The Art of Ruining a Rake (17 page)

Roman scowled. Judging by the complex wording of her threat, he suspected that she’d already consulted her barrister.

Her allegation was preposterous. And yet, he had no firm concept of his agreed-upon rate, or the number of times per week he was expected to visit her to maintain parity with the debts she regularly received. He didn’t even know how much he owed her. Shortsightedness on his part, but who had ever heard of a man formalizing his arrangement on paper, as mistresses did with their protectors?

 
“Not tonight,” he told her, recoiling as the air between them crackled with her pique.

Or any night, he wanted to add, but he wouldn’t say that just yet. Given her palpable displeasure, he didn’t doubt she’d make good on her threat to make details of their quarrel known. He must appease her until he could form a counteroffer. Then they could discuss an amicable parting—he hoped.

Her rosewater perfume nearly suffocated him as she turned up her palm to caress his chin. “Shall I congratulate you on your latest conquest?” A garnet-studded hairpin winked at him in the chandelier light. “I remember her. Your Miss Lancester. Plain little thing with that naïve, untouched air men find irresistible. I’m sure you’ll make each other miserable.”

His muscles eased a fraction. Perhaps she
would
let him go peaceably. He raised one eyebrow and pretended to be amused. “It’s not polite to gloat, Letitia.”

Her laugh felt like velvet rubbing the wrong direction. “Foolish man. Of course I’ll gloat.”

She ran her hand through his curls, tugging just hard enough to cause him pain. He bit the inside of his lip and forced himself not to flinch. It delighted her to see him squirm.

She leaned to whisper in his ear. “I don’t like sharing you.”

Where her breath touched his skin, he felt unclean. Everything about her nearness felt wrong. Oh, it amused his friends to think he was in the enviable position of being compensated for his prowess. They didn’t know what being a cicisbeo did to a man.

They didn’t know what Letitia did.

She straightened. He allowed her to run her hand though his hair again, petting him like the dog he was. Then she leaned forward and kissed him. As she pulled away, she whispered, “Welcome back, my lord. There are many above stairs who will be delighted by your return.”
 

She ran a hand from his left shoulder to the back of his neck, then down his arm as she descended the remaining steps and walked away.

He forced himself to climb the steep, curving staircase. In all the years he’d been Letitia’s pet, he’d never complained about her treatment of him. Why?

Because there had been other women, he supposed. Appreciative ones who soothed his pride and complimented his virility. Not just widows, but admiring young ladies and married matrons whose husbands had been inattentive too long.

His stomach churned as he approached the top step and surveyed the crowded ballroom. Lucy would hate what he’d just allowed Letitia to do. If he was to become a man deserving of her, he must first cease being mauled by other women.

A raucous noise flowed from the open doors of the ballroom. For one brief moment, he almost turned back. He rubbed his neck as if he could feel the chokehold of a leash digging into his skin.

As if, after all these years, he suddenly realized he wasn’t his own man.

The rot of pungent spirits mingled with cheap perfume wafted from the crush of London’s fast set. It was precisely the sort of obliterating party he needed right now, and he planned to get thoroughly sotted…

After
he secured the interest of the men on his list.

He stepped into the living tableau of hedonism and was almost immediately accosted by a half dozen foolish-looking dandies, three of whom sported guinea-colored corkscrew wigs. “Ho, there, Montborne!” Viscount Kinsey called to him. “Glad to see you’ve returned.”

Roman acknowledged the lads with a forced smile and a hand gesture that said,
a bit busy, chaps, but we’ll meet again soon.

Mimicry was the highest form of flattery. Tonight, however, he didn’t want to be responsible for launching a young crop of empty-headed romantics into the world. He just wanted to be done with his task.

Lord Laurelhurst and Mr. Barton-Wright conversed beyond the French doors. Roman walked directly to them. Conveniently, he wished to speak with both of them.

“Good crush,” Roman said as he approached Lord Laurelhurst.

“It is for you,” Laurelhurst agreed, indicating a woman who seemed to be trying to catch Roman’s attention with a flutter of her handkerchief. “You’re popular tonight.”

Roman chuckled, giving the Cyprian a nod of acknowledgment while simultaneously turning away from her. “I suppose it does a man good to fall back every now and then and allow a little mystery to surround him.”

Mr. Barton-Wright watched their exchange with interest. He was newly in line to inherit a viscountcy from an ailing uncle. An up-and-comer, he ought to be an easy mark, or so Tony had said. Any public demonstration of Roman’s approval would add weight to his consequence. A few moments of Roman’s time might be handsomely rewarded; all Roman need do was to take the fledgling under his wing.

A simple enough task. No rustic wanted to experience the city alone.

Lord Laurelhurst clapped Roman on the shoulder. “Wise
and
handsome. No wonder the ladies adore you. Barton, do you know the marquis? Imperative that you do. His opinion can change your tides.”

Roman pretended to look suitably entertained by that notion. In truth, he couldn’t have asked for a better introduction.

“A pleasure to meet you, my lord,” Barton-Wright said. He wore high, pointed lapels that could put his eyes out and a cravat that must have taken an hour to fold. He was yet another coxcomb sporting a shock of glued-up hair Roman found ridiculous.

“You’re from Surrey, I hear,” Roman said, recalling the tidbits Tony had given him to use. “Is this your first time in Town?”

A buxom courtesan passed directly under their noses. She glanced over her shoulder at the young heir, issuing a bold invitation without saying a word.

Barton-Wright raised his empty glass. “First time as a grown man. It does delight.”

