How to Tempt an Earl_Raven Club Page 2

  He never entertained ladies from proper Society, no matter how many seductive looks and blatant propositions he received. It made no difference that at one time he’d belonged in her world.

  He’d left long, long ago.

  He went to a sideboard and poured himself a whisky. He sipped the fine alcohol, mulling over the lady’s visit. Her request to refuse her father admittance into his club was foolish and naive. But the lady’s second request to pay off the debt with jewels was much more interesting. He made a mental note to find out the identity of her father.

  Why did she fascinate him?

  She was lovely, but many attractive women sought him out. Perhaps it was the combination of innocence and fire in her sapphire eyes that drew him. Or her loyalty to her father.

  Loyalty that Ian knew firsthand was rare.

  He opened the door and snapped his fingers. A young boy of about twelve with a gap-toothed smile appeared in the doorway.

  “Follow the lady, Soot. Tell me where she goes.”

  The lad nodded and scurried off.

  She’d return. He’d bet on it. And despite his business, Ian Swift was not a betting man.

  Chapter Two

  Grace fell asleep in the parlor chair of her father’s Grosvenor Square town house. The long case clock in the corner of the room chimed five o’clock in the morning just as the front door opened.

  She jumped to her feet. “Father! Where have you been?”

  Baron Newbury halted outside the parlor doorway. “Grace? What are you doing up so early?”

  “What are you doing out so late?”

  He took a step forward, wavered unsteadily on his feet, and braced himself with a hand on the doorframe. His graying hair looked as if he’d repeatedly run his fingers through it in agitation. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he reeked of alcohol and tobacco.

  “You were at the Raven Club, weren’t you?” she asked.

  Newbury rubbed his temple. “Have you been waiting up for me?”

  “Better me than Stevens.” Their aging butler had been with them since Grace had been a toddler. His wife, Mrs. Stevens, worked as housekeeper and cook, and the couple remained in their employ despite not being paid on a regular basis.

  Newbury stumbled forward and collapsed on the closest piece of furniture—a velvet settee.

  Good God. Grace immediately fought the urge to grasp his arm and drag him to his feet. The cushions would carry the smell for a week.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Stevens makes a horrible valet.”

  “That’s because he’s in his eighties. Now how much did you gamble tonight?”

  “That’s not a question a daughter asks her father.”

  “It is if the daughter has been maintaining the household ledgers and holding the creditors at bay.” The tradesmen whom she dealt with for their household needs had tired of her excuses. They were polite, as she was the daughter of a baron, but at the same time they had declined to issue her credit. Grace struggled to keep her family and their small staff of servants fed, clothed, and warm.

  “You should be married by now, not asking about my wagers. Viscount Newton’s youngest son would make a good husband for you,” he slurred.

  “Don’t avoid the question. How much did you gamble?”

  He dragged his palm across his face. “Only two hundred pounds.”

  Two hundred pounds! She wanted to scream.

  Worse, she doubted if Father was telling her the truth. If he owed more, they were in deeper trouble than she’d thought.

  If he did not control this compulsion, then in a few months’ time they’d have to let their remaining servants go—including Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. Grace’s dwindling dowry would soon be gone along with any decent prospects of marriage. Her father’s matchmaking efforts were for naught. Mr. Harris was the youngest of Viscount Newton’s five sons, and he must seek a woman with a substantial dowry.

  Grace refused to be defeated, and she’d never been one to sit aside and weep about her circumstances. She’d done what was necessary by secretly seeking employment with a milliner. Not in the shop, but rather assisting a widowed proprietress with her ledgers. Grace was talented with figures and worked at home, then had her maid, Rose, carry the ledgers back and forth. Whatever small amount she’d earned had been poured into the household.

  Meanwhile, she’d have to sell her mother’s remaining jewels. Only a set of pearl combs and the diamond necklace remained. She knew the necklace was worth a tidy sum, but she also didn’t know the full amount of her father’s debt to Ian Swift. Would their value be sufficient?

  Even if they were, parting with the pieces was dispiriting thought. She’d wanted to keep the jewels as a memory of her mother. Of a time when things had been good and their household had been filled with love and laughter.

  Where he lay, on the settee, her father began to snore. She stood with arms crossed staring down at him as a sudden fury overcame her. She wanted to hit him with the fireplace poker. Throw a bucket of cold water on his head. He was blissfully unconscious, oblivious to their problems and to their imminent ruin.

  She clenched her fists at her sides. She forced herself to count to ten until her anger slowly abated. What good would it do to vent her temper on a drunken man?

  There was no sense waking the servants to move him upstairs, and Stevens was too old to help. She decided it was best to leave him there.

  Grace sighed, suddenly weary. She watched the baron’s chest rise and fall. He was not an evil man, but a grieving, pitiful one. Her parents’ marriage had been a rare love match. The baron had doted on his wife, and when she died from a fever, he’d never recovered. He loved nothing now but the shake of the dice and the turn of the card.

  “Grace? Is that you?”

  Grace turned at the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. She quickly stepped out of the parlor, hoping to block the view of the baron’s slumbering form sprawled across the settee. Her ten-year-old brother was dressed in a nightshirt and held a candle.

