Wicked Designs (The League of Rogues) (18 page)

“You got that little fox to agree to some terms?” Lucien asked. “Did you use thumbscrews or the rack?”

Godric’s face darkened.

“Just remind her of her agreement before you leave her alone, but…and I must press this warning—” Godric and the other two men walked out into the main hall, “—don’t let Emily out of your sight for even one minute before ten.”

“Don’t worry.” Lucien slapped Godric’s shoulder. “She’ll be here for you when you get back.”

“She better be because there will be hell to pay if she is not.”

Chapter Nine

The day was exceedingly fine with sunny skies and a light breeze. Emily leaned down to let the knee-high silky grass brush under her palms. Cedric and Charles walked on either side of her, carrying on a conversation while Emily listened. Penelope, not tethered by a leash, moved about several yards ahead. The small puppy worked to jump through grass, a good five inches above her head. Emily smiled at the pup’s black nose trained to the ground. She sniffed and then bounded over the grass only to resume sniffing again.

“So then,” said Cedric, “I said to the sheikh, ‘Bet you eight hundred pounds I can win this hand,’ and the sheikh, the haughty bastard, replied, ‘Let us make the wager on something more valuable. How would a pair of Arabian mares suit you?’ And I told him I would accept that wager.”

“Are these the mares you mean to breed with Anne Chessley’s stallion?”

“The very pair!” Cedric laughed.

“You won the horses from the sheikh then?” Emily asked in amazement. “Wasn’t he angry?” She envisioned Cedric playing the winning hand before an olive-skinned sheikh whose eyes flamed when he lost his horses.

Cedric swung his cane low over the grass as he strolled.

“Was he angry? The man was livid! But I won fair and square in front of a dozen pairs of eyes. Honestly, foreigners don’t know how to play whist. Too much impulse and bravado.”

A wry smile creased Charles’s lips. “I take it he was fond of his horses?”

“Fond of their lineage,” Cedric clarified. “The mares were both sired by his best stallion, an Arabian called Firestorm. Even I couldn’t afford to make an offer to buy them.”

Emily was in awe. She’d seen an Arabian once, at a country fair, which had performed jumps and pawed the ground and danced. Its coat had been white, like the first snowfall.

Unlike most horses, the nose of Arabians curved up a little at the end. Their equine beauty was alluring and mysterious, and their trim legs lent them an air of delicacy while providing much strength. Their unique build also contributed to fast runs.

“Why aren’t there more pure Arabians in England? I’ve only ever seen one in my life.” Many Englishmen boasted that they owned fine Arabians, but those horses had been bred in England over countless generations. It was rare for Arabians fresh from the Middle East to arrive on English shores.

“The sheikhs jealously guard their horses. People have been killed over them.”

“I’m rather surprised the sheikh let you walk out alive,” Charles said.

“He let me leave the card room, but he told me one day I’d die a horrible death and he’d get his horses back.”

Emily gasped, but the men only chuckled. Emily saw nothing humorous in a death threat.

“What did you say to that?” Charles asked.

“I told him if he wanted revenge for an honest game of cards he’d best wait his turn because I’ve done far worse to better men.” Little in the world scared either of these men.

“But surely you don’t mean that, Cedric. You have your flaws as all men do. But you are also kind. You wouldn’t do something to a person undeserving.” Emily hoped it was the truth. She knew they were capable of kindness, but an impish curiosity drove her to learn whether these two men would admit to their wicked pasts.

“Are you claiming then that women have no flaws?” There was a merry twinkle in Cedric’s eyes.

“Hmm. I know of a flaw she has…” Charles spun and caught Emily about the waist, tickling her so that she dissolved into giggles and gasps for help.

“We try to be kind to you, kitten, because you are so helpless and sweet.”

Cedric crossed his arms and laughed as she struggled to escape Charles.

