With Love, Louisa by Ashtyn Newbold

Chapter 5

Finding a decent gambling hall outside of London had been a difficult task, but Jack had found one a few months before. It wasn’t a traditional establishment, not like the ones in London, but in the parlor of Lord Bridport’s estate. Men were only welcome by invitation, and Jack had earned his place at the table by offering stakes that kept all the games interesting. His life had not been filled with luck in any other sense, but when it came to gambling, he was notoriously lucky.

He had a place among the chandeliers, red velvet curtains, and dark walls with ancient paintings. Lord Bridport provided food and drink, and plenty of it. Cassandra was mad for suggesting he stop coming there. It was all he had. It was all he truly found joy in from his life. That, and beautiful women.

He grinned at the thought of the young lady in town that day. Miss Rosemeyer. He wouldn’t forget that name, nor her large brown eyes, nor the way she had snatched her bonnet from his hand. The poor girl was out of her mind to be living with Mrs. Irwin. The fact that Mrs. Irwin had invited her there at all was incredibly puzzling, and the unlikelihood of it hadn’t ceased to leave his thoughts alone all evening. And why did the entire matter concern him at all? He had let Mrs. Irwin’s house, but that was the only connection he had to her. Still, the entire situation rattled through his brain with familiarity. Had Mrs. Irwin told him she had a great niece coming to live with her? He couldn’t recall such a conversation. Then why did it all feel so blasted familiar?

He shrugged his strange thoughts away, focusing instead on the game at hand.

As he sat back in his chair at the round table in Lord Bridport’s parlor, he blinked to see past the smoke that hung in the air from a newcomer to the table, Mr. Evan Whitby’s, pipe. According to Lord Bridport, he had invited Mr. Whitby in an attempt to befriend him. Mr. Whitby was guardian over the woman Lord Bridport hoped to marry, so it was in Lord Bridport’s best interest to please him with an invitation to his exclusive party. And how could a man’s approval not be won by free port?

“An extraordinary roll, Whitby.” Lord Bridport groveled to Mr. Whitby like a mouse to a slice of cheese. “Perhaps if I wish to keep any of my money I should never invite you here again.” He slapped the table, laughing.

Mr. Whitby turned up his nose, half his mouth rising in a smug smile. “I am known for my luck, especially in hazards.” The man’s voice reminded Jack of an opera singer, each word drawn out and oddly musical.

“It appears we will all have a challenge tonight,” Lord Bridport said, chuckling. He gestured at Jack with his cup. “Especially you, Warwick.”

Jack crossed his arms over his chest, scoffing under his breath. Now he had to make absolutely certain Mr. Whitby lost all that he had wagered. Every last shilling. And he would be proud to erase the smug smile from the man’s face as well.

Jack inhaled deeply, grimacing. He had never liked the scent of smoke. It reminded him of gunpowder.

“Ah, Warwick, is it?” Whitby paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied Jack from across the table. His mouth hung open as he squinted, as if he couldn’t see him clearly through the puff of smoke he had caused to float in the air between them. “Jack Warwick?”

Jack stiffened. He didn’t recall ever meeting this man before that evening. Was Jack really so famous in town? “Yes, that is what I am called.” Jack raised his eyebrows. “Have we met?”

At Jack’s confirmation, Whitby wagged his pipe in front of him, an eager glint entering his eyes. “This—this is the man who killed Simon Warwick.” His eyes darted around the table.

Jack’s stomach turned over, flipping like a fish on dry land. His skin went cold, and pain burrowed itself into the familiar hovel in his heart. He took a deep breath, gripping his cup to keep his hand from shaking.

“I do not understand,” Lord Bridport said, his voice uneasy as he glanced at Jack. “I am not aware of a man named Simon Warwick.”

“Because this man,” Whitby pointed a harsh finger at Jack, “killed him before you’d have had the chance to make his acquaintance. Haven’t you heard the story?”

Jack’s eyes closed, the walls crowding in on him. His chair felt like it was sinking slowly into the ground. The story. By the way Whitby described it, one would think it was an exciting tale, one to be told over drinks in a room such as the one they were in now. Jack wished it were only a story, but it was a piece of his life, one he relived every time he closed his eyes—one he would undo even for the price of his soul.

“The law should have been more involved in the ordeal if you ask me. I’m surprised he’d even show his face in public after what he did.” Whitby’s musical, almost cheerful tone scraped at Jack’s composure like a dull knife.

Jack’s eyes shot open. “Do you think I revel in it as you do? My uncle died that day, and I was to blame. It was accidental.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he took a swig from his cup, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before slumping back in his chair. His head pounded. Each time he defended himself, his guilt gained weight, falling heavier on his shoulders. Accidental or not, he was to blame. It was his fault. There was nothing to defend.

“Accidental. Hmm. The papers had a different theory,” Whitby mused. “Would you all like to hear it?”

Jack’s jaw tightened, his teeth nearly cracking with the pressure.

The other men at the table remained silent, staring with wide eyes at Jack. They knew him well. Or so they thought. They didn’t wish to betray him by asking for the story, but their curiosity stopped them from denying Whitby’s offer. They hardly knew the deuced Evan Whitby who sat so condescendingly with his pipe and lofty dark hair. Could the man have possibly piled it higher atop his head? His broad shoulders and short neck gave him a squat appearance as he surveyed the others at the table.

“Well, I will tell you anyway.” Whitby cast a knowing glance at Jack, one that dripped with disgust. He turned to Lord Bridport. “It was five years ago…likely before you moved to this estate, which must be why you have not been made aware of this before now.”

Jack’s jaw loosened long enough for him to interject. “If you plan to tell the entire table against my will, then I will tell it," he grumbled. “I was the only one who was there and therefore the only one who has the truth.” Jack’s voice shook. His breath came in short gusts, his lungs never filling all the way. He could hear his heart pounding, each beat pulsing hard against his ribs. Could he tell it? He hadn’t spoken of the incident aloud in years. He hadn’t been able to. Each time he let the memory back it, it made his entire body ache, and he could hardly bear to even breathe. He didn’t deserve to.

Whitby smirked. “Is it the truth you will tell? Or are you attempting to pass your own sins off as an accident? I was surprised the inquest found you innocent. I never believed it.”

Jack bit the inside of his cheek, glancing at Lord Bridport. Would his friend really remain silent while Jack was being attacked like this? Accused so blatantly of something as serious as murder? It was unpardonable, yet Lord Bridport couldn’t dare speak a word that might convince Mr. Whitby that he was not worthy to marry his ward. Whitby must have known he had Jack trapped. No one would risk upsetting Whitby at the risk of upsetting Lord Bridport and being unwelcome at his gambling parties. So the table was quiet, waiting, stiff as the pomade in Whitby’s hair.

“I was nineteen years old,” Jack said. His legs shook beneath the table, his heart still beating faster than an Arabian racehorse. He drew a deep breath. “My father and my uncle took me on their traditional fox hunt. There was an accident.” Jack rubbed a hand over his face, fighting the horrific images that entered his mind. Every image from that day was painted in vivid color, hanging in the gallery of his memories. These were paintings meant to be covered by a sheet. A black, heavy sheet. But as he spoke them aloud, the sheets fell, and a wave of dread pressed against his chest until he could hardly open his mouth. “I was startled. My gun fired. My uncle was shot. He did not survive the wound.” Jack’s jaw clamped shut again, and his breath rushed through his nostrils audibly. He tried to calm the turmoil within his chest, but his heart and lungs continued to work hard, as though he were physically running from the past.

All the eyes that watched him from around the table were filled with shock, caution, and no small measure of dismay.

“How unlikely is an accident like that?” Whitby said, breaking the heavy silence. “I daresay it is nearly impossible.”

Anger rose in Jack’s throat, and he leaned forward like a bull pawing the ground. “Are you accusing me of murder?”

Whitby lifted both hands in surrender. “Oh, no. It is not my accusations. I am simply repeating what the gossip papers theorized about that day.” He turned his attention back to Lord Bridport and the others. “You see, Simon Warwick was the elder brother of Jack’s father. He was set to inherit the family estate, an enviable property indeed. With his own business struggling, Jack’s father stood to gain much if his brother were no longer alive. He would inherit everything since his brother hadn’t yet produced an heir, and then his own son, Jack, would be the next heir. Together, they devised this plan to stage the death as a hunting accident.”

Jack fisted his hands on the table, nearly rising from his chair. “That is not true.” Society loved a gruesome story, especially one that was fabricated. Jack remembered the day that story had been published in the gossip papers. It was the day his father had stopped speaking to him altogether. It was the day Cassandra had given up hope that she would marry. It was the day Mama had paced the house at least a dozen times, hiding her sobs between her quiet exclamations that they were forever ruined.

“I think it is far past time you owned up to it,” Whitby said. “You are among friends. Let us hear your confessions. We will not judge you harshly.”

Jack swallowed, his chest rising and falling fast. “You will hear no confession from me.”

“This money you gamble with tonight…how does it feel to know it belonged to the uncle whose death stains your hands? How much morality can one man lack?” He turned to Lord Bridford. “My lord, I should hope you reconsider inviting him here again. I choose not to associate myself with criminal men.”

Confound it.Jack leapt from his chair, lunging to where Whitby sat atop his throne of condescention. No man had ever needed a firm facer more than he did. Even the gasp that came from Whitby’s mouth sounded like a musical note, but the only music to Jack’s ears was the thud of his fist against Whitby’s jaw.

The man had more strength than Jack had given him credit. Only a moment after recoiling in pain, Whitby sprung out of his chair, tackling Jack to the floor. His broad shoulders and short, wide neck should have been an indicator of some measure of strength. It wasn’t long before Whitby’s fist collided with Jack’s nose, then his jaw, then his eye. Jack’s vision blurred, and he tasted blood. Pain pulsed through his entire face, but he managed to throw a blind punch upward, striking something solid and wet.

