“You what?”
Colin hadn’t eaten in two days. The Madeira burned a path down his throat and into his stomach, and courage flowed in after it. “I want to call off our betrothal,” he repeated firmly. “Your daughter and I—we aren’t suited. It’s not a good match.”
“Not a good match? You need her fortune, and I need the king’s ear in order to obtain a license to develop my land on the outskirts of London. It’s a perfect match.”
“I don’t love your daughter, sir.”
“Pshaw! What does that matter? Take a mistress. I won’t think the less of you for it.” Hobbs put an arm around Colin and tugged him close to his side. “A warm, willing wench in the City and a beautiful heiress in the country—what more could a man want, eh?”
Hobbs’s hot, alcoholic breath washed over Colin’s face, making him pull away before he retched in response. The man was making him physically sick. Colin felt sorry for Priscilla—it wasn’t her fault he couldn’t love her—and angry with Hobbs for treating his own daughter so callously.
The despicable buzzard.
He took a deep breath and sidled away from the man. “I’m marrying someone else this afternoon,” he said quietly.
Hobbs’s jaw set, and his breath became labored. “You would leave Priscilla for another woman? My Priscilla? After a formal betrothal? After you—you ruined her?”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Colin felt an absurd urge to laugh. “Ruined her?” he said, incredulous. “I’ve only kissed her.”
Hobbs’s gray eyes darkened in anger. “Not everyone shares our good king’s lack of morals, young man. Priscilla was raised properly, and—”
“Do you honestly believe I’m the first man your daughter kissed?” The outraged father role did not fit Hobbs well; Colin could see the truth in the man’s eyes, and he’d had it with his pomposity. “After you tried to pawn her off on half the Royalists in England?”
“You…you…”
“There’s not a name you could call me that would change my mind.” With an outward calm he didn’t feel, Colin set his goblet on the table, spread his feet and crossed his arms. “What will it take to satisfy you, Lord Hobbs?” His hand moved to his sword. “You may draw my blood if it will appease your sense of honor, but I warn you: I do not intend to lay down my life in order to be released from this betrothal.”
The older man’s eyes flickered toward Colin’s rapier and back up, then narrowed connivingly. “I’m certain we can find a civilized way to settle this, Greystone.”
“What do you want?”
“A private audience with His Majesty.”
It was naught but an audience—it would cost Charles nothing but a few minutes of his time. He’d do it if Colin asked.
But it made Colin furious that he’d have to ask.
“I’ll get you your audience. I’ll get you ten audiences. You can have a standing appointment—”
“Just one audience. As long as you can guarantee my license will be forthcoming.”
Colin paused. It was a tall order. Though Hobbs had professed neutrality throughout the war, he was rumored to be a closet Parliamentarian. The king did not look kindly on those responsible for beheading his father; Charles didn’t merely disregard Hobbs, he actively disliked the man. More than a simple request, this would mean asking a special favor of Charles.
But Charles owed the Chases favors. And a license wouldn’t cost Charles, either—to the contrary, he would probably milk Hobbs for an exorbitant fee. It grated on Colin, a scheming buzzard like Lord Hobbs getting his way, but it wouldn’t be a problem.
He nodded once. “Consider it done.”
Hobbs didn’t smile. He seated himself at the drawing room’s marquetry writing table and waved Colin into a chair opposite. “I’ll expect my funds returned within the week, of course.”
Colin’s stomach knotted; this was the part he’d been dreading. “I cannot do that, sir. I don’t have the funds. They were used for renovations—”
“Then the deal is off. You were legally betrothed, and you accepted part of the dowry. Surely you don’t expect—”
“I’ll pay it back. Just”—Colin sucked in a breath—“give me some time.”
Hobbs fixed him with an icy stare. “You will sign a note. Eight percent interest, with the balance due before we see 1668.”
A year. One year. If the renovations were halted, the fields produced bumper crops, the quarry was extra-productive, the sheep thrived…
It was a terrible gamble.
Colin pictured Amy waiting for him at the inn, and his vision blurred. They would have her inheritance. But he’d promised her he wouldn’t take it.
“I’m waiting for your answer,” Hobbs pressed. “Unless you’d prefer to pretend you never walked in here today.”
Colin blinked. “I’ll sign it.”
Hobbs wasted no time producing paper, quill, and ink. He scribbled a hasty contract, which Colin signed, a weight in his gut, the scratch of the quill sounding like nothing so much as a death knell. Hobbs dripped wax by the signature, and Colin used his ring to set his seal, remembering the day he ordered it from Amy. How he’d walked away that day, expecting never to see her again.
Hobbs sprinkled sand on the ink, then dusted off and rolled up the contract. “If you fail to pay up, I’ll have you slapped into Newgate Prison so fast your head will spin. You’ll see the devil in heaven the day I show you mercy.”
Although it would never come to that—Hobbs would end up with Greystone instead—the thought of squalid, vermin-infested Newgate made bile rise in Colin’s throat.
He pushed away the image. He’d find some way to pay back the money. Whatever sacrifices were necessary would be worth it in the end.
Hobbs tucked the scroll in a drawer, poured himself another goblet of wine, and downed it in one long gulp. “I won, you know.” He swiped a hand across his mouth. “I’ll have my license, and I still have my daughter.”
“To sell to the highest bidder? The man with the next item on your agenda?”
“That’s what daughters are for. You’ll
