Her Wanton Wager (19 page)

The hell it wouldn't. Whether or not she realized it, she'd just thrown down the gauntlet, and he'd never been one to resist a challenge.

He waved to the seating area adjacent to the supper table. "After you."

Since the wingback chair by the fire was occupied by her large, knobby knitting bag (did she plan to mend a pair of socks this evening?), Percy had no choice but to take a seat on the satinwood sofa. He sat down next to her ... and sneezed again.
Damnit
.

"Perhaps you'd be more comfortable at a distance," she suggested.

"I'm fine where I am," he growled.

"Suit yourself."

He forced himself to calm. He looked to the coffee table in front of them, which held a platter of his chef's tantalizing hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of the best vintage. "Would you care for some refreshment before supper?"

"No wine for me, thank you. I prefer to keep my head clear. And I shan't be requiring supper, either."

He scowled, glancing over to the carefully laid out supper table. Apparently it was going the way of his well-laid plans. "Why not?"

"I am on a slimming plan."

"What the bloody hell for?" he said, incredulous. "You're slender as a reed."

Not in all parts, praise God, but the notion of Percy reducing was nothing short of asinine. Equally ridiculous was the way she then proceeded to launch into a lecture of her imaginary flaws. Not only her weight, but the shade of her hair, her insignificant nose, her too-full lips. 'Twas a conversation common enough amongst other females of his acquaintance—and the kind that usually signaled the rapid exit of any self-preserving male.

He'd never pinned Percy for a hen-wit. His jaw tautened.

"Oh, I could go on forever on this subject." She peered guilelessly up at him. "Ladies have ever so much to chatter about, don't they? And I am a lady after all."

Like hell she was.
She
was a vixen, a saucy little romp. Oh, he saw through her act: she was irritating him on purpose—and doing a damn good job of it. If she thought her ploy enough to ward him off, however, she had better think again. He tried to focus on his strategy. It was a bit difficult, given that he was fantasizing about throttling her. That, and kissing her mouth until it lost its mischievous curve. Inclined toward the latter option, he was just leaning toward her when a movement jerked his gaze toward the wingback chair. Had Percy's bag … moved?

What the devil … did it just
bark
?

"It looks like Fitzwell is awake," Percy said cheerfully. "Come on out, old boy."

A fawn-colored head poked out from the bag. After surveying the environs, the beast stepped out fully and gave its squat little body a thorough shake. Pale hair rained over the chair.

Gavin's
favorite
chair.

"With Mama away, Fitzy has been so lonely of late. I thought I'd bring him along to cheer him up. I hope you don't mind," Percy said.

"I don't mind at all." The words slipped through Gavin's clenched teeth. He had no particular fondness for small dogs—and the one currently eyeing him with a hostile, piggish stare only reinforced that fact.

The beast bared its teeth at him; Gavin nearly returned the gesture.

"He's excellent company," Percy said. "After Papa's death, Mama quite depended on—oh no, Fitzy, don't do that!"

Her admonition came too late. The beast sniffed the air; its gaze shot unerringly to the platter of appetizers. Something like a grin spread across the dark muzzle. With a speed that belied its stubby legs, the pug took a flying leap from the chair and onto the coffee table. Snorting joyfully, it buried its face in the perfectly arranged platter.

"Oh dear, I hope you weren't intending to eat that." Percy put on the most pathetic attempt at looking apologetic that he'd ever seen. The edge of her mouth was actually quivering.

The idea came to Gavin in a flash; he had to stifle his own grim smile at its devilish simplicity. Having fun at his expense, was she? Two could play at that game. She thought to use his temper against him … well, he knew a thing or two about her vulnerable areas as well.

"Since it appears the dining portion of the evening will be curtailed," he said, "I propose we move onto the next activity."

She tensed. "What sort of activity?"

"I thought you might like to see the club."

She chewed on her bottom lip, and he couldn't blame her—he wouldn't mind having a nibble at that luscious pink ledge himself. And he would … soon. "I'd like to, but I cannot risk the exposure," she said.

"You won't have to. I'll take you through the secret passageway."

"The … secret passageway?"

She almost breathed the words, her eyes rounding. He bit back a smile. Aye, he knew exactly how to entice his Persephone; hold out the right fruit, and the curious goddess could not resist taking a bite.