  “Adam, darling. Are you all right?” Grace shut the parlor door and approached the child.

  His fair hair stuck up in angles and he rubbed his eyes. “I was having a bad dream and couldn’t sleep.”

  “Come,” Grace said, taking his small hand. “I’ll fix you a cup of warm milk.”

  “Is Father in there?” He pointed to the closed parlor door.

  Her stomach felt as if it were hollowed out at the child’s worried expression. She wanted to shelter Adam from their father’s sins and their financial troubles.

  “I can hear him snoring,” Adam said when she remained silent.

  Grace sighed. “Father is in there, but it’s best to leave him alone.”

  “Are we going to have to leave the house? Go to the country?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I heard Mr. Stevens speaking with Mrs. Stevens.”

  Goodness. Children were smart. They were also good at eavesdropping.

  “No. We will not have to leave.” Grace sounded more certain than she felt.

  “I won’t have much to inherit, will I?”

  “Adam I—”

  “Don’t fret. I don’t want to be a baron.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. I want to be pirate and travel the South Seas.”

  “Oh, Adam. The barony is your birthright.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “You can have it.”

  She ruffled his hair. “It doesn’t work that way and you know it.” Taking his hand, she led him away from the parlor and toward the kitchens. “Now let’s see about warming some milk. I’d like a glass, too.”

  An hour and two cups of warm milk later, Grace tucked her brother into bed. She then wandered to her bedchamber but didn’t bother to lie in the four-poster and attempt to sleep. Rather she lit more candles and sat at the escritoire in the corner of the room and withdrew a stack of ledgers. Her work had kept the creditors at bay until now, but it wouldn’t b
e enough if her father continued visiting the tables.

  What if he never stopped?

  The fastest and most efficient way to help her family was to marry a man of wealth. But dressing for a successful Season was costly. She needed new gowns, shoes, and accessories.

  Would she have enough even if she sold all the jewels?

  Her thoughts turned to Ian Swift and his sordid offer. The risks were high. Dare she accept?

  …

  The sun had long since risen by the time Ian returned to his large town house in Piccadilly. He’d recently acquired the residence from a viscount who’d owed him money. Prior to residing there, he’d lived above the Raven Club. Ian’s butler opened the door before he reached the top step.

  “The Countess of Castleton waits in the parlor,” Jenkins said.

  Ian stiffened. He was exhausted after a night at the club. A fight had broken out at one of the tables, and after his man had stopped the fisticuffs, Ian had harsh words with both gamblers and permanently evicted the Earl of Loveland’s heir from his club. Another gambler, the Marquess of Nottingham, had foolishly wagered an unentailed country estate in Hertfordshire and, when he had lost the property in a hand of cards, had burst into tears and had to be escorted out. Then there had been the tedious and time-taking ledgers to review with Brooks.

  Ian wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a bed. An early-morning visit with his mother was the last thing he desired.

  Ian stepped into the parlor. “Hello, Mother.”

  The countess rose from a settee by the fireplace. “Hello, Ian. I had hoped to find you home.”

  She was a tall, elegant woman who was still attractive, her blonde hair without a hint of gray. She was dressed in a black mourning gown that brought out specs of green in her light brown eyes and creamy skin. She’d been a great beauty in her youth and had captured the earl’s interest during her first Season. Ian’s darker looks had come from his father.

  Ian waited for his mother to return to the settee, then took a seat in a chair across from her. He was aware of her cool sweeping gaze, and he became conscious of his attire. He knew he appeared far from respectable with a smudge of dirt on his sleeve and his dusty boots. Christ, he wasn’t even wearing a cravat or coat and certainly wasn’t fit to receive a countess. If he’d known his mother would be waiting for him, he would have changed before coming home. “I had business to attend at the club.”

  “Yes, about the club. When will you give it up?”

  He sighed. “Why would I do that?”

  “I believed after your brother’s…your brother’s…”

  Matthew’s death.

  Ian’s stomach tightened like a fist. It had been two months since the tragic riding accident, and his mother still struggled to say the words. He hated female hysterics, and he spoke before tears welled in her eyes. “I have no plans to give up the club.”

  She looked at him incredulously. “But surely you must know that you have to take your place as the new earl and return to polite Society.”

  Not bloody likely. He hadn’t been part of Society for a decade. He wasn’t the firstborn son. He was never supposed to be the heir.

  “Your father would have wanted you to take your brother’s place,” she said.

  Ian nearly laughed out loud at that. The Earl of Castleton would roll over in his grave if he knew Ian was the earl. His father had never approved of anything Ian did and had made his dislike of his younger son well known.

  His mother must have sensed any mention of Ian’s father wouldn’t be persuasive. “You used to attend balls, parties…the opera. It will be just as it was.”

  “That was long, long ago.”

  Years ago, Ian had resided in his father’s house and had exuberantly enjoyed life as a younger son and bachelor with the allowance provided for him. But the money had come with the earl’s demands, disturbing demands Ian was not willing to obey—a marriage match with the daughter of a marquess who shared a country estate with Castleton. Lady Madeline had been pretty, but it was clear she was born simpleminded. It would have been like marrying a ten-year-old child in a woman’s body.

