Too Wicked to Wed (2 page)

“How very kind of you to offer more counsel.”

The Wolfhound’s laugh was a brandy-roughened growl. “You mistake my sentiments, Lady Alexa. I am not being kind. I am simply trying to stack the deck in my favor. If I am lucky, the cards will fall in a way to ensure that our paths never cross again.”

Chapter One

Four months later

D
amn.”

The low oath, though blurred by the shuffling of cards, drew a flash of teeth from the gentleman seated at the far end of the table. “So, the Irish Wolfhound feels the dogs of defeat nipping at his flanks?” he drawled.

The barb drew several sniggers from the small group of cronies gathered around his chair.

“What say you to a last hand?” continued the gentleman. After caressing the pile of blunt he had just raked to his side of the table, he shoved it back to the center. “At, say, double the stakes?”

Their color flickering from silver to slate in the guttering light of the candles, the Wolfhound’s hooded gray eyes appeared to focus on the lewd etching on the wall rather than the glittering challenge on the green felt. “Why not?” he replied, the words slurring together, though in truth, Connor Linsley, the Earl of Killingworth, was completely sober, and engaged in a careful calculation of the odds.

As he made a show of fumbling over the last of his banknotes, Connor angled his gaze to the rapidfire cutting of the deck.

Damn.

All night long he had been watching—watching for how the cursed Captain Sharpe, who called himself DeWinter, was managing to cheat. But though the earl was familiar with most every trick of the trade, he had yet to spot any sleight of hand.

Bloody hell—I had better catch it soon
, thought Connor grimly. He had lost an obscenely large sum of money so far. Not so much as to completely beggar his purse, but enough to make the coming few months a squeeze, what with the payroll and the routine expenses that must be met in order to keep his doors open.

After a final flick, the cards began to flutter softly through the shadows. The earl—better known in the less glittering environs of London as the Irish Wolfhound—shifted slightly in his chair, angling for a better view of his opponent’s hands. Still, no matter how carefully he studied the moves of the other man’s fingers and every little shrug of his cuffs and sleeves, he couldn’t detect just how he was being fleeced.

But the wool was being pulled over his eyes, as if he were a helpless little lamb.

That was a certainty. As proprietor of The Wolf’s Lair, one of the more notorious gaming hells and brothels in Town, the earl was far too conversant with games of chance not to know when the odds were being manipulated. He was also far too canny a player to be suffering such a prolonged string of losses. His ownership of the business enterprise might be a closely guarded secret, but his gambling skills were not, as proven by the profits entered into his ledgers each week.

Tonight, however, he had been keeping careful count and nothing was adding up right.

“Any additional cards?” inquired DeWinter, slapping down two discards.

The earl allowed a small smile. “Just one.”

All he needed was a nine or less, in any suit, to play out a winning sequence. Surely it was time for fortune to smile his way. Lady Luck had never deserted him for this long a stretch. And though everyone knew that ladies were notoriously fickle…

The new card flipped in his fingers.

The Queen of Hearts.

Son of a bitch.
Why was it that of late, females—especially highborn ones—had been naught but a harbinger of trouble?

As the coach lumbered through yet another tollgate on the London road, Alexa could not help wondering what price she would pay for this spur-of-the-moment decision.

Until several months ago, she had lived a very ordered life. A quiet country existence, defined by the unchanging rhythm of her daily duties on the ancestral estate.

And now?

All of a sudden, two wild, impetuous moves, one tripping on the heels of the other.

The first had been understandable. Her younger brother, a young man whose bohemian spirit had drawn him into the sinister web of the London underworld, might well have ended up with his throat slit if she had not raced hell-for-leather from Yorkshire to alert her older brother of the danger.

Alexa bit her lip, recalling her first real taste of intrigue and danger. As well as her first real kiss. From no less than one of London’s most notorious rakes.

For years she had been secretly longing for just such a wild adventure.

So why was she feeling so blue-deviled?

Catching the blurred reflection of her face, dark and brooding in the rain-pelted glass, she expelled a sigh. “I know I ought to be happy,” she whispered. “But I am not.”

Would that she could explain it.

