“Ho there,” Owens called as he approached. “Are you all right, Miss Sheffield?”
“Perfectly fine,” she called back. She glanced at the man. “You?”
His smile was quick; he’d no doubt been instructed to go unnoticed. “Fine, madam.”
“Good. If you’ll excuse me.” As she passed him, she dropped a small piece of paper onto the ground, knowing he’d pick it up, and resumed her walk to the bookstore.
Anne pretended to examine the rows of books, letting her fingers linger on each one. She sensed Owens’s growing impatience at how long she’d spent there — an hour already.
You and me both, sir, she thought to herself.
She was restless. Had Richard got her message? Did his man take it to him? Perhaps she’d made a mistake. Maybe that man wasn’t really following her. Or he hadn’t seen the note when she’d dropped it on the ground.
As she went to snatch a book off the shelf — any book — the bell over the shop door chimed.
Anne let out a breath of relief when Richard strolled in. God in heaven, she doubted she could ever resist admiring his beauty. For he was beautiful — some lure built just for the fairer sex. Without charm, his handsomeness might have been cold — with those high cheekbones and blue, blue eyes — but his smile melted the ice. It always danced on the edge of wickedness.
Richard’s hands were in his pockets as he greeted the owner and wandered over to the shelves. A perfect gentleman, by all appearances: dark grey overcoat, trousers that didn’t entirely hide the musculature of his legs, polished boots. His wind-blown hair was the only inconsistency to his otherwise immaculate appearance; he must have rushed over the moment he got that note.
His eyes met hers briefly, and she touched a finger to her lips in an indication to wait. Owens was still sitting by the entrance; despite his boredom, he would certainly notice if a gentleman struck up a conversation with his charge.
With more patience than she felt, Anne opened the book and pretended to read.
Richard, for his part, tried to look as if he were browsing. When he passed her in the stacks, his fingertips brushed hers.
Electricity. Heat. A shiver. Would his touch ever cease to do this to her? That moment of contact was over so soon, the warmth of his hand gone as he continued down the aisle.
After a few minutes, Anne shut her book and approached her bodyguard. “Owens, I’m so very sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll be a while longer.” She tapped the book’s cover. “I’d like to read more of this.”
Owens let out a breath and forced a smile. The man was probably bored out of his mind. “Very well, miss.”
“I imagine this can’t be at all enjoyable for you, waiting here. Why don’t you go down the street to the tea shop and buy yourself a treat to keep you occupied while I finish making my decision?”
The man hesitated. “Miss, the prime minister, he wouldn’t want me leavin’ ye all by yerself. If somethin’ were to happen’—”
“It’s not as if I’ll be kidnapped or otherwise assaulted in broad daylight, certainly not in the length of time it takes to purchase a cake. Don’t you think?”
Owens still looked undecided. “I reckon so.”
“Go on, then. By the time you return, I’ll be ready.”
Her bodyguard nodded and rose from the chair he’d been occupying for the last hour. After Owens disappeared out the door, Anne faced Richard and discreetly gestured to a remote section of the stacks hidden from view of the shop’s owner.
Once they were alone, Anne grasped Richard by the waistcoat, pulled him close, and kissed him.
Richard made some rough noise and pushed her against the bookcase. His hands slid into Anne’s hair as he kissed her back, his lips hard on hers.
This was what she needed. Some reminder that she was a creature of flesh and blood. Not stone. Not a doll. Not some dusty mantelpiece vase to be inspected and discarded at will.
No, she was alive. She was fire. Every sensation filtered through the heat: the rigidity of the bookshelf, his hands squeezing her hips, his tongue touching hers, the warm press of their lips — yes, she needed this. She needed this.
Richard pulled away only to whisper, “I’ve missed you. God, how I’ve missed you. When I got your note . . .”
Anne didn’t wish to think on why she had asked him to meet her. She only wanted him right where he was, with his body against hers.
