“Visit a flash house on Butcher Row; it’s close to the docks. Trouble frequents the place, and so do our friends.”
At that, Lucien stood. “Thank you.”
Cripplegate waved him away rudely. “I have my money and Marsden’s cock is under the hatchet. It’s an even exchange.”
Lucien then left the tavern and instructed his driver to take him to Butcher Row.
Settling himself against the seat, Lucien contemplated his impending victory. If he could threaten—or bribe—Rollins and McCoy into telling all they knew about Warrington’s murder, combined with the word of the late duke’s coachman, it might be enough to send Alastair to Newgate.
Closing his eyes, Lucien wished more than anything for a speedy end to this mess. If not for Alastair, Serena would be safe. And he could be at home with her, proving to her that she belonged in his bed and his life.
Through the coach’s window, Lucien watched the East End streets in passing. The surrounding buildings were small and worn. Through the night fog, their dark facades hovered on the edge of the narrow streets, as if waiting to spring forward and capture unsuspecting travelers in their crime-ridden clutches. Evidence of poverty and vice lay all around him, from the children selling flowers, candles, and evening newspapers, to the prostitutes, both young and old, hawking their bodies on nearly every corner.
As they rounded a bend, Lucien saw the outline of an inert body, a man, just off the road. He frowned, wondering if the chap was merely drunk or dead.
A moment later, the coach stopped. The driver dismounted and opened the door. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but are you sure this is where you want to be?”
Lucien looked out the window again. One hut across the street exploded with activity. Young boys carried bottles to and fro, while a graying man sat atop the stairs watching everyone with shrewd little eyes. A thoroughly dissolute woman clung to his shoulders. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“A body is likely to get killed here, my lord. Are you sure you want to get out? Mayhap I can fetch something for you?”
Lucien shoved the carriage door open a little wider. “Thank you, but no. I can handle myself.”
Lucien alighted onto the filthy street, trying to ignore the odor of raw sewage. Other than the noises across the way, the air around him was quiet . . . still. The eerie sound of his own boot heels crunching into the dirt below rang in his ears.
Withdrawing a pistol he had tucked into his greatcoat, Lucien approached the shanty cautiously. The bottle-carrying boys carting gin, no doubt, took little notice of him. The greasy-haired man and his woman atop the stairs, however, eyed him with interest.
Clutching the gun in his palm, Lucien made him way toward the ragtag pair.
The unshaven man peered curiously at Lucien. “Be ye wantin’ to buy a bottle, rent a room or a boy fer the night?”
Lucien smothered an oath of distaste and stepped away from the smell of the man’s unwashed body. “No. I’m looking for a pair of fellows said to spend time here, Rollins and McCoy.”
He eyed Lucien shrewdly. “What’s it worth to ye?”
With impatience and disgust, Lucien tossed a couple of crowns in the man’s direction.
The haggard blonde at his side lunged toward the shining silver coins. The man slapped her away. “Get lost, ye bleedin’ whore. Go inside.”
With a mutinous glare, the woman flounced away and stomped into the house, slamming the door behind her.
“You do know them, don’t you?” Lucien demanded.
“Aye, I know ’em.”
Through clenched teeth, Lucien asked, “Are they here, by chance?”
At that, the man’s expression became perplexed. “Can’t rightly say they are. Haven’t seen ’em in over a week.”
Lucien swore loudly.
“Now that I think about it, seems they disappeared ’bout the time that Redbreast started showin’ his miserable face round here.”
“A Bow Street Runner?” Lucien prompted, his interest once again peaked.
The man nodded. “Name’s Vickery, he said. ’e’s been lookin’ for Rollins and McCoy, too.”
“Did he say why?” Lucien quizzed.
The old man shrugged. “Somethin’ about the murder of a duke. And he’s been askin’ a lot of blokes round here questions about a titled gent named Marsden.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The grandfather clock struck two in the morning as Lucien entered the town house. Wordlessly, he removed his greatcoat and gloves, then thrust them at the porter. He glanced up the darkened stairs before mounting them two at a time, ignoring the twinge in his knee.
Striding between the pair of guards outside Serena’s bedroom, he opened the door, then eased it closed, the soft click of the latch barely audible.
Her chamber was almost dark, the curtains drawn against all but the thinnest stream of moonlight. Immediately, he saw she had replaced Ravenna’s brothel red bed with a mahogany half-tester. Gone was his ex-wife’s portrait. In its stead hung a placid landscape in pastels. The red curtains and accessories had been removed in favor of innocent white and lace.
Innocent? A questionable prospect, just as questionable as the possibility the Bow Street Runner was mere coincidence.
Lucien tread across the room and watched his wife sleep, her honey features illuminated by the moon’s glow, her golden plait resting against the curve of her white-gowned back. He perched on the edge of her bed, fighting down his rising lust, and gently shook her shoulder.
She stirred, fixing her groggy gaze on him. “Lucien, what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
Closing the space between them, he asked evenly, “Did you hire a Runner named Vickery?”
“What?” Serena’s voice was faint with sleep.
“A Bow Street Runner,” he repeated. “Did you hire him?”