“I’m lucky—exceedingly lucky—that Papa allowed me the freedom to pursue my unconventional interests,” said Alexa to her scowling self. “Just think of all the hours I was free to study mathematics and agriculture instead of needlework and music.”

Yes, just think of it.
The drumming of the drops couldn’t quite drown out the answering voice inside her head.
No wonder that you find much more pleasure in putting your practical knowledge to work on the estate than in attending the local assemblies.

True. Fashion and flirting seemed so utterly…boring. As did all the gentlemen she knew.

Bland as boiled oats.
At times, her life within the confines of Becton Manor took on the same consistency, stirring a longing to experience something out of the ordinary…

Well, she had. In spades.

A loving family, a settled existence, a degree of independence.
And, to fill the void between darkness and dawn, a headful of memories of what it was like to be kissed by a notorious rake. What more could a young lady of two and twenty wish for in life?

Indeed, Sebastian had been shocked when she had abruptly announced that she had decided to accept her aunt’s longstanding invitation to visit London for the Season. Surprise turning to skepticism, he had expressed his doubts that she would find any enjoyment in spinning through the glittering swirl of Polite Society.

The question, while well meaning, only rubbed raw at a sensitive spot. With an inward wince, Alexa admitted that her behavior—especially of late—was hardly a pattern card of propriety. She was too headstrong, too opinionated.
Too unladylike.
Sparks seemed to fly wherever she went.

However, encouraged by his new bride, Sebastian had surrendered his misgivings with good grace. The letter to Aunt Adelaide had been sent, the trunks had been packed, the coach made ready…

Closing her eyes, Alexa leaned back against the squabs and listened to the sounds of the coach moving ever closer to London. A world of gaiety and glamour. Of polish and propriety. Yet it was the thud of her own heart that overrode the jingling harness and pounding hooves.

Had she made a terrible mistake?

In the angled lamplight, DeWinter’s eyes took on a knife-edged gleam as he raked banknotes to his side of the table. “Why, it looks as if the dog has not so much as a bone left to gnaw on.”

Laughter sounded from the four tough-looking men who had come in with him.

Connor ignored the attempt to goad him into losing his temper. He had survived several brutal Peninsular campaigns and his time in the stews by listening to his instincts. And his gut feeling told him that DeWinter’s followers were hardened professionals—most likely mercenaries for hire—who looked primed for a fight.

A smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. The blatant provocation might have been amusing—save for the fact that it had just cost him a great deal of blunt.

Most people went well out of their way to avoid a snap of the Irish Wolfhound’s jaws, but DeWinter seemed intent on goading him to go for the throat. Connor wondered why.

“Brandy for me and my friends,” called DeWinter loudly. “Perhaps I’ll give His Lordship a swallow before he crawls off with his tail between his legs.”

Connor gave a tiny nod to the two hulking attendants by the door—the Scotsman and the mulatto had been hired for their muscle, though they were rarely called upon to use it.

That the earl actually owned the establishment was a closely guarded secret. His nightly presence had been easy enough to explain by spreading word that he had a special arrangement with the proprietor—a rumor that, unlike most of the ones concerning his affairs, was true enough. Most people accepted that the Wolfhound ran tame in the Lair in return for ensuring that the patrons and play in the gaming rooms were the most interesting in Town. The presence of a notorious rake and gambler was always good for business.

Noting Connor’s subtle signal, the mulatto slipped out to the hallway, returning a moment later with a comely barmaid bearing glasses and brandy.

“I’ll have a taste of this, too.” DeWinter’s taunting was now moving beyond mere words. He grabbed roughly at the girl’s bodice and exposed a breast.

“Sorry, sir, but ye’re te keep yer hands te yerself in here. It’s house rules.” Experienced in fending off such advances, the barmaid managed to set down the tray without spilling a drop. “If ye wish that sort of pleasure, ye’ll have te take yerself upstairs and pay fer it.”

“Insolent bitch.” Ripping the ruched silk down to her waist, DeWinter struck her hard across the cheek. “I take my pleasure where I please.”

