Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(29)

“I daresay she swooned,” Rupert said. “I was there.”

“And they say ladies aren’t much troubled by sexual feeling of any kind,” Fox remarked.

“My regards to the women in your life if you believe that,” Darcy replied.

“Sod off,” Fox retorted, and took a long swig of his drink. Matters with women were not going well in his life at the moment and everyone knew it.

“My, how the mighty have fallen,” Alistair murmured, glancing at his friends. “I go away for a mere six years . . . and come back to find Fox here in a snit over women and Darcy gallantly rescuing young women at garden parties.”

“I don’t know about you gents, but I came here to win all your money at cards and drink obscene amounts of brandy. I have no intention of gossiping like schoolgirls,” Darcy said. And with that they began to play in earnest. A pot of money on the table grew then shrank as they changed hands over the course of the evening. An ancient waiter ensured their glasses were never empty. But even amidst the smoky air and alcohol haze and intense focus on the cards in his hands, something did not escape Darcy’s notice: Rupert, of the ongoing and ever increasing gaming debts, kept winning.



It was long after midnight when the gents stumbled out of the club onto St. James’s Street, where Darcy’s carriage was waiting.

“Would you like a ride?” he offered to Alistair.

“No thanks, it’s a nice evening. I think I’ll walk.”

Shrugging, Darcy climbed into the carriage, and Rupert joined him.

“That evening was much more amusing than if we’d gone to another ball,” Rupert said, leaning back against the squabs and closing his eyes.

“Especially for you,” Darcy said, thinking now of all the rounds of cards. “You played well and have a fat purse from your winnings.”

At first he hadn’t given much thought to it, but at some point in the evening when he’d drunk enough to stop thinking about stupid business matters or Bridget’s breasts, he noted his brother was winning. A lot.

It was curious, that.

“My lucky night,” Rupert quipped.

“No, you played well. It seems that luck had little to do with it,” Darcy said, straightening in his seat. He had been drinking, but not so much that his brain had stopped working. And it was working now, putting two and two together.

“Well, I’ve had some practice.”

“I wonder, Rupert, about all your gaming debts over the past year. Given how well you played tonight.”

“I told you, it is just luck.” Rupert spoke sharply, revealingly, because he hadn’t had the lessons and practice in modulating his tone and stripping all and any emotion from his voice that Darcy had.

“Are you sure it’s not something else?”

“Of course not. It is nothing.”

It was probably something. But there was only one thing to say.

“You can always confide in me.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. A tense silence. But one that Darcy simply waited out because he had years of practice in waiting out silences. The trick was to just breathe and give in to it and to know that the other person was probably suffering through it more.

Upon their return home, Danvers was present to take their hats and gloves and to present a letter to Rupert. “An urgent letter.”

“Thank you, Danvers, that will be all for the evening.”

Darcy watched his brother closely. Rupert’s face fell upon seeing the handwriting. Then he paled when he read the contents.

“Rupert.”

“It is nothing.”

It was obviously something. Letters that arrived in the dead of the night were never nothing. Letters that made his normally happy and carefree brother become as shuttered as . . . him . . . were not nothing.

“Join me for a drink,” Darcy said, even though they had had enough to drink that evening.

“I’m tired. I think I shall retire.”

“Join me for a drink.” He repeated himself in his I--am--the--earl--do--as--I--say voice.

“Don’t get all high and mighty with me now, Darcy. I’m not in the mood.”

But they stalked into the library and Darcy closed the door behind them. A fire still burned in the grate and from it, Darcy lit a few candles so they could see.

“I want to help you. But I cannot do so if you won’t confide in me.”

Rupert laughed bitterly. “Help me? Not even you can help me. Not with this.”

He shook the paper in Darcy’s face, and Darcy was sorely tempted to wrench it away and wrestle the truth out of him.

“So it is something.”

“Aye, it’s something. Two thousand pounds of something.” Rupert crumpled the sheet of paper in his fist.

“More gaming debts?”

There was a long silence. A silence so long and so dark that even Darcy grew anxious. This wasn’t just something, it was something. It took all of Darcy’s self--control to stay still and not, say, cross the room and throttle his brother until he spoke the truth.

“More like blackmail,” Rupert said. Finally. Darcy exhaled. Blackmail he could handle. He asked the next logical question.

“Why are you being blackmailed?”

Rupert swallowed hard. He leaned against the mantel. And then he spoke, softly.