiny, invisible hook to secure it around the collar?’ The fourth tie joined the third on the floor as he grabbed the last one from the dresser and shook it at Randolph. ‘I will never understand it!’
His diminutive friend rolled his eyes and dragged a chair over, making short work of climbing onto it, then slapping Owen’s fingers away from the task to take over himself. ‘That’s because you have no patience. Temper won’t get it tied…’ He shot him a pointed look before busying himself with the knot, his stubby fingers performing miracles Owen’s enormous digits were incapable of. ‘Although I suspect your hot head tonight is less to do with your cravat and more to do with a certain lady…’ He ignored Owen’s instinctive scowl. ‘Who I must say you seem uncharacteristically obsessed with of late. Well…more so than usual…’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
‘That despite your several thousand and convincingly emphatic assertions to the contrary over the many, many years I have known you, I am starting to think you are not quite as over Lady Lydia Barton as you might want us all to believe.’
‘That is utter nonsense!’ And a little too close to the truth for comfort. She still had some inexplicable and irrational power over him, which was exactly the crux of the problem when the only person Owen ever wanted to have power over him until hell froze over was himself. ‘I loathe the wench! And with good reason!’
Which went no way at all to explaining why he had made her business entirely his business all week so that Randolph was already smirking in that smug way he did when he was convinced he knew something Owen didn’t. ‘However…’ he did his best to look matter-of-fact ‘…she is well connected and well thought off among the ton, so it makes sound business sense to keep up with the gossip. You, more than anyone, know the importance of keeping an ear to the ground. It is always useful to know the state of our clientele’s finances. Especially as Kelvedon is such a good customer.’
Randolph’s fingers paused and he blinked in obvious disbelief. ‘A pathetic excuse which might work well with the masses, Owen—Kelvedon is a hedonist who will never give up his vices, even for a bonny wife like the lovely Lady Lydia, so his continued patronage at Libertas is assured. Your interest in her is entirely personal. Do not deny it.’ His nimble fingers returned to the task in hand. ‘Her impending nuptials have made you jealous.’
‘Have you been on the brandy?’ Was he jealous? Frustrated? Curious? A week since he’d heard the first rumours and Owen still wasn’t entirely sure how he felt beyond unsettled. Or perhaps it was panicked? He’d certainly awakened in a cold sweat last night after a particularly bad dream featuring both Kelvedon and Lydia behind a locked church door while the desperate dream version of himself failed to ram the thing open with only his shoulder.
‘Gertie thinks you still love her.’
Owen rolled his eyes, appalled at the suggestion. As if he were that stupid! That masochistic! That pathetic. He didn’t beg for crumbs from his supposed betters any longer or allow matters of the heart to overrule the sound judgement of his own pragmatic head. Loving Lydia had lost him his liberty… Maybe. ‘Gertie is mistaken.’
‘Is she?’ Randolph stepped back to admire his work and grinned. ‘In my experience, there is a fine and precarious line between loving and loathing. It would certainly explain your current obsession. And your recent foul mood.’
‘Trust me, the line between myself and that woman is wider than the Blue Mountains and just as impassable! She fed me to the lions, if you recall. Watched me arrested and dragged off to gaol and never uttered a word in my defence!’ When she could have vouched for his character and probably given him an alibi. He remembered that fateful moment as if it was yesterday. Her shock. Her disgust. And then her silence. ‘You get over all foolish notions of love pretty quick after that happens, I can assure you.’ Nor did you get over the sense of powerlessness that came from being a nothing and a nobody. Or the lack of control over your own life.
Randolph ignored both his denial and his murderous expression to carry on prodding the surprisingly open wound regardless. ‘Gertie reckons once a heart has been pierced by Cupid’s arrow, there can be no going back. The deal is done. The die is cast.’ His friend used far too many gambling metaphors. ‘The heart always wants what the heart needs.’
‘Your wife is a hopeless romantic.’ He jabbed his finger to Randolph’s chest, immensely uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken, but with no clear or coherent reasons justifying why his interfering friend was wrong. ‘If I am obsessed with anything, it’s finally seeing that family get their comeuppance!’ He stalked away to grab his evening coat and shrugged it on. ‘It’s petty and it’s beneath me—but I fully intend to enjoy it. After everything, I deserve that at least.’ If he told himself that often enough, he might actually come to believe it.
‘You’re not the vengeful type. You pride yourself on being the bigger man. It’s your most piously nauseating trait.’
‘There is nothing nauseating about doing the right thing and I am usually the bigger man—but the bad blood between me and the Earl of Fulbrook and his lofty brood is intensely personal. I might not be the type to seek my own revenge, but I’ll be damned if I won’t enjoy it if fate dishes them their just deserts for me! Keeping abreast of the soon-to-be Marchioness of Kelvedon ensures I get to enjoy the spectacle fully from a seat at the front.’ For good measure, he waved his finger in his friend’s disbelieving face.