“Mrs. Chilcott is good for a night or two,” Roman advised in a friendly aside, “but nothing more permanent. A mistress should elevate a man’s position by her uniqueness. Otherwise, he is only paying for his peers’ castoffs.”

Barton-Wright turned his attention to Roman. “Is that so? These women seem rare enough to me.”

Laurelhurst chuckled. “That’s what Montborne’s for. He’s well-read in each nun’s hymnbook.”

Roman indicated the white swans gracefully gliding through the tide of dark-coated men. “They’re not nuns. That is your first lesson. They’ll stab you in the back at the first profitable opportunity.”

Barton-Wright looked askance at Roman. “Harsh words coming from your lips, my lord. Aren’t
you
one of the finest whores in London?”

Laurelhurst’s stunned reaction paled in comparison to Roman’s shock. Never had anyone, man or woman,
dared
to say such a thing to his face. Not even in jest.

He couldn’t conceive where this inconsequential pup had found the gall.

Roman fought to maintain his composure. It was imperative he recover from his stupor and set this upstart in his place. With prodigious effort, he schooled his features into amused detachment. “You’ve kept your ears open, Barton-Wright, though I must correct you. Were I as celebrated as you claim, I would not be wasting my time with a provincial nobody such as yourself. I have standards.”

Barton-Wright’s face bulged with offense. “I do not entertain
men
.”

“And I do not entertain absurdity.”

Laurelhurst watched the unfolding drama with unabashed interest. He must know Roman was two breaths away from cutting the young dandy completely, fortune or no.

After setting his empty glass on a passing tray, Barton-Wright flicked at a speck of lint on his sleeve. “Tell me, my lord, how does an interested party land a stake in your quarry? Your brother has told me so much about it. He all but promised me a position on the board.”

“Antony,” Roman gritted out, “does not have that authority. You must be mistaken.”

Barton-Wright smiled self-deprecatingly. “You may well be right, my lord. I do have a habit of misremembering what I’m told. For example, I hear your venture is terribly under-funded. Surely
that
cannot be true.”

Roman’s jaw clenched. “Your sources seem indifferent to facts.”

“Ah, well, as I said, I have a tendency to misremember things.” Barton-Wright’s lips pursed. “Would I also be misstating things if I said Lord Antony specifically requested I report back to him on my experiences with you? ‘Montborne will do his best, but do let me know if you encounter any difficulties with him.’ I could have sworn he said that.”

Roman silently seethed. He reached for another glass of wine as it passed and savored its acidic bite. Normally, he wouldn’t try to outwit every man in the Upper Ten Thousand who wished to make him look foolish. He simply didn’t have the time. But while he might be tempted to try to outsmart his peers on occasion, he couldn’t outfox his younger brother. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to have to play the bootlicker tonight.

Tony had made sure of it.

Roman downed the last of his wine and immediately began searching for something stronger. He was going to get rotting drunk, and then he was going to importune this fop for everything he was worth. If he must tolerate the obnoxious maccaroni, he’d make sure he left with something to show for it.

Tony he would deal with later.

Chapter 8

THE NEXT NIGHT, Roman jabbed his walking stick between the cobblestones as he strode through the empty streets. The light falling from the lamps didn’t waver. There was no wind to make them flicker, nor to force the crisp bite of frost through his many layers of wool.

A glance at his pocket watch told him it was half ten. He was late to escort Lucy to Madame Claremont’s salon. As with so much in his life, he didn’t mean to be unreliable. It was just that he’d started in the direction of the pretty little house Ashlin had set up for Lucy, and his feet had brought him here, instead.

He stood beyond the reach of candlelight spilling from Celeste’s window. Not hers anymore. He didn’t recognize the azure curtains drawn against the lower windows, or the empty flowerpots on either side of the door. He knew that door well. Thousands of times he’d been forced to bluster past the giant of a butler who’d stood guard. Celeste had accompanied him to all sorts of events, or perhaps it was more accurate to say he’d accompanied her.

He wanted Lucy. But what seemed barely possible just days ago now seemed preposterous. Edward Barton-Wright had been appallingly blunt. Roman knew he had only escaped Lucy’s censure because he’d been discreet. One
in
discreet person could tell her what he’d been doing—he’d never win her heart after that. How could a woman as singular and proud as she fall in love with a man who counted his worth in IOUs?

Night after night of carousing and dissipation had amused Celeste for years, but she hadn’t loved him. She’d wanted more, and she hadn’t seen more in him. He’d asked Ashlin to bring Lucy to London to see what, exactly? Who was he, really, besides a man even
he
didn’t want to like?

He turned away from the house. He should have refused Lucy’s request to introduce her to his friends. She might be in disgrace, but there was no need to corrupt her with his brand of entertainment. No need to show her who he’d been, before. Who he still was because he had no idea how to be anyone else. And yet, there was no better way to gain her trust than to let her taste what she thought she wanted. Worldliness, vice, the lure of the forbidden.

Didn’t those terms describe him, too?

By the time he reached Lucy’s house, he was prepared to forgo the entire outing. He opened the little gate and went up the steps with trepidation. But as he reached for the knocker, the front door flew open. He jumped back. A heavily-cloaked Lucy raised her skirts and darted around him. “No time to explain. Mr. Gordo will be on my heels.”

Roman caught up to her near the next gate. Once he was abreast of her, it required little effort to keep up. “Mr. Gordo?” he asked, falling into step beside her, intrigued in spite of himself. “I must admit I’m glad to hear he’s been retained. There never was a more formidable doorman.”