A Brazen Bargain: Spies and Lovers, Book 2 Read online

  Love soothes the deepest of scars.

  Spies and Lovers, Book 2

  Minerva Bellingham is at her wits’ end. Her younger brother, Simon, will have them penniless and on the streets if his extravagant gambling habit isn’t curtailed. An enormous debt to Lord Rafe Drummond is the final indignity.

  Signing over her dowry is their only choice. Until Lord Drummond suggests something much more scandalous. She can keep her dowry—in exchange for the Bellinghams working three months as a housemaid and stable boy.

  Scarred from his service to the Crown, Rafe recognizes the young Simon Bellingham has the makings of a good duke. Minerva is a different story. Her pure, delicate beauty only underscores Rafe’s tarnished, bleak soul.

  Yet he delights in cracking Minerva’s icy reserve to reveal a fiery, stubborn woman. And Minerva discovers the gruff master of Wintermarsh has the heart of a poet. But before they can find a future safe in each other’s arms, a menace from Simon’s licentious past slithers back into their lives, forcing Rafe to plan the most important rescue mission of his life.

  Warning: Contains a paragon of the beau monde who gets the hang of polishing silver, and a master of the house who’d like her to make his bed—preferably with him in it. Also passion unleashed with the mere touch of a finger. Readers are encouraged to swoon.

  A Brazen Bargain

  Laura Trentham

  Dedication

  Although this isn’t the first manuscript I finished, this book will always be special because it convinced my agent to sign me. Through her, I learned to take chances with my writing, opening up doors I didn’t even know were there. In a very short time, I’ve seen several dreams realized, holding my own book in my hands being the biggest.

  Another big thanks goes out to my editor. I have learned more about the English language over the course of working on two books with her than all my years in school. Granted, I was an engineering major, so… But I’m still not convinced commas don’t reproduce and move around at night.

  Despite the challenges of publishing—as Samhain says, it is all about the story—and I’m so excited to be sharing this story with all of you!

  Chapter One

  Summer 1812, London

  Lord Rafe Drummond ducked his head to clear the low-hanging timbered doorframe of the gritty gaming hell. He scanned the room, tucking away as many details as possible. Left over habits from his days as a Crown assassin and spy, but they served him well in civilian life.

  The low hum of men talking and the clink of glasses filled the space. The wood-paneled walls and liberally smoked cheroots contributed to an earthy, comforting smell and constant haze. High-stakes gaming took place in the back rooms, but he rarely ventured there. He had outgrown the hunt for artificial excitement.

  White’s, this was not. A group of familiar seamen gathered at a long, squat oak bar that dominated one side of the room, talking and drinking tankards of ale. Rafe shook hands and accepted his own tankard, taking small sips, mostly for show. He’d made his sister, Lily, a promise not to overindulge and wouldn’t break it—not tonight at any rate.

  The lively conversation eased the restlessness that had assailed him during his dinner alone at a table capable of seating eighteen. A deep breath loosened the tight lashes around his chest, and he propped a booted foot on a low rail.

  “What brings you out tonight, Drummond? Liquor, games or women? Or perhaps all three?” asked one of the men with a wink.

  Rafe chuffed. “Boredom. Can’t stand my own company. How’re things coming on the docks? I’m leaving for Wintermarsh before the week is out, but I want to see the new ship. Will my investment pay off soon?”

  “Never fear, she’ll make us all rich,” the man said, inciting a clinking of tankards. The seaman likened the new ship to a beautiful courtesan, and the innuendo-filled description pulled Rafe’s lips into a rare smile.

  As he tipped his tankard up for another sip, two young men stumbled into the common room. He only half-heard the ribald banter around him, his attention stolen. Simon, the Duke of Bellingham, had one arm flung over the shoulders of Viscount Hampton, possibly in camaraderie, but based on the duke’s shuffling feet, even more for support.

  Bellingham’s voice, thick with liquor, carried across the room. “We’re here to play. Where’re all the tables? We have the coin, never fear.” He bowed to a serving girl and even shook the manager’s hand. “In fact, drinks for the house.” The duke threw his arms out and twirled around to the cheers of the patrons.

