Too Wicked to Wed (3 page)
“I would wager a monkey on it.” With a self-mocking shrug, Connor added, “That is, if I had any damn blunt left in my purse.”
“Does that mean you don’t have a feather to fly with?” asked Gryff.
“I’m not yet plucked clean.” Taking his friend by the arm, Connor guided him past the gaming tables and through a narrow alcove that opened into a small private office. “Like any sensible merchant, I keep a reserve to tide me through any unforeseen setbacks,” he said, once the door had been firmly shut.
“By the by, how is business?” asked Gryff.
“Getting better and better,” answered Connor with a sardonic smile. Gryff was one of the select few who knew the truth about his activities. “The irony of it borders on the absurd. For me, it’s the height of hypocrisy that a titled lord can gamble or swill away an entire family fortune without suffering the slightest snub from his peers. Yet if that the same gentleman is enterprising enough to engage in trade, he is ostracized from Polite Society.”
“God forbid that a true gentlemen soil his hands in any useful endeavor,” growled Gryff. “Which leaves precious little to excite the imagination.”
Pickling one’s wits in alcohol did not seem much of an alternative.
However, Connor kept the thought to himself. Though his friend’s carousing was growing more and more reckless, he was hardly the one to preach reformation. “Be that as it may, my brain has been kept busy these last few months. Thanks to some expert advice, I have implemented a number of little changes that will soon ensure a handsome increase in profits.” He poured both of them a glass of brandy. “In the meantime, though, I can ill-afford any more losses.”
Gryff scowled as he tossed off the spirits in one swallow. “Bloody hell, if that cursed swine DeWinter was fuzzing the deck, why didn’t you shoot him?”
Connor settled into the worn leather of his desk chair. “The thought had occurred to me. However, it would be bad for business if word were to leak out that a winning hand at The Wolf’s Lair earned naught but a bullet to the heart.”
His friend ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. “I suppose you have a point.”
“Furthermore, I was not able to catch him in the act.”
The admission drew a grunt of surprise. “Stayed a step ahead of the Wolfhound? He must have been damn good.”
“He was.”
As Gryff went to refill his glass, the earl began to massage the back of his neck. Feeling weary to the bone, he leaned back and propped his booted feet up upon the corner of his desk.
Mayhap he was getting old, for the strain of the earlier encounter seemed to have taken its toll from every inch of his lanky form.
Hell, debauchery was far less demanding than doing an honest day’s work.
Several years ago, having inherited a mountain of debts to go along with the tarnished title left by his reprobate father, Connor had been faced with a decision—marry for money or rely on his own ingenuity to refill his empty coffers. He had seen enough of loveless matches—beginning with his own parents—to shudder at the thought of being legshackled to some demure young chit for the sake of a dowry.
So the choice had been an easy one.
“At least you have a challenge to spark your blood,” muttered Gryff. Tugging off his unknotted cravat, he brushed a careless hand over his rumpled coat—which looked as if it had spent several nights careening though the rough-cut alleys of the surrounding slums.
“You might consider publishing your—”
Gryff cut him off with a rude oath. “You aren’t the only one who prefers to guard his privacy.”
Connor didn’t press the matter. “Being the proprietor of a gaming hell and brothel certainly presents its own unique set of challenges,” he agreed. “The odd thing is, I rather enjoy the responsibilities of running a business, even though the fact that I now work for a living is a dirty little secret that must be kept hidden from Society.”
“Sod the high sticklers,” swore Gryff. “Speaking of thumbing one’s nose at the
ton
, when is the Bloodhound returning to Town?”
“God only knows,” replied Connor with a shrug. “Cam has a knack for sniffing out adventure, and when he’s on the scent of something interesting, he could be gone for weeks.”
Cameron Daggett had joined the Rakehell Regiment shortly after their arrival in Portugal, and it quickly became evident that he was a kindred spirit who possessed the same biting cynicism and wicked sense of humor as Connor and Gryff. The three men had formed a fast friendship, no matter that Cameron’s background remained shrouded in mystery.
Pedigree wasn’t worth a spit in the heat of battle
, reflected Connor. It mattered naught that they knew nothing about his earlier life. Cameron had proved his mettle many times over, and that was all that counted.
Gryff—who had been dubbed the Deerhound for his relentless pursuit of married ladies—gave a brandy-roughened growl of laughter. “What you mean is, he has a nose for trouble. However, I fear that one of these days, his light-fingered paws are going to land him in serious trouble.”
“Don’t worry about Cam. Like us, he knows all the filthy little tricks of how to survive in enemy territory.”
