As rumors about him spread around Chatsworth, so did the reasons for his moniker. Some claimed he had pilfered old widows’ fortunes while others were certain he had stolen kisses from young ladies. With each passing year, a new story bloomed.
Nicholas did nothing to dissuade any one of these notions. They had served him well, for they kept wagging tongues from learning the truth about him.
Over the past five years, he had sent three men into bankruptcy through his deception. All were elderly with children long married and with their own fortunes. And all deserved the ruin he inflicted upon them.
The man before him now was his fourth, leaving him with one final man to force to his knees.
For now, however, he needed to refocus his attention on Mr. Gatling, whose face was crimson with rage and his fingertips as white as his hair as he gripped the ink quill.
“But Mr. Gatling,” Nicholas said in mock soothing tones, “I only advised on said investments. I did warn you to take care, did I not? Indeed, when you insisted on offering your estate as collateral, I warned you again. Yet you chose to leap into the investment without thought for what might happen.”
This was true. In a sense. What he did not mention was how he had whispered warnings in the man’s left ear while shouting about the vast wealth he could reap in his right.
How easily a man’s greed overpowered his discernment!
“Now, if you wish to leave with some semblance of dignity and a few pounds in your purse, sign the document. If not, I doubt the bank will offer you either when they take possession of everything you own come Monday.”
With a snort, Mr. Gatling signed the final document and threw the quill on the table, leaving a trail of ink dotting the wood. Standing, he buttoned his coat and pointed an accusatory finger at Nicholas. “You’re a shag-bag, Dowding, and you’ll rue the day you crossed me!”
“Now, now, Mr. Gatling,” Mr. Bromley said as he rose from his chair, “let’s not descend into insults. Allow me to escort you to the door. Your funds will arrive…”
Nicholas did not hear when or where Mr. Gatling’s funds would arrive, nor did he care. He heaved a sigh. It was no easy feat deceiving people, especially fellow businessmen. But what he did was a necessary evil. Each one of the men he had taken down deserved every bit of humiliation they got.
His final target, Shadrach, Lord Tulk, however, would not be as easy a target. The old marquess was just past sixty, and Nicholas had used the better part of the past six months working toward earning his favor. But Lord Tulk was shrewd with his money and careful with his tongue, so reducing him to rubble would be all the more difficult.
From speculation in mines to investments in tailor shops, Lord Tulk had been making a tidy profit investing in Nicholas’s enterprises. Of course, the ledgers had been manipulated to show a larger profit than what actually came from these investments, but much like bait on a fishing pole, these smaller transactions would aid in earning the man’s trust. Ragworms attracted fluke, but it would take a sprat to catch a bass.
The plan was simple. Once Nicholas earned the man’s trust, he would savagely attack, offering one final irresistible proposition. One so tempting, the marquess would risk his entire estate and everything in it.
And it was about time that Nicholas baited the hook. He had sent Lord Tulk an invitation to a masquerade ball at Rosling Estate, which was to take place two weeks from today. He would ply the man with the finest wines, the most succulent food, and dangle the finest bait he could offer. But there was one problem.
He needed a fiancée.
Nicholas, Lord Dowding was a man of carefully chosen words. Except when he was not.
During their discussion about the social life of businessmen, Lord Tulk had quipped that Nicholas would likely be forced to settle with a country girl of poor breeding.
“There can’t be many choices in a village of this size, even if it’s located within a day’s ride of London.”
To which Nicholas had responded without thinking, “Apparently, you’ve not heard. I’ve already found a fiancée, and she’s one of the most beautiful and finest women you could ever meet.”
A costly mistake, that!
Nicholas had not played suitor in five years, let alone time to propose marriage. Now he needed a woman to marry. And soon!
Yet how did a man find a bride-to-be in just over two weeks? Not a true fiancée, of course, for Nicholas cared nothing for marriage. At least not this strange new idea of marrying for love. Of course one day, he would need a bride to give him an heir. Marriage, he could manage. But any notion of love was more than he was willing to endure. What he needed at this moment was a woman who could be trusted to play the part without revealing it was a farce.
Nicholas was thirty years of age, and the women who would have been willing to play such a role in the past were now married and raising their children. Those who were not married were ruined by scandal, widowed, or already spinsters. And none of those would appeal to Lord Tulk, for he was the type of man who would use such a union against Nicholas.
How could he have gotten himself into such a pickle? He had learned to school his tongue, but there were times when it took on a life of its own, as it did in his younger days.
Plus, she had to be beautiful to boot!
In the small village of Chatsworth, that seemed impossible.
Chapter Two
“It appears, my lord,” Mr. Bromley said, startling Nicholas as he returned to the room, “Mr. Gatling will not be inviting you to any of his gatherings anytime soon.” The solicitor chuckled at his own joke as he produced a handkerchief from a coat pocket, lifted it to dab at the sweat on his forehead, and promptly dropped it.