A Lady’s Luck: Devilish Lords #4 Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  A LADY'S LUCK

  First edition. January 3, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Maggie Dallen.

  ISBN: 978-1386932161

  Written by Maggie Dallen.

  A Lady’s Luck

  Devilish Lords #4

  Maggie Dallen

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Alistair Merrywether, the Earl of Colefax, was used to getting his way. Money had a lot to do with it—specifically, he had a fortune and everyone knew it, not to mention a title. But today it was neither his wealth nor his title that got him the answers he sought.

  It was a simple glare.

  To be fair, his sister, Lizzie, had long ago informed him he could freeze hell with that glare, but he had thought it would take a bit more to get the manager of the gaming hell to give him a name. It had not. The elderly gentleman merely sized him up, a flare of recognition on his wrinkled visage, and spat out the name of the young upstart who’d dared to place a wager on his honor.

  It was Rodrick Bloomfield, Earl of Braxton. Who the bloody hell was this Braxton fellow and why would he do something so ridiculously daft as to place a bet that he was the father of that harlot actress’s bastard child? He’d never even met the woman.

  Why was a question for another day. All that mattered was he put an end to these ludicrous allegations once and for all. He’d never cared much what people thought of him, but this, the thought he would not only be so stupid as to impregnate a mistress, but that he would then leave her penniless to take care of it on her own? His blood pounded in his veins at the mere thought. He might not care what others believed, but he would not have his honor slighted. It was all he truly had in this world.

  The Earl of Braxton was easily found. It was nigh on noon and the short, slight gentleman was soused at the gaming tables, playing a hand of cards with two other men who also still wore last night’s evening attire. He stopped beside them, glowering down at the dandy with his prematurely thinning hair and his red, puffy nose. This was the man who thought to impugn his honor?

  Finding himself opposite a foe such as this was more of a blow to his pride than the wager itself. It took an absurd amount of time for the three gentlemen to notice his arrival, and Rodrick Braxton was the last to look up at him. When he did, it was with a sleepy blink and nary a glimmer of recognition. “Hullo,” he murmured pleasantly. “Care to join us for a round?”

  Alistair continued to glower down at the upstart even as his mind raced to make sense of this. Surely this was not the gentleman who’d placed the bet that he was the bastard’s father. He did not even seem to know who he was. And even if he had…look at him. “A word, if you please,” Alistair said with a growl.

  The other two men had the good sense to stir at the anger in his tone, but Braxton gave him another cow-eyed gaze before blinking slowly. “Aaaight,” he said with a slur, making the word nearly impossible to understand.

  In the time it took the blonde-haired fool to come to a stand, the other two had fled in a flurry of scraping chairs and muttered excuses. When the short, skinny man gave him an unequivocally benign look while standing face-to-face, Alistair found it nearly impossible to vent his fury. It would have been like shouting at a kitten. The man looked meek, at best, and more than a little like a halfwit.

  “Lord Rodrick Bloomfield, the Earl of Braxton, is it?” he asked, his voice still gruff, but losing steam quickly.

  The other man nodded. “Tha’s right.” His expression was pleasantly expectant, like a child awaiting a present—or a dullard awaiting an introduction.

  Alistair cleared his throat. “Do you know who I am, Lord Braxton?”

  The gentleman, whom Alistair knew to be an earl, gave him another blink and then a small smile. “No, sir. Should I?”

  Alistair drew in a deep breath, ready to roar. I am the man whose name you tarnished with false accusations. That was what he meant to say, what he ought to say, but once again, his anger faltered in the face of Rodrick Braxton’s sweet simplicity. So instead, all Alistair said was, “I am the Earl of Colefax.”

  There was no reaction. Nothing…not even a cow-eyed blink materialized, not at first, at least. The blonde man eventually drew his brows together quizzically and Alistair was certain he could see the gears turning in his skull. Slowly. Good Lord, but they were turning slowly. Then Braxton’s eyes widened as horror replaced his earlier tranquility. “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh.” Alistair resumed his glare and felt a smidgen of guilt when the small fellow turned a ghastly shade of green. Alistair took a small step back in case Rodrick became ill.

  “I, er…that is…I do not, uh…” Rodrick’s words faded off with a noise that sounded like he was being strangled.

  “Now do you know who I am?” Alistair asked quietly and coldly, and with enough venom that the other man shuffled backward until the backs of his knees bumped into the table and rattled it. Rodrick nodded quickly, swallowing visibly.

  “Would you care to tell me why you started a bet over me and my…romantic pursuits?” Or lack thereof, rather. He’d never so much as caught sight of the actress he was supposed to have gotten with child. It was a fact he’d made clear to everyone who mattered. Namely, the chit in question who’d affirmed he was the unfeeling father. A word and a small payment were enough to secure her word that she would change her tune. Though whether or not it was too late to fix his reputation remained to be seen.

  Rodrick’s mouth flapped open and closed, but he did not answer.

  While the actress had been eager to accept his money, she had kept mum when he’d asked why she’d chosen him, of all people, on whom to place the blame. Particularly since she hadn’t come to him with hopes of money. She’d given him a coy smile and a small shrug. “The real father wasn’t about to give me money.”