  The manager pointed the duo to the back rooms. Hampton shoved the duke through the door and tossed a careless, sweeping glance over his shoulder. Perhaps if Rafe hadn’t watched the entire scene unfold, the incongruity wouldn’t have made an impression.

  Hampton’s eyes were surprisingly clear, and without the duke’s arm around him, he straightened and moved with little visible impairment. But it was the smirk, full of devious intent, that had Rafe staring into his nearly full tankard with a niggling sense of duty.

  Dammit. Hampton’s machinations were nothing to him. The man had cut a wide swath through London’s gaming hells over the past year. According to gossip, White’s had cut him off. What was Bellingham doing with such a wastrel?

  The duke looked an easy mark tonight. He was only twenty—an immature twenty at that. Although only seven years his senior, too many of Rafe’s years had been spent teetering on a knife’s edge between life and death. His path had aged him well beyond his years.

  Rafe had vague recollections of his chattering sister filling his broody silences with gossip about the duke’s increasingly destructive vagaries. There was no harm in seeing how far down the road to ruin the duke found himself. What else would fill the lonely hours?

  Rafe excused himself and followed the raucous laughter to a back room. Three well-heeled merchants had joined the two peers for a high-stakes game of loo. Leaning against the doorjamb, Rafe crossed his arms over his chest and waited for the hand to finish.

  None-too-subtle whispered encouragements from Hampton drove Bellingham to up the bet. After refilling the duke’s glass to the brim, Hampton added a dash of brandy to his own. The young duke would end up fleeced one way or another. Rafe ran a hand down his beard and looked heavenward.

  As soon as the round finished, he hooked a boot on the leg of an empty chair and seated himself. “Drummond, at your service. Care if I join you?” Gazes skimmed over his face and dropped to the stained green-felt tabletop. Rafe clutched his thighs to keep from tracing the long scar that marred the left side of his face.

  His torso tottering in a semi-circle, Bellingham smiled a simple smile and held Rafe’s gaze. “O’course, Drummond. Welcome, welcome. Have we been formally introduced?”

  “No, Your Grace. I haven’t circulated in Society for several years now, but our sisters are well-acquainted.”

  “Call me Bellingham,” the duke said with a careless wave of his hand. “Your sister is Lady Lily Drummond? Minerva loves her to bits.”

  Rafe couldn’t imagine the austere Lady Minerva loving anything to bits. “My sister is Mrs. Gray Masterson now. She married in the spring.”

  The duke snapped his fingers. “That’s right. My sincere feli-felicit-ta… Jolly good for her.” He thumped his fist on the table for good measure.

  A guileless expression on his boyish face, Bellingham chuckled when Hampton totaled the amount he’d lost the previous game. A thousand pounds gone in a thrice. His amusement highlighted an unforgivable ignorance about the power of money.

  “Are you sure
you wouldn’t rather bow out, Bellingham? Cut your losses?” Rafe asked.

  Hampton’s head jutted forward on a thin neck, and his face crumpled in on itself in an attempt to appear intimidating. “You’d better keep at it. Luck will turn your way. It’s bound to. Your sister will be none too pleased if you come home in the dun.” The viscount directed his comments toward Bellingham but his beady eyes bored into Rafe.

  With his auburn hair and squinched features, he looked like an angry red squirrel protecting a stash of acorns. Rafe held back a smile.

  Bellingham shuddered with an exaggerated grimace. “You gents don’t know my battle-ax of a sister. She’ll have me strung up by my bollocks if I lose my stipend already. I’d be forced to eat at home the rest of the month listening to her unending lectures.”

  “I’m sure she would appreciate you discussing her in such glowing terms in a gaming hell,” Rafe admonished, his gaze following the shuffle. It was Hampton’s deal, and he didn’t trust the man one bit.

  Bellingham shifted on his seat but said no more. A combination of luck and skill held for Rafe over the next hands, and he took a majority of the tricks, causing the merchants to bow out. Two men with opportunity glinting in their eyes attempted to insert themselves into the game, but Rafe glared and waved them off.

