To Con a Gentleman: A Regency Romance (Dalton Family Book 1) Read online

  Rose took the blue bonnet and plopped it on her head. “So what’s my story?” She fumbled with the ribbons of the ugliest bonnet she had ever beheld before tying it under her chin. When this job was over, she was revoking Uncle Felix’s purchasing privileges.

  “Your name is Daphney Bellows,” he said. “Lord Newburry took a liking to you at a house party about three months ago. The real Daphney didn’t spend much time with the earl outside of that night so you don’t need to bog yourself down with the details of her life. Just state the facts. Threaten to release a scandal and get out of there as quick as you can with the rhino.” If Rose hadn’t grown up on the streets, she likely would never understand that the man was talking about money. But really, street slang was her first language. It was more difficult for her to speak as a gently bred lady than a thief.

  “No wig this time?” she asked, not that she was brokenhearted to go without one. The dashed things were itchy.

  He shook his head. “You got lucky this time. The girl has your coloring. Just toss that little pillow under your dress and that should be enough.” Rose had pulled this scheme enough to know that these disgusting sorts of men never really remembered what their ladybirds looked like, especially when she was just a lowly maid. Keep her eyes down and feign the nervousness she didn’t feel. It was too easy.

  Rose and Uncle Felix spent the rest of the drive talking strategy and where they would meet up after she had the money in hand. And there was no doubt she would have the money in hand. With a solid backstory and an earl that would be eager to stifle yet another scandal, she was sure that he would be eager to toss her the blunt and send her out of his house as quickly as possible.

  Uncle Felix let out a low whistle as the hackney drew up to Lord Newburry’s large house in Grosvenor Square. Rose knew this house well. It was, in her opinion, the most beautiful house in that elite part of town. More than disappointing to realize that it belonged to such a coxcomb. “A fine ken, that one!” he said eyeing the three-story home with lifted brows.

  “Too bad a fine gentleman does not own it.”

  “Aye! But if he were some stand-up fellow, you’d never let us con him out of his coins. So I say it’s a good thing he’s an ugly customer.”

  She lifted a brow. “I’m not so sure that Miss Bellows would share your sentiment.”

  Uncle Felix looked away as Rose quickly stuffed the small pillow under her dress and managed quite impressively to squeeze the thing under her stays. She looked down and assessed that it was an accurate size baby bump for a woman who would only just begin to show. Perfect.

  Uncle Felix gave her his usual good luck wink before she stepped out of the carriage and watched him ride off in the hackney. The two kept very little contact while she was on a job. Everything was safer and easier when she worked alone. Once she was finished with Lord Newburry, she would hire another hackney and meet Uncle Felix at Hopewood Orphanage. Rose tried to disregard the feeling of warmth that the thought gave her, but it was useless. It had been far too long since she’d been able to visit the children and she was eager to know how her little urchins were getting on. But for now, she needed to keep her mind on the situation before her.

  Rose took in a deep fortifying breath, patted the small pistol strapped to her thigh for good luck, and mentally recited what she needed to know back to herself. She gripped the handles of her leather valise and started up the massive front staircase. The wind whipped at her silly bonnet so forcefully that she had to put her hand on her head to keep it from flying away. She noted her own slow and steady breaths as her half-boots clicked over the front stone steps.

  At one time, her breaths would have been fast and her chest would have felt tight. But not anymore. Not today. Nerves and sensibilities had fled her long ago. She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders at the imposing black door before reaching for the brass knocker and placing three solid raps.

  Chapter 2

  “Oliver, why the devil do you insist on plaguing me at this ridiculous hour?” asked Carver, giving his friend a look he hoped was intimidating.

  Unfortunately, Oliver was his oldest friend and now seemed immune to the look.

  Oliver just smiled the trademark smile that had won him the nickname of Charming amongst the debutantes of the ton. “I think the word you were looking for was visiting.”