Whitby grunted in pain, rolling to the side, clutching his hand over his mouth as he screamed. Jack shook out his hand, cringing at the teeth marks on the tops of his fingers. He wiped under his nose, pulling back a streak of blood. His head spun, his pulse ringing in his ears.

“Out!”

Jack blinked as he was tugged upward by the arm. Lord Bridport’s face came into view, fury raging in his features. “Get out of my house.”

Jack had never seen him so angry before. The image startled him into silence, ebbing the anger that flowed through his own veins.

“Now!” Lord Bridport thrust him away.

Jack wiped at the blood on his face again, walking several paces away from Lord Bridport. Whitby stood hunched over, glaring up at him. His own face was swollen, his lip split and bleeding. Jack stepped toward him before Lord Bridport caught him by the back of his jacket. Jack met Whitby’s eyes. “If you really think me capable of murder, you ought to tread a little more carefully, don’t you think?”

Lord Bridport tugged Jack backward, handing him off to two footmen, one taking each of his arms. Jack jerked his elbows free. “I’ll see myself out.”

His face felt numb to the pain, his nose throbbing softly without aching as he walked out into the warm evening air. The sky was blacker than his horse’s hair, the smallest crescent moon hanging among the sparse stars. Jack normally would have smelled the rain that trickled down around him, but at the moment he could not breathe through his nostrils.

He found his horse and mounted, staunching the flow of blood from his nose as he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. As he rode away, he stole a lingering glance at Newton Hall, regret enrobing his heart like iron. Those parties had been all he had to look forward to. A place among Lord Bridport’s table had been the only place he was welcome. And now, because of Evan Whitby—that deuced nodcock—Jack was banished from the property. He couldn’t show his face in London. Those who remembered the stories in the papers would never let him near their establishments. He would be driven out of town and treated like a sewer rat.

He wiped angrily at his nose, unsure now what was rain and what was blood. The pain was settling in now, extending through every nerve in his face. He had no doubt his nose was broken. He tightened his grip on the reins, slowing his horse’s pace enough that he could reach up and gingerly touch the bridge of his nose. Devil take it. That bump hadn’t been there before.

He could barely see through the rain and darkness. It must have been past midnight by now, and he still had a thirty minute ride ahead of him. The pain in his face was rather blinding too, and he couldn’t rid his mouth of the taste of blood. At least he had the comfort of knowing he had caused similar pain to Whitby. He could only hope it was worse. Only then would it be worth losing the only place Jack was welcome to visit—the only friends he had. Where they his friends? Bridport’s pursuit of Whitby’s sister had been more important to him than Jack’s dignity.

The sense of betrayal dug into his heart like a dagger, bringing his thoughts back to the present. He blinked the rain from his eyes, squinting. The jarring realization hit him—he was not on the path back to his new house. Without thinking, he had taken the path toward his childhood home, where all the windows were darkened. Jack’s family always had retired early each evening. Haslington estate was hunched beyond the path ahead, tucked among the hills. In the darkness, Jack could barely see the water of the nearby river, blackened by night, and the stone bridge that arched over it.

He stopped his horse, pausing to stare at the front doors beyond the iron gate. How many times had he walked through them? Mama had greeted him with a hug each time, and Papa had slapped him on the shoulder with a smile because he was not the sort to hug. Cassandra had been the one to tease Jack, not to scold him as she did now.

Back then, there had been little to scold him about.

If Jack were to walk through those doors now, he would be greeted like an intruder, at least by his father. His entrance would likely be met by the same words Bridport had used that night. Out. Get out of my house.

He urged his horse forward, his heart pounding. Had his father turned Mama against him too? If she saw him now, would she even pity him? He recalled a day when he was a child, when he had broken his arm falling from a tree he had climbed on the property. He had gone running inside, and Mama had held him while he cried. Papa had stayed beside him and held his hand when the physician came and set the bone into place.

Atop his horse in the dark rain with a broken, bleeding nose, Jack was that child again. His heart thudded in his ears as he stared at the facade of the dark house. How could Mama look at him the same way now? He had failed her. He had failed everyone.

She would not hold him in her arms.

Papa would not stay beside him for anything.

Hot tears burned in Jack’s eyes, rolling down his face. He wiped them away in one swift motion, appalled that he had let them spill at all. The quiet loneliness of the night had caused his hold on his emotions to weaken. How the stars must have laughed seeing him in such a state.

It had been a long day.

Picking up the reins once again, he turned his horse back, guiding it toward the path that led to Benham Abbey. Although he would inherit Haslington one day, the house he had let from Mrs. Irwin was the place he would have to learn to call home for the time being. It was the only place he could ensure he was not banished from. At Benham Abbey, there was no one there to tell him whether he was welcome or not, no matter how much the housekeeper tried to make clear that she did not like him.

At the thought of his housekeeper, he made a mental note to begin working toward hiring new staff the next day. As much as he liked to spite her, they really did need more help in the house as soon as possible. At least the cook had stayed.

His stomach growled. His first order of business when he arrived home would be to visit the kitchen. He needed food.

And a few drinks.