  He had arched his brows. “And you thought I would?”

  She had given the stack of banknotes in her hand a meaningful look and he’d let out a humorless huff. “If this was a true case of extortion, you went about it all wrong.”

  She had laughed as if that were truly an amusing joke. “No, love, this wasn’t extortion.” She’d waved the money in his face. “This is simply my bonus.”

  “Bonus?” he’d repeated stupidly. She’d given him a wink before closing the door.

  He’d discovered the bet of his own accord, and had reasoned whoever was behind this wager was the one who had the answers he sought. But here was the man in question, and he couldn’t utter a coherent sentence to save his life. Alistair glowered. “Give me a name.”

  The Earl of Braxton shook his head quickly. “There’s been a mistake, I’m afraid. We did not think—that is, I did not believe—”

  “We?” Alistair repeated, taking a step closer, risking his shoes to get a straight answer from this man.

  Rodrick spoke as if confused and frightened. “Er…pardon?”

  Alistair frowned. The man was playing dumb, which was redundant. He had no time for this. “You said we did not think. Who is we?”

  The man blinked a few times and Alistair, for a moment, wondered if the man might cry. “I didn’t say that,” he said.

  Alistair merely cocked his head to the side and arched a brow.

  “Henri t
hought,” Rodrick said. “That is, I—I meant to say, I thought that perhaps…” He trailed off as he ran a hand over his neck, tugging at his cravat.

  “Henry.” Alistair latched onto the name. “Who is this Henry?”

  The poor fool blinked rapidly, his gaze flitting every which way as he sought a lie. Alistair’s mind raced as well. He mentally catalogued every Henry he’d ever met, sifting through them in the hopes one might come to mind who would wish him ill. When one had as many enemies as he, it was often difficult to know where to begin when seeking them out. The name Henry, at least, was a start, but it was not much of one. He’d come up empty. The only Henry he could imagine wishing him ill was the notorious spy, Henry Longfellow, but he’d been caught and was currently lost in the bowels of Newgate prison.

  One of Braxton’s friends returned, smiling and flushed, and apparently having forgotten he’d been scared off by Alistair in the first place. “Oy, Roddy, are you going to join us or what? If you’re going to cry off—”

  “No, no,” Rodrick said with a shake of his head. His relief at being interrupted could not have been more apparent. He backed away from Alistair instantly. “Sorry, my lord, it seems I’m needed. If you’ll just excuse—”

  Alistair stopped his movements with a heavy hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, pinching the flesh near his neck hard enough to make him squeak. Alistair turned to the friend. “Your friend here was just going to take me to meet Henry.”

  Rodrick squeaked again, but this time his face paled and his eyes flashed with horror. So, he was frightened of this Henry. Poor fool. Alistair almost felt pity at forcing his hand.

  Almost.

  The friend remained blithely unaware of the tension between the two men as he looked from Alistair to Rodrick. “You’re going home already, Roddy?”

  “Er…” Rodrick said.

  Alistair arched a brow as he met the other man’s gaze. “Home?” This Henry fellow was at Braxton’s home?

  The pieces clicked into place. Of course. Rodrick Braxton was someone’s pawn. Was it a manipulative friend, perhaps, or maybe an uncle or brother? It was with relief when he realized his opponent was not this halfwit. “Yes,” he said for the friend’s benefit. “Roddy here is taking me home to meet Henry.”

  Rodrick gurgled something incoherent, but it was Alistair who jerked in surprise when Braxton’s drunken friend came over and slapped a meaty hand on his shoulder in a gesture that was unwelcome and overly friendly. “Going home to meet Henri, eh?” The man’s breath reeked of whiskey when he leaned in. “You lucky bastard.”

  Lady Henrietta Bloomfield loved her brother dearly, but that did not mean she was ignorant of his faults, and of those, there were many.

  “Malleable,” her young houseguest repeated slowly, as if testing out the word. Mary Beaucraft had been living with Henrietta for six months now, so one would think she’d have grown used to Henrietta’s blunt manner of speaking. Mary frowned.

  Henrietta nodded. “Indeed, Rodrick has many fine qualities, but my point was his malleability would be a most charming trait in a husband, do you not agree?”

  Mary’s brows drew together in puzzlement, not an uncommon expression when she was conversing with Henrietta. While the two ladies got along splendidly, their personalities could not have been more different. While Mary loved to discuss a good scandal, Henrietta lived to scheme. Henrietta plotted while Mary gossiped. It was an odd sort of friendship she’d formed with her dearest friend Eliza’s younger sister, but it was symbiotic.

  Mary had come to stay with her this past winter when Eliza and her new husband faced some threats from their father. She’d stayed while Eliza and Jed toured Europe on their grand wedding trip. Their father had been rendered harmless—he’d no longer force unwanted marriages on either of his daughters, but all thought it best if Mary stayed with Henrietta to avoid the unpleasantness at home.

