Say Yes to the Marquess (Castles Ever After #2)(58)
Author: Tessa Dare

No one, that was, except the person who wandered into the room.

In rambled Phoebe, with her dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders and her nose buried in an old copy of The Times.

“Phoebe.” Clio breathed the name as a sigh of relief. “What a surprise. Lord Rafe and I were just . . .”

“It’s the hop yield,” her sister interrupted, uninterested in explanations.

“W-what?”

Crops. Her sister was wandering the castle in the dead of night, reading The Times and puzzling over hop yields.

Yes, that sounded like Phoebe.

Her sister lowered the newspaper. “Lord Rafe was right. Hops are a fragile crop and a risky investment. But I’ve found the way you can protect yourself from ruin.” She pointed at an article. “Each year, speculators wager hundreds and thousands on the final hop yield. It’s in all the papers.”

Clio searched her memory. If something appeared in the papers, she would know about it. “Yes, I remember reading the forecasts. I didn’t realize wagering was so widespread.”

“Damn right it is.” Rafe took the paper. “In some taverns, there’s more money bet on hops than on prizefighters. They make charts of every passing rain cloud.”

Clio approached to have a look at the paper herself. “But we can’t foretell the weather. How would I know what to predict?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Phoebe said. “You’re going to bet against yourself.”

“Bet against myself? But why would I . . . ?” As she ran through the outcomes in her mind, Clio was beginning to understand. “So if the farming goes well, we make money on the crop, but if it’s a lean year . . .”

“Then you collect on the wager,” Phoebe finished. “The earnings are limited, but so are the losses. There’s no way you can lose everything.”

“Hedging your bets.” Rafe scratched his jaw. “That’s just mad enough to be genius.”

Phoebe shrugged. “I’ve been called both.”

“Well.” Clio took her by the arm. “As your oldest sister, I am calling you to bed. We have an important day tomorrow. It’s your first proper ball.”

Her sister’s face was grim. “Oh, yes. The miserable ordeal.”

“It won’t be so bad. These things can’t be avoided forever. Not if you’re to have your come-out next season.”

“No one’s going to court me. Why must I have a come-out at all?”

Clio caught a lock of her sister’s hair. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be there for you. I do know how it is.”

“You don’t know how it is for me.” Phoebe’s dark head turned, and the lock of hair slipped from Clio’s fingers. “Lord Rafe, you are coming with us tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Rafe’s eyes were dark as they met Clio’s.

Please, she silently begged him. Please come.

His presence would soothe Phoebe, and as for Clio . . .

This could be her last chance. Their last chance. Once she’d broken her engagement to Piers, she wouldn’t have an excuse to invite Rafe to these things. What it could hurt, for the two of them to have one evening to remember?

“You still owe me a dance,” she reminded him. “I think it’s time to pay the debt.”

“It’s not a good idea. There’s a reason I left your debut ball. I’m out of my element at those things. Restless. And when I grow restless . . . that’s when the devil in me rises. People get hurt.”

“I rather like the devil in you,” she said. “I’ll be hurt if you stay away.”

In a move that was as awkwardly sweet as it was uncharacteristic, Phoebe reached out and clutched Rafe’s forearm. “Please. Do say yes.”

He sighed. “I’ll sleep on it.”

Chapter Nineteen

Rafe didn’t sleep at all that night.

And when dawn arrived, he left.

For an hour, maybe two, he kept the horse at a walk. He didn’t want to push his mount too hard, and in his current mood, that was all too likely. Step after step, he put distance between himself and Twill Castle.

And Clio.

He knew she’d be disappointed, but he had to go. He didn’t trust himself. If he spent one more moment in her presence, with those fair, soft hands reaching out to him—he’d haul her close, ruining her and both their families.

No, this was the perfect time to leave. After he’d done all he could, and before he cocked anything up. He’d made certain his brother would have a chance to win her back, and to be honest, that was probably more than Piers deserved.

After a while, the stretch of road started to look familiar. He wasn’t but four or five miles from Queensridge.

And in Queensridge, he could find a fight.

God, that was just what he needed. He’d gone too long without the taste of blood in his mouth and the frenzied roar of a crowd in his ears. He was forgetting who he was.

He could have walked into any hamlet and picked a scuffle with the local loudmouthed blackguard. Every village pub had one. But he wasn’t a bully, and he didn’t fight amateurs. He needed a proper bout with a skilled opponent.

The Crooked Rook was just the place.

In centuries past, the inn had been a favored haunt of smugglers and highwaymen. Nowadays it mostly catered to a prizefighting crowd. Since prizefights were illegal, they had to be staged well outside Town and could only be publicized on short notice. The broadsheet went out a day in advance, and from there it was a mad race for spectators to reach the designated site.

The Crooked Rook was ideal: close enough to London, not too far from the main road. Only a few hours’ journey for most. It had a wide, empty field in the back with plenty of room for a proper ring and spectators. And Salem Jones, the current proprietor, stayed on friendly bribing terms with the local magistrates.

To Rafe, and many others, it had become a surrogate home. If he had entered the place last year—back when he was champion—he would have been met with a rousing cheer from every corner.

Today, when he strode through the doorway just about noontime, his reception was more tepid. Oh, a good many nodded or called in his direction. But the general mood in the place was uncertain. No one quite knew what to make of a vanquished champion.

He cracked his neck. That would change by the time he left this place. It felt like a good day to start a comeback. And a quick glance toward the bar was all he needed to find his first opponent.

Prizefighters fought for different reasons. Some liked the sport. Some liked the money. Some just liked to make men bleed.