Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(18)

Logan took pleasure in the activity around him, knowing that were it not for his efforts, the Capital wouldn't exist. It had been created from his own ambition, put together scrap by scrap, and painstakingly nurtured. Failure had been out of the question—he had never allowed himself to consider the possibility. Failure would have meant returning to the life he had been born to as the son of Paul and Mary Jennings.

Suddenly a familiar voice broke the silence. “Working at this late hour, Jimmy? You've made your fortune—why not enjoy it?”

Three

Turning in his chair, Logan regarded the familiar face of Andrew, Lord Drake. Andrew was a tall, well-built young man with wicked blue eyes and dark hair worn in a long, windswept style. He was handsome, although signs of his self-indulgent lifestyle had recently begun to appear…a fleshiness of the cheeks and chin, the ruddy complexion of a perpetual drunkard, and the dark-circled eyes of a man who was frequently awake for most of the night.

Logan and Andrew had been close companions for most of their childhood. Andrew was the only son and heir of the Earl of Rochester, and Logan had been the son of a local tenant farmer. Together the boys had roamed the estate, fishing, swimming, and hunting small game. For Logan it had been like having a younger brother. Although Andrew was the heir to a great fortune, Logan had always felt sorry for him. From what Logan had been able to observe, the earl hadn't been a much better father than Paul Jennings. Rochester was cold and rigid, far more concerned with rules and discipline than with his son's welfare.

Remaining at his desk, Logan smiled slightly. “I never expected to see you again so soon, Andrew. Not since I told you to stop making advances to my actresses.”

Andrew grinned. “There isn't a great deal of difference between a theater and a bordello, you know. Actresses are just like prostitutes, only more expensive.” He cast a deprecating glance around the small room, his gaze lingering on the overloaded desk. “I wonder that you haven't gone mad by now, spending so much time in that dusty corner.”

“I enjoy working.” Logan leaned back and propped his feet on the edge of his desk, resting his hands on his flat midriff.

“‘Enjoy’ and ‘work’ don't belong in the same sentence, Jimmy.” Andrew watched his face and smiled as he saw the flicker of reaction in Logan's eyes. “You don't like it when I call you that, do you? I assure you, I don't intend it as an insult. I admire what you've done, turning yourself from humble Jimmy Jennings into the great Logan Scott. When we were boys, I always supposed that you would marry some local dairymaid or shopgirl, and become a farmer like your father. Or perhaps you would have come to London and worked as a clerk for some piddling merchant. Instead you're one of the richest self-made men in England, with beautiful women twitching their skirts to gain your attention, and dinner invitations from the Duke of Wellington. Sometimes I feel as if I'm the only one who remembers who you really are.”

“You're not,” Logan said. Even if he had been able to forget his own humble beginnings, there were many who never passed up a chance to remind him. No upstart, no matter how talented or wealthy, could ever break into their exclusive circles. Certainly he was fit to entertain them, but not to move among them as an equal. He would never be allowed to marry their daughters and mix his red blood with blue.

“Why are you here, Andrew?” he asked. “Have you come to reminisce about the past, or is there something you want?”

Seeming annoyed by Logan's bluntness, Andrew shrugged. “All right, if you insist on going to the point…I'm in a pickle.”

“You've been gambling.”

“Of course I have. What else is there to do with my bloody time?” Andrew exploded in frustration, his face reddening. “For the last two weeks I've spent nearly every night at the club, and I've been pigeoned out of every shilling I have. Every time I thought my luck would turn, it got worse. Now the news is all over London. I'm denied credit at every turn, and a pair of brutes from the club are following me wherever I go. I can't seem to give them the brush, and they're threatening to break my legs unless I come up with the money I owe. God help me, I actually think they'll do it.”

“Have you gone to your father?”

Andrew made a sound of disgust. “Bugger the old man, he won't give me a shilling above the paltry sum he calls my allowance. He could repay my debts a hundred times over!”

“I believe that's what he's afraid of,” Logan said dryly. “How large is the debt this time? Four thousand? Five?”

Andrew picked idly at the sleeve of his green wool coat. “Ten,” he mumbled.

The amount was enough to stun Logan into silence. Ten thousand pounds was a fortune, enough to keep dozens of families comfortably for I a year, enough to mount several spectacular productions at the Capital. He knew why the Earl of Rochester wouldn't pay off his son's debt, no matter how great the threat to his safety. If Andrew didn't change his habits, he would run through the family fortune immediately after assuming the title.

“I need the money,” Andrew said. For the first time there was a thread of desperation in his tone. “Everyone knows what a wealthy bastard you are. You can afford to loan me ten thousand. You know you'll get it back someday with interest.”

“Will I?” Logan asked sardonically, rummaging through his desk. He began to write a bank draft. “This will be the last time, Andrew. I'm not inclined to pour more down a bottomless well.”