“A song, Miss Sherwood!” