Page 21 of The Viscount’s Vow

Climbing from the curricle, Ian surveyed the weathered two-story brick building. A black-lettered sign, hanging from two hooks, Joseph Dehring, Solicitor, swayed and rattled in the damp breeze. He lifted his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flicked it open.

Four minutes to three. He wasn’t late. Hell and blast. This once he cursed his punctuality. He rather liked the idea of Stapleton stewing a bit at his tardiness, fretting whether he would call at the appointed time. Or, appear at all.

Ian had been sorely tempted not to, truth to tell. Damn his insufferable honor. And damn Stapleton’s threats. Tucking the timepiece away, he climbed the steps to the entrance. Although the appointment’s purpose was to sign the marriage agreement, he intended to try one final time to extract himself from the compulsory nuptials.

He made no effort to hide his scowl as he was ushered into a large office. The skinny clerk was so nervous, he didn’t announce Ian’s arrival, but shuffled backward out the door the moment he crossed the threshold. No doubt his glower contributed to the fellow’s ineptness.

Ian quickly surveyed the room as he removed his topper and tucked it beneath his arm.

Overflowing shelves filled one entire wall. The pleasant odor of old leather-bound books scented the air. A long since abandoned cobweb dangled from the topmost corner of one of the high shelves. A fern, sorely in need of water, drooped before a tall window.

Stapleton, and a man Ian presumed was Mr. Dehring, spoke quietly whilst examining a pile of papers atop a mammoth double desk. At his entrance, they stopped speaking and lifted their gazes.

He strode to the desk. “Please tell me you don’t mean to see this farce through, Stapleton? You, yourself acknowledge no impropriety occurred.”

“Ahem.” Mr. Dehring cleared his throat. “Why don’t I give you gentlemen a moment?”

He slid a handful of official-looking documents to Stapleton before making a hasty retreat.

After the door closed, Stapleton waved a hand at the papers before him. “If you’ll examine these, my lord, you shall find I’ve bestowed upon Evangeline a generous settlement, and—”

“I don’t want your niece’s marriage settlement any more than I want this damned marriage.” Ian couldn’t even bring himself to say her name. He’d been furious for the past pair of days and was the first to admit he wasn’t the least interested in being agreeable or civil.

Stapleton leaned forward resting his elbows on the desk and formed a steeple with his fingertips. Leveling him a lengthy stare, he tapped his fingers together several times.

Ian supposed the keen perusal might unnerve a lesser man, but Stapleton’s attempt at intimidation only irritated him more. He didn’t cow easily. Precisely why Stapleton resorted to the tactics he had two nights ago. Arching a mocking eyebrow, he returned the bold perusal.

At once, Stapleton’s fierce gaze became unyielding. “You cannot be absolved from responsibility regarding this farce.” He pointed a well-manicured finger. “You ought to have gone for help at once and not taken it upon yourself to loosen Vangie’s stays.”

Guilt prodded Ian, none too gently.

Relaxing against the high-backed leather chair, Stapleton folded his arms across his chest, and continued, acid permeating his tone. “Had you done so, her reputation would’ve remained intact. The gossipmongers wouldn’t be bandying her name about with malicious glee and,” he lowered his hands to grip the chair arms, disgust written across his face, “taking undue pleasure in her humiliation.”

Fiend seize it, he made valid points.

But she couldn’t breathe.

Ian blew out a frustrated sigh, though he remained mulishly silent. He’d argue that truth no more. The difficult task proved keeping his lips sealed regarding the damage Miss Caruthers had done to her own good standing prior to his making her unfortunate acquaintance.

He forced himself to stubble it. Stapleton would deny such offensive allegations and most likely call him out for voicing them. The result of such a duel was predictable. Ian was a crack shot. He’d no intention of killing a decent man over an immoral tart.

Too bad the same couldn’t be said of Geoff. The devil seize it, why did he have to think of Geoff at this moment? His mood was black enough.

Straightening, Stapleton nudged the documents across the scratched and stained desk. “Please, Warrick, do take a seat, and see if the terms meet with your approval.”

Ian dropped his hat atop the desk when what he wanted to do was throw it in Stapleton’s face. Teeth clamped, he yanked off his gloves and tossed them beside the hat. Sinking into a chair, he eyed the papers before lifting them with the same enthusiasm he would a fresh horse turd.

Perusing the settlement, he barely concealed his astonishment. Fifty thousand pounds; a stable full of prime horseflesh; numerous pieces of jewelry; and the Sheffleton Cottage. He shook his head. Cottage, his arse. Sheffleton was a thriving two-hundred-acre estate. He should’ve been thrilled at the generous dowry Stapleton bestowed upon his niece, but Ian wanted no part of it.

It amounted to bribery, pure and simple.

He felt like a fancy man, being paid to take Evangeline Caruthers to wife. A wife he didn’t want. A wife not of his choosing and one he’d never have selected for himself. A wife he could never like, much less love.

He sighed, swallowing a vulgar oath. He was as good as hung, and what was more, Stapleton damn well knew it. At least the wench was pleasing to the eye. He’d no doubt she’d also be a pleasure to bed. If he could move beyond the men who’d sampled her before him.

The door opened after a quick rap. Mr. Dehring poked his balding head—and only his head—inside the room. His gaze—eyes magnified behind wire-rimmed glasses—darted between Stapleton and Ian. He curled his lips into a thin smile. The diminutive man didn’t know if it was safe to come in.

Ian quirked an eyebrow at Stapleton. Well, he silently challenged.