The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) by Elisa Braden Read Free Book Online

on the other hand. That was a different matter.
    And whether the cost would prove worth the reward in the end … that, too, was debatable.
    However, it was only a year. One bloody, revolting year of sobriety. And fidelity, too, though that sacrifice seemed minor in comparison. And he would have to bed Miss Charlotte Lancaster, probably more than once. For some reason, that bothered him least of all. Strange, indeed.
    “Well, now,” he murmured, tapping the tips of his fingers together as though he were still contemplating. “One thing you haven’t mentioned: You intend to pay the debts upon our marriage, one hundred after a year, and one hundred more upon the birth of my heir.”
    Lancaster nodded, his gaze direct and probing and familiar.
    Chatham tilted his head. “How shall I provide for your daughter during the year? Every property has been sold. My possessions, as you so kindly described earlier, could be packed into an oversized valise.”
    He did not like Lancaster’s answering smile. It reminded him of a former opponent at Gentleman Jackson’s who had often signaled a right cross with an odd twitch of his mouth. It smacked of imminent triumph and sadistic pleasure.
    “I would never hire you to work for me; do you know why?”
    “Hmm. An irrational dislike of properly pronounced R’s?”
    “Nothing disturbs me more than waste. Waste of money. Waste of time. Waste of potential. You are the greatest waste I have ever seen.”
    With care and control, Chatham managed to keep his expression sardonically neutral. Inside, however, the accusation sank through his flesh like a sharpened sword, cleanly and without stopping. Even the whisky did not stop it. It punctured his breath.
    “Truthfully, I do not expect my daughter to remain with you beyond one year, nor you with her,” the red-haired, steel-eyed man continued. “But that year will shape you into a better man if I have to spend every dollar I possess to see it so.”
    When Chatham responded only with a steady stare, the American rose again from behind his desk and clasped his hands behind his back, eyeing Chatham’s casual pose. “You waste your intelligence on trivialities. Gaming. Selling secrets. Dabbling in matters of espionage.” At the lift of Chatham’s brow, he replied, “Oh, yes. I know a great deal. Enough to judge that you are capable of providing for my daughter, should you bother to apply your mind and—God forbid—effort. You have a house. The entailed property in Northumberland. Take her there.”
    Chatham’s voice was silken. “A pile of rubble. If you know ‘a great deal,’ then you know it is not a fit place to bring a wife.”
    The steel gaze hardened further. “Find a way, Rutherford.” His eyes dropped to Chatham’s ribs. Presumably, the disgust curling the man’s nostrils was offense at Chatham’s thinness. “Or don’t. If you starve and leave my daughter a widow, I pay you nothing, and she is free to marry elsewhere.”
    “Assuming she does not also starve.”
    “You do not know Charlotte,” Lancaster said simply, then sat on the edge of the desk and pulled a watch from his waistcoat pocket. “I will provide a servant or two and pay them for the year.”
    “Ah, yes,” Chatham murmured. “Speaking of espionage.”
    Lancaster ignored him. “No additional funds will be provided.” He crossed his arms across a barrel chest and met Chatham’s gaze. “Have we a bargain?”
    There, looking into fire and steel, Chatham discovered how tired he truly was. Bloody bone-weary. His thighs and lower back ached. His head floated a foot off his neck. His arms refused to lift the glass. Never had he been so tempted to find another twelve bottles and let the darkness swallow him down.
    Something wanted him to stay, however, for he found his mouth opening.
    His voice answering.
    His everlasting fatigue receding long enough to sigh and say, “A bargain it is.”
    And his mind battled the intrusion of horror with the