But she calculated how long it would take for Owens to walk down the street, buy his cake, and return — and they couldn’t linger here.
With a disappointed sigh, she slid her body away from his. “We don’t have much time. Owens will be back soon.”
“So you’re telling me all this trouble wasn’t for clandestine kissing in a bookshop. Anne, I’m disappointed.”
She shook her head, gave a short laugh. “You’re such a—”
“Rake?” He gave a lazy grin. “You know the best thing about marrying a rake?” He leaned, licked the shell of her ear, and whispered, “I have no qualms with lifting up that dress and fucking you against a bookcase.”
Anne smiled. Ah, how she missed that language. “Any bookcase? Even public ones?”
Richard leaned a hand against the wood. “This one seems sturdy enough. How about this one?”
Which reminded her . . .
Anne’s smile faded. “We’re pressed for time.”
“We’re always pressed for time.” With a sigh, he nuzzled her cheek and stepped back. “Very well, what did you need to tell me?”
“My father gave me a map along with some addresses yesterday, and it looks like he’s tracking a person’s movements. Some to an address in St. James’s.” She read it back to him. “Do you know it?”
For a moment, it seemed as if he stopped breathing. “My brother’s house. The others?”
“Less frequent. They pointed to a very specific location in Whitechapel, but I’m not familiar enough with the area.”
When she told him, he swore softly. “That’s the Brimstone.” At her confused expression, he explained, “Thorne’s club. Gentlemen go, but only when they want to play deep, drink deep, and destroy themselves.”
Anne froze, her heart slamming against her chest. “He must be following Mr. Thorne, yes?”
“I don’t know,” Richard murmured with a considering expression.
“Mr. Thorne ought to take care. He’s not—”
Richard took her by the shoulders. “Anne, I employ Thorne because he can handle a man like your father. My dealings with him are far from secret, and this still doesn’t explain why my brother’s address was on your father’s map.”
“Perhaps the earl . . . ?”
“No. James has been a bloody mess.” Richard gave a brittle laugh. “Believe me, he’s accomplished enough destruction at home. He doesn’t need the Brimstone to help him along.” At her worried look, Richard cupped her cheek. “I’ll figure it out. You’re not to worry, yes?”
“You ask the impossible.”
“I know it.”
Anne grasped his hand and pressed her lips to his palm. “Just be careful, won’t you? I don’t wish to see you hurt. I’m quite fond of you.”
Richard’s lips curved into a smile. “Brilliant girl,” he murmured. “When we have a moment we’ll have to discuss my own feelings for you. I’m a great deal more than fond.”
His words made her glow. They made her want him with a fierceness she had never felt before, and it both frightened and exhilarated her.
It was little wonder her father feared him. He was a radical, a revolutionary, a man who valued a woman’s input. The way he encouraged her voice, and taught her to expect more than what she had been given — these were the actions of a man worth keeping. A man worth everything.
Who she wanted to be hers.
I’m a great deal more than fond, as well.
No, she wouldn’t make declarations in a bookshop. It wasn’t right, not with their time as precious as it was. She would settle for
another kiss. More touching. Things to remember at night in the darkness.
But when she leaned forward, Richard stopped her. “Wait. Aside from your father, does Kendal have another close ally? Anyone I can leverage for information?”
“Lord St. Vincent. My father uses him to gather intel on whether a bill looks liable to pass in the Lords or not.” She looked around quickly to make certain no one was about and leaned in. “He’s a bigamist.”
Richard’s eyebrows shot up. “The viscount?” He seemed to ponder that a moment. “I suppose that makes sense.”
“How is that?”
“No particular reason. I just hate him.”
Before she could stop it, Anne laughed softly and shook her head.
Richard reached out and put a finger under her chin. “There’s that smile, dimple and all. I’ve missed it.”
I love you, she wanted to say. I love you.
The bell over the shop door rang. Owens was back — the timing was precisely right.