Blinking, Serena nodded. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
He groaned. “I thought you would do me the courtesy of telling me you had hired a man. I’ve journeyed to the East End several times, trying to put Marsden in Newgate to protect you. Why didn’t you see fit to tell me about Vickery?”
“I . . . I,” she stammered, seeming to search for the right words. Shaking her head, she finally answered, “In all truth, it slipped my mind. I hired the man the day after Cyrus was murdered. We wed so quickly after his death. And with Alastair’s evil deeds, it never occurred to me.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve been to the slums, talking with dangerous cutthroats and criminals, digging for something that will prove Marsden’s guilt. Yet it never occurred to you to tell me you had someone else doing that very thing?”
She grimaced. “I did not imagine you would want to know. Besides, I had no clue you were searching for evidence. It’s not as if you told me anything, either.”
His fingers curled around her upper arms, bringing her closer. He realized she had a point even as the warmth of her soft flesh burned him through her nightrail. Damn it, he shouldn’t notice her as a woman. Not now.
“A Bow Street Runner is nothing to take lightly,” he pointed out. “We could have been working together. Perhaps we could have succeeded as a team by now.” He paused, then gave a voice to the anxious demon within. “Is there other information you want to share? Anything else you’re hiding?”
“I’ve hidden nothing,” she insisted. “I did not intentionally deceive you. I never have.”
“Oh?” Lucien questioned, brow arched. “No woman ever sets out to deliberately deceive a man, does she? Every woman I know leads me to believe she’s experienced and allows me to bed her, when in fact, she’s a married virgin.”
Serena struggled in his grasp. “I apologize if you inferred I had been with a man before, and as I said once, I did not realize my marital status was of such interest to you.”
“Why the hell would you think I would want the responsibility of deflowering another man’s wife?”
He shook her, bringing her face within inc
hes of his. She exhaled fast and shallow. Her breath fell sweet and enticing on his face. The scent of gardenias teased his nose. Feeling an unwanted rise of desire, he swore. “You hardly followed me into this house that night for a friendly spot of tea. You knew what was going to happen between us.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“And your protests seemed very token.” Memory flashed him a vision of her in his carriage, head thrown back and gasping, while his fingers worked inside her. “You were not wearing your wedding ring.”
Her eyes flared wide in defense. “That thief had just stolen it!”
Lucien tilted his head, staring at her through the chill of his eyes. “Fine, but can you explain the rest? Why you failed to mention your innocence, why you sneaked off like a coward before first light? In my mind, it all shouts deception.”
He paused, allowing the thick silence to intimidate her. She was nervous; he felt it, smelled it, as a new rush of memories assaulted him. “I asked you at Rundall and Bridge if you had considered the possibility of pregnancy before you came to my bed, to which you replied you had considered everything. I told you I would have left you untouched if you had simply informed me you were an innocent. You said, ‘Exactly.’” He frowned. “You came that night looking for a lover, didn’t you?”
Eyes wild, Serena struggled like a madwoman for release. Lucien held tight. “Answer me.”
She squirmed in his hard grasp. “I told you before, it simply happened. I did not plan it.”
“But you wanted a man, didn’t you? You went to Vauxhall that night looking for one. Isn’t that right?”
Immediately, she stilled in his arms. Then she shook her head in quick denial. “No. I did not want to go.”
“Why did you?”
She hesitated, licking dry lips with her pink tongue. In fascination, he watched, feeling a stirring of arousal he didn’t want to feel.
The charged pause hummed on, stretching taut. Myriad expressions crossed her face.
“Why?” he barked again.
Finally, resignation overtook her expression. She swallowed nervously. “I was looking for a lover . . . or at least, I was supposed to be looking for one.” She drew in a shaky breath. “Cyrus wanted me to find a lover to get me . . . with child.”
An icy wave of incredulity rushed through his body. In outrage, he stood. “No. No man of sound mind like Warrington would want, much less condone, his wife’s infidelities. I cannot believe he wanted another’s man’s brat running about his house, claiming to be his son.”
“He had no choice,” she implored. “Cyrus knew Alastair would destroy everything he and his ancestors had spent their lives building. His nephew is disturbed.”
Lucien scowled. “So he sent you into another man’s arms? Damn unlikely. Why didn’t he get an heir on you himself? Hell, why did he never try?”
At that, Serena shrank back, shaking her head from side to side. “Stop. Please . . .”
“I think I deserve the truth. Did Warrington prefer men?”
Serena gasped. “Of course not! How can you suggest—”
“Because you will not tell me the truth.” He inched closer, closing in on her. “Why didn’t he bed you himself?” When she hesitated, he grabbed her arms again. “Why?”
During the ensuing silence, Lucien held his breath, wishing he could wring the answer out of her pretty little hide. His thoughts raced as he tried to deduce the secret she guarded so diligently. He came up empty.
“He . . . he could not make love,” she whispered brokenly, so softly Lucien wasn’t certain he had heard her correctly.
“Could not?” he questioned suspiciously. “He was impotent? Is that what you’re saying?”
Biting her lip, Serena silently nodded.
“How, then, did he sire three daughters by his mistress?”