The Hellhounds made no bones about their wild behavior, and Connor was well aware that the
ton
considered them dangerous, unpredictable beasts. Which suited him perfectly. The swirl of rumors surrounding his name help divert attention from his real sources of income.
Gryff stared moodily at the tips of his scuffed boots. “What about you, Connor?” he asked after a stretch of silence. “Truly—how much of a threat are tonight’s losses?”
“DeWinter drew blood, but the wound should not prove mortal.” Cuffing a sigh, the earl ended his inner reflections by raising his brandy and watching the candlelight refract off the faceted glass. “After all, I doubt things can get any worse…”
Such sanguine sentiments were quickly knocked to flinders by an urgent pounding on the door.
“Sorry te interrupt, sor.” The hulking mulatto was nearly invisible in the dusky shadows, save for the whites of his eyes and a glint of gold dangling from his right earlobe. “But we’s got a problem.”
“Hell and damnation!” Connor’s boots hit the carpet with a thud. “What’s the trouble, Rufus? If Singleton is raising a ruckus upstairs again, I’ll personally slice off his prick.”
“Nor sor, it’s nuffing like dat.”
“What, then?”
Rufus gave a tug to his earring. “Ye had better come see fer yerself.”
Biting back further comment, Connor made to follow. Although Gryff was a trifle less steady on his feet, he took one last swig from his glass and hurried to bring up the rear.
On entering the windowless back office, the first thing Connor saw were shards of glass and splinters of gilded wood from a broken picture frame scattered over the floor.
If Luck were indeed a lady, this evening she was playing devilishly hard to get.
Looking up from the ruined art to the yawing black opening in the wall, he growled a curse. Then he shifted his gaze to McTavish and his head barman, a Dubliner named O’Toole. “I presume you have checked inside the safe?”
McTavish nodded glumly. “Empty as a witch’s tit.”
“The devil take it,” he muttered under his breath.
“Someone certainly has,” quipped Gryff.
“Stubble the jokes,” snapped Connor, his usual detached sense of humor having disappeared along with all of his banknotes. “At present, I am in no mood for levity.”
“I daresay you are not.” Gryff leaned over and picked up a black glove that was wedged between the two boxes of old ledgers. “But I would say your thief looks to be a more earthly miscreant.”
After a cursory examination, the earl tossed it to McTavish. “Any idea as to who this belongs to? Or how a thief got in here?”
“Nay yet. But when I do…” Balling the leather in his fist, the Highlander gave it a vicious shake.
Connor turned his scowl on the Irishman.
“Begorrah, sir.” Smacking a hand to his forehead, O’Toole gave a theatrical wince. “Me and O’Leary did leave our posts to lend a hand with the blades in the gaming room, but we weren’t gone fer more than two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“What I ought to shake is your damn skull. Haven’t I told you never to leave your room unattended?”
“Er, well, yes, but I thought…”
“Would that your brain were half as powerful as your biceps.” Kicking at the broken glass, the earl waved both men away. “Though it’s highly doubtful there are any other clues lying around, you might as well make yourselves useful and do a search.”
Looking relieved to escape any further snarls, they slunk off.
His gaze narrowed as Connor surveyed the damage. It looked as if he had been the mark of not one, but two assaults on his finances.
A random coincidence? The odds of that were…astronomical. They had to be related.
But how? And why?
The questions were unsettling, as there appeared to be no logical answer. He had made a host of enemies over the years, any number of whom would go for his jugular if given half a chance. But of late, he had done nothing to stir up old enmities.
No cuckolded husbands
, thought Connor wryly.
No outraged peers who had found their luscious opera dancers waltzing off to warm another bed.
Hell, he had been far too busy learning the principles of accounting and cost management to have any energy left for amorous activities.
And as for any other exploits…
Gryff cleared his throat. “Er, look here, Connor, if you are feeling the squeeze, I should be happy to lend you whatever you need. You know damn well that I have more money than I know what to do with.”
Connor felt his jaw tighten.
Sensing the hesitation, his friend flashed a rueful grimace. “Look, I’ve been drinking heavily and playing with all the skill of a donkey’s arse these last few months, and have yet to put a dent in the family coffers. A few more guineas won’t make a whit of difference.”
Years of poverty had honed Connor’s pride to a fine edge. But loath as he was to lean on his friends, he suddenly found himself in a very precarious position. Just a month ago, he had committed a chunk of his savings to a long-term investment, while another obligation had required a goodly amount of his reserve cash. He expected its return shortly, but the theft, coupled with the gambling losses, threatened to bankrupt his business unless he could borrow some funds to tide him over.