  “No,” said Carver. “A visit sounds far more pleasant than you showing up in my bedchamber at eight o’clock in the morning to tell me you’re going out of town. You act more like a deuced wife every day, Olly.”

  Since they were rarely ever apart, the running joke amongst their friends and family was that he and Oliver more closely resembled an old married couple than friends. It was sadly true.

  Oliver smirked. “Someone has to do the job.”

  “I don’t think I like the idea of you being the one to fill it.” Carver finally sat up and tossed his feet out of bed.

  It would be wonderful if Oliver showing up in his bedchamber before noon was a rare occurrence. But it wasn’t. Ever since they had met at Eton ten years prior, the blasted man had been showing up in his bedchamber before Carver had the opportunity to open his eyes. How he managed to slip past his butler, Jeffers, Carver would never know.

  Carver motioned toward the servant’s bell hanging on the wall. “Pull the cord, will you?”

  Oliver put his hand over his heart and feigned a deeply remorseful expression that was too put-on to be sincere. “I hope you’re not getting up on my account! I’ll only be here another minute.” Doubtful.

  Oliver could talk more than a girl freshly launched from the schoolroom. Carver rarely minded, unless it was eight o’clock in the morning and he had the devil of a headache and a body that felt as if it had been trampled by a herd of cattle as he did just then.

  Oliver’s eyes fell to Carver’s torso, and he winced, sucking in air through his teeth in the sound of a hiss. “Blast, man. Your rib looks broken.”

  Carver looked down at his bare chest. He had been too exhausted from his fight the night before to do anything other than shed his shirt and fall into bed. Exhaustion was good. When he was exhausted, he slept. And when he slept, he was given a break from his memories. Although, more than not those same memories found their way into his dreams.

  He tenderly touched his ribs. Severely bruised but thankfully not broken. He made a quick assessment of the rest of his body: bruised ribs, a cut above his right eyebrow, swollen and torn knuckles, and at least a dozen other minor injuries; but otherwise not terrible. It had been the best match he’d fought all year. Jackson was right when he warned that it would be Carver’s most difficult fight so far. He had almost lost. Almost, he thought with a cocky smile.

  But then he stood up and felt very much like a crumpled piece of paper unraveling and some of his smugness left him. “Not broken. But very nearly,” said Carver. “Brooks was a better boxer than I’d given him credit for.”

  Carver had been boxing nearly every day for the past three years and never once had he fought anyone who had displayed to such advantage as Mr. Brooks. Jackson—the owner of Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon—said he was sure he would make a champion out of Brooks. Which is the same thing he had been telling Carver since he walked into his boxing academy his first year living in London. But unfortunately for Carver, it would never be able to be anything other than a hobby—and a distraction. He was the oldest as well as the only son of his father—The Duke of Dalton—and as such was his father’s heir. Nobility could not be professional boxers. Or, so he was told by his tender-hearted mother in attempts to keep him from showing up with cuts and bruises all over his body.

  Oliver shook his head slowly while eyeing the offending rib again. “Blast. I can’t believe I missed it. Heard you fought your best fight yet.”

  Carver took a shirt from his wardrobe and gingerly pulled it over his head, noting that everything on him hurt. “You could have seen it for yourself if you would stop trying to be a Bond Stree
t beau.” He tossed a smirk at his socialite friend.

  Oliver returned the smirk but added a hint of mockery to it as well as a squint. “You know very well that I would have rather been at the fight than at the ball, but I had already given my word to Lady Summers that I would dance attendance on her dowdy niece.”

  “And how did that go?”

  Oliver shuddered. “Took me half the night just to draw a smile from the stone-faced girl.”

  Poor Oliver. Or—no. The man did it to himself with his overly engaging manners and freely given smile. Those two things alone made him not only a favorite of every young lady in London, but every matron who needed their daughter, granddaughter, or niece to feel special and noticed during her come out. That was one reason why Carver refused to accompany Oliver to any society events. The thought of preening society misses fawning at his feet gave him the irrational urge to go lock his door.