‘And while I will admit once upon a time I might have foolishly allowed my heart to have been pierced by Cupid’s blasted arrow, I soon got over it and then wrapped the damned organ in armour in case the blighter ever tried to point his bow in my direction again!’ Owen marched to the door. ‘Thanks to you, I’m late for the opera!’
‘What do you care? You hate the opera. And you are only late because you insisted on hearing about your lady love’s wedding preparations…’
‘She’s not my blasted lady love!’
‘And as Gertie also says, if you have to shout—you’re wrong.’
‘Go to hell!’ He fully intended to slam the heavy oak door as hard as he could.
‘It’s a great shame, though, isn’t it? I mean regardless of what happened to you… Which is obviously unforgivable…but I wouldn’t wish Kelvedon on anyone. Not even my worst enemy.’ Which was the single most niggling thing keeping Owen up at night. Kelvedon was hideous. Inside and out. ‘Word on the street is he’s a bit handy with his fists as well as his hands.’
‘What?’ Against his better judgement, Owen turned around as his conscience pricked further. ‘Define handy.’
‘Only that he is renowned for his temper and his poor barren first wife was often seen with bruises…before she mysteriously fell down those stairs…’ Randolph shook his head, his face a picture of concern. ‘You’ve got to feel for the girl even though you despise her.’
‘I don’t completely despise her.’ That was the problem. ‘Loathing isn’t despising. And being a decent sort, I do feel some compassion for her.’ If Kelvedon ever laid a finger on her… Now he felt compelled to do the right thing. Being the bigger man really was a nauseating character trait. Blasted Randolph! Giving him another worry to add to the churning mix of emotions he couldn’t currently control and apparently couldn’t ignore.
‘I’m late!’ And it was probably best he extricate himself from the situation before his irritating friend added anything else to the seething cauldron bubbling in his gut.
‘I know you loathe her and everything, but being a decent sort who always does the right thing unlike the rest of us mere mortals…perhaps you could help her in some way?’
Owen had offered her his help the other night—Lord only knew why. She had turned him down flat. Thank goodness. ‘I sincerely doubt there is anything I could offer Lady Lydia Barton that she would take.’
‘I’ll wager she would! If it was a toss up between you and the odious Kelvedon, for example… I know which of you I’d rather marry if I was desperate.’
Owen paused mid-step and simply gaped. ‘Have you gone completely mad?’
‘It would save her from a fate worse than death. And you are partial to doing good deeds. Almost daily, in fact. You are annoying selfless. It’s one of the main reasons my Gertie adores you. She says you have a giant heart made from solid gold.’ A description which always made Owen uncomfortable, largely because he preferred to keep that unfortunate character trait a secret in case it was exploited again. But Randolph and Gertie were family, and his best friend was a master at finding things out, so they knew.
They also knew absolutely everything about his doomed romance with the vixen and how it had left him shattered, too. Because he had stupidly confessed everything on a number of occasions after a little too much alcohol—back in the days when he had never dreamed of ever seeing English soil or the blasted Lady Lydia Barton again.
He bitterly regretted those heartfelt, damning conversations now as they were obviously the root cause of Randolph’s current meddling. Ammunition of the worst sort because Owen had provided it.
‘I donate to the poor! I don’t marry them!’
‘Still… I know the way your noble mind works. It might be worth thinking about…for your own peace of mind…’
‘It isn’t.’ The very thought was preposterous. ‘I have no need of a wife, I’ve never wanted one and, if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be her! I’ve already spent seven long years in purgatory thanks to that woman. What you’re proposing is a life sentence!’
‘Perhaps…’
‘Perhaps! There is no perhaps about it. We loathe one another.’
His friend waved that away as if it were an inconsequential detail easily surpassed when it was the whole crux of his preposterous idea. ‘I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand. You are a rescuer at heart, so it will make you feel better about her tragic circumstances if nothing else…’
‘Believe me—I am not that charitable.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Not for me it isn’t.’
‘Because the more I think upon it, the more I see the concept has some merit…’
‘Merit?’ Owen folded his arms and shook his head. ‘I cannot wait to hear this! Your flights of fancy are always entertaining. This one surpasses all of the previous ones by a country mile.’
‘Well, it does have merit.’ Randolph jumped off the chair and came towards him. ‘Firstly, your cynicism about love and marriage is what makes it so perfect! We can take all the conventional aspects of it, all the emotion, all the anxiety and all the sighing out of the equation and make it purely about business. She’s an earl’s daughter.’
‘So?’
