done!”
Lachlan shook his head. “Lassie, it can. We just need to be as cunning as our brother here.”
Sterling’s fist clenched at the backhanded jibe, but he carefully straightened his fingers. Reaching out, he took a cake from a plate on the table, then spread sweet cream atop the confection. This too was a diversion, for had they not been surrounded by London’s fine set, he might have kicked Lachlan’s chair just enough to send him tipping backward into the pea gravel. Instead he simply munched on the cake, aware that his brothers and sisters all most patiently waited for his reply.
He swallowed, taking his time, making them suffer ever so slightly for doubting him. When he did look up again, Sterling gazed first upon his ungrateful sisters. “If you can manage to survive only a few more weeks wearing clothing from last year, wearing paste jewels instead of treasures”—he redirected his gaze to his three brothers—“dressing yourselves and condescending to having your neck cloths starched and sloppily ironed by Mrs. Wimpole—my wagers on the Fives Court battle will reverse our financial position dramatically…for a time.”
Damn it
. Didn’t they understand? He was doing this for
them
. He should not have to explain himself. He was the eldest, after all, and had always looked out for them.
Sterling’s ire peaked. He pushed up from the tiny chair so forcefully that had he not reached out and just caught its back, it would have been knocked into the elderly patron sitting behind him.
He steadied the chair, then flipped a single guinea down, sending it spinning across the tea table, knocking into Ivy’s dish of tea before settling beneath the rim of Priscilla’s cake plate.
His voice remained low, but firm. “But if you can trust me, and assist me in winning Miss Carington’s hand by the end of the Season, I promise you all, whether Father forgives us or not, we will be rich.”
He touched his waistcoat pocket, needing to feel the two shillings inside before abandoning the guinea on the table. When he felt them, heard them clink together, he smiled confidently, and turned to leave.
Oh, that he only felt as confident in his Fives Court wager as he pretended to be.
“Wait,” Siusan called out. He heard a chair crunch and roll across the pea gravel paving. “Sterling, please.”
Looking back over his shoulder, he saw sincerity in his sister’s eyes and slowly turned his body around to face her.
“Sterling, you must know that you will always have our support,” she said quietly. She waved her hand to the others and pinned each with her steely gaze until one by one they nodded. “We will do what needs to be done to help you win the wager.
Whatever
it takes.”
“You have my gratitude,” Sterling managed. But his thanks felt as empty as their promise to him.
He started walking for the street, his chest aching, for he knew, in truth, he did have their support. They backed him now, not because they trusted him, as they should, for he’d never let them down. Not because he’d always taken the blows, physical or verbal, for them when he could. Not because they loved him. Not even because they trusted his skill as a gamester.
It was only because he’d left them no other choice.
Chapter 5
Nothing makes us more vulnerable than loneliness, except greed.
Thomas Harris
The Carington residence
No. 9 Leicester Square
Isobel untied the ribbon of her poke bonnet as she slinked through the front door. She sighed with exasperation at the thought of the dratted wager that, through no fault of her own, was going to plunge her headfirst into boiling water the moment her father learned of it.
She stalked toward the course of brass cloak hooks in the nook just off the entry hall and pulled off her bonnet.
It was then that she came to a startling realization.
While the wide brim of a poke bonnet was a most stylish way to protect a lady’s face from sun and weather, making it the absolute hat of
Lachlan shook his head. “Lassie, it can. We just need to be as cunning as our brother here.”
Sterling’s fist clenched at the backhanded jibe, but he carefully straightened his fingers. Reaching out, he took a cake from a plate on the table, then spread sweet cream atop the confection. This too was a diversion, for had they not been surrounded by London’s fine set, he might have kicked Lachlan’s chair just enough to send him tipping backward into the pea gravel. Instead he simply munched on the cake, aware that his brothers and sisters all most patiently waited for his reply.
He swallowed, taking his time, making them suffer ever so slightly for doubting him. When he did look up again, Sterling gazed first upon his ungrateful sisters. “If you can manage to survive only a few more weeks wearing clothing from last year, wearing paste jewels instead of treasures”—he redirected his gaze to his three brothers—“dressing yourselves and condescending to having your neck cloths starched and sloppily ironed by Mrs. Wimpole—my wagers on the Fives Court battle will reverse our financial position dramatically…for a time.”
Damn it
. Didn’t they understand? He was doing this for
them
. He should not have to explain himself. He was the eldest, after all, and had always looked out for them.
Sterling’s ire peaked. He pushed up from the tiny chair so forcefully that had he not reached out and just caught its back, it would have been knocked into the elderly patron sitting behind him.
He steadied the chair, then flipped a single guinea down, sending it spinning across the tea table, knocking into Ivy’s dish of tea before settling beneath the rim of Priscilla’s cake plate.
His voice remained low, but firm. “But if you can trust me, and assist me in winning Miss Carington’s hand by the end of the Season, I promise you all, whether Father forgives us or not, we will be rich.”
He touched his waistcoat pocket, needing to feel the two shillings inside before abandoning the guinea on the table. When he felt them, heard them clink together, he smiled confidently, and turned to leave.
Oh, that he only felt as confident in his Fives Court wager as he pretended to be.
“Wait,” Siusan called out. He heard a chair crunch and roll across the pea gravel paving. “Sterling, please.”
Looking back over his shoulder, he saw sincerity in his sister’s eyes and slowly turned his body around to face her.
“Sterling, you must know that you will always have our support,” she said quietly. She waved her hand to the others and pinned each with her steely gaze until one by one they nodded. “We will do what needs to be done to help you win the wager.
Whatever
it takes.”
“You have my gratitude,” Sterling managed. But his thanks felt as empty as their promise to him.
He started walking for the street, his chest aching, for he knew, in truth, he did have their support. They backed him now, not because they trusted him, as they should, for he’d never let them down. Not because he’d always taken the blows, physical or verbal, for them when he could. Not because they loved him. Not even because they trusted his skill as a gamester.
It was only because he’d left them no other choice.
Chapter 5
Nothing makes us more vulnerable than loneliness, except greed.
Thomas Harris
The Carington residence
No. 9 Leicester Square
Isobel untied the ribbon of her poke bonnet as she slinked through the front door. She sighed with exasperation at the thought of the dratted wager that, through no fault of her own, was going to plunge her headfirst into boiling water the moment her father learned of it.
She stalked toward the course of brass cloak hooks in the nook just off the entry hall and pulled off her bonnet.
It was then that she came to a startling realization.
While the wide brim of a poke bonnet was a most stylish way to protect a lady’s face from sun and weather, making it the absolute hat of
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