Too Wicked to Wed (8 page)
Luck versus experience.
The odds favored the earl. And yet…
As she slid beneath the sheets, the whisper of linen seemed to echo the earl’s earlier words.
The game was far from over.
G
ood day, Lady Alexa.” The gentleman’s voice, though a trifle rough around the edges, at least sounded sober. “Seeing as our paths have crossed, might I walk with you a bit?”
Rather embarrassed at any reminder of their previous encounter, Alexa was slow to look up from unwrapping the book she had just purchased at Hatchards. “It does appear we are headed in the same direction, Lord Haddan.”
Gryff caught a scrap of the brown paper before it could fall to the graveled walkway. “I won’t bite,” he said softly. “And you needn’t fear any harm to your reputation. Even the tabbies will acknowledge that it’s perfectly respectable to be seen strolling with me in broad daylight.”
“I am not overly worried about my reputation, sir. As you have reason to know.”
“Then your reluctance must be due to thinking I mean to hound you about…a certain subject.” Falling into step, the marquess cast a meaningful look at the abigail who had accompanied Alexa on the round of shopping.
Alexa murmured a few words to the girl, who fell back a discreet distance. “Are you?” she asked.
“Yes.” His austere countenance was softened by a faint smile. “But you may kick me away, as you would a stray cur, if I become too annoying.”
“I am never cruel to animals.” She ducked her head to hide her own upturned lips. Cupshot, the marquess had not made an overly favorable first impression. But it was hard not to respond in kind to his self-deprecating humor. “Especially strays, who are subject to enough abuse from those more fortunate than they are.”
“Ah. A soft spot for animals. And canines in particular. I am particularly pleased to hear it, given the turn our conversation may take.”
So, he had a quick wit as well. Keeping her expression shaded by the brim of her bonnet, she replied, “Don’t press your luck, sir.”
Gryff’s half-smile tweaked into a wry grimace.
In the light of day, Alexa could see why half the
ton
—the female half, of course—was ready to fling themselves at his feet. With the haze of smoke and brandy cleared from his chiseled features, he was sinfully attractive. She could see how that lazy, lidded gaze, fringed by indecently thick sable lashes, drove women wild.
No wonder the Hellhounds stirred such a visceral reaction in Society.
“Luck,” repeated Gryff. “Clearly I have none to speak of.” After a step, he added, “No doubt you are questioning my intelligence as well. Only a jug-witted fool would keep playing when odds were so clearly not in his favor.”
“Live and learn.” Alexa hoped that she didn’t sound too priggish.
The rumble in his throat may have been a laugh or merely a clearing of his throat. There was, however, no mistaking the twinkle in his eye, though it lasted for only an instant. “I’ll drink to that. With orgeat, not brandy. However, I draw the line at ratafia punch. I don’t know how you young ladies tolerate such vile stuff.”
“We aren’t given much of a choice, sir.”
“Ah. I hadn’t thought of it from that angle.” The crunch of his boots on the stones was accompanied by a lengthy silence. “From a lady’s point of view, quite a lot of things must take on a different perspective.”
“The opposite holds equally true—as I can well attest.”
A whoop of laughter drew her attention to a young boy up ahead, who had just sent his wooden hoop careening into the shin of an elderly gentleman. Dodging away from the ringing scold of his governess and the flaying cane of the injured party, he flashed her a mischievous grin that seemed to say cutting loose once in a while was worth the consequences.
Alexa smiled back. One’s backside might end up bruised on occasion, but it never hurt to experience a dash of freedom. She waited another few steps, until the shouts had died away, before asking, “Is there something you wish to dislodge from your throat, sir, other than the taste of stale punch?”
“As a matter of fact, yes…” He gave another cough “Thing is, it’s a rather delicate subject to broach…”
“You may have noticed that I am not easily shocked,” she murmured.
“Then I won’t mince words, Lady Alexa,” replied Gryff. “The Wolfhound would likely chew my carcass into crow bait if he knew I was speaking to you. But the fact is, I have caused him a great deal of grief at a time when he can ill-afford it.”
“Indeed?” Alexa had, of course, been dying to know why Haddan had held the earl’s note in the first place. Her curiosity piqued, she kept her reply deliberately neutral in hopes of drawing out a more detailed explanation.