Face tight, pained, Serena lowered her gaze. “It happened long before we wed. I’m told his youngest daughter is thirteen.”
Lucien stood, amazement rippling through him. Impotent? He paced, realizing her explanation answered many of his questions. But to send her into a stranger’s arms? He turned to face her. “He wanted you to spend your nights in another man’s bed and bear him a bastard?”
“Yes,” she croaked, clutching the blankets in her fists. “He felt he had no choice. And it’s not as if the ton, or even the child, would have ever known the truth.”
Suddenly, the devious plan took better shape in Lucien’s mind. A fury as strong as steel, as hot as the fires of hell, roared through him.
He shook her, then pulled her to her feet. “Nor, I imagine, would the child’s true father ever have learned of the babe. Am I right? That’s why you fled my bedroom with such haste.”
“Yes,” she answered, then protested, “No! I was terrified. I was confused. I was . . . ashamed of my behavior.”
She hesitated, seeming to grasp for words, probably fabricating a story, as Ravenna had done after he discovered one of her rendezvous. He released her. “You’ve no need to explain, I understand perfectly. You needed a faceless, nameless man to be your stud,” he growled. “You wanted some unsuspecting fool to impregnate you, and you chose me.”
“That is not true,” she protested.
He had to give her credit; she was almost convincing. Far better than Ravenna.
“Why me?” he demanded. She opened her mouth, and Lucien held up a hand to stay her reply. “Never mind. I know. I was the consummate unsuspecting fool. Hell, I was a grieving drunk. The perfect target!”
He strode away. Presenting her with his taut back and shoulders, he spat a litany of curses. Seconds later, he heard her faint footsteps traveling in his direction. She touched a hand to his shoulder.
Fire leapt to life within him. “Damn you. Go away.”
“It was never like that,” she vowed in that husky voice that never failed to make him hard. Christ! He had hoped somehow that she was different. Why did he always have a stiff cock for lovely liars?
Furious with her, and his body’s response, he whirled to face her. “Then how was it? Can you honestly say that conceiving my child never crossed your mind that night?”
She paused before lifting her reluctant gaze to him. “It did,” she whispered, then quickly added, “but that is not why—”
“No? Then why did you allow me, a total stranger, to bed you? Are you going to keep telling me the same lie, that you wanted me?”
She held up supplicating hands. “I did! I did not go to Vauxhall that night looking for some . . . some stud. I merely wanted Cyrus to believe that I meant to play along with his plan, but I couldn’t. I never had any intention of taking a lover because I believed in my heart it was wrong.”
“That’s good, sweetheart. Blame a dead man for your sins. Obviously, he’s in no position to refute you.”
“Truly, I would not lie about something this important,” she implored. “And I did not believe you would care about my marital status. Most men would not.”
Her beautiful face was so open, her blue eyes so contrite and earnest, Lucien wanted to believe her.
Believe her after this deception? Lucien didn’t see how he could ever again.
Ravenna had betrayed him by sharing her body with other men. And he had hated her for slurring the Daneridge title, for giving to others what should have been his alone. But Serena held a kingdom all her own in the realm of betrayal. To rob a man of his own flesh and blood, and what was more, never tell him of his child, was unforgivable.
“Goddamn you!” he cursed, then whirled away, stalking toward the door adjoining their rooms.
From behind, she grabbed his sleeve. “Stop! I swear to you I’ve told the truth. I did not tell you sooner because Cyrus was so ashamed of his . . . condition. He disliked being anything less than perfect. As he saw it, this made him not only imperfect, but not a real man.”
“So he sent you after this?” he spat, grabbing her hand and pressing it against his stiff arousal.
With a gasp
, Serena tore her hand away. Shock flashed in her smoky blue eyes as she retreated a step.
Eyes narrowing, Lucien strode after her. He curled his hand around her neck, then pulled her face to his.
His words brushed her trembling mouth. “I understand now. You only wanted me when you wanted to use me, could only bear my touch when you were told to. All this week you’ve been putting me off, turning me away, and I thought you merely wanted a gentle seduction.” He snaked his other arm around her waist, molding her against him. “Obviously, I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
Serena tried to wriggle from his hold, rubbing instead against his aching shaft. Dozens of tingles tore through his belly and streamed down his legs, blurring his anger, blending it with blazing desire.
“You do that well, sweetheart.” His voice was soft, deadly. “Did Warrington teach you that move before he sent you out to find me?”
Serena tried to twist from his grasp. “Let go!”
He shook his head, his smile thinning into a hard line. “I think not. You see, I understand now that the way to get you back in my bed is not to seduce or cajole. Oh, no,” he murmured, his voice harsh. “You respond better to orders and commands.”
“What are you talking about?” Her voice rose in disbelief. “Lucien—”
“Warrington told you to spread your enchanting white thighs, and you did. I am your husband now. You’re going to do the same for me.”
Shaking her head wildly, she implored, “I did not come to your bed because of Cyrus’s request. I swear!”
He ignored her denials. “Get ready, sweetheart. In less than five minutes, I’m going to be inside you.”
One Wicked Night Page 22