  Ian had been horrified at the prospect, but Castleton hadn’t cared about Ian’s happiness—all that mattered was Lady Madeline’s sizeable dowry.

  Ian had taken the only course he could. He’d left and had sworn never to ask his father for a shilling. He’d made a different life for himself. A very successful life, and he had more money than he could spend in a lifetime.

  More money than in the earldom’s ample coffers.

  “You must be reasonable,” she said. “What of Ellie and Olivia?”

  Ian’s brow furrowed at the mention of his younger sisters. “How are they faring?”

  “They are grieving the loss of their brother. They need guidance, and most importantly, entry into Society.”

  “They have you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted. “As the new earl, your behavior directly impacts them.”

  He hesitated. This was an argument he couldn’t ignore. He cared for his sisters. Ellie was headstrong and intelligent. Oliva was quieter but no less determined when she wanted something.

  “My behavior matters naught. I’m no longer accepted in Society.”

  “That could change. It must change. Your duties extend to the earldom and your sisters. They’ll be turning eighteen and sixteen. Ellie is already talking about debut gowns and being presented at court.”

  He felt as if the air in the room had become stiflingly warm and an invisible noose was slowly tightening around his neck. He didn’t want to think about his sisters growing up so quickly. His memories were of attending tea parties with their dolls and playing hoops together on the front lawn of their country estate. The notion of dress shopping, court presentations, and—heaven help him—prospective suitors made him ill.

  But he also owed them. If it wasn’t for him, their brother would still be alive.

  Do not think of it now.

  If he had refused Matthew’s request to race his new horse that day, his brother would still be here and his sisters’ future would be secure.

  “Well?” his mother said. “You must know that their future depends on you. We wouldn’t want it said that their brother and the new Earl of Castleton runs a gambling hall, now would we?”

  “I’m not able to socialize with the ton. I’m not a gentleman.”

  She looked over his appearance, and her fine brow wrinkled despite what he suspected was great effort on her part not to show her distress. “You were raised as one.”

  Ian gave his mother a disbelieving look. “It’s been years.” He didn’t dance. He’d be horrid at tolerating silly young debutantes or their overbearing mamas. Talking about fashion or the latest wager in White’s betting book. Dressing like a buck or a beau.

  The thought almost made him laugh.

  At his mother’s pointed look, he said, “I never cared about the title.”

  “Then do it for Matthew’s memory and your sisters.”

  The noose drew incrementally tighter. Ian was all too aware of what some men whispered behind his back—that he had lured his brother to the treacherous winding road, known as Devil’s Lane, and challenged his brother to the horse race that had resulted in his death in order to gain the title. No one knew the truth. Matthew had often sought out the excitement of the race, craved it, and had begged Ian to race him that day. Horse racing had been his brother’s escape from the dry duties pressed upon him first from their father, then as the earl himself.

  His mother watched him, waiting for his response. The thought of attending balls, garden parties, and soirees made sweat bead on his brow. He dreaded the debutantes and their mother’s vying for his attention, not for who he was, but because he was now the earl.

  As for the men, he knew many of them, knew their vices and financial worth. They gambled at his casino and wagered on the boxing matches in the back room. No matter the whispers behind his back, Ian
knew they wouldn’t dare to give him the cut directly. They feared his knowledge and power.

  But would they ever truly accept him as a peer?

  He’d never cared before, but now he had more than just himself to consider. There were Olivia and Ellie. Even Matthew’s memory.

  But could Ian do it?

  For ten years, he’d dressed as he liked, behaved as he wanted, spoke as he wished. He’d frequently boxed in the club for the thrill of the win. The wealthy and titled lined up to gain admittance into his establishment. There, his word was law, and with a simple nod of his head, members could be tossed out or admitted to private gaming rooms.

  Simply put, he was the ruler of his realm. But if he did what his mother asked, there would be other rules. He’d have to attend countless boring parties and balls. He’d have to control his impulses, and his tongue, and smile and nod at the gossipmongers and the dandies. It went against the very fabric of his being. He wanted to leave the room and ride hell for leather in the opposite direction.

  It seemed he had a bit of honor left in him after all. His mother must have sensed his weakness, for she sat forward on the settee and touched his hand. “Lady Crowley is hosting a ball in a fortnight. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to take your place.”

  His gaze snapped to hers. “You mean my brother’s place.”

  “No, you are now the Earl of Castleton.”

  Christ. Would he ever get used to the title?

  “I’ll consider it.”

  To his relief, the countess knew when to leave. She rose and smoothed her skirts. “I know you’ve had your differences with your father, but the title belongs to you now.”

  Differences were an understatement. They’d hated each other. Matthew had been the heir and the golden son who had always been able to please their father.

  Ian had been the disrespectful spare. The wastrel.

  His mother nodded in approval. “I’ve always had faith in you, Ian.”

  She swept from the room. A minute later, Ian heard his butler speaking to the countess, then the front door opened and closed.

  Ian went to a sideboard and poured himself a brandy. He swallowed the alcohol, then poured himself another as he mulled over his mother’s request.