“Yes. You see, he has suffered a string of business reversals—through no fault of his own, I might add.”
An arch of her brows punctuated what she hoped was a look of worldly skepticism.
“Truly. I assure you, he devotes a goodly amount of energy to his affairs—” The marquess grimaced. “What I mean to say, is, he manages his business establishment with a great deal of enthusiasm…Curse it, this is a deucedly difficult subject to discuss with a young lady.”
“If it makes it any easier, I was aware that the earl runs a gaming hell and bawdy house well before our chance encounter, Lord Haddan.”
Gryff looked somewhat relieved. “In that case…the fact is, he is careful and cautious when it comes to business, and has worked hard to master the fine points of profits and losses.” The marquess hesitated again. “No doubt such praise sounds shocking to your ears, but despite his reputation as an unprincipled cad, and his current means of livelihood, the Wolfhound is not nearly the beast he is made out to be. He is loyal, and generous—and humorous, when he chooses to show that side of his nature. Those few who know him well would attest to the fact that he is an altogether great gun.”
Save when an errant rub of flint in the form of a sharp-tongued lady causes the primed powder to explode in a shower of sparks.
“What with the robbery and a run of cheating by a cutthroat Captain Sharpe coming one on top of the other,” continued Gryff, “it is not Killingworth’s fault that he finds himself on the brink of financial ruin.”
Ruin?
“Lord Killingworth the random victim of a thief
and
a cardsharp?” Alexa could not keep the shock from her voice. “That part of Town may be rough, but the odds of two such strikes being unrelated seem quite low.”
“You are right,” agreed the marquess. “It’s no coincidence. I am convinced someone is out to destroy both the Lair and the Wolfhound.”
Alexa could easily imagine any number of reasons why some man—or woman—might wish the earl ill. Still, she felt a pain in the pit of her stomach for having contributed to his troubles. “Why?” she asked in a taut whisper.
“I have no idea. And neither does Killingworth.”
Somehow the answer made her feel even worse.
“My own recklessness has only compounded his woes. The Wolfhound refused an informal loan of funds, insisting that I hold a formal pledge for the money. He trusted me to keep it safe. Instead I…well, I hardly need explain to you what happened.”
“I am sorry for the role I played, and for putting you in an awkward position with your friend.”
Gryff turned in stark profile. “It is not for you to apologize. The fault is mine.”
Alexa drew in a deep breath. Like the other Hellhounds, he was a striking figure, his harshly handsome features chiseled with an untamed arrogance. And yet in a certain light, the edges took on a gentler cut.
Hard, yet soft.
She couldn’t define it any better than that. But though no expert in games of seduction, she imagined it was a quality most women found alluring.
“It’s of little consolation to Killingworth, but the incident taught me that perhaps it’s time…for an old dog to learn some new tricks.”
She looked away. “You think that is possible?”
“Hope springs eternal.” His cultivated cynicism was back. “If it did not, then life might be too bleak to contemplate.”
“I—I see.”
“I rather hope you don’t.” A strange sort of sadness seemed to shadow his features. “It’s not a sight I would wish for a lady of your tender years.” Before she could muster a reply, he gave a brusque bow. “Good day, Lady Alexa. I’ll leave you here, with a last reminder that you have only to name your price for your share of the Lair.”
As Alexa watched him walk away, she couldn’t help thinking…
Would the cost be too dear?
The glass was but a hair’s breath from his lips when Connor yanked it back. Another jerk smacked it down on the desk, drowning his disgruntled oath in a loud thump.
“Hell, I had better send out for a cheap tot of blue ruin and save these last few precious drops,” he muttered, staring balefully at the decanter. His quarterly delivery of aged French brandy was now a viscous puddle of ooze in the Iron Nun alleyway. God only knew what was diluting the delicate balance of oak and grape.
Cat hair? Rat droppings? Rotting cabbage?
Not to speak of the substances whose amorphous shapes and hues defied identification.
It made him quite sick to think of it.
“Every last barrel, smashed to smithereens,” announced McTavish, his doleful burr for once all too understandable. “Must have used smithy hammers to reduce oak to splinters of that wee size.”
