"Can you blame them? They've lost money they couldn't afford to."
"No, they haven't." Cameron released Ainsley and called to his son, who was crowing that his father had beaten a London champion.
"Good fighting, Dad," Daniel said when he'd loped over.
"If you say so. I want you to cancel all the bets. Give everyone their money back."
"What?" Daniel blinked, mouth open. "I can't do that. I'll be mobbed."
"You'll lose your percentage, you mean," Cameron growled at him. "No one loses today," he said in a loud voice to the rest of the room. Talking ceased, heads turned to see what the winner was saying. "Daniel is returning your money. Bet on my horses. It's safer."
As surprised then angry murmurs rose from the guests, Cameron lifted his hand.
"The money is returned, or I can go to the duke and tell him his orders about betting were ignored. Ye can argue with Hart, or ye can take your money and be done."
The murmurs ceased, and guests drifted off, annoyed, but the servants cheered. "Thank ye, sir," one shouted, and "'E's a proper gent, I always said," came from Curry.
Daniel sighed and drew a pouch out of his sporran. "You'll ruin me, Dad."
"I didn't raise you to be a bookmaker, Danny."
"But I'm good at it."
"That's what worries me."
Muttering under his breath, Daniel left them to circulate the crowd, his movements betraying his irritation.
Steven appeared and shook Cameron's hand. "Excellent fight. You know a thing or two."
"Aye, maybe I used to. Bellamy's tough. I'll stick to horses."
Steven grinned, pressed a kiss to Ainsley's cheek, and moved off. Cameron pulled Ainsley against him again. "Do you think they'll notice if the reigning champion slinks off to his soft bed to recover?"
"I think you might be forgiven."
Cameron's gaze heated. "Bellamy took a fall to win a woman. What shall I have to do?"
"You've already won her," Ainsley said. She laid her hand on his chest. "However, perhaps I should don my New Year's frock and see how you like it. The bodice has ever so many buttons."
"Wicked." Cameron brushed a kiss to her lips. "Mmph. Even kissing is painful. I believe I'll need my wife's healing touch."
"Yes, indeed," Ainsley said, and she led her husband away, up to their bedchamber, where all was quiet, and bliss.
*** *** ***
David Fleming departed soon after the fight and didn't return until the thirtieth of December. By that time, all guests but family had gone, making the house party smaller but no less loud. Preparations went on for the Hogmanay celebration, which would include another feast, bonfires, and a walk to the village to join in the celebrations there. Beth, Ainsley, and Isabella visited the less fortunate with baskets heaped with food, blankets, and clothing. Eleanor fretted that she couldn't be part of the good works, but she could at least help fill the baskets as she waited for her child to be born.
David was well into inebriation as he rolled out of the carriage that had been sent to fetch him from the train. Hart met him in the foyer, and David thrust a box into Hart's waiting hands as soon as he walked in the front door.
David's face was drawn, his eyes heavy with fatigue. Hart steered him into his downstairs study and closed the door.
"You look like hell," Hart said.
"You would too after the few days I've had. That is to say, nights." David glanced at the whiskey decanter, always kept full, and shuddered.
"I've sent for coffee." Hart touched the box on his desk. "This is it?"
"The very one." David sank into a chair. "Dearly bought."
Hart let his voice warm. "Well done."
David blinked. "Praise from Hart Mackenzie? I must make a note in my diary."
"Kiss my fundament," Hart said dryly. "How did you manage it?" He leaned against his desk and crossed his ankles. "I admit, I'm curious."
David started to laugh. Before he could answer, a footman entered with a silver coffee pot and porcelain cups on a tray, which he placed on a table at David's elbow, and then departed. David's laughter tapered off as he poured himself a cup of steaming black liquid.
"The earl loves the ladies," David said, lifting the cup.
"We all do."
"Ah, but he loves them in a special way." David blew steam from the surface of the coffee and took a sip. "Was a while before I twigged. All suggestions, subtle or blatant, that we avail lovely women of our skills in bed was met with cold disapproval. Until I realized that what Prudy Preston likes is not to touch, but to watch."
Hart listened in surprise. "He's a voyeur?" He'd met more than one gentleman in his lifetime who gained pleasure by watching others find it, but he'd never suspected it of the prim and proper Earl of Glastonby.
David chuckled and took another sip of coffee. "The tale grows more intriguing. He's not interested in watching a bloke and his ladylove having a go. He enjoys watching ladies with each other." He closed his eyes. "Oh, it was delicious to discover that."
Hart didn't ask how David had convinced Glastonby to tell him--David was famous for winnowing out of people things they didn't want others to know.
"Once I discovered his guilty secret, it was easy to orchestrate an encounter for him," David went on. "I knew two young ladies who were all too eager to help. Yesterday afternoon, I escorted Glastonby to a house where the ladies put on quite a show for him. I rather enjoyed it. He wouldn't touch them--oh, no--he thinks himself too good for the likes of women such as they. But he let them perform. Lapped it up, shall we say." Another sip, David beginning to relax.
Glastonby was exactly the sort of man Hart loathed--one who detested the same women he used to gain his pleasure. When Hart had lived in his own personal bawdy house, he'd taken plenty of pleasure in the young women who lived there with him, though Hart recognized now that he'd never let down his guard, never not been in charge of every move in the bed.
But he'd never despised the women in his house for being paid courtesans, or submissive to him. Hart had recognized that they were people in their own right, with hopes and troubles, despair and delights. The young women had often asked his advice about whatever concerned them--or about life itself--and when they wanted to leave, Hart would send them off with enough money to ensure their survival.
"What did you do to him?" Hart asked. "Something nasty, I hope."