Her Wanton Wager (17 page)

Then the solution hit her.
Of course.
She would go straightaway.

At the rustling of skirts, Percy turned to see a patron approaching. A fair-haired girl, several years younger than she, came over to peer at the shelves. Bright, inquisitive eyes fell upon the book in Percy's hands.

"Excuse me, miss, but when you are finished, might I have a quick look at that novel?" The newcomer blushed. "I'm afraid I've been awaiting its release with baited breath."

Percy handed over the volume. "Please take it." With a bemused smile, she added, "I've read so many others like it that I think I'm ready for something different."

*****

Percy arrived at her destination a half hour later. Rumor had it that Lady Draven had been left a fortune by her late and unmourned husband the baron, and she'd wasted no time in making use of her hard-earned wealth. Located on a stately street in Mayfair, the Draven residence was a lavish Georgian townhouse with gothic styling. Despite the morning sunshine, the property retained a distinctly mysterious air with its crenellated roofline and tracery windows. Percy climbed the short steps to the front entrance, which was recessed beneath a high arch.

A rather brutish-looking fellow answered the door. Claiming that he was the butler, he took Percy's card and left her to wait in the drawing room with a tea tray. She sat on the plush cushion of a curricle chair and admired the exquisite surroundings. Lady Marianne's famed sense of style extended beyond her wardrobe to the decoration of her home. The sea green walls and delicate French furnishings created an ambience of cool, self-assured femininity.

What would it be like to have such confidence in oneself?
Percy wondered.

Her hostess entered minutes later. Clad in a dressing gown of peach satin, her silver blond hair flowing to her waist, Lady Marianne looked as radiant as Aphrodite.

"What a delightful surprise," the lady said. She waved away Percy's curtsy and arranged herself upon a chaise longue of emerald velvet. "You'll have to excuse my
dishabille
. I was not expecting company at this hour."

"I know it is rag-mannered of me to barge in on you like this," Percy said in a rush. "I should have sent a note around or at least waited until a more fashionable hour to call—"

"No need between friends." Smiling, Marianne reached over to the tea tray and plucked a ripe strawberry. "Though I am curious at what brings you here at this ungodly hour."

On the carriage ride over, Percy had rehearsed what she planned to say to Marianne. She could not in good conscience reveal Paul's problems, nor could she disclose her arrangement with Hunt. Marianne was a sophisticated lady, but Percy guessed even she had limits. Besides, Marianne was Helena's best friend, and the last thing Percy needed was for the Hartefords to find out about the wager.

It was a tricky business: to ask for advice yet remain discreet at the same time.

"I have a problem," Percy said earnestly. "One I am hoping you can help me with, Marianne. It has to do with ... a man."

"Most problems do. This is about Portland?"

"Well, yes ... and no."

Marianne's brows climbed. "How intriguing." Finishing her berry, she reclined with languid grace against the rolled squabs. "Do go on."

Percy took a deep breath. "I have been thinking about what you said to me that night at Lady Stanhope's ball. About Lord Portland being too staid for me. Now that I've actually spent time with him,"—she gave a rueful shrug—"I'm wondering if you weren't rather on the mark."

"I usually am," Marianne said.

Yesterday, Percy had gone for another drive with the viscount; she'd felt ill-at-ease the entire time. 'Twas as if the night at Vauxhall had stripped away her rose-colored spectacles, and she saw unfiltered reality for the first time. Around Lord Charles, she was constantly treading on eggshells, fearful of offending his delicate sensibilities. She'd also discovered that his favorite topic seemed to be ...
himself
.

Chewing her lip, she searched for the right question to ask her wise friend. "Marianne, how do you know when you've met the
right
gentleman?"

"Ah, the age old question. I thought that was the way the wind was blowing." The other lady smiled. "Now do you want to hear the socially sanctioned response ... or what I believe to be true?"

Percy thought it over. "What is the difference?"

"Shall I tell you both, and you can decide which version you prefer?"

"Yes, please."

"If one is to believe the wisdom of Society, then finding the proper match has everything to do with breeding and money. Attraction can figure into the equation, if one has the luxury. But in the end, the right spouse is undoubtedly the one whose status and pocketbook enhances one's own."