Connor decided that things had gone far enough. He was out of his chair in a flash, breaking the other man’s hold on the girl with what looked to be no more than a casual flick of his wrist. “You may diddle with me, DeWinter, but no foul play is allowed with the girls. You heard her—the management does not like it.”

DeWinter’s eyes narrowed. “Are you accusing me of something, you hellhound?”

A low gasp came from one of the other onlookers. The earl’s hair trigger temper—and his deadly accuracy with a pistol—were well known. As word of the confrontation spread like wildfire through the other gaming rooms, a crowd quickly gathered at the doorway.

“Bad manners,” replied Connor calmly, releasing his grip to brush a mote of dust from his sleeve. “Which to my mind is an even worse transgression than cheating at cards. So I suggest you take your pennies and your prick and spend them elsewhere.”

Fury mottled the other man’s cheeks to an ugly shade of red, and for an instant, the earl thought that blood was sure to be spilled.

But DeWinter hesitated, his gaze darting from his own companions, tensed and ready to strike on command, to the two house attendants, now reinforced by two burly employees from the adjoining room.

Four former soldiers versus four former pugilists.

The earl’s mouth thinned to a sardonic set.
Even odds.
No wonder the greasy maggot was unwilling to play.

“You ought to be grateful for any farthing tossed your way,” snarled DeWinter, slowly uncurling his fists. “Seeing as you, like this she-bitch, have been stripped bare.”

Connor still had no idea what ulterior motive the other man had in visiting The Wolf’s Lair, but as he wasn’t likely to learn anything from DeWinter himself, he dismissed him with a shrug. There were other ways of digging up information. “Show this fellow the door, McTavish. In case his memory is not as sharp as his hands.”

The Scotsman cracked his knuckles.

“That is, unless Mr. DeWinter feels that gentlemanly honor demands he issue a more formal statement.” Connor spoke with a mocking politeness, quite sure the other man had no intention of squaring off in a fair match of pistols at dawn. He was equally certain that the fellow was not entitled to the name and pedigree he had claimed. Indeed, having an excellent ear for accents, the earl rather doubted the fellow was an Englishman.

Jaw clenched, DeWinter—or whoever he was—did not answer, contenting himself with shooting yet another malevolent look before stalking for the door. It was not until he drew abreast of the earl, brushing so closely their shoulders came in contact, that he ventured to whisper, “Every dog has his day. But yours, you misbegotten Irish cur, is fast approaching midnight.”

DeWinter’s companions followed, each of them turning to fix Connor with a pointed stare before sauntering out the door.

“What the devil was
that
all about?”

The earl slowly looked around at the disheveled figure who was slouched in the shadows. “Haven’t a clue.”

“Christ Almighty, Connor, are you losing your touch?” Gryffin Owain Dwight, the Marquess of Haddan, was one of the few people who dared to call the Irish Wolfhound by his given name. “I’ve never known you to play such a bloody awful hand—not even during the worst of the double R’s cupshot card games.

Connor grimaced at the reminder. He and Gryff had been friends since their first schoolboy days at Eton, fighting, wenching, and raising holy hell together until finally the dons at Oxford had suggested that their wildness might be put to better use in the military. Their unit had quickly come to be called the Rakehell Regiment for their devil-may-care daring, both on and off the field of battle.

“Mayhap you are getting senile and losing your wits along with the color of your hair,” drawled Gryff. “Even when three sheets to the wind—a condition which I have observed on numerous occasions—you have always been able to count to ten.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” A note of grim amusement tinged Connor’s words as he ran a hand through his raven-dark hair, which was threaded with silvery highlights.

The distinctive shade—ranging from soft silver to the steely hue of forged iron, depending on the light—had begun to appear during his year at university. That, along with the fact that his mother had been a noted beauty from County Cork, had prompted one wag at Merton to call him the Irish Wolfhound. Even Connor had to concede the nickname was an apt one. There were plenty of men—both English and French—who would curse him as a fearsome predator.

“However, my losses had nothing to do with my ability to keep track of the cards,” continued the earl. “I could have counted until Doomsday and still, I would not have come up with a winning hand.”

Unlike the earl, Gryff had imbibed more than a few glasses of brandy. So, it took him a moment to add up the implications. “Are you saying he was
cheating
you?”