The Wallflower Wager - Tessa Dare Page 0,43
of a ladder and guiding her onto the rooftop verandah. “We’ll be able to view the fireworks from here.”
“Yes. I should think we will.” The awed hush in her voice thrilled him, as did the way she clutched his arm. “I feel like I’m floating in one of those hot-air balloons.”
“I have the servants coming up with dinner soon.”
“Thank you.” She squeezed close to his side. “This is so much better than that silly masquerade.”
She walked to the verandah’s wrought-iron fencing and propped her forearms on the rail, gazing out over the London sprawl. The breeze plucked at her hair, teasing a few golden locks from their pins.
Gabe joined her. “I still can’t believe the nerve of those sisters.”
“Pity their parents,” she said. “One Miss Irving would be bad enough. They had two in one go.”
“I don’t pity them at all. If you like, I could ruin the whole family for you.”
She turned to him. “What?”
He shrugged. “It might take a few years, but I know how to be patient. It’s only a matter of discreet inquiries here and there, paying attention to patterns. Somewhere there will be debts, unpaid taxes, poor investments—with luck, blackmail payments. No matter how impressive the family estate, there’s always a loose brick somewhere. Every man has his weakness.”
“I know they do.” She lifted an eyebrow. “I’m still looking for yours.”
Cheeky girl. She had to know she took his breath away.
God, she was lovely in moonlight. She was lovely in sunlight, for that matter, and in the pouring rain. Gabe suspected that even in total darkness, she would be radiant. Because though her features were exquisite, and her lips the pinkish hue of rose petals, her most beautiful feature by far was her heart.
Right now, soaring through the stars above the city, miles from everything that could keep them apart . . . he was dangerously close to telling her so.
He was saved by a timely interruption.
“My weakness is dinner,” he said.
A parade of servants came through, bearing a table sized for two, chairs, a damask tablecloth, silver and china, candlesticks, crystal wineglasses, and trays loaded with divine-smelling food.
“My goodness.” She laughed. “Now that was quite the trick.”
“Impressed?” He held out her chair for her.
“Very.”
Gabe settled into his seat and poured her some wine before filling his own glass. “I instructed the chef to prepare you dishes without any meat. I hope they’re satisfactory.”
She uncovered a small tureen and dipped a spoon into the steaming contents. As she stirred, the scent of exotic spices wafted through the air. “Vegetable curry? It smells divine. I’m ravenous.”
Conversation was set aside by tacit agreement, as they both loaded their plates and tucked into their food.
Some minutes later, she sat back in her chair with a contented sigh, cradling her wineglass in one hand. “So tell me.”
He paused, fork halfway to his mouth. “Tell you what?”
She shrugged. “Everything. How did you come to be the Duke of Ruin? Where did you learn so much about finances, and how to find those loose bricks in a fortune?”
Gabe carefully swallowed his bite and set his fork aside. “The truth?”
“But of course.”
Very well, then. He’d known this would be coming eventually, and he’d been wondering how she would react. Tonight, they would both find out.
“When I was a young man, I worked for a pawnbroker. One with a reputation for discretion and a distinguished clientele. I learned how to judge the value of fine items—but more than that, I learned how to judge the fine people. Over time, you come to observe certain patterns. The lady who comes in monthly, like clockwork, letting go one more pearl from an ever-shrinking necklace? Blackmailed for a secret she can’t afford her husband to know. The younger fellow who stumbles in of a morning, reeking of brandy and willing to accept shillings on the pound for his pocket watch? Gaming debts. The ones who weep as they hand over family heirlooms? They’re poised on the brink of insolvency.”
“And you use this knowledge to your advantage. You seize on their vulnerability to take what they have left.”
“By perfectly legal means.”
“You don’t feel any sympathy for them?”
“None.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Where do you think all that money comes from? Your own family’s estate, for that matter. Parcels of land granted with the wave of a king’s hand, centuries ago. That’s the land here in Britain, of course. When that wasn’t enough, they grabbed more from every corner of the world. The