"From that perspective, I suppose there's no arguing that Lord Charles is the right choice," Percy said. Why did the fact make her feel resigned? "He is titled and wealthy, not to mention very handsome. He's everything my papa wanted for me."

"Be that as it may, there is my own view on the matter."

Percy leaned forward.

"It falls simply to this: the right gentleman is the one who values you for who you are. Who sees your flaws and cares not a jot. When you are together, you love not only him," Marianne said, "but yourself."

Silence spun into the golden light of the drawing room. The hairs prickled on Percy's skin as she contemplated the words. She suddenly recalled how alive and free she'd felt dancing with Hunt at Vauxhall. And during their lively back-and-forth bantering matches and their kisses ...
Lud.
It hit her like the first icy splash of morning ablutions.

Could she be developing feelings for Hunt? Her sworn adversary?

"Have you ever been in love, Marianne?" she blurted.

There was an uncharacteristic flicker in the other's clear eyes, and Percy immediately regretted the impulsive and altogether intrusive question. "I beg your pardon—"

"Once. Long ago, before my marriage," Marianne said quietly. "I was too young to know what I was doing. Being older and wiser now, I must add a caveat to my answer about love."

"Yes?"

"Choosing the right man—the lover your heart and soul demands—is not without risk. Indeed, it often leads to more pain than simply going along with society's rules." Marianne gave her a level look. "I do not want you to misunderstand my earlier comment. Portland may be a staid choice, but he is also a sensible one. I have a feeling the same cannot be said of your other gentleman, whoever he is."

Percy's cheeks grew hot. There was no point in dissembling before that perceptive emerald gaze. "How did you know?"

"Dearest, it's written all over your face. Besides that, there's only one quick cure I know of for infatuation—and that is the real thing." With a sigh, Marianne sat up and poured tea into the Sèvres cups. "Do you want to tell me who he is?"

"I cannot." Biting her lip, Percy took the offered beverage. "I wish I could. But it's ... complicated."

"Affairs of the heart are rarely anything but. I gather your family would not approve?"

Percy shook her head. "They'd murder me if they found out. And I know you and Helena are the best of friends, so I must beg you not to say anything to her. If you tell her, she'll tell Nick because she tells him everything. Then he'll feel honor-bound to tell Mama ... let's just say I shall wind up in very hot water indeed."

"If your well-being is at stake, I will not be able to keep such a promise." Marianne sipped her tea. "But in all other circumstances, yes, I can be discreet."

A fair response. Percy mulled it over. "Can we discuss a hypothetical situation in confidence?"

Marianne's lips twitched. "I suppose. Since it is hypothetical."

"What would you do if you found yourself attracted to a gentleman you ought not be attracted to?"

The other's brows lifted. "I am a widow, Percy. What I would do and what you should do are two entirely different matters."

"Widows have all the luck," Percy muttered. Realizing how that sounded, she added hastily, "The loss of one's husband excepted, of course."

"I find the state quite agreeable. With or without the exception."

"What I mean to ask is how does one test the veracity of one's feelings?" At this point, Percy didn't know if she could trust herself to know the difference between fact and fiction. She was starting to realize that she'd spun tales in her head for so long that she'd fallen prey to some of her own fabrications. "I thought I was in love with Lord Portland," she said bleakly, "but now that I've spent time with him I'm not as certain."

Marianne set down her cup. "I wonder if I should be the one giving you advice on love. I am not a paragon when it comes to these matters. And you, dearest, are already far too susceptible to romantic notions."

"Please tell me what you think," Percy begged. "I am utterly at a loss."

"The truth is ..." The other hesitated, then sighed. "I've always found the answer is in the kiss. Whether or not the passion is real and whether or not there is the possibility of love."

Dash it. If kissing was the barometer, then she was in trouble for certain. She could not afford to fall in love with her opponent! Paul, the future of Fines and Company, her own self-respect—all of it was dependent on her withstanding Gavin Hunt's seductive wiles. No matter how irresistible his kiss. Or how wicked his caresses.

"Right." She blew out a breath. "So how does one fight off an imprudent attraction?"

"Stay away from him," her hostess said flatly.

"If that is not possible? If I—er, I mean one has no choice but to see him?"