“It would only be for a matter of days—a week at most,” he muttered.
Gryff waved off the condition. “You may repay me whenever you wish.”
“No.” The earl gave a dogged shake of his head. “It will be done as a proper business transaction, or not at all.” Moving to the desk, he scribbled out several lines and signed it with a flourish. “A promissory note for half of The Wolf’s Lair should be sufficient collateral for the funds I require.”
“Hell’s teeth, Connor. Your word is more than good enough. I don’t need some scrap of paper,” protested Gryff. “I’ll probably only lose the damn thing when I’m in my cups.”
“Even corned, pickled, and salted, you should be able to hang on to this.” Connor forced the pledge into his friend’s hand.
Pulling a face, his friend stuffed it into his waistcoat. “I am not sure it is the best idea in the world to have the prospects for your future riding in my pocket.”
“Given the scrapes you have been getting yourself into lately, I can’t say as I am enamored of the idea either,” replied Connor. “But at the moment, I am at a loss to come up with a better one.”
W
as this a foolish mistake?
Alexa could not help but ask herself again as she surveyed the crowded ballroom. Unerring in judgment when it came to matters of estate management, she felt far less sure of her decisions regarding her own life.
Had she really imagined that a tall, aging beanpole with unruly tresses—and an even more unruly tongue—might fit in among all the carefully cultivated blooms of London?
Brushing back an errant curl, Alexa dropped her gaze to the tips of her slippers. As the musicians struck up the first lively notes of a country gavotte, a rueful twist pulled at her mouth. She had certainly had ample time to contemplate her folly. Other than stepping out for a set with Lord Bertram and one with Mr. Hallaway—sons of Aunt Adelaide’s bosom bows—she had sat on the perimeter of the dance floor for the entire evening, half hidden between a small group of turbaned matrons and a towering arrangement of potted palms.
The irony of her position was not lost her. It seemed that of late that she had been feeling awkward and isolated wherever she was. As the shadows of the fronds began a gentle swaying in time to the music, she wondered whether she would ever feel in step with those around her…
“Mr. Givens is offering to fetch us some refreshments, my dear.” A discreet tap of her aunt’s fan deflected such melancholy musings. “Would you care for a glass?”
Alexa forced a smile. “Yes. Thank you.” She had no real desire for a sip of tepid punch, but for her aunt’s sake, she wished to appear polite.
“And wouldn’t you rather join Lady Fiona and her friends, instead of sitting here listening to the boring chatter of ancient crones?” Lady Merton’s tone was light as she waved her fan at a group of young ladies whispering together near the card room, but there was a note of concern in her voice.
On the whole, Alexa preferred the company of her aunt and the other matrons, for at least they did not giggle incessantly while discussing the latest bits of gossip. However, she gave a small nod, reminding herself that with the time and blunt her family was spending to indulge her whim she ought to be making an effort to fit in.
“Perhaps just for a bit, if you are sure you will not feel neglected.”
“No, no, not at all! Evelyn and I are having a very comfortable coze, so go and enjoy yourself.” The brightening of her aunt’s countenance made Alexa feel even more guilty. “I am sure Mr. Givens would be happy to provide an escort once he returns with our drinks.”
Dear and determined Aunt Adelaide!
She did not miss any opportunity to bring her niece to the attention of an eligible young gentleman. Alexa didn’t have the heart to point out that an outspoken bluestocking of her years, no matter that she was the daughter of an earl, was not likely to attract a host of admirers.
Now, perhaps if she possessed cherubic little cheeks and a rosebud mouth—preferably one that only opened to voice adoring compliments to any male in the vicinity…
A sharp pinch knotted the strings of her reticule more tightly around her fingers. She must guard against turning too cynical, Alexa reminded herself. It wasn’t as if she was hurt by the lack of suitors. So far, of all the gentlemen she had met, there was not a one for whom she felt the slightest glimmer of attraction. Indeed, for all their elegant manners and well-tailored wardrobes, they might as well have been cut from pasteboard. It was hard to distinguish one from another.
Looking up through her lashes, she saw nothing that was going to alter that opinion.
“Lady Alexa…” Her lemonade was proffered with a rather exaggerated flourish. “Allow me to escort you across the room.”
Lady Fiona Eversham and her friends, four rather gawky misses fresh from the schoolroom, greeted Alexa’s arrival politely enough, but their real interest appeared to be in engaging Mr. Givens in a bit of mild flirtation. The young man lingered, clearly enjoying the attention, until the beginning of a new melody reminded him of a previous commitment.