“Be careful, Richard,” Anne whispered.
“Always am, sweetheart.”
She pressed one last, soft kiss to Richard’s lips, and left him there in the stacks.
Chapter 29
The Brimstone was the most opulent club in London.
A number of gentlemen would have given that label to White’s or Brooks’s — after all, those were clubs exclusive to the upper classes. They didn’t have to mingle with men they considered to be their inferiors.
At the Brimstone, there was no such distinction; gentlemen gambled with commoners, rich men who had crawled their way up the social ladder just like its owner, Nicholas Thorne.
As Richard strolled through the club, he didn’t see the dark hair of its elusive proprietor. Thorne was always off tending to something, whether it be dealing with shipments, his gambling books, or running his empire in the East End. At last count, he controlled three vestries, including the Docklands.
Thorne had spared no expense when it came to his hell. It looked like the interior of a palace, complete with teardrop chandeliers, a ceiling fresco, and plush red carpeting throughout. The effect was twofold: to make aristocrats comfortable, and to make rich workers savor their own success. They’d all eat the same food; some platters from France, or East End staples, oysters and high-end cuisine. The intermingling was deliberate, Richard knew. Thorne never made a decision that wasn’t. It was how he’d become so successful.
From opening to closing, the Brimstone was full of patrons. The tables were always filled the the brim with men yelling, chatting, smoking and drinking. The noise was relentless.
Leo O’Sullivan, Thorne’s majordomo, spotted Richard and pushed off the hazard table he’d been leaning against. The ex-pugilist had the massive body of a bruiser with the face of an angel. He wore thin wire-framed spectacles that further softened his appearance, but it was an illusion. Leo could brawl like no one Richard had ever seen.
“Grey,” he said in greeting. “Thorne is out at the moment. Unless you came to play a bit of hazard.”
Richard surveyed the tables. “Here on different business. I heard Lord St. Vincent’s been visiting often. True?”
The Irishman examined him closely, as if trying to get some answer out of him. “Yeah. What of it?”
“Take me to him. I’ve got a few things to ask. I’m going to need you to clear a room.”
Leo sighed. “Don’t pick a fight in my club, Grey.”
“I thought it was Thorne’s club.”
“And tonight it’s mine. Understood?”
At Richard’s nod, Leo beckoned with his fingers and led Richard through the main floor of the hell to one of the game rooms.
Lord St. Vincent was engaged in a game of vingt-et-un and losing a great deal of his already dwindling coffers, by the looks of things. The prostitute draped over his lap certainly wasn’t helping matters.
Leo discreetly tapped the other two players on the shoulders. They folded the game and quit the room. No questions asked. There weren’t many men who risked angering Leo, and those who did came to regret it.
St. Vincent, stupid bastard, was so deep into his cups that he barely noticed.
“St. Vincent,” Richard said in greeting.
He settled in one of the empty chairs. Leo sent out the dealer and took over, shuffling the cards before dealing Richard in. He was probably sticking around to keep an eye on things.
“Grey,” St. Vincent said, staring down at his cards. “Wasn’t aware you came down to the Brimstone.”
“When I have certain matters to discuss,” Richard murmured. “Such as now, in fact.”
“I’m not here for business, Grey. Does she look like business to you?” St. Vincent said, grabbing the prostitute’s arse as he shifted her on his lap.
She giggled, but Richard noticed she rolled her eyes as she leaned back. The woman didn’t wish to be there anymore than Richard did. Not that he blamed her; St. Vincent was a drunk, lecherous old bastard with thin fingers that more closely resembled claws. Bedding him would be a challenge for even the most experienced, stalwart girl, and she didn’t look to be any older than Anne.
Richard’s eyes touched briefly on hers, and he winked. “She does, actually.” The woman smiled back. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Gemma.”
“Gemma,” he repeated with his most charming I’m-a-rake smile. “Lovely name for a lovely lady.”
St. Vincent scowled. “Get your own whore, Grey. I had her first.”
