“Christabel?” he asked.
Her heart thundered in her ears. Had he seen her reading the note? What would he do if he had? She had a fox by the tail, and if she weren’t careful, he would turn and bite off her hand.
“Hello, Byrne,” she said, forcing a game smile to her lips.
He sat up to scrub his hands over his face. Then his gaze flicked from her to the satchel at her feet, but seeing that it was closed, he let out a long breath. “What are you doing here?”
“I came looking for you, of course.”
A slow grin touched his lips. “Missed me, did you?”
She made a face. “Not a bit. You were supposed to be teaching me whist, and you ran off.”
Leaning back against the couch, he looked her over. “At least you came dressed to give me a proper welcome. Stand up and let me see.”
She rose, her hands suddenly clammy as she twirled slowly for his benefit. She wished she were elegant like Lady Hungate or even flagrantly sensual like Mrs. Talbot, instead of just a general’s daughter in a lady’s fancy gown.
And how silly of her to care what he thought, anyway. Although she knew he wasn’t feigning his desire for her, he might be trying to seduce her in the hopes that he could find out her secrets. So she shouldn’t let what he thought about her sway her.
Yet it did sway her. He swayed her. He’d made her desire him, curse his soul, and now she was rapidly sinking in over her head. It wouldn’t be a problem if she were able to give and receive pleasure without a qualm, free to behave like some decadent descendant of the hedonistic Romans. But at her core she was a simple woman. She wanted something more from a man than pleasure, and Byrne would mock that as he mocked everything else—propriety, patriotism, loyalty, and honor.
Yet the heated glance he trailed down her form wasn’t mocking, and the approval in his face seemed honest. “Come here,” he said in a throaty murmur.
Despite all her caution, a thrill shot through her. “Absolutely not.”
“Come here.” Keeping his eyes riveted on her, he reached over to pat the suspiciously bulging pocket of his coat. “I have something to show you.”
Curious, she edged closer to the couch. Without warning, he grabbed her and hauled her onto his lap, clamping his arm firmly about her waist.
“Byrne!” she protested as she tried to wriggle free. “You said you had something to show me!”
“I do. After you show me how much you missed me.” He seized her mouth with his, and she melted. Even though she knew it was wrong and foolish and utterly dangerous, she melted. She had missed him. She’d missed this reckless way he made her feel, as if she were riding headlong into the dark night, where anything could happen and usually did.
For a moment, she let herself enjoy it. She tangled her tongue with his and reveled in the groan that erupted from his throat in response. She savored the slow, sensual caresses of his mouth and the deep thrusts that made her ache in every place he wasn’t touching and caressing.
But then his hand slid inside her new gown to fondle her breast—her easily accessible breast—and his parted lips trailed down her throat, and the hunger began to gnaw at her—“No, Byrne.” She pulled his hand out of her gown. “I didn’t come here for that.”
A growl sounded low in his throat, and for a second she feared he would ignore her protest. But then his hand went slack, his fingers curling around hers. He lifted his head to stare at her with that smoldering look that always heated her in the wrong places. “Didn’t you?”
All right, perhaps deep inside she had come for this. But she couldn’t allow herself to partake of it, not if she wanted to keep her wits about her. “No.” She wriggled off his lap. She should tell him about the invitation, but first she wanted to glean what information she could about how he worked and what he was up to. “I came to see your club, of course.”
With a sigh, he settled back against the couch. “And snoop through my desk no doubt. Find anything interesting?”
She trailed over to it, trying to act nonchalant. “Just a lot of clippings that make no sense.” She picked up the top set. “Like these—you’ve marked the date of a ship’s docking, then the price of nutmeg, then a society column’s mention of a Miss Treacle’s debut.” She eyed him askance. “Are you choosing your mistresses from the paper now? Really, Byrne, isn’t she a little young for you?”
He chuckled. “Miss Treacle is the daughter of Joseph Treacle, a merchant whose income was moderate until recently. The ship belongs to him, and its cargo was nutmeg, which is presently worth a great deal due to a shortage. We’re nearing autumn, when nutmeg will be in demand, so his cargo will fetch a high price.”
He rose and strolled to the desk. “His daughter came out four months ago, but gained no offers. Now he has the wealth to draw suitors, but no way to indicate that to the world without showing himself to be a vulgar cit, which would hurt her chances.” He smiled. “So I invited him to join my club. He will accept, because my members are either eligible gentlemen, or friends and family to eligible gentlemen. Some of whom desperately need a wife with a substantial dowry.”
Dear Lord, what deviousness. “So Mr. Treacle will join your club and gamble away that new fortune of his, much of which will land in your pocket.”
He shrugged. “Only if he’s a fool, in which case he deserves to lose it all. But if he’s clever, he’ll pay his membership fee, play a friendly game of hazard here from time to time, eat my food, drink my liquor, and find a husband for the sad Miss Treacle.” His eyes gleamed. “It’s to my advantage for him to be a fool, but it’s really up to him, isn’t it?”
She stared at him, torn between laughter and sheer exasperation. “You must be the most wicked man in creation.”
