“I was told to offer refreshment.” Sigmund pulled the stopper from the crystal decanter. “Mr Chance wants brandy, what with it being the hair of the dog and all.”
“I’ll have the same. I’ve sat atop a coachman’s box for six hours. Brandy will help banish the chill from my bones.” Nicholas sat on the green velvet settee, feeling comfortable in the inherently masculine space. With rich walnut furnishings and an array of gilt-framed paintings on the wall, the room carried a sophistication one might find in any Mayfair mansion.
For the umpteenth time this morning, his thoughts drifted to Helen and to the intoxicating kiss that sent his world spinning sideways. Somehow he had always known they would suit, that their passionate natures would result in an explosive union. But to have it confirmed made their separation unbearable.
He wanted her.
And if the kiss was any indication, she wanted him too.
But he had to get rid of the damn noose around his neck before speaking from the heart and confronting Sebastian.
Nicholas was still thinking about the softness of Helen’s lips when Aaron Chance marched into the room, his loose shirt open at the neck, his arrogant grin conveying the same devil-may-care attitude.
“St Clair! I take it you’ve come to call in the debt.” Aaron took one look at the shabby greatcoat and frowned. “What the devil are you wearing? You smell like a dog’s blanket.”
Nicholas considered the man who had dragged his family from the gutter. Aaron Chance looked much like Lucifer, dark and dangerous and with a death-dealing glint in his eyes.
“I’ll be honest with you,” Nicholas began, accepting Sigmund’s proffered glass of brandy. He waited for Aaron to dismiss his man. “I am wanted for a murder in Haslemere, though assure you I am innocent of the crime.”
Aaron placed his glass on the walnut side table and dropped into the leather wing chair. “If I had a sovereign every time I heard that plea, I could retire to a castle in Scotland, never to hear the clunk of dice again.”
Nicholas tossed back a mouthful of brandy and then told Aaron Chance his darkest secret. “I have motive and opportunity, and the only way to prove my innocence is to find the person who took a blade to my half-brother’s throat.”
Guilt stabbed at his chest upon uttering the wordbrother.
He could not deny Holland’s claim. Had the man come seeking kinship, he might have welcomed him with open arms. But to threaten him with ruination, to use devious methods to steal money, that was beyond the pale. Not the sort of man Nicholas wanted for a brother.
Aaron stared at Nicholas over the rim of his glass. He downed the contents and hissed to cool the burn. “And you want me to help play Bow Street constable in payment for the debt?”
“No. I need somewhere to rest my head at night. That is all.” Nicholas sighed as he contemplated the impossible task ahead.
How did a man prove his innocence?
Where the hell did he start?
Aaron scoffed. “I’ll not harbour a fugitive. I’ll not risk what I have built here.” He shifted in the chair. “But a man is nothing without honour, and you hold my damn promissory note. It is an irritating dilemma.”
“Might you at least find me some clean clothes and allow me to wash and sleep for a few hours? And I’ll need a loan, which I shall repay with interest.”
He couldn’t risk visiting Coutts and had spent his only coin persuading the coachman at the Black Lion to let him ride with him to London. He had given the innkeeper his signet ring in payment for his silence and for returning Sebastian’s horse to Grayswood Folly.
His thoughts turned to his friend.
Sebastian would have every guest tied to a chair, threatening them to within an inch of their lives until one confessed.
“Delphine is visiting a friend in Bath,” Aaron said. “You may use her room until I have consulted my brothers.” With an amused grin, he scanned Nicholas from head to toe. “And, as we’re much the same size, I shall find you something to wear that doesn’t smell of horses and wet dogs.”
Nicholas relaxed back in the seat, the stiffness in his shoulders easing. Perhaps when he’d slept, he could think clearly. A man needed his wits if he meant to escape the scaffold.
“You’re certain no one followed you from Haslemere?”
“Quite certain.”
“And no one knows you visit this establishment?”
“Only Denton.”
Aaron studied Nicholas keenly. The man was a master at reading people, hence why Fortune’s Den was such a successful gaming establishment. “St Clair, why do I sense there is something you’re not telling me? What else do you have to hide?”