"'Tis my own private corridor from which I can monitor The Underworld unseen. I am due for my evening rounds about now." He let his shoulders lift and fall in a casual motion. "If you'd like, you can come along."

"Oh, I really oughtn't." When she shook her head, the turban slipped a little. A golden curl slipped free. "Um, Fitzwell. He needs me here."

A belch came from the direction of the coffee table. Having inhaled all the food, the canine hopped down to the floor. It trotted over to the settee and sniffed the turned mahogany leg.

"Do that and I'll have you stuffed and mounted," Gavin said sharply.

Apparently, the beast was smarter than it looked; with a grunt, it abandoned the furniture and went to flop in front of the fire.  

Gavin turned back to Percy. "You did mention that you are an aspiring novelist?"

"Yes. No." A crease appeared between her curving brows. "That is, it was a hobby of mine at one time, but I've given it up."

"Perhaps a tour of a bona fide gaming hell might inspire you to pick up the pen again. But it is up to you." He shrugged. "If you'd rather wait here and spend time with your pet …"

They both looked at the animal lying comatose on the hearth. At present, Fitzwell's company was about as interesting as watching ink dry on parchment. After a minute, Percy said, "I think Fitzy will be fine for a few minutes on his own. Won't you, little chap?"

The pug rolled onto its back and emitted a snore.

Firelight danced in Percy's eyes. "Off to the secret corridor, then?" she said.

EIGHTEEN

Percy's heart thudded as the hallway panel swung open, revealing a flickering tunnel.
A genuine secret passageway!
The part of her that was supposed to protest that she shouldn't go in had been abandoned back with Fitzwell. Along with her perfume. Prior to the tour, Hunt had asked that she remove the stuff as his sneezing might compromise the stealth of their mission.

Mission. Stealth.
The words tickled her pulse.

"Watch your step," Hunt said as he led the way.

Percy discreetly studied her host as they traversed the shadowy corridor. His broad shoulders nearly brushed the walls, and he had to duck his head at points where the ceiling hung low. In the light of the lamp he held aloft, his hair gleamed like a pelt, causing her palms to prickle. She remembered how those thick locks had slipped between her fingers …

Much like her plan. What had earlier seemed like a brilliant strategy now felt rather foolish. The turban made her scalp itch, and beneath the thick gown, perspiration slickened her skin. She'd used up her supply of inane feminine chatter, too.

"Have you seen a gambling club before?" Hunt looked back at her.

"I haven't, no." The notion rustled a laugh from her throat. "Perhaps you missed this fact, Mr. Hunt, but ladies are never allowed anywhere interesting."

The flickering light threw his face into bold relief, licking over the intriguing hollows and masculine planes. "I find it difficult to believe that normal rules apply to you," he said.

How often had she furtively thought that very thing? According to Charity, that line of reasoning was precisely what landed Percy in scrape after scrape. Under Hunt's watchful gaze, she felt suddenly transparent, exposed despite all the layers she wore.

Stay on guard. Don't let him see your weakness.  

"I follow rules. Most of the time," she amended.

"You didn't when we were attacked at Vauxhall. I believe etiquette has it that I was supposed to fend off the ruffians. You were supposed to succumb to your delicate sensibilities. To scream and faint—not jump into the fray."

Now
that
irked her. "So sorry, but fainting has never been one of my fortes," she said tartly. "I will, however, make note. The next time we are accosted by cutthroats I will be certain to stand by and wring my hands whilst they finish you off."

At that, Hunt smiled. A true smile, something that she had not seen from him before. Her heart skipped a beat, and that was before he took her hand and kissed it.

"You did not disappoint—far from. I'll take courage and honesty over propriety any day." The approval in his deep voice turned her blood to honey. "You, Miss Fines, are a rare creature." 

Rare—and apparently not in a
bad
way.
She was grateful for the darkness that hid her blush. If this was Hunt's version of gallantry … it was
working
. His direct praise made her insides melt like butter on a hot crumpet. He took up the lead again, and as they continued to walk, she became aware of a hum; the sound soon grew into an indecipherable mix of voices and background clatter.