For the first time, a hint of alarm entered Marianne's voice. "Good God, you're not enamored with a footman, are you?"

"Oh no, it's nothing like that," Percy assured her.

"Because I can tell you definitively that the mistress-servant scenario never works out. Except in those dreadful Minerva Press novels—and then only because the footman turns out to be a long-lost prince in disguise." Marianne shuddered. "Now what was the question again?"

"Strategies for fending off an unwanted attachment," Percy said promptly, "when avoidance is not an option."

"Hmm. I suppose if you cannot avoid him, you could make him want to avoid you."

Now why didn't I think of that?
"How?" Percy said eagerly.

"The same way one wards off gentlemen in general." Stretching, Marianne gave a delicate yawn. "Males can be so tiresome and never more so when one has to contend with hordes of them."

"I'll have to depend on your expertise in this instance," Percy said with a wry grin. 

"It's simple, really. There's an entire list of things ladies do that drive a man mad. In my observations, the masculine temperament cannot tolerate certain female habits, any more than we can stand some of theirs." Marianne snorted. "For example, the typical male inability to listen. Or their need to smoke those nasty cigars."

"Or ... the way they balk at asking for directions?" Percy said with dawning insight.

"Precisely. Thus, if the hypothetical suitor is particularly persistent,"—Marianne shrugged—"drive him away with your gender-given talents."

'Twas a brilliant plan. Subtly diabolical. Rummaging through her reticule, Percy withdrew a notebook and said, "Would you mind if I took down a few pointers?"

When one was fighting the devil, one must meet him on his own ground.

SIXTEEN

Later that afternoon, Gavin looked up from the club's ledgers as Stewart entered the office and shut the door behind. The big man hadn't bothered to knock, which meant the news was grim. Gavin had asked his mentor to investigate possible culprits of the attack at Vauxhall; in his bones, he knew that had been no random robbery attempt.

"There's a price out on your 'ead, lad," Stewart said.

Gavin digested that piece of information for a moment. "How much am I worth these days?"

"'Tisn't a laughin' matter." His mentor scowled. "A hundred pounds."

Gavin closed the ledger he'd been working on. "For that price, one would think to get a better bargain than those incompetent buggers at Vauxhall. Three of them, and they still couldn't finish the job."

"Didn't count on the fact that you learned to fight from the best," the other man said with a hint of satisfaction. "No half-arsed cutthroat is goin' to take you down." He sat in one of the chairs facing the desk. "But that's neither 'ere nor there. We've got a problem on our 'ands."

"Too much to hope you discovered who's funding the enterprise, I suppose?"

Stewart's bushy brows lowered. "Whoever 'e is, the bastard's covered 'is tracks well. I questioned all my contacts an' no one knows where the rumor o' the bounty started. But ev'ry Tom, Dick, an' 'Arry believes it to be true. You might as well 'ave a bull's-eye painted on your back."

Gavin rubbed his neck as he considered the possible suspects; four came readily enough to mind. "I'd start with Kingsley," he said. "He seemed none too pleased when I turned down his offer to join forces. What do we know about his movements?"

Will, Gavin's head guard, had been keeping an eye on Kingsley.

"Will says Kingsley's a slippery bastard. Apparently, the man visits a public 'ouse e'vry Saturday, and ne'er the same one twice. He chooses places outside o' London that are so packed to the gills that Will couldn't spot 'im inside."

"Wenching, do you think?" Gavin mused. "Mavis would nail his bollocks to the wall if she knew."

"Could be. Could be Kingsley's plottin' in secret for some other reason." Stewart frowned. "Until I get to the bottom o' this, you had best keep your wits about you. Take one o' the men to accompany you if you must step out. But no more midnight jaunts with that chit, lad, not until the matter is settled."

"I'll not hide like a bloody coward," Gavin said coldly.

The idea was unpalatable. And he had no intention of interrupting his
rendezvous
with Percy. Minutes ago, when he'd supposedly been reviewing the club's accounts, he'd in reality been fantasizing about the steamy interlude in the hut. About what would have happened if he had not stopped; if he had, instead, drawn her skirts farther up, baring her sleek thighs, getting ever closer to the sweetest spot of all—