  Henrietta had taken the girl in out of charity, but it had worked out quite well for all involved. Not only was Mary a lovely companion, but her penchant for gossip helped Henrietta considerably with her most lucrative pastime—gambling on the antics of the titled and wealthy. Not exactly a seemly hobby for a genteel lady, but it was how she and her brother afforded their fine townhouse in Mayfair, and how they maintained their estate in Kent.

  Mary’s pert nose wrinkled up slightly and Henrietta would wager she was imagining a life with Rodrick as her husband. “I suppose malleability is a trait to consider in a husband,” she said, but she hardly sounded convinced.

  Henrietta could not blame her. For while her brother was kind, and gentle, and thoughtful in his own sweet way, he was hardly a match for a romantic like Mary. Oh, her young friend might not believe she was a romantic, but Henrietta knew better. It was an odd skill, that. Knowing others so well, often better than they knew themselves.

  Most people were surprisingly easy to understand. Their motives were clear, and their desires most evident. It was not everyone, certainly. There were some who were more complicated than others; some who hid behind walls so thick it kept their inner thoughts and emotions well hidden, like dear Eliza. They added an element of mystery to a world that was entirely too predictable.

  Mary was not in this latter category. She was beautifully simple, adorably so. While she was a clever girl, and undoubtedly pretty, she had yet to become self-aware in some critical ways. Henrietta figured it was up to her to help her young charge see herself clearly before the next season began in earnest, which would be when Mary launched her latest crusade to win a husband.

  Henrietta sipped her tea as Mary stewed over Henrietta’s suggestion. Finally, Mary lifted her head to meet her gaze, her dark eyes surprisingly alert as she narrowed them over her teacup. “Henri, you are not seriously proposing that I consider your brother as a potential husband.”

  Henrietta pursed her lips to hide a smile. Her young friend was a quick study, perhaps sharper than she gave her credit for being. Mary sat back in her seat with a decisive air. “You are not in earnest.”

  Henrietta arched a brow. "Why wouldn't I be? I would love to have you as a sister-in-law and Rodrick would be lucky to have you for a wife."

  "It's not that, it's the way you speak of him." She shook her head and produced a tsk sound. "Malleable? Really, Henri, is that really the best trait you could think of to describe your brother?"

  Henrietta feigned surprise. "Not at all. I could also say he was kind, and tidy, and a great lover of food. But in my opinion, his malleability is his most pleasing attribute." It certainly had proven to be useful in their domestic harmony as brother and sister. She sipped her tea. "I assumed one would find it delightful in a husband as well."

  Mary let out a huff of exasperation. “Really, Henri, the way you talk. One of these days someone might think you were serious.”

  Henrietta pressed her lips together to keep from saying something even more cynical. She loved to shock her young friend, but she did not want to alienate her entirely. The poor girl might run in fear if Henrietta told her how she really felt about the whole marriage business. Namely, that it was for fools and halfwits. Oh, but not for the men. There was no doubt men stood to benefit from the arrangement. A man acquired a woman to run his home, bear his children, and make life bearable overall. And what did a woman get? Safety, presumably, as long as the man in question was not cruel. And then a woman could gain financial security, one would hope.

  That was all fine and good if one wished to live on hopes and good wishes, but there were other ways of acquiring financial security and Henrietta had long ago decided that she would rather be in control of her own destiny, thank you very much.

  Mary tilted her head to the side as if considering the option of Rodrick as a husband from every conceivable angle. “He is rather biddable, is he not?” she said, her voice a murmur.

  Henrietta sipped her tea once more. Biddable was putting it mildly, as even malleable was an understatement. But to elaborate on the point would be to speak i
ll of her brother, and she truly did love Rodrick, faults and all. In many ways, Rodrick was a wonderful brother. He was effusive, loyal, and had a heart pure as gold.

  None of which could be said for her. Henrietta was certain there were a good number of ways in which Rodrick was her superior. In sport, for example, and in hunting. However, his superiority did not extend to intellect, or common sense—or height.

  She even had the advantage of age, but none of that made a bit of difference when their parents died. It had mattered not that she had all the brains in the family, along with the mental and emotional fortitude to carry them through that time. It was he who inherited the title, and he who took over the indebted mess that was their family’s fortune.

  However, it was not Rodrick’s fault they lived in a society in which he was made the heir and her protector after their parents’ death, based solely on the fact that he was a man. Indeed, were it up to Rodrick—and it was—he’d have her take the reins in every facet of their lives. And with his blessing, she had.

  Mary let out a weary sigh that pulled Henri back to the present. Her lips pressed together in grim resignation as she shook her head. “I am afraid it would not work,” Mary said sadly. “Convenient as a biddable man might be, I do believe I’d need more from a husband.”

  Henrietta’s brows knitted, but she did not comment. Of course Mary needed more from a husband. The self-proclaimed social climber might say she wanted nothing more than a title, a fortune, and a father for her hypothetical children, but Henrietta was well aware that there was one requirement Mary was deluding herself into thinking was unnecessary.

  Love.

  Henrietta did not believe in such nonsense, but much as Mary claimed not to need it nor even want it—Henrietta saw through the self-delusions to the hurt girl beneath. Yes, Mary wanted love, but she did not believe she would find it.