Her Wanton Wager (24 page)

"Oh Gavin, don't stop,
please
..."

Her sex milked his fingers, so demanding and hungry.
Too much, can't hold on.
"Go over, Percy," he growled, "with me—" 

Her body spasmed, the luscious pull dragging him over the edge. With her beautiful cries in his ears, he shut his eyes against the fierce pleasure, the powerful release boiling up his shaft. He spent with a violence that robbed him of all control. Time slowed as he spewed hotly again and again, bellowing as ecstasy turned him inside out.

When he came to his senses, it was to find Percy gazing at him. Her hair was falling from its pins, and she held a stained glove to her heaving bosom. The stars in her eyes outshone those in the heavens above.

And, finally, he realized the danger he was in.

*****

Nicholas Morgan awoke in a strange bed. He yawned, blinking groggily at his surroundings. Another hotel room. Next to the bed, the large window was open, the curtains stirring in the warm breeze. He saw a field of red tiles lining the rooftops, and it all returned to him. Florence. They'd arrived early this morning. After the exhausting journey, Nurse had bundled the twins off for a nap, and Helena had decided the adults needed a lie down too.

Being an accommodating husband, he'd gone along with his better half. They hadn't gotten much sleep. As it turned out, vacationing made him randy as hell—and that was saying something, given that he couldn't keep his hands off his wife under normal circumstances. He raised himself up on one elbow, gazing down at his marchioness. Curled on her side, Helena dozed as peacefully as a little girl with her chestnut hair tangled and her delicate skin flushed.

Yet despite her innocent looks, his Helena was all woman. The sheet had slipped, revealing one round, plump breast. That ripe curve with its lovely pink crest was too much to resist.  

Leaning over, he drew his tongue languidly around the nipple. It stiffened immediately, and he took his time licking, teasing it into a ripe berry. Though Helena's eyes remained closed, she shifted, a sigh escaping her. Enjoying the game, he explored beneath the sheet, his hand skimming over her plush backside before slipping between her thighs.

 His heart sped up to find her deliciously, wantonly ready for him again. Positioning himself on his side, he took his turgid member in hand and ran the thick head along her slit. He savored her wetness, the sudden hitch in her breathing. He entered her in a slow, mind-melting thrust. Even as heat engulfed his senses, he told himself to draw out the bliss this go around. But then his naughty marchioness moaned, wriggling her bottom against him, and he had no choice but to give in, plowing her harder, needing to be deeper and deeper—

A series of raps sounded on the door.

Bloody fuck.
He nipped his wife's ear. "Ignore it," he whispered.

"We can't just—
ohh.
" She broke off as he nudged higher, finding her favorite spot.

The knocking continued. "Nicholas? Helena? Are you awake? 'Tis me, Anna."

"We'll be, er, just a moment," Helena called out breathlessly.

She wiggled away from him, and he let her go with a grunt. Scrambling from the bed, she donned a dressing gown and tossed him his. He put it on. Grimaced as he looked down at himself. "What the devil am I supposed to do about this?"

Helena's eyes widened at the sight of the tented brocade.

"Here, take this." She shoved a newspaper at him, clearly trying to smother a laugh. "Just, er, hold it in front."

He raised his gaze to the ceiling.

Helena went to the door and ushered in Anna Fines. Nicholas' lust faded when he saw the worry lining the older lady's soft features. Behind her spectacles, Anna's typically serene blue eyes held an apprehensive gleam. The last time he'd seen that particular expression had been when Jeremiah—Anna's husband and Nicholas' mentor—had fallen ill.

"What is the matter, dear?" Helena said, sounding as concerned as he felt.

"I'm so sorry to disturb you, but,"—Anna's lips trembled—"dear heaven, it's the children."

"The twins?" Helena said on a note of alarm.

"No, not your children.
Mine.
" With a shaking hand, Anna held out a letter. "I'm afraid we must depart for London immediately."

TWENTY-TWO

Gavin placed his newly cleaned pistols upon his desk. They gleamed in readiness. Hearing footsteps in the hallway, he tossed a piece of black velvet over the weapons and rose to his greet his late night visitor.

Magnus shuffled into the study, his cane knocking hollowly against the floor. "Sorry to disturb you at this hour, Hunt."

"You have information for me?" Gavin said without ado.

