The Scoundrel's Lover (2 page)

As Marcus shut the watch, Abbot smiled. “I sometimes forget you have the timing of the club down to a science.”

“It would be foolish of me to do otherwise.” Marcus stepped forward. “There’s a problem, I assume.”

Abbot’s smile fell. “Indeed, I fear there is. The, er, party we talked about last week. He is here tonight.”

Marcus pursed his lips. “I see. And he’s causing trouble.”

“To himself more than anyone, but since you asked me to keep an eye on the situation…”

Marcus needed no other explanation. “Take me to him.”

Abbot’s eyes went wide, but the surprise at Marcus’s reaction vanished in a moment. “Of course. Follow me.”

His manager turned and Marcus followed him down the stairs and through the crowded club into one of the private back rooms that couldn’t be seen from his office perch. Some of them were for sex and some for gambling.

As Abbot opened the door, Marcus saw that it was a gambling room he had been led to. And slouched over a table, eyes glassy and face shining with sweat as he spoke loudly and almost incoherently to his grinning companions, was Crispin Flynn.

Marcus pursed his lips into a tight line as he watched Flynn nearly fall off his chair. He leaned over to Abbot.

“How long?”

“Over an hour,” Abbot whispered. “He was quite deeply in his cups before arrival.”

“And they let him in because he is…” Marcus hesitated. “Well, a friend of mine.”

Abbot nodded. “Should I change that policy?”

“No,” Marcus said swiftly. “At least here he is safe from being stabbed for his blunt.”

“Indeed.”

“I’ll go in.” Marcus took in a deep breath before he walked into the room.

There were six at the table, cards in hand and drinks at their sides, but none was as blasted as Flynn. Five pairs of eyes lifted as he stopped at their table. Crispin’s were the only ones that didn’t change their bleary focus.

“Gentlemen,” Marcus said, his voice low and calm.

Now Flynn jolted his gaze up, and he grinned. “Ah, Rivers, there you are. Come to indulge in a hand or two?”

Marcus cocked his head. “I don’t think so this time. Perhaps you gentlemen could clear the room a moment and allow me to speak to Mr. Flynn.”

The others shifted, eyes jerking toward each other, toward their easy mark in Flynn, but before anyone could speak, Crispin staggered to his feet.

“You don’t interrupt a man during cards, Rivers. That has to be the first bloody rule in running an establishment such as this.” Flynn waved a hand around and nearly toppled himself over backward. “Now sit down and deal in or get the fuck out.”

At the door, Abbot jolted, but Marcus lifted a hand to keep his man where he stood. Normally a patron would be kicked out for such behavior, but Flynn wasn’t a normal patron.

“Mind your tone,” Marcus said without raising his voice.

Flynn looked at him closer, and for a moment Marcus saw a glimpse of the man he did not wish to see. In the depths of Crispin’s dark blue eyes there was a deep well of pain. And a challenge to Marcus to keep coming at him. To let him swing. To let him be put out on the street.

Instead, Marcus took a step back. He inclined his head slightly.

“Carry on, gentlemen,” he said softly and turned on his heel to exit the chamber. Abbot followed, and as he shut the door behind them, his man gave him a look of shock. Marcus rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at me so.”

“You
never
allow anyone to speak to you in such a fashion.”

He shrugged. “The Flynns and their father did me a favor long ago, one I would not repay by allowing Crispin to be put out in this state.”

He frowned. Of course, being left in the room with the jackals all but pulling money directly from his friend’s pocket wasn’t a much better solution.

“You will do the following, Abbot.” He paused as his man grabbed a small notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket. When he was ready, Marcus continued, “You will have two more join the party within. I think Mr. Sweet would be best and pick another who can be trusted to keep his wits about him.”

“Williams,” Abbot said, jotting down instructions swiftly.

“Flynn has always been a fan of brandy, so fetch a bottle from my personal collection upstairs and have either Sweet or Williams bring it with them. Have them be certain Flynn is drinking the lion’s share.”

Now Abbot looked up. “Whatever for?”

“Because once he passes out, Williams and Sweet can take him to one of the private bawdy rooms. I think Lady M was in the Scarlet room not so long ago, wasn’t she? If she left some of her bindings, perhaps that would be the perfect place to put him to sleep it off.”

Abbot continued to stare and Marcus pointed at his notebook. “Would you like to write it down?”

“I’m not certain what to write, Rivers. Are you truly telling me that you would like two of our men to get Crispin Flynn drunk on your very best and very expensive brandy until he loses consciousness, then to take him to the Scarlet room and tie him down with Lady M’s bindings?”

Marcus arched a brow. “Yes. That is exactly what I said.”

Abbot opened and shut his mouth several times, but he finally swiftly wrote a few more notes. “And what should we do with him then?”

“I’m going to write a note to his brother,” Marcus said with a shrug. “Which
you
will personally deliver. Then he will be the Duke of Hartholm’s problem.”

Abbot nodded and there was no longer surprise or question on his face, though Marcus was certain the other man felt a great deal of both. But he was trained well enough not to pry. For that, Marcus was glad. He had no intention of explaining to anyone just how big a favor the Flynns had done for him years before.

“While you make your arrangements, I’ll pen the letter,” Marcus said. “Come to me in half an hour.”

Abbot nodded as he scurried off to find Sweet and Williams. With a deep breath, Marcus turned back to his office and the letter he had to write. He could only hope Hartholm would come. If he didn’t, that left Marcus in a very uncomfortable position he didn’t want to consider.