“He has very broad shoulders,” sighed Miss Katherine Wilberton as Givens finished making his bows and edged his way across the dance floor. “And remarkable blue eyes.”
“Yes, but Mama says his family is quite
un
remarkable.” By the firm note of her reply, it was obvious that Lady Fiona was looked up to as the authority by the others. “A minor barony is all, and on top of that, he is naught but a second son. Turn your eyes elsewhere, Kitty. We can all look higher.”
Though a number of caustic comments came to mind, Alexa remained silent, mildly curious to hear what other words passed for worldly wisdom among the younger girls of the
ton
. But after a short spell, she was heartily regretting the decision to leave her chair. Following Lady Fiona’s initial observation, the four of them were quick to begin a whispered exchange of other bits of gossip and rumors, each one more outrageous than the next.
Having heard enough foolishness, Alexa was about to excuse herself when Lady Fiona gave a theatrical flourish of her fan. “And speaking of ineligible gentlemen, you have only to look over
there
!”
She followed the young lady’s gaze to the colonnaded entrance of the ballroom.
“The Earl of Killingworth possesses the most wicked temper in Town,” continued Lady Fiona in a knowing tone. “He is said to have broken a man’s arm just because he did not like the way the fellow was looking at him.”
“And I overheard Papa say that he shot his paramour’s husband.” Lady Lucinda Lassiter was quick to contribute her own bit of scandal. “But as the man was Italian, Prinny did not force the earl to flee the country.”
“He is a notorious gamester, and has stripped a number of innocent young men of their fortunes!” added Miss Wilberton rather breathlessly. “It is also said he smuggles brandy.”
Not to be outdone, Lady Marianne Dickerson gave a tiny wave of her fan. “That is not even the half of it.” Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she went on. “Aside from being a ruthless rake, my brother has heard that the earl was cashiered from the army for conduct unbecoming an officer.”
A nervous titter ran through the group.
“La, Mama will fall into a fit of megrims when she sees he is among the invited guests. Lord Killingworth is precisely the sort of scoundrel she forbids me to even look at,” announced Lady Fiona. Her eyes, however, remained glued on the tall figure standing in the shadows. “In less polite company, he is known by the nickname of the Irish Wolfhound, and no wonder. The earl is a
very
dangerous beast.”
As if the man was going to leap out and sink his fangs into the silly chit’s neck
, thought Alexa. She drew in a sharp breath, aghast at the viciousness of the rumors that were circulating through Society.
Reckless daredevil, inveterate gamester, notorious wom-anizer—Killingworth was certainly no saint, but neither was he the devil incarnate. Though her brother Sebastian had been suspiciously loath to discuss his former comrade in her presence, she managed to learn enough about the earl’s activities to know for a fact that none of the hearsay that had just been repeated—save for the part about smuggling—was true.
“What utter fustian,” she muttered, unable to keep quiet any longer. “As you can see, Lord Killingworth has neither horns nor cloven hooves. In fact when I conversed with him, his manners were perfectly pleasant.” That last statement was stretching the truth, admitted Alexa to herself.
All four of the other young ladies turned to stare at her.
“Y-you have spoken with the Irish Wolfhound?” gasped Lady Fiona.
Alexa nodded, finding their expressions almost comical as maidenly shock warred with adolescent awe.
“I—I am certain I should faint dead away were he to address a word to me,” stammered Lady Marianne.
Alexa confined herself to a response that was only mildly ironic. “I am certain you have nothing to worry about. Despite all the rumors being bandied about, I don’t believe he has ever been accused of despoiling innocent maidens in the middle of a crowded ballroom.”
Unsure whether to feel disappointed or relieved, the young lady essayed a confused smile.
“Yes, that’s quite right.” After an awkward pause, Lady Fiona sought to reassure her friend with a pat on the arm. Nodding vigorously, the other two also gathered around more closely to offer their support. “The gentleman wouldn’t dare force his advances on you, Beth. Not with…”
Alexa turned slightly. Having no interest in hearing more schoolgirl prattle, she found her attention wandering back across the room.
Even from a distance, the earl radiated an odd sort of animal magnetism. Chiseled cheekbones accentuated a lean face of angular hardness, and while his mouth—his only feature that did not appear cut from stone—had a sinuous fullness, it was usually twisted in a faintly mocking sneer. Still, there was some primal attraction about the predatory glint in his gray eyes and the hint of raw, masculine power beneath the finely tailored evening clothes that held her gaze in thrall. In contrast, all the other gentlemen of her acquaintance seemed so…tame.