  And besides, no other woman would ever compare to—

  “It wouldn’t kill you to attend a ball or two yourself, Kenny.” Oliver had made that nickname for him when they were still just kids, saying that his title of Kensworth sounded much too old for him. Oliver shortened the title and from that day on called him by the name of Kenny.

  “Probably not, but I’d rather not risk it.”

  They both walked into the parlor adjoining his bedchamber and sat in the chairs by the fire.

  Oliver settled into the leather chair, making it creak as he stretched his legs toward the fire and crossed his ankles. “But you know you’re quickly gaining the title of eccentric recluse, don’t you? It’s about time for you to step back out into society a little.” Carver didn’t like where this was going.

  “Miss dancing with me, my dear? I should warn you, I won’t waltz with you anymore.” He raised his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Your hands travel too much.”

  Oliver’s eyes narrowed, but he was clearly trying not to smile. “Be serious.”

  “Why? So you can read me a lecture?” said Carver. “No, I thank you.” He had no desire to hear whatever Olly was going to say next. And he had a pretty good idea of what that next thing was going to be. “Now, besides informing me of your travels, what was so deucedly important that you felt the need to wake me?”

  “Well...actually,” Oliver looked a little shy which was odd. “It kills me to ask, but…I need to borrow some money.”

  Carver looked down and inspected the swollen and scabbing cracks on his knuckles, not feeling the need to ask any questions. Oliver was more like a brother to Carver than a friend. He would give him any amount of money he needed. “Just tell Jeffers the amount and he’ll give it to you on your way out.”

  “Thank you.” Oliver smiled at Carver with an almost challenging sort of look. A look that said he was prepared to defend whatever his reason was for needing the money. But Carver just looked at his friend with a grin. They looked at each other like that for a minute before Oliver’s smile dropped along with his shoulders and he broke. “Don’t you want to know what it’s for?”

  “If I say no will you go away and leave me alone?”

  Oliver just smiled even broader. “I’m in love.”

  Carver barely suppressed his groan. Was it possible for Oliver to go a week without ‘falling in love?’

  “I believe you can expect to wish me happy before long,” said Oliver with a notable amount of pride in his voice. It was the same pride Carver had heard the last five times his friend had entered his bedchamber saying almost the same thing. The time to wish him happy would never actually come.

  “Famous,” said Carver. “I’ll go ahead and do it now so you can take yourself off.”

  “I can see you don’t believe me,” said Oliver, not looking offended in the least. “But I swear it’s real this time. I’ve never met another woman like her. She’s perfect.”

  Not true. The only perfect woman to ever walk the earth died three years ago.

  Carver heard the door to his bedroom open and knew that Brandon, his valet, must have entered. He stood and stretched the ache from his arms as he prepared himself mentally for the task of listening to a story that he had no desire to hear. But the sooner he heard the story the sooner he could go down to breakfast.

  “Alright,” said Carver. “Tell me about this woman.”

  Brandon entered the room with Carver’s wardrobe draped over his arm and then began to help him dress without ever saying a word.

  Oliver leaned over to rest his elbow on his knees, watching as Carver stepped into a pant leg of his breeches. “She’s perfect.”

  “Yes, you’ve said that already.”

  “Well, she is.” Oliver took on a far off expression as if the woman’s portrait was being painted onto the wall. “She has the most captivating eyes I’ve ever seen. They are brown yet gold, yet somehow red. I swear I could get lost in the stories they tell.”

  Carver turned his back to Oliver under the pretense of allowing Brandon to help him shrug into his jacket. But really, it was so that he could roll his eyes. Get lost in the stories they tell. How stupid. Eyes were eyes. They could be beautiful but they did not tell stories. Oliver was becoming too much of a romantic.

  “And just how did you meet this woman with storytelling eyes?”

  “I can hear the condescension in your tone, but I’m choosing to ignore it,” said Oliver, making the corners of Carver’s mouth twitch up. “I met her at an informal ball the other night. The poor girl was driven to distraction.” Sensitive females never failed to annoy Carver. But they seemed to be just Oliver’s type.

