Chapter Six

By the time Oliver returned home, his disposition was sour. His meeting with Madame Crescent had been completely unsatisfactory. Lady Scarlet’s identity remained a mystery, and there was nothing he hated more than uncertainty. His life was as regimented and precise as his ledgers.

He found himself inexplicably dissatisfied, and he was more determined than before to find her.

But first, he needed to visit the boxing salon and spar with a worthy opponent to relieve some of his frustration. Perhaps that would help until he found the enigmatic Lady Scarlet.

“Oliver?”

His head lifted at the sound of the feminine voice to find the Dowager sitting on a sofa in the corner of his study. Damnation. Had he been so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed her? He had sent a note earlier advising his grandmother that he would pay her a visit later today. Had she such little patience? His annoyance increased and only deepened his foul mood.

His vexation must have been evident on his face.

“Do not blame Burk. I let myself into your study,” she answered as if reading his mind.

She had always been sharp, much more intelligent than her son, Oliver’s father. Tall and thin, she had a head of curls that had gently faded to gray. She’d been a beauty in her youth and had captured his grandfather’s eye during the first ball of her first Season.

His grandmother rose and approached his desk. “I knew you would be here, my boy. It’s where you spend most of your days.”

She understood him well, and the endearment had stayed even after he’d grown into manhood, even after he’d inherited the title.

“What is so pressing that you could not wait for my visit?” He kissed her cheek, then motioned for her to occupy one of the chairs before his desk before sitting beside her.

“You know why I’m here. It’s been almost six months since your brother’s death. You needn’t wait to take a wife.”

“I’m quite aware of my duty to produce the next crop of Drakes to carry on the family name.”

She eyed him with a calculating expression. “You were always more responsible than your brother.”

“That is a low bar indeed.”

She scoffed. “Don’t be stubborn. I loved your father and your brother, but I was never ignorant of their faults.”

Drinking, gambling, and whoring immediately sprang to his mind.

But none of these were the worst of his father’s faults. In Oliver’s opinion, it was his coldness toward his two sons that was his biggest failure. Oliver could count the number of times on one hand that the old earl had expressed any type of affection toward him or Henry as children.

Those affectionate acts ended entirely as Oliver grew older and his father became even more distant and self-centered. He was no different outside the home and enjoyed the thrill of humiliating a man in order to gain favor with his own reckless set of friends.

An incident he wished he could forget stuck in his mind and his gut like a bad meal.

“You need to harden, Oliver,” his father had said one evening. “There is nothing more despicable than weakness in a man. Come and watch and learn.”

Despite the criticism, Oliver had been thrilled at his father’s attention. Finally, he would get a chance to spend time with his sire, to learn what took him out of the house night after night, perhaps even gain his favor.

They’d gone to a gaming hell in Pall Mall. The stench of perspiration and desperation struck Oliver as soon as he’d set foot inside. His father scanned the occupants of the tables, and his eyes had flared in delight when he’d spotted—then challenged—the baron, Lord Woodbridge, to a game of cards. The baron had been out of his league both with the amount of free-flowing whisky as well as his lack of skill with cards, and rumor had it he’d recently lost his wife.

He lost his sole estate, Rosedown, that evening to Oliver’s father.

“That’s how it’s done, Oliver,” his father had said, his voice coolly impersonal as if nothing untoward had occurred and he’d just enjoyed an easy afternoon stroll. “Collect the deed tomorrow.”

Oliver stood like dead wood. He would never forget the look on Lord Woodbridge’s face—devastation, dismay, disgust…his wretchedness seeped from his pores like pestilence.

Less than a week later, Oliver had inquired about the baron and had learned the man had killed himself at Rosedown.

Oliver had been assailed by a terrible sense of bitterness toward his father. After several inquiries, he was disheartened to discover the baron had a daughter and young son.

“Stupidity, even disguised as grief, shall not be rewarded,” his father had told him. “Woodbridge’s loss is our gain.”

It wasn’t until that moment that Oliver truly acknowledged his father’s selfishness and cruelty.

Oliver planned to make amends for his father’s sins by searching for the daughter to provide a dowry or some means for her, but his efforts had been delayed by his own father’s death from a carriage accident, and then, soon after, his brother’s death after his heart gave out while he was in bed with his mistress. Oliver had been overwhelmed by the responsibility of inheriting an earldom while grieving the death of his father and brother. By the time he came around to searching for Lord Woodbridge’s daughter, he had been unable to find her.

“Oliver.”

He was pulled out of his reverie by his grandmother’s voice. “I understand you miss your brother, but you ascended to more than just this,” she said, waving her hand to the neat pile of ledgers and correspondence on his desk.

“I’m not ready to pick a bride.” He knew nothing of marriage other than his own parents’ union, and they had barely tolerated each other and each had had a string of lovers. He would put this off as long as possible. He pushed back his chair to rise when she placed a hand on his sleeve.

“Then it’s a good thing you have your grandmother, isn’t it? I have arranged for you to visit a young woman.”

That response received his full attention, and he settled back in his chair. “Pardon?”

“A lovely young lady, the daughter of Lord and Lady Malvern, is making her first Season. I spoke to her mother and arranged everything. You are to arrive at Lady Penelope’s home this afternoon.”

He frowned. “You expect me to court a lady sight unseen?”

Her blue eyes flashed a gentle but firm warning. “I expect you to do your duty. A stroll in the park is a simple start.”

“And if I dislike the girl?”

“Then I will respect your wishes. We will find another.”

Oliver pondered this request. If it would buy him time, he was willing to go along with his grandmother’s matchmaking efforts. He could take Lady Penelope for a spin around Hyde Park, talk nonsense, and then drop her off at home and never look back.

Meanwhile, he would continue his search for Lady Scarlet.

“Fine,” he said. “Lady Penelope it is.”