  “Perhaps now is a good time for all of us to move on to less taxing endeavors.” If Rafe retreated now, the circling vultures would take his place and fleece both men.

  Hampton slumped in his chair, ashen-faced and with a betraying tightness around his mouth. “We play on, right, Bellingham?”

  “Why not? At this point, I’m so far in the hole, there’s not much to do but try to climb out.” Bellingham’s eyes were bleary, his good humor having gone the way of his money.

  Rafe tended to disagree, but who was he to tell a duke what to do? It was Rafe’s deal, and although he hadn’t learned how to expertly deal off the bottom like some of his home office counterparts, he counted and tracked the cards.

  He revealed the trump card. Bellingham perked up. Hampton, sinking even farther down in his seat, took all new cards, but it was hopeless for both men.

  “I want to raise the bet. I don’t have it on me, but I’m good for it. I’m a man of honor.” Bellingham’s eyes reflected a sudden vitality.

  “I don’t think that’s wise,” Rafe said in a low voice.

  “Why not let the man finish it, Drummond? Are you afraid you’ll lose? Are you a coward?” Hampton leaned forward, his tone overly belligerent.

  Rafe slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the glasses. “I’ll give you one chance to retract that question and apologize, else we can take this game outside, and it’s likely to end quite painfully for you, Hampton. Take your pick.”

  Hampton tried to hold Rafe’s gaze, but like most men, he couldn’t. He dropped his chin to his chest and his gaze to his cards. “My sincere apologies,” he mumbled in a distinctly unapologetic tone.

  “Gentlemen, please.” Bellingham scribbled something on a scrap of paper and threw it into the middle of the table. “Here’s my voucher.”

  Rafe shook his head at the young man’s foolishness, but better he won the pot than Hampton. The hand played out as Rafe had foreseen, and he tucked his winnings, plus Bellingham’s voucher into his coat. The duke stared at his hands as if they’d somehow betrayed him, looking considerably younger than his twenty years.

  Rafe rubbed the knuckle of his forefinger along his lower lip. “I’ll expect you tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock to discuss your losses, Bellingham.”

  The duke moaned. “Minerva’s going to flay me alive.” He dropped his head into his hands. Rafe could almost see the exuberance the liquor had imparted earlier eroding into the start of a blinding hangover. He was all too familiar with the painful process.

  Hampton emerged from his stupor and shoved back from the table. His chair toppled. “For Christ’s sake, Bellingham, ask your sister for your bollocks back.” He stomped out, and the door swung wildly in his wake.

  “Come on, lad. Time to go home and sleep it off.” Rafe hauled the young duke to his feet and out into the warm August night. Hampton had decamped, and no carriage awaited the duke. Rafe whistled for a hackney.

  Bellingham’s knees buckled and his eyes fluttered closed. Rafe shoved him onto a squab, jostling him awake. After giving the driver instructions, Rafe claimed the seat across from the duke.

  “What’re you doing?” Bellingham’s words slurred together.

  “Seeing you home. You’ll end up beaten and robbed otherwise.”

  “Not like I have anything left to take. Why’re you being so nice? Minerva says you’re an arse,” Bellingham said with a cynical laugh and unguarded tongue.

  “Does she now?” Rafe was well aware of what the duke’s imperious sister thought of him. Not that he’d gone out of his way to garner her good will, in fact, just the opposite. The woman inspired a surprising and uncomfortable level of ire.

  She was an undisputed diamond of the first water with her high cheekbones, sensuous mouth and blonde hair he imagined felt like silk. Unlike other ladies of the ton, she never disguised the keen intelligence in her blue eyes behind tittering laughter and inane flirting.

  Publically, he blamed his aggravation on her peripheral involvement in his sister’s reckless enterprises over the spring. Her spirit in the face of his righteous anger had filled him with disquiet. But deeper, more primal reasons flowed under the surface.

  She represented something forever lost in the war.

  While he’d killed and schemed and lied to protect England, he’d ruined any chance of ever obtaining the kind of happiness a woman like her could bring. Her unmarred purity only underscored his tarnished soul a hundred fold.