“My, aren’t you a fount of interesting information,” snapped Connor. He immediately regretted the show of sarcasm on seeing the look of confusion on the hulking Highlander’s face. Normally he did not stoop to venting his spleen on subordinates. “If you wish to spout off gruesome details, you might at least try to discover something that might help us in tracking down the scurvy weasels who attacked the wagon.”
“Aye, sir.” The man rubbed at his flattened nose. “Rufus is on his way to the Badger’s burrow. Some of his lads who lift tickers from the gents in Covent Garden come home about that time. One of them might have seen something.”
“Perhaps.” The earl made a face. “But their memory usually requires a certain amount of jiggling before the picture becomes clear. At the moment I lack a sufficent amount of coins to do the trick.
“Don’t you fret about that, sir. The Wolf’s Lair ain’t been stripped of all its treasures.” The other man’s grin revealed a number of ominous gaps where the teeth had gone missing. “The girls are offering a free poke to anyone what can supply information leading to the capture of them bastards.”
“Bloody hell, that will certainly stimulate a steady stream of hyperbole.”
“Er, is that good?”
“I would not bet on it.” A conversation with one of his ex-pugilists usually provided a note of comic relief, but at present Connor was in no laughing mood. “Why don’t you toddle around to The Great Gabriel and see if any of his Avenging Angels might have the grace to come clean with what they know.”
“Aye, sir.”
As soon as McTavish had stomped off, Connor forced his attention back to the various sets of notebooks and ledgers arranged on the desk. From the roll of the ivories to the tumblings of the lasses, he was going over every record of the last six months with a fine-tooth comb, looking for any clue as to who might have a grudge.
So far, the search had turned up nothing, save for a few elementary mistakes in addition and subtraction.
He skipped over any equation involving simple division, needing no reminder of fractions. The concept of “half” was not a particularly edifying one at the moment.
“Damn Gryff,” he muttered aloud. If the curse were multiplied by the number of times he had said it each hour…
“M’lord, and exalted scion of County Kerry.” O’Toole added a knock for good measure.
“Don’t bother me,” growled Connor. “Not unless the bloody place is on fire.”
“Things are likely to get a bit hot around here, but not on account of coals or conflagration.”
“Stubble the Hibernian histrionics, if you don’t mind, and get to the point.”
Folding his hands behind his back, the Irishman heaved a lugubrious sigh. “There is a visitor to see you, milord.”
“Send him away.”
“I’m afraid that is beyond my power.”
“Is that so? Well, be advised that it is not beyond my power to boot your emerald arse from here to Dublin if you don’t.” The earl swatted at one of the pages. “Given the present precarious state of the Lair’s finances, we may all be seeking new employment opportunities, whether it be here or abroad.”
“I was not being impertinent, sir.” O’Toole gave an aggrieved sniff. “Merely truthful. Seeing as the ‘he’ is a—”
“She,” finished Alexa. Unknotting the strings of her bonnet, she dropped it in the outstretched hands of the Irishman, who for once appeared bereft of speech. A moment later it was joined by a heavy pelisse of charcoal gray napped wool. “Now, if you don’t mind, the earl and I have business to discuss in private.”
Taking his cue with a good deal more speed than he usually showed, O’Toole backed out of the room and drew the door shut.
Connor watched as she crossed the carpet in several measured strides, kicking up an enticing little swirl of shimmering indigo silk and frothy cream lace. Dragging his gaze away from the sight, he drew in a sharp breath, only to find himself distracted by the wafting of verbena and jasmine through the stale smokiness of countless cheroots.
He cleared his throat just as she gathered her skirts and took a seat. “Forgive me for not offering you a drink, Lady Alexa. But seeing as
our
coffers are just about drained dry, I am afraid I cannot afford even the most basic show of hospitality.”
Her eyes, luminous in the intensity of their color, did not flinch in the face of his deliberate sarcasm.
Brave girl
, he applauded, even as he tried to goad her into losing her composure. And her temper. Their previous encounters had proved she had one nearly the equal of his own.
“Though I doubt you have any notion what it is like to have creditors snapping at your heels,” he continued. “I assure you that we have no choice but to impose the strictest measures of economy to keep the wolves from our door.”
“Actually I know the feeling all too well, having spent the last few years trying to keep the slate and granite of Becton Manor from crumbling down around my family’s ears.” She fell silent, lowering her gaze to the ledgers and loose papers spread across the scarred desk.