Leaning against the desk, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Unless a man is born to privilege, he has to be wicked to succeed.”
“But at what cost to his soul?”
He looked amused. “Haven’t you heard, my sweet? People not born to privilege don’t have souls. They’re conscienceless and immoral, little better than animals. Or so our good government would have us believe.”
“You don’t believe that, and neither do I. Everyone has a soul.”
His amusement faded. “If they do, they’re headed for disaster. Because a clever man dispenses with his soul as early in life as he can possibly manage.”
“And you’re nothing if not clever.” A weight of sadness settled on her chest. Was that how he’d handled his mother’s death and his difficult situation? If so, no wonder he hated the prince. What man could live happily without a soul?
Pushing away from the desk, he took the set of clippings from her and tossed it onto his pile. “Anything else you want to know about my evil endeavors?”
“Actually, yes. Why didn’t you tell me about the estate you own in Bath?”
He grew instantly wary. “What makes you think I do?”
“Lydia told me.”
Cursing, he left the desk to pace the room. “Never trust a card cheat with a secret.”
“Don’t blame her—she thought I already knew. And once she realized I didn’t, she made me promise not to tell anyone else.” Enjoying his discomfiture, she followed him. “But she did reveal a number of other interesting things. It appears from your treatment of her that occasionally you do indeed have a soul.”
“Nonsense,” he said gruffly, raking his fingers through his already disheveled hair. “I merely prefer to retire card cheats from their profession whenever possible. They make everything harder for those of us who profit from legitimate gambling.”
“Yet you did nothing to help Lydia’s friend Jim ‘retire,’ did you?”
“He was beyond help. Eventually some hotheaded gentleman will take care of him by putting a bullet through his idiot skull in a gaming hell.”
“Probably,” she agreed. “But this is getting off the subject. You still haven’t answered my question—why didn’t you tell me about your estate?”
<
br /> “No need,” he said with a shrug. “But it’s not any great secret.”
“Oh? Do the Drakers or the Iversleys know?”
He stiffened. “No.”
“It’s no great secret, yet your closest friends are unaware of it. Why is that?” Her eyes widened. “Oh no, you won it gambling, didn’t you?”
“I did not—” He gritted his teeth. “I bought the bloody place fair and square. And if my friends learn of it, they’ll be trotting out to see it and dropping in to visit. Here, I’m always at people’s beck and call, so I like to have a place to go where I can gain some peace once in a while. All right, Lady Inquisitive?”
“All right.” His explanation made sense, yet she sensed there was more to it.
“Now, are we done with all the questions? And if so, shall we adjourn to your house to practice more whist in case Stokely does invite you to his party?”
“Oh, I forgot! Lord Stokely’s invitation arrived at my house this afternoon.”
His eyes narrowed. “Already?”
“Yes.” She retrieved it from her reticule, then handed it to him.
Frowning, he scanned the invitation. “Something’s wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
He tapped the card on his desk, his expression calculating. “This was too easy. Stokely hears about you playing whist at Eleanor’s, and suddenly he’s eager to invite you to his naughty card party? He knows something. He’s probably guessed what you’re up to.”
Alarm coursed through her. “Then why did he invite me?”
Byrne’s brow was furrowed. “Stokely likes to play games of all kinds, not just cards. He wants to toy with you, with us, dangling your property in front of you for his own amusement. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Have you ever met the man?”
“If I have, I don’t remember. Why?”
“Because it would be just like him to invite you so he could seduce you.”
She snorted. “You must be joking.”
“Hardly.” He used the invitation to trace a line along the exposed upper swells of her breasts. “You’re a beautiful woman. Plenty of men would want you, especially dressed as you are now.” He cast her a rueful smile. “My frequent attempts to bed you should be evidence of that.”
It was time for frankness. Otherwise, he would keep trying to use seduction to find out her secrets. “You’re only interested in bedding me because of my father’s property, and you know it.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes before he masked it. “You mean, because of the barony that helping you retrieve it can bring me.”
With a sinking in the pit of her stomach, she noticed that he didn’t deny the reason for his trying to bed her. “I mean, because of everything you assume it can bring you. Admit it: You’re hoping that my property will contain something you can use for your own purposes. Otherwise, why go to Ilsley and ask questions?”
He frowned. “I see you went snooping in more than just my desk.”
“You aren’t the only one who can be devious.”
“I wasn’t being devious. I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m looking for and why it’s so important.”
She glared at him. “Don’t pretend that this is about your helping me, because we both know it’s not.”
She started to walk away, but he grabbed her arm, jerking her up close to him. “What’s in the letters, Christabel?”
“L-Letters?” she stammered, her gaze swinging to his in a panic. “What do you mean, letters?”
“Your husband’s old steward is an amazingly chatty fellow once he’s had a few brandies in him. He was more than eager to boast of his great connection to the Marquesses of Haversham, especially the one who gave him a gold ring in exchange for help retrieving some letters from his wife’s strongbox.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Lord help her, how much did he know? Everything?
No, if he did, he wouldn’t be asking her. “I can’t tell you what’s in the letters,” she whispered.
“Because you don’t trust me,” he hissed.
