Paying the Virgin's Price (Regency Silk & Scandal #2)(54)

As if to reinforce the opinion, his valet tugged so tightly upon his cravat that he was near to choking before the tying was through. It was hardly fair, for the man had not even been a servant of the Price household. He had arrived here along with Nate. But it was clear that he'd chosen to add to the silent chorus of contempt that had been building in this house since the day he'd met Diana Price.

All the more galling that he deserved what he got from them. Every arch look, every small shake of the head. Every indictment of his character. Every sniff of disapproval. They took his money easily enough, when it was time to collect their salaries. And he continued to play, telling himself that they depended on his gambling to pay their keep. It was his responsibility to continue.

But how much did he need, really? It had been almost honourable, when he'd had a mother and sisters to protect, however best he could. But once they were lost? He'd gathered enough winnings to support himself in luxury for the rest of his life. Gaming had become nothing more than a way to pass the time until the moment when some loser at the table decided to put a ball through him.

No more. Perhaps he could not stop going to the tables. For without Diana, what more was there left in his life? But he could stop keeping score. He glanced at the box on the dresser, full of signets, fobs, and bits and pieces of the lives of others. Each one a memory of a life he had changed.

And none of it all his fault. He had played and won, of course. But they had played as well, knowing that losing was all but inevitable. Did they not deserve some responsibility for their actions? If it was not his fault, then why did he keep the things? What earthly good did it do him to hang on to trinkets that meant nothing to him? And the damned letter. If he had refused it, or given it back? Then he would not be in the mess he was now.

He might never have met Diana.

But perhaps that was a good thing. For neither would he have lost her over nonsense. He was tired of being the sin eater for half of London. 'Benton, bring me paper. And string. Some small boxes, perhaps. I wish to post some packages.'

He gathered up the box and sat down at the writing desk in his room. It was not hard to remember the owners of the things. In many cases, the names were engraved on the items. But the loss of each was firmly engrained on his memory. Here were the diamond studs of a duke, who had sworn he would shoot himself over the loss. And the ruby necklace of the marchioness. She had thought to bargain her favours for another hand, and had stamped her feet and pouted when he'd demanded the necklace instead.

And now, she could have it back. They could all take the bloody things back. He cared little whether it might be blessing or curse to receive them, so long as he need never see any of it again. His heart felt lighter after each package. And when the box was empty, there was but one thing left.

He looked up at the butler and grinned. 'Benton. Go to the safe in my study. Bring me the deed to this house.'

The butler looked rather alarmed at the prospect, but did as he was told. When he had returned with the paper, Nate signed it over, with a flourish--to Miss Diana Price. Then he folded it carefully, sealed it, addressed it to the Carlow house, and put it in the stack with the rest, ready for the morning post.





Chapter Seventeen





The few hours of sleep that Diana managed to steal had done nothing to refresh her. The girls must have been out almost as late as she, for when she rose at nine she did not hear them stirring. It was a comfort, for it gave her some small time to prepare for the day, to wipe any traces of the night's activity from her mind. She looked into the mirror, smoothing her expression and her clothing, jabbing the pins into her hair until it was tight and smooth, with not a strand out of place. When she was through, she was sure that there was not a hint of awareness to give her away to the girls as anything less than the same proper, controlled woman who had watched over them for years.

As she pushed the last pin in place, there was a sharp rap upon her door. It was Peters the footman, coming to tell her that Lord Stanegate wished her presence in the study, immediately.

Marcus, here? Had he arrived while she slept, or had he come in the night, before she had crept into the house? She should have recognized that returning to the house without incident was almost too fortunate. Her luck could not hold forever. It now appeared that she would face an interview with her employer's son, on this of all days, when she needed just a few more hours to understand the changes in her life.

When she came down to the ground floor, the house was abustle with the sudden arrival, as though the staff feared that their exemplary housekeeping was somehow at fault. They were behaving as if to placate a man in a temper.

She'd have understood it in another house. But here it was most unusual. And that the person who had frightened them into the boughs was Marc Carlow made the situation even more unusual. She hurried to the study to see the reason for it.

She walked through the open door and felt the change in him almost immediately. He was no longer the happy newlywed who had left London such a short time ago. Instead, he glared at her and snapped, 'Shut the door, Miss Price. We must speak in private.'

She did as she was told and went quickly to the desk where he sat. 'Is something wrong, Marc? There is nothing the matter with Nell, I trust.'

'I left her in Northumberland. This matter concerns you, Miss Price, and your behaviour in my absence.'

'I cannot think...' Which was a lie. She could think of several things she had done in the last few weeks that would upset him greatly.