The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(36)

He took a deep breath and finished his wine. Poured another glass. Resisted the overwhelming urge to beat James to a sniveling, quivering pulp.

This was the last time. To bail James out, time and time again, did no good. The man had to learn, and perhaps having it all stripped away, forcing him to live on a stipend, would finally do the trick. There was no other way. Simon refused to give James carte blanche to the Winchester fortune for every wild, addlepated scheme in Britain.

“I won’t save the house,” he said at last. “I’ll cover the notes, but I won’t save the house. You’ll be given a small allowance to cover basic expenses and that’s all.”

“Sybil won’t stand for it.”

“She won’t have a choice. It’s that or the street.”

James smirked at him. “No, I don’t think so. You wouldn’t want to tarnish your shiny political career with a family scandal, now would you?”

Simon’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Are you threatening me?”

“Such an ugly word. I think it’s more about coming to an understanding that benefits us both. In fact, I could be useful. There are already rumors circulating about you and Lady Hawkins. I could be persuaded to deflect those rumors.”

The mention of Maggie’s name had Simon stiffening. James noticed and smiled. Cold resolve settled in Simon’s chest. He’d not risen to where he was without learning how to conceal his emotions, and he refused to let James be the one to crack the ice. He leaned back, bored. “From threats to bribery in one fell swoop. I am in awe, James. No, there will be no additional funds. I’ll have my man collect the notes on the morrow. You’d best run along and tell my sister to begin packing.” He flicked his hand, dismissing his brother-in-law.

James shot to his feet, threw his napkin on the table, and stomped out. Simon sipped claret and tried to calm himself. That hadn’t gone well. James would need to be dealt with. Perhaps once he settled the debts, he could— “Winchester,” said a voice at his side. “Been some time since you’ve graced Brooks’s with your presence. How fortunate we are this evening.”

Simon lifted his head and found Lord Cranford sliding into a chair. Oh, everlasting hell. “Evening, Cranford.”

They’d kept a healthy distance over the last ten years. Simon hadn’t cared to dredge up memories of Maggie, and Cranford tended more toward vice than politics. If their paths crossed at an event or ball, a polite nod had sufficed. So why now? Cranford must have a purpose tonight, else he wouldn’t have stopped.

Cranford hadn’t changed much. Only a year or two older than Simon, the viscount was not a big man but stayed in excellent physical health. Rumor had it he boxed in his spare time. So had Cranford reacquainted himself with Lady Hawkins after her return to London? The viscount hadn’t attended the same party at Maggie’s town house, but that hardly mattered. The two would need to employ discretion as Cranford was married. Though Simon’s jaw clenched, he told himself he didn’t care. Maggie had made herself clear so there was certainly no cause for jealousy.

All of those women can have you, as far as I’m concerned.

Still, the idea of Cranford or Markham—or any other man—resting between Maggie’s thighs, sliding into her wetness, making her sigh and scream . . . His hand curled into a fist.

He forced the image away. No matter how many other men were in her life, she and Simon were not through. Not by a Scots’ mile. So she could pretend indifference all she liked, but he’d seen her eagerness yesterday afternoon, felt it throughout every part of his body. She had wanted what had happened every bit as much as he had. And he meant to have her again, no matter the amount of time it took to convince her.

Cranford signaled for another glass, capturing Simon’s attention. “You do not mind, do you, Winchester ?” he asked, helping himself to the claret on the table.

Simon waited, watched. He’d learned to let the silence stretch during negotiations; opponents were more apt to trip up that way. And while he’d no inkling of Cranford’s intentions, they most definitely were opponents.

Cranford relaxed, cradled the glass in his palm. “So is it true?”

“And what would that be?” Simon kept his face emotionless.

“About Sir James. Heard he lost a king’s ransom. But I suppose it shouldn’t come as any surprise. Fools and their money, as the saying goes.”

No chance Cranford had stopped to gossip about Sir James. “I cannot see how it is any of your affair, Cranford.”

Cranford gave him a small smile. “Come, Winchester. We’ve never kept secrets from one another, have we? I’ve always shared information when pertinent.”

Remembering the love letters Cranford had shown him those years ago, Simon’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Have you? How giving you are. And I assume you’ve more pertinent information for me this evening?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. I heard of your recent association with Lady Hawkins.” Cranford studied the claret in his glass. “I wonder how it will affect that proposal you’re crafting. Or those votes you’re counting on.”

Ah, here is the heart of it.

“I shouldn’t think it’ll affect anything one way or another. The lady is an acquaintance, of which I have many.”