“You’re the man without a soul, remember? I’d be mad to trust you.”
A grudging smile touched his lips. “True. But you still need me.” He bent to press his mouth to her ear. “And there can be advantages to having a man without a soul on your side, my sweet. When it comes to deviousness, you don’t begin to compare to me. If I knew what was in the letters, what Stokely means to do with them, and why you and Prinny want to prevent it, I could help you thwart him some other way than just by trying to steal them back.”
She wrenched free of him. “I’m never going to tell you what’s in them, so stop asking. You won’t cajole or trick or seduce me into doing so, either. If you help me retrieve them, you will get your barony, but that’s all.”
When he merely stared at her with his typically smug expression, she bristled. “And if you persist in trying to bed me, then I’ll find someone else to help me learn how to play whist well. I don’t need the added distraction of having to fend off your advances whenever we’re together.”
“I’ll try to keep my hands to myself,” he said in a lazy drawl. “But you still need me to get you into Stokely’s.”
She tipped up her chin. “Not necessarily. I do have my own invitation.”
His eyes gleamed at her. “I’d like to see you try attending Stokely’s party without a protector. After a couple of days of dealing with his friends, you’ll welcome the chance to fend off my advances. If he even lets you stay after I tell him what you’re up to.”
She gritted her teeth. He had her over a barrel, and he knew it. “Fine. I’ll play your mistress at Lord Stokely’s. But I and I alone will look for those letters.”
“Whatever you say.”
Right. As if he would give up just like that. She’d have to keep her eye on Byrne. And make sure she got to the letters before he did.
Buttoning up his waistcoat, he walked over to the sofa. But when he picked up his coat, he paused. “I almost forgot. I brought you a gift.” He pulled a long, slender box out of his coat pocket and turned to hold it out to her. “You see? I did have something to show you.”
“Why would you give me a present?” she asked warily.
“To apologize for leaving you hanging while I ‘ran off’ to Bath.” He waved it at her. “Go on, take it.”
She did as he bade, her pulse doing a silly little dance. Philip had frequently given her gifts, yet she’d never felt like this when he did. Swallowing, she opened the box, then stared into it, perplexed. “You bought me a fan?”
“Not just a fan, lass.” He took out the fan, both handles of which were intricately worked in a silver design. Instead of opening the fan, however, he pressed one of the little knobs in the design, and with a click a slender steel blade shot into place, protruding from one handle of the fan.
She gasped.
He moved the knob, presumably to lock the blade in position, then presented the fan/knife to her, handle first. “Now you won’t have to carry a pistol.”
Fascinated, she took the thing from him, examining the blade and the release mechanism. He showed her how to work it, and she practiced a few times. Then she opened the fan itself to see if it looked sufficiently fanlike. It did. “You found this in Bath?” she asked, captivated by the very ingenuity of it.
He chuckled. “Not quite. I’ve had it for some time, mostly as a curiosity. I picked it up in a shop that specializes in foreign objects. From the design, I’d guess it’s Siamese. You’re the only woman I’ve ever thought might be willing to carry it.” He arched one eyebrow. “You will carry it instead of the pistol, won’t you?”
“Yes, thank you.” Pleased in spite of herself, she retracted the blade and folded up the fan. “It really is wonderful.”
“Be sure to take it to Stokely’s. And, speaking of the baron, considering his sudden interest in having you at the party, we should do our best to allay his suspicions abo
ut why I’ve chosen you as my partner.” He held out his arm to her. “Come, my sweet, it’s time to improve your skills at whist.”
Chapter Twelve
Showing indifference toward a man is the
surest way to attract him.
—Anonymous, Memoirs of a Mistress
Gavin couldn’t decide which was worse—traveling to Stokely’s Wiltshire estate in the rain or having Rosa join him and Christabel in the carriage. Christabel couldn’t have come alone with him, of course; that would have ruined her forever in society. Bad enough that her reputation would be seriously tarnished by her association with him. She was only trying to preserve enough of what remained to have a decent future.
But it still chafed to be this close yet unable to touch her. He’d endured that for over a week now, and his control was stretched to the breaking point. Her and her maddening conditions—no caressing, no kissing, nothing that smacked of seduction if he was to continue preparing her for the party.
Insanity, all of it. He could tell from how she looked at him that she desired him. And God knew he desired her. He couldn’t remember ever desiring a woman so much. Yet the bloody female persisted in holding him at arm’s length.
At Stokely’s, however, she’d have to let him touch her, if only to keep up appearances. And if Stokely behaved true to form, he would assign Gavin and Christabel to adjoining rooms, while Rosa would be sleeping in the servants’ quarters with the other ladies’ maids.
Gavin couldn’t wait to see how Christabel reacted to having him just one connecting door away. After spending her days playing his mistress, she would be primed for spending her nights being his mistress. Christabel was too sensual—and too curious—a female to avoid his bed for long.
“What time is it?” Christabel asked, from across the carriage.
He drew out his watch. “Six. Damn this rain. I was hoping we’d arrive before dinner.”
“When is dinner?” Rosa asked.
“Seven, usually.”
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