  “She used to be nice to me. Coddled me, made sure Cook made my favorites. Now, all she does is nag. Tells me I’m an embarrassment.” Bellingham untied his limp cravat. “Perhaps she’s right. Dammit, she has a look that can wither a man. Completely emasculate him. Have you seen it?”

  “I’ve been on the receiving end once or twice. Didn’t take.”

  Bellingham’s laugh was small and humorless. “No, I don’t suppose it did. Works on me though. Makes me feel about ten years old.”

  “If you’d quit running around with men like Hampton and take on some responsibility, perhaps you wouldn’t get her look as often.”

  “Bloody hell, you sound exactly like her. I say, Drummond, is there some way we could settle our debt without my sister finding out? Perhaps there’s something I could help you with?” Bellingham asked with a hopeful lilt.

  “I doubt you possess any skills that could be of use to me, Bellingham,” Rafe said, but he pulled at his beard, surprisingly diverted by the idea of the duke under his tutelage.

  “Tomorrow, I face the dragon. It almost brings me to tears. I ’ppreciate you seeing me home.” Bellingham’s blond head lolled back on the squabs as his words trailed off into the darkness.

  Rafe was amused to realize Bellingham was more intimidated by his sister than the man to whom he’d lost a fortune. The duke listed against the side of the hack, the rhythmic swaying of the carriage lulling him to sleep. For the rest of the ride, Rafe trailed a finger down the long path of his scar and considered the young man.

  Although irresponsible, stubborn and dissolute, the duke was also amusing, considerate and reasonably intelligent. Rafe had observed the easy, convivial way he had treated the merchants and the serving wenches at Parsons.

  Bellingham was trying hard to force himself down a rake’s path, but his innate nature was friendly and kind, which was why men like Hampton would eat him alive. He reminded Rafe of a green recruit headed to war, ill equipped and innocent.

  Still unsure what, if anything, he could do to help the duke, or if he even wanted to try, they arrived at Bellingham’s palatial townhouse. He tossed the you
ng man over one shoulder and hauled him up the steps to pound on the door, forgoing the delicate brass knocker. A footman took charge of the duke. By the long-suffering sigh of the servant, he’d seen to the duke’s care in the middle of the night before.

  The soft night gathered around Rafe, offering a blanket of comfort he’d rarely experienced since coming back from the war. The clack of carriages on distant streets and the call of summer birds filled the night. The loneliness that incessantly dogged him slept, and pulling in deep lungfuls of warm air, he decided to walk home.

  With his townhouse in sight and thinking he might finally get a few hours of dreamless sleep, he felt the hairs along the back of his neck rise.

  Danger.

  He kept his gait loose, not betraying his sudden alertness, and swept his gaze in every direction. Shadowy movement down a set of servant stairs across from his townhouse sent fight impulses skittering through his body.

  Rafe slowed his pace and prepared for his assailants to make the first move. When he was within five feet of the stairs, a single man launched out of the darkness. The blade of a knife gleamed in the moonlight.

  Dormant instincts roared to life. Rafe caught the smaller man’s wrist in his left hand and squeezed. The knife fell to the cobblestones with a clang. A pained cry came from his attacker. Rafe jabbed the man in the throat with his right elbow. The man crumpled like a sack of turnips, rolling on the ground and huffing for air.

  Less than a minute had passed. The attack had been weak and amateurish, and he toed over his would-be assassin with more curiosity than ire.

  Viscount Hampton.

  “You should learn to quit while you’re ahead.” Rafe adjusted his cravat and smoothed his waistcoat as if he’d dismounted a horse and not flogged a man.

  Fear shined from Hampton’s eyes, and his body trembled. Rafe hoped he wouldn’t wet himself.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Hampton croaked out, holding his throat.

  Rafe pursed his lips and considered the man, letting him sweat a little. “No, I don’t believe I will. It’s late, and I’m in no mood for a visit from the local authorities. However, if you cross me again, you’ll discover exactly how dangerous I can be. Is that understood?”