"Here we are." Hunt indicated a series of wooden slats on the wall. When he pushed one back, two small beams of light penetrated the dark tunnel. "This is one of the gaming rooms. Have a look."

As Percy peered through the viewing hole, her jaw slackened. She didn't know what she'd expected—fire and brimstone perhaps? Instead, multi-tiered chandeliers blazed from the high ceiling, and a fountain of champagne bubbled at the center of the room. Men surrounded the room's many tables, their eyes riveted upon the action on the green baize. Shouts and groans erupted as dice were thrown. Like peacocks, brightly dressed wenches paraded around the room.        

The buzz of energy and color flowed into her as she observed the fascinating world. Hunt was right; this was a treasure trove of inspiration for a writer. Her head spun with the sorts of adventures Miss Priscilla Farnham might encounter in such a place. For the first time in ages, her fingers actually itched for a quill.

"Why, the club is magnificent," she said in an awed voice. "All of this is yours?"

"When I bought the place, it was a tumble-down building. Now it's one of the finest clubs in London," he said. "I mean to make it the best."

Seeing the ambition in his dark gaze, she had an intuitive flash of what this place meant to him. Papa had looked that same way when talking about Fines & Company. Fortitude, a drive to succeed—she'd always admired those qualities. For so long, she'd been searching for the purpose of her own existence. She hadn't found it yet, but she suddenly realized one thing: it wasn't Portland.

The truth was oddly relieving. With a smile, she said, "Better than this? Is that possible?"

"Anything is possible if you set your mind to it."

Exactly as Papa would have said.

They continued the tour, each room grander than the one before.

"How many rooms are there in The Underworld?" she asked after they mounted steps to the first floor. She peered through the viewing hole into the dining chamber. With delight, she saw that clever painted wood fronts made the supper tables appear like small boats and the walls were painted with rolling waves. Supper on the River Styx.

"A dozen, give or take. There is another floor in addition to this one."

"May I see it, please?" She twisted around eagerly.

Hunt's expression turned apologetic. "I'm afraid not."

"Why?"

"Because it isn't suitable. You'll have to take my word for it," he said.

Her brow furrowed. "But I
want
to see—"

"Excuse me." He consulted his pocket watch. "Devil take it, I'm late for the nightly report from my club manager. Stewart hates to be kept waiting."

"Can't I just take a small peek—"

"I'm afraid that's not possible." With a distracted air, he looked at his watch again. "My meeting won't take more than a quarter hour. Do you wish to see the rest of this floor on your own, or shall I summon someone to escort you back to my suite?"

"I'll stay here," she said immediately.

"You're to wait for me
here
, Miss Fines. No wandering about." A muscle twitched oddly beside his mouth. "The club can be a dangerous place, and I won't be here to look after you."

"Please take your time." She kept her voice nonchalant. "No need to worry about me."

*****

Perfect. He's gone.

Taking one last look to make sure there was no sign of Hunt's muscular form, Percy made a gleeful dash for the stairs at the end of the hallway. She could not bear the notion of waiting, twiddling her thumbs whilst a mysterious, forbidden realm lay mere paces away. As she mounted the steps, she told herself she would take a quick look and return before Hunt even knew she had gone. What harm could that possibly do?       

The air in the top floor corridor was sultry and swirling with incense. At first glance, the narrow passageway resembled the ones on the other floors. She heard muffled sounds filtered through the walls; though the voices were indecipherable, something about their quality made her hesitate.
You're already here. Just take a quick peek.
With a hand that trembled slightly, she slid back the nearest wooden panel and pressed her cheek against the peephole.

Her breath stuttered.

Oh. My. Goodness.

A Bacchanal. Wickedness beyond imagining.

Against a backdrop of ancient ruins, people in various states of undress frolicked about, drinking, dancing … and
fornicating
. Percy's face blazed with heat. If she had ever wondered what the sexual act entailed, she got all her answers in a single, blinding moment. Before her stunned eyes, a man wearing a mask with horns grabbed a laughing rouged brunette and bent her over a fallen column. His member—so
that
was what a man's part looked like!—poked outward from his thighs like a lance. An apt analogy, for no sooner had he grasped the lady's hips, then he lunged forward ...
impaling
her.