The Girl with the Sweetest Secret by Betina Krahn

Author:Betina Krahn
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-09-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

The night was dark and rain pounded the streets and pavement, making Red think he should probably turn around and head back home. But with Frankie and Cece gone, there was too much quiet in the house and too much of a martyred air around Lizzie.

Sarah escaped to her room each afternoon, supposedly to read or stitch—both considered “improving activities” for well-bred young ladies. In fact, she slipped out her window and shinnied down a drainpipe to head to the stable and her dogs and fancy new horse.

But Red had precious little to do that didn’t involve spending or losing money. Horse races, betting windows, card games, bawdy houses—everywhere he went somebody had a hand out—or in his pocket. Worse, he was constantly on the lookout, dodging the duke who held his markers. Sooner or later, he knew, the greedy bastard would catch up with him and make demands he couldn’t meet.

He stepped inside the Chancery and looked up at the mezzanine from which Beulah MacNeal ran her lucrative concern. There she was, watching as usual. He tipped his hat to her before handing it off to the hat check and heading to the bar.

His beloved Irish whiskey tasted oddly flat and the music seemed louder than usual and slightly off-key. No, he told himself as the barman offered him another, it was he who was off. He declined, feeling restless and miserable and closer to worthless than he’d ever been in his life. The Fox said he’d find a way to help with the debts, but Red hadn’t heard from him in days. As he turned, leaning on the bar, to look around for Boulton, he was struck motionless and his mouth dried.

Coming straight at him were the Duke of Ottenberg and a couple of his hired knuckle-bangers. Red’s first impulse was to escape, but he could feel his knees locking up, so he just stood, watching doom descend on him.

“Good to see you, Redmond, old friend.” Ottenberg’s greeting was oil and water—meaning and tone distinctly separate. “In for another bid at Lady Luck’s favor?”

“Naw. Just havin’ a sociable splash o’ the Irish.” Red straightened to his fullest height, but Ottenberg still towered over him. He glanced at the heavily muscled head-thumpers, seeing boredom in their eyes. A dangerous thing, boredom, in men used to violent activity.

Ottenberg waved the others farther down the bar and took a place beside Red. He motioned to the barman and as the drink was delivered, he leaned close to Red’s ear.

“I want my money, Strait.” His voice, already low, seemed to drop an octave. “Now.”

“I ain’t got it, Yer Grace.” Red’s voice wavered in a way the duke detected. He could tell by the predatory gleam in the Prussian’s eye. “But anytime now, the assays will be back an’ we got us another mother lode o’ silver.”

“I know,” the duke said unctuously, “you have your problems. But I have mine. And right now, I need cash or another form of payment.”

“Like what? I got some fine breedin’ horses that’ll make up at least half the twelve.

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