  “She snuck out of her uncle’s house to attend a card party a few nights before the ball,” said Oliver. “There were a few high flyers at the table that took advantage of the fact that she was a green girl and—well…she lost a good bit of money.”

  Carver lifted his chin for Brandon to begin arranging the cravat around his neck. “She told you all of this in the ballroom?”

  “Of course not.” Oliver leaned back in his seat again. “She told me outside of the ballroom in the gardens where I found her crying.” Oh, yes. A much better place to share personal information with a stranger. “Kitty—that’s her name—didn’t have enough pin money to cover the debts she had accumulated, and she was worried that her uncle—who is something of a brute apparently—would send her to work at a girl’s school if he found out about her misstep.”

  “How dreadful for our poor Kitty,” said Carver while stepping into one of his boots.

  Oliver leveled him a glare. “I know you think this is funny, but you should have seen the poor beauty. She couldn’t even enjoy the ball because she was terrified it would be her last.”

  Never having to attend another ball actually sounded rather nice. But he and Oliver were different in that way. They were both tall and broad and generally considered good looking, but Oliver enjoyed spinning ladies around the ballroom whereas Carver much preferred Cribb’s Parlor and bare-knuckle fighting until at least some part of him was bleeding.

  “Very well, I can see why you felt compelled to help her. How much did the girl set you back?”

  There was a long pause before Oliver finally responded with, “Five hundred pounds.”

  Carver’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Kitty’s eyes must tell some fantastic stories.”

  Oliver ignored his barb and stood up. “I know it’s a lot. But believe me, she’s worth it. She’s going to Bath for the month to visit a friend, but I plan on offering for her the moment she returns.”

  “After only spending one evening together?” asked Carver.

  “One evening is all I needed to see that she’s perfect for me in every way.”

  Again, Carver suppressed a groan.

  If he thought for one moment that Oliver would ever end up actually going through with offering for the girl, he would have lectured him on the dangers of proposing to a woman he hardly knew. But it was Oliver. The man had been in love more times than Carver could keep track of. But th
ey never lasted. Eventually, Oliver would come to his senses and begin the pursuit of some other pretty female.

  “Well then, I wish you happy,” Carver said untruthfully while assessing his newly tied cravat and slate blue jacket in the mirror.

  As one who belonged to the sporting corinthian set, dark blue was possibly the most extravagant color that he would ever allow his valet to dress him in. Poor Brandon. The man insisted that Carver had the shoulders and calves of a Greek god and should allow himself to be dressed as such. But since dressing the part of a mythological deity apparently consisted of flamboyant colors, skin-tight pantaloons, and a dozen glittering fobs, Carver chose to continue his look of a mere mortal.

  “You’re leaving for Dalton Park today, are you not?” asked Oliver, steering the conversion in a direction that Carver wasn’t sure he wanted it to go.

  “I am. And you leave for your hunting trip today?” Were other friends so in tune with each other’s schedules as he and Oliver were?

  “Just as soon as I leave here. Will you be alright going home without me?” Oliver said with a twisted smile.

  “As remarkable as it sounds, I believe I’ll manage.”

  “Will you, though?” Disheartening that he felt the need to ask again.

  “Yes, believe it or not, darling, I am fairly sufficient on my own.”

  Oliver did not even register the sardonic pet name Carver called him. His face grew more serious. “What I meant was, will you be alright traveling to Dalton Park without me? I know you haven’t been able to make the journey since—,”

  Carver cut him off. “I’ll be fine, Oliver.” But really he wasn’t sure himself.

  Would he actually make it all the way home this year without turning back after reaching the halfway point? He would not even be going if it wasn’t for the ball his mother was throwing in honor of his father’s birthday. And he couldn’t avoid the place forever, could he? Probably not, considering he was to inherit it one day. No, he needed to go home. He just wished the memories didn’t live there along with his family.