“Oh help! Cedric, make him stop!” She tried to free herself, but Charles would have none of it. Cedric gave a well-placed whack of his cane to the back of Charles’s legs. Emily broke free and skirted around Cedric using him as a human shield, as Charles did his best to stalk her like a jungle cat.

“Enough!” Cedric dodged Charles’s reaching hands and fended off Penelope as the pup joined in the fun. Finally Charles relented and let Emily catch her breath.

Cedric held out a hand. “Come along, Emily.” She darted forward, sliding her hand in his, laughing as Charles told an amusing tale about his latest boxing match. It was a perfect day. Almost. Only one thing was missing. One person.

Whitechapel was a despicable area. During the day, carts and people selling cheap wares littered the streets. By night, the area transformed into a haven for prostitutes, degenerates and murderers. Side streets cut and slashed their way through the area, weaving a deadly maze of filth and danger.

Blankenship kept to the shadows. Though a large man, more than able to protect himself in a fight, he’d never believed that any such fight should be fair. He kept his palm tucked inside his jacket on a Manton-made pistol.

A sharp cry above was his only warning to sidestep as a chamber pot was emptied overhead. He moved into a yellow pool of light, bumping into a ragged whore.

“Care for a quickie, love?” The woman’s painted face was a mask of disease and hardship. Blankenship cursed and ducked back into the shelter of the shadows. Something squirmed under his boot. He kicked out, sending a rat scurrying. The next turn he took was down Dorset Street, his fingers curled around the handle of his pistol as he approached a tavern called The Black Boar’s Head.

The scrap of parchment in his pocket he’d received this afternoon had born the name of this tavern and a time for a meeting. Someone had known he needed help in acquiring the Parr girl and had suggested he come here to discuss an alternative to the legal means he had attempted and failed. He was too desperate not to try any method, even if it meant meeting a stranger here.

The moment the door swung open the scent of gin and unwashed bodies assailed him. His eyes watered and Blankenship nearly tossed his accounts.

He dodged a number of serving wenches, their breasts nearly toppling out of thin muslin bodices. Such low, dirty creatures held no appeal to him any longer. He craved soft, creamy skin, burnished gold hair and pale pink lips.

He craved Emily Parr.

Blankenship started to slide into a table near the door when something caught his eye. Near the back, a well-dressed man lounged at a table, one hand curled around a glass of gin. The other hand was fisted in the tangled mess of a woman’s hair as he urged her head up and down over his groin. Blankenship stifled a moan, then shifted uncomfortably, and adjusted his trousers. His greatest desire was to have Emily at his knees, wrapping her lips around his length and taking him so deep she gagged.

The man at the table arched his hips in release and shoved the woman away. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and slunk away into a corner. The man held Blankenship’s gaze, fixed his trousers and smiled. It was a cold expression, one of frozen metal. A flick of his hand indicated that Blankenship should join him.

“You’ve been watching me.”

Blankenship was unable to hide his scowl. “You put on distracting show.”

The man laughed again. Soft. Dangerous. “Sit. I believe you need help.”

The chair Blankenship took creaked in protest. “So it was you who sent me the note? Who are you?” He studied the other man. His long fingers were manicured, his hair styled, his clothing immaculate. A lord perhaps?

“Hugo Waverly.”

He’d heard the name before but couldn’t recall where.

“What interest do you have in my affairs?” His hand still rested on the gun tucked in his coat.

Waverly fixed cold brown eyes on him. “We share a common adversary, do we not?”

Blankenship’s gut twisted. Any man who knew of his affairs was a threat, yet a man like this might be a potential ally.

“I assume you mean the Duke of Essex?” Blankenship leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you have against him?”

“It’s personal. Suffice it to say I’d like to help. I know a man.” Waverly’s fingers danced on his shot glass as he swirled it in front of him, his eyes fixed on Blankenship. “He’s highly skilled. Eyes and ears everywhere. He specializes in retrievals of a delicate nature. If you pay him well, he can retrieve what is rightfully yours.” Waverly smiled. “And I’ll have the pleasure of knowing something was taken from Essex, something he loves.”