Dangerous and unpredictable.
Seeing as her life was the exact opposite, no wonder Alexa felt an unwilling fascination for the rogue.
And so did a number of the other ladies present, she noted, seeing she was not alone in sneaking a peek at the earl.
Alexa quickly looked away, determined not to be caught gawking.
It was, she admonished herself, absurd to be paying any heed to the likes of Lord Killingworth. Common sense said she should forget that she had ever met the dratted man!
But despite the mental scold, Alexa could not help recalling his kiss. With a small swallow, she found that she could still taste the searing press of his mouth, hot with fiery brandy and raw, animal desire. Her skin began to prickle at the recollection of his long, lithe fingers slipping beneath the silk of her bodice with wicked ease.
Hell’s bells.
A strange heat began licking up at her core.
Suddenly tingling with awareness, Alexa looked up to see that the earl was close by, and moving her way. Drawing a deep breath, she smoothed at her skirts and sought to control the flush of color rising to her face.
Determined to appear cool and composed, she rehearsed a suitably nonchalant greeting…
Only to find that she need not have bothered.
Without so much as a glimmer of recognition, the earl brushed past her to bow over the hand of a statuesque brunette, whose ample endowments were highlighted by a massive diamond pendant dangling at her cleavage.
Bowing her head to hide any telltale burn of color left on her cheeks, Alexa melted back into the crowd and hurried to resume a seat by her aunt.
Connor guided his partner through another intricate spin. “You haven’t lost a step, I see,” he murmured. “It must have taken a bit of fancy footwork to convince Chatsworth to come up to scratch.”
The lady laughed softly, her eyes dancing with the same rich sparkle as her jewelry. “Oh, Drew was more than willing,” she said dryly. “However, it took some time to convince the dowager dragon that I was a suitable match for her son. Now
that
required some adroit maneuvering.” Moving with a fluid grace that belied her humble origins in the slums of Southwark, she finished off the complicated figure with an added flourish. “But as you know, I’m rather adept at improvising.”
A grin tugged at the earl’s lips.
“I have yet to thank you properly, Connor,” she said, her voice growing more serious as their steps carried them away from the other couples. “For suggesting that Andrew stay at my inn while visiting his cousin.”
He gave a shrug. “He was feeling blue-deviled and needed a cheery place to stay. Not to speak of someone who would be willing to lend sympathetic ear.”
“I have a sneaking suspicion that my
ear
was not the part of my anatomy that you first mentioned to him.” Once his bark of laughter had died away, she continued, “In all seriousness, I owe you a debt of gratitude for so much. Without the initial investment that allowed to me take up a more respectable profession—”
A squeeze of the earl’s hand, coupled with an abrupt spin, forced a pause in her words. “No need to mention it,” he said curtly.
“The hell there isn’t.” Unintimidated by the Wolfhound’s growl, the Honorable Mrs. Andrew Blake Chatsworth of Heatherton Close—formerly Suzy Simmonds of The Wolf’s Lair—added a saucy smile. “But seeing as it is bringing a blush to your cheeks, I shall leave off any further expressions of gratitude. However, if there is ever anything I can do for you, Connor, you have only to name it.”
Connor gave a mock shudder. “I was hoping you would say as much, but don’t let Drew get wind of it. Of all my former comrades, he is by far the best shot, and I would rather my lungs and my liver remain intact.”
The smile remained, but her brow took on an odd little quirk. “You know, I cannot help remarking that the least little show of tender feelings draws naught but sardonic snarls. Why are you so defensive? Afraid your reputation may be ruined were it to become known you have a heart, as well as gristle and bone, beneath that tough hide of yours?”
Though it was said half in jest, he felt himself go very rigid.
After dancing in a stiff-gaited silence for several moments, Suzy let out a harried sigh. “Forgive me if I have overstepped the bounds of our friendship. I did not mean to tread on a sensitive area—”
“You haven’t,” he said gruffly. “I have my reasons, however they are not ones I intend to discuss with anyone.” Seeing the spasm of hurt that crossed her face, he was quick to retreat to a less touchy subject. “Getting back to your offer, I meant it when I said there was something you might help me with.”
Her expression looked a little less pinched. “There is?”
“Has Drew, er, stayed friendly with Brighton and his circle?” The question was a trifle more awkward to ask than he had imagined, for it suddenly occurred to him that a wife, however worldly, might not care for the idea of her husband running tame with a ring of smugglers.