Annabelle had been curled up on the settee in the darkened sitting room for almost an hour, but was no closer to sleep than she had been when she snuck downstairs to find something to read. Her search of Serafina and Rafe’s shelves had been informative, but it hadn’t yielded one selection that would help calm her stormy mind.

And so she had simply sat down and allowed her tangled thoughts to wash over her, in the hopes that eventually they would exhaust her. Thus far the plan had proven a very bad one. The worst possible scenarios of her coming out continued to play through her mind, wracking her with worry. Added to that were her concerns about Crispin and her errant mind truly had nowhere to go but further and further into the most dark and deadly fears she possessed.

She was startled from her reverie when there was a sudden knock on the front door. She jumped to her feet and moved to the open parlor door to stare into the dim foyer. All the servants had long ago gone to bed and there was no reason for anyone to be disturbing the household at this hour.

Unless something had happened. She was about to rush to the door herself when Rafe’s butler Lathem suddenly appeared at the end of the hall. He was wearing a dressing gown and nightcap, and he had a candle in one hand. She was shocked to see a rather ugly looking bludgeon in the other.

The knocking repeated, and the servant called out, “I’m coming!”

He was cursing under his breath as he rushed past Annabelle’s spot hidden in the darkened doorway and didn’t seem to realize she was there. He threw open the door to reveal a tall, thin man in a fine coat and hat.

“Can I help you?” Lathem huffed.

The other man bowed. “Paul Abbot here to see the Duke of Hartholm, sir. I’m sent by Marcus Rivers.”

Annabelle stiffened at that name. Rivers was a friend to both her brothers, and he ran an infamous gambling hell. She had met him a few times over the years, but despite only seeing him so little, she could easily conjure an image of him.

He was tall, but that didn’t truly express his size accurately. Physically intimidating was a better description, and Annabelle was certain he knew it. There was something about the way the man moved.

He had dark hair and green eyes that seemed to see secrets in every person he laid his gaze upon. She felt…disconcerted when she was around him.

But why would
he
send a man here in the middle of the night?

Her silent question was answered when Abbot continued, “It is about the duke’s brother. I have a message.”

He held out an envelope, and Lathem stared at it a moment before he took it and stepped back to allow Abbot entry into the foyer.

“I will fetch him,” he said, his tone thin and strained. “Please wait here.”

Annabelle watched as the other man inclined his head and stepped into what seemed like a military stance. He spread his legs wide, tucking his hands behind him, but he was still stiff and formal as he watched the butler disappear upstairs.

Annabelle shifted slowly. She wanted quite desperately to run into the foyer and demand to be told what the message was about Crispin, but she held back. Revealing herself now would only make her look foolish and when Rafe came downstairs, he would likely send her away rather than have her stay and hear the truth.

So she remained in the shadows, watching and waiting.

Ten minutes passed before Lathem returned. And Rafe was not with him.

Annabelle stiffened as the butler held out a message. “You may return this to Mr. Rivers with His Grace’s most sincere thanks.”

Abbot shifted. “He will not come?”

Lathem dropped his chin. “He allowed me to relay a portion of his longer message to Mr. Rivers to you. Although the duke loves his brother, he has come to feel that Mr. Flynn must hit the very bottom of the barrel before any help can be rendered that will have a lasting effect. So he cannot come now.”

Abbot nodded slowly. “I understand. Tomorrow I hope you will pass along my apologies for my late visit. I’ll be certain the letter will be returned to my employer.”

Lathem opened the door. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” the other man said.

He exited, and Lathem shut the door behind him with a sigh. Mumbling to himself in a sad tone, the butler returned up the long hall.

Annabelle watched it all in shock. Rafe would not go to Crispin? He would let their brother drown in his pain, whatever had caused it, without rendering aid until Crispin “hit the very bottom?”

How could he? Didn’t he understand that for Crispin, the very bottom might be death?

She burst from the parlor with a barely stifled cry and threw the front door open. She hurried down the steps and slapped the door to Abbot’s carriage just as it began to move.

The driver pulled the horses up short and, after a brief hesitation, the door to the carriage opened to reveal Abbot in the dimness from the street lamps.

“May I help you?” he asked, his eyes wide and filled with surprise at her accosting his rig.

“I am Annabelle Flynn,” she panted.

He drew back. “I see.”

“I’m Crispin Flynn’s sister,” she explained further. “Please, why did you come here?”

The man shifted. “You should go back inside, Miss Flynn. My message was meant for the Duke of Hartholm and it has been received and returned. You needn’t worry—”

“Balls!” Annabelle burst out as an interruption. Her coarse choice of curse made Abbot jolt and she took advantage of his moment of shock to continue, “I have as much right to know what is happening to Crispin as anyone else. What did Mr. Rivers want from Rafe? Why did he send you here? Were you to fetch the duke?”

Abbot took a breath, but Annabelle saw the truth on his face without him having to say a word. “Mr. Rivers
did
ask you to bring my brother. And he will not come.”

Abbot pursed his lips. “And now you know. So I must insist that you back away from the carriage and go back inside. You can take up your thoughts on the subject with the duke tomorrow, I am certain.”

Annabelle looked over her shoulder at the townhouse where her brother and sister-in-law slept, cut off from the realities of Crispin’s situation and her own. Without hesitation, she stepped up into the carriage and hurled herself into the seat across from Abbot.