“You think he loves her?”

“I know nothing of any woman.” His sly gaze met Blankenship’s. “To my knowledge this involves a misappropriated piece of property, nothing more. Essex thinks he’s entitled to this property and you and I both know it isn’t his. That doesn’t change the fact that he cares for this…property.”

“Who’s this man?”

Waverly reached into his pocket and withdrew a slender slip of paper. He slid it across the table. Blankenship took it, stared at the name and address.

“I should add there is someone else you might find useful. Someone who is intimately familiar with Essex’s habits. You need only to consult
The
Quizzing Glass Gazette’s
Lady Society column to determine her identity.”

Satisfied, Blankenship stood up to leave.

“Blankenship?”

His shoulders stiffened, but he stood facing Waverly.

“Essex especially hates it when the things he cares about are
broken
.”

Once Godric concluded his meeting with his solicitor, he and Ashton walked to the little jeweler’s shop on Regent Street he’d frequented in his earlier years. Godric examined the glittering trinkets from the window display—mulling, picking, debating. After an intense study, he chose a gold comb adorned with a butterfly, with an opal-colored body and mother-of-pearl wings.

Emily reminded him of a butterfly. She flew to her freedom each time he sought to capture her, but when he sat very, very still, she rewarded him with the most enchanting kisses meant for him alone.

Godric brushed his thumb over the smooth opal and pearl, imagining it nestled in the waves of auburn gold hair. He would savor the moment of removing it at night when she climbed into his bed. Her hair would cascade down in a waterfall of color.

He was acting like a young man again, uncertain as to how to win a woman. How many years had passed since he and his friends had schemed about the best way to capture a girl’s heart?

Godric selected a hairbrush to match the comb, then handed the shopkeeper a leather dog collar with a silver name plate to have it engraved for Penelope. Once the items were ready, he and Ashton departed.

It was time to pay a visit to Albert Parr.

Parr’s sallow-faced butler showed them in with the stiffest and most unwelcoming behavior. He merely stepped aside for them, then lead them down the hall. Godric frowned at the unkempt surroundings. He ran a gloved finger along the nearest banister, and his brow creased at the smudge of gray dust that marred his glove. The house was only a few streets away from Park Lane, yet it was clear that the employment and supervision of servants was not Albert Parr’s primary concerns.

“Poor Emily,” Ashton muttered under his breath. “Not exactly a warm place to live.”

Godric growled. “My Emily belongs in a palace, with silk sheets and a thousand servants.”

Ashton cocked an eyebrow at him. “You mean she belongs in a place like Essex House?”

Godric’s silently contemplated the comment. “For the moment, yes.”

“Why not longer? Say…forever?”

“What would I do with her, Ash?”

“Woo her. She’ll not long be an unplucked fruit, my friend. Wouldn’t you rather it be you than some scoundrel like Blankenship? She deserves a man who would be tender and passionate with her.”

“But what then? I’ve ruined her reputation. Am I to marry her and live happily ever after? You know better than that.” The people he loved had either left him or betrayed him. He didn’t want either with Emily.

“Isn’t that what reformed rakes are supposed to do?”

“Who said I was reformed?”

Ashton merely smiled.

Neither man said anything more as the manservant led them to Parr’s study. Emily’s weasel of an uncle was reading some letters, bent over his desk. He glanced up, and then did a double take.

Rather than treat a duke and a baron with deserving deference, Parr rose reluctantly to his feet.

“What took you so long?”

Godric stared him down until the man added, “Your Grace.”

Godric’s fists clenched sharply at his sides. He had the oddest sense he was being played. “I would like to discuss my investment with you.” He and Ashton approached Parr’s desk, bearing down on him with scowls that would have sent any other man fleeing, as though the devil himself was on his heels.

Parr settled back into his chair, eyeing them. “Is that what you call my niece, Your Grace?”