Richard calmly looked down at his cards. “I doubt she’ll be going home with you, St. Vincent.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Richard clicked his tongue. “All in good time. I need to know a few things. Tell me about the Duke of Kendal. He’s a friend of yours, yes?”
“I told you,” St. Vincent said, snatching his glass of brandy off the table to take a deep drink. “I’m not here on business.”
“That’s a bit of a problem, because I am. And I want to know about Kendal.” Richard glanced at Gemma and flashed another smile. “Could you give us a bit of space, darling? I’m afraid I need to borrow him.”
With a relieved look, the woman ignored the old man’s sputtering and unwound herself from his grasp to stand beside Leo.
“Fuck you, Grey. I don’t have to tolerate your boorish behavior.”
But when St. Vincent stood — reaching once more for Gemma — Richard was faster. He grasped St. Vincent by the shoulder and shoved him back down in his chair.
“Oh, I’m not done with you yet. Have a seat.”
St. Vincent gaped. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I told you. I need some information, and you’re going to give it to me. No questions asked.”
The viscount’s nostrils flared in outrage. “I don’t have to give you a damn thing, Grey.”
“I’d like you to hear my proposal. But first, a question: I’ve heard Kendal fancies girls on the young side,” Richard said casually. “On the very, very young side.” It was a lie that he’d heard any such thing, but Richard went on instinct. Plenty of men in power had revolting predilections and nothing surprised him anymore. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
St. Vincent looked away. “Of course not. Now, would you please—”
“Are you willing to stake your family’s wellbeing on that?”
Now the viscount looked even more alarmed. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do. The question is, which family? The one here in London, or the one at that nice little country cottage in Alnwick?”
St. Vincent panicked. He staggered out of his seat and made for the door, but Richard got there first. He grasped the man by the collar and slammed him against the hazard table.
“Grey,” Leo snapped.
“I haven’t hit him yet, Leo,” Richard said in a low voice, staring down at the man fighting his hold like a flopping fish. “But here’s my
proposal: you tell me everything I need to know, and I won’t break your fucking nose and tell everyone that the Viscount of St. Vincent is a bigamist. How does that sound?”
“All right, all right,” the viscount was saying, his expression placating. “For god’s sake, just don’t—”
“You don’t get to make any requests. Start talking. Fast.”
“I may have accompanied the duke to a few madams in Whitechapel who specialize in certain . . . unique preferences.”
Rage curdled in Richard’s belly. “Go on.”
“He was barred from them after his habit of, er, damaging the goods, as it were. He went elsewhere after that.”
Richard didn’t think it was possible for him to speak; he saw red. His grip tightened on the viscount, and the other man made a pathetic whimper. But he was lucky, St. Vincent was. If Richard were a man more like Thorne, he would have strangled him on the spot.
“Where did he go?” The viscount whimpered again, and Richard pulled him forward just to slam him into the gambling table again. “Where?”
“I don’t know. I only saw him pay a man. Some mongrel from the Nichol he called Malloy. That’s all I know, I swear to god.” He cringed. “Please don’t—”
Richard released him and stepped back, breathing hard. “Leo,” he said, sounding calmer than he felt, “when I leave here, you’re to speak with your contact at The Times. Tell them all about the man sitting in the House of Lords who preaches the rule of law while committing bigotry.”
St. Vincent gaped at him. “But . . . but . . . you said—”
“I lied. Consider yourself lucky I’m giving you fair warning.” He nodded to the door. “Now get the fuck out.”
The viscount straightened his coat, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “You’re nothing more than a common thug,” he sputtered. “Thorne may be your ally, but he’ll never be one of us no matter how often he slinks about St. James’s playing at being a gentleman. That’s right, don’t think I haven’t noticed him loitering outside your brother’s home. Mark my words, Grey, I’m going to destroy the both of you. I’m going to—”
His Scandalous Lessons Page 17