‘It stands to reason you being married to a member of the aristocracy, especially one as well thought of as her, will open doors for us. And, as you yourself only just stated, it makes sound business sense to keep up with the gossip, to know the state of our clientele’s finances—especially when it comes from such a reliable source. She’s from within their own ranks, Owen!’ There was an almost maniacal gleam in Randolph’s eyes now as he waved his arms around expansively. ‘One of the elite! Just think of all the enlightening little pearls we shall glean first-hand!’
‘Good grief…’ Owen shook his head, unsure whether to laugh or scream. ‘You’re an imbecile. I’ve gone into business with a three-foot imbecile.’
‘I’m three-foot-six.’
‘What difference do six paltry inches make?’
‘A lot in certain places if you haven’t got them. Although fortunately I have.’ His friend winked saucily. ‘That’s why the ladies have always loved me… But I digress. Where was I? Oh, yes…and secondly…’ Randolph ticked the next ludicrous point off on his upstretched hand. ‘With all the rumours flying around about her impending marriage and the prospective unsavoury and thoroughly repulsive groom, the ton have a lot of sympathy for her now. They all know what Kelvedon is and they’ll all work out why he was foisted upon her, too. You stepping in and graciously saving her from a fate worse than death can only serve to enhance your reputation and the meticulous intricate myth which surrounds you.’
‘The myth?’
‘The wealthy man of mystery. The ruthless man of business. The poor boy made good. The hero who never fails to step up…’ He shot him a pointed look at that one. ‘The charmer… The aloof gatekeeper… The man you dare not cross…’
‘Oh, good Lord!’ Owen flicked open his pocket watch and yawned. ‘Surely you are done?’
‘The returned convict… The wronged man who was transported for a crime he didn’t commit…’
‘I was transported for a crime I didn’t commit!’
‘Semantics.’ His outrage was dismissed with a genteel flick of the wrist. ‘All I mean is nobody outside of these four walls quite knows who Owen Wolfe really is. This would certainly put the cat among the pigeons and confuse and intrigue them all over again. Libertas will be the talk of the town again! Just think of the romance of the tale! Her family banished you to the other side of the world—’ he swept out one arm theatrically ‘—yet instead of seeking revenge as any normal human being cruelly denied their freedom would, you rose above it and rescued their daughter out of the goodness of your heart.’
‘I thought I was supposed to be mysterious and a little bit ruthless?’ The pair of them had worked hard on cultivating that image and, much as it pained him to make Randolph right again, it was working wonders for their business. ‘Suddenly playing the good Samaritan would go against the grain.’
‘Au contraire, my handsome and cynical friend! It adds yet another layer to the conundrum that is Owen Wolfe. A delicious layer which hints at that heart of gold beating loudly beneath the aloof and impenetrable business exterior. One which appeals to the feminine mind…’
‘Libertas is a gentlemen’s club.’
‘All the ladies will be swooning and clambering to invite you to the many entertainments you have thus far been excluded from—because it is the ladies who organise these things, Owen—and with those invitations comes fresh male customers. Fresh rich male customers.’ He wrapped his palm around his ear like a shell, knowing the lure of money was Owen’s nemesis. ‘I can hear the glorious tinkle of coin already.’
‘Imbecile.’
‘Face it, my friend, everybody loves a hero, especially such an intriguing and enigmatic one as you are shaping up to be—and we’ll make a fortune on the back of it. You marrying her is a business opportunity!’ He threw out both arms this time. ‘A glorious business opportunity!’
‘Yet I am surprisingly ambivalent about it.’ Owen turned to leave, only to feel his friend’s strong grip tugging his coat tails. ‘A lifetime shackled to a woman who hates me simply to utilise her connections in society sounds like a living hell. For me, that is. Not for you, of course. And the truth is, I am not that concerned about her welfare.’
‘And thirdly…’
‘Lord, give me strength.’ Owen threw his own hands in the air. This was all going from the sublime to the ridiculous. So typically Randolph. He pulled his coat away from the lunatic’s strong grasp. ‘You’re delusional. Completely mad. Why am I even still listening to you? Why the hell do I keep listening to you?’ He tapped his temple, bending at the waist to look his friend dead in the eyes. ‘When you’ve clearly gone soft in the head. I knew all the sun in the Antipodes would do you damage in the end. I repeatedly told you to wear a hat. Why did you never wear a hat?’
‘And thirdly…’ said Randolph, undeterred by the insults and plainly enjoying himself. ‘She’s always been the itch you couldn’t scratch. If you marry her…’ he drew a saucy hourglass in the air with his hands while raising his eyebrows suggestively ‘…then you can scratch it whenever you want to!’
‘Go to hell!’
Owen did slam the door this time and was halfway down the winding staircase when he heard Randolph’s smug voice on the landing.
‘The heart always wants what the heart needs, Owen. And I suspect, regardless of all the armour you’ve strapped on since, you might want to visit the surgeon because the tip of Cupid’s arrow is clearly still wedged in yours.’