"Aye. Found that gent of yours," the old man said. "Led me on a merry chase, Fines did. Turns out he's been hiding in Spitalfields."

Gavin had to give it to Percy's brother. Bloody Spitalfields, of all places. Ingenuity—and recklessness—must run in the bloodline.

"If you plan to take the cully, you'd best to do it soon," Magnus continued.

"Why?"

"Fines has gotten himself in debt to Finian O'Brien. As you and I both know, patience isn't one of O'Brien's virtues—from what I hear, he's circling like a shark." Magnus's rheumy eye blinked at Gavin. "You'd better get to Fines while there's any of the cove left."

Bloody fuck. Did Fines
want
to get himself killed? Two annoying facts struck Gavin at the same time. First off, though he now knew where Fines was, he couldn't collect the company shares because of his promise to Percy. Second, he'd probably have to
protect
her feckless fool of a brother because he was quite certain Percy wouldn't want Fines dead.

The irony of the situation dumbfounded him. More disconcerting was the realization of how much Percy's happiness mattered to him. Of how much he wanted her. The memory of her generous passion in the garden warmed his chest, made him ache to be near her. Though the return of her housekeeper had made it more difficult for her to slip out, she'd promised to meet him at the club this Friday. 

A few days apart from her felt like bloody weeks.

"Thanks for the warning," he said to Magnus. "I'll attend to matters."

The old man gave him a worried look. "Has the Marquess of Harteford returned from abroad yet? You'll need a plan to deal with him. He considers Fines a brother, and from what I hear the marquess protects his own."

Gavin knew the hourglass was narrowing. According to his sources, Morgan had made an abrupt departure from Florence last week; the marquess would be back in England within a fortnight at most. Before that happened, Gavin must bind Percy to him, body and soul. He had to be certain of her love and loyalty to him; he had to know that she would choose him over Morgan, her family—anyone else. And carrying on with the wager—keeping her close, seducing her more and more with each meeting—was the way to achieve this goal.

"I'll take care of Harteford," Gavin said.

"Do you need my assistance ..." Magnus began when the door flung open.

Garbed in a black, many-caped greatcoat, Stewart looked even bigger and more intimidating than usual. He stalked over to Magnus, dwarfing the frail, older man.

"What's your business 'ere, you old goat?" he growled.

"I'm here to help Hunt, same as you," Magnus said in a calm voice.

"We don't need your help. Hunt's got me to watch 'is back." Stewart's chin jutted up. "Just as I always 'ave—isn't that right, lad?"

Stifling his impatience, Gavin said, "Magnus brought me news of Paul Fines."

"Took your time 'bout it, didn't you?" Stewart said to Magnus. "For the coin you charge, I'd expect be'er service."

"Fines was wilier than most. And I gave Hunt a decent rate ... as
I
always do." With dignity, Magnus adjusted the fraying lapels of his jacket and turned pointedly to Gavin. "I'll be on my way. Be in touch if you want my assistance with Harteford."

The instant the door closed behind the old man, Stewart burst out, "I don't like that codger, an' I trust 'im even less. You don't need 'is 'elp with Harteford. You've got me."

Hell's teeth.
Gavin was not in the mood for one of his mentor's rants. "My business with Magnus is done," he said brusquely. "Is the carriage ready?"

"Aye. But I still—"

"For God's sake, man, let it lie." At his mentor's sullen expression, Gavin said gruffly, "I know you don't like Magnus, but he's been of use, alright? Now let's stop this shilly-shallying, shall we, and go catch ourselves a cutthroat."

*****

As he watched the hulking bawdy house with its shuttered windows, Gavin said, "What the hell is taking Lyon so long?"

"It ain't stamina, that's for sure," Stewart said from across the dark carriage. Thank God his mentor had recovered from the snit over Magnus—nothing like staking out a brothel to improve the man's mood. "The bastard's a lit cannon—can't 'old 'is liquor or 'is temper," Stewart went on, smirking. "If 'e lasts five minutes with a wench, I'd eat my topper."

Gavin observed the men going in and out of the bawdy house. According to Alfie's reconnaissance, Lyon visited Madame Antoinette's establishment every Thursday from ten to eleven in the evening to indulge in his particular brand of sport. It was one of the rare times Lyon went anywhere unaccompanied and, therefore, the perfect occasion to nab the bastard for questioning.

Percy's parting words in the garden echoed in Gavin's head.
Whatever you do, you will be careful? I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you.
He'd clutched her close, reveling in her sweet concern for him, in all that had passed between them that night. More than sex play. More than he'd known with any woman. Reminded of the conundrum with her brother, Gavin frowned. What the devil was he going to do about Fines?

"It's nearing midnight. Lyon should have come out an hour ago," Stewart said.

Unease stirred, and Gavin set his thoughts aside to focus on the business at hand. "We've waited long enough. We'll have to go in."

In reply, Stewart slid a pistol into his greatcoat pocket.

After paying their entry fees, the two men crossed the threshold of the infamous brothel. Smoke made the air hazy, the rich scent of roses emanating decadence. Candles saturated the main room with a muted glow and cast shadows upon the gilded furnishings done in a vaguely French style. Well-dressed gentlemen mingled with wenches who wore candy-colored wigs, paint … and little else.

"I don't see 'im anywhere," Stewart said. "'E must be upstairs in one o' the rooms."

"
Messieurs
,
quelle plaisir
." The silky voice coiled around them like a snake. Gavin turned to see a small, sharp-eyed woman wearing a towering powdered wig and dressed in the costume of Louis XIV's court. Her accent was as authentic as the beauty patch above her hard mouth. "I don't recall seeing you here before. First time?"

Gavin gave a curt nod.

"
Bienvenue
,je suis Madame Antoinette
." She performed a low curtsy, her wide skirts skimming the floor. "Here you will find that
la joie de vivre
,"—she fingered the thin scarlet ribbon around her neck—"is the night's only purpose. Now tell me,
messieurs
, have you a particular fancy in mind?"

Gavin recalled his brief interview with Alfie. Shaking his head, the urchin had said,
That Lyon, 'e's a queer git, alright. Visits a wench by the name o' Polly Whippit—
Alfie had snorted—
and 'er name says it all. Gor, who'd spend blunt on a thing any schoolmistress or fishwife be 'appy to give for free?
  

"I'm told you have a girl here by the name of Miss Whippit," Gavin said.

"
Mais oui,
she is one of my most popular ladies-in-waiting." The bawd's eyes took on a calculating slant. "But I'm afraid she is occupied at present. May I instead recommend another disciple of the art, Mademoiselle Birchim?"

Beside Gavin, Stewart shook his head in digust.

"I've heard Miss Whippit is the best." Gavin removed a bag of coins, allowing them to clink. He saw the madam's eyes widen. "I want nothing but the best."

"And you shall have it," she said, holding her palm out. He let the bag drop, and the money disappeared in a blink. A smile stretched her lips. "Follow me,
s'il vous plaît
."

She led the way through the main rooms and up a wide curving staircase. On the first floor, they passed by a half-dozen naked wenches posed upon pedestals. A few cooed bawdy suggestions for the evening's entertainment.

Madame Antoinette arched her brows at Stewart. "Perhaps
monsieur
would like companionship as well? You look like you could use a girl—or two." She gestured to a pair of tarts who were giggling and fondling each other's rouged nipples. "Juliette and Monique are twins, you know."

"I'm just 'ere to watch my friend's back," Stewart said with a scowl.

"Like to watch, do you? Well, to each his own," the madam said airily.

Beneath his beard, Stewart's face turned a dull red.

"What about you,
monsieur
?" Madame Antoinette turned to Gavin. "Perhaps you'd like to spice up your visit with a merry ménage?"

Gavin could not help but take note of his reaction—or the lack thereof. Being a hot-blooded man, such depravity might have tempted him once and despite the night's mission. But now, he felt nothing but distaste. The sordid business of paid pleasure soured his stomach; he wondered how he'd ever found satisfaction in it. After tasting a goddess' ambrosia, he could never again drink from the common well.

"I'm here for Miss Whippit," he said shortly. "Let us proceed."

They continued on their path. Gavin thought of cornering Lyon tonight and anticipation unfurled. Once he figured out who wanted him dead and why, he could put an end to the mayhem. Then he could get on with more important matters—namely, how to make Percy his. For the first time, he imagined a tantalizing light at the end of the dark tunnel he'd inhabited most his life. Aye, he'd get his answers tonight, even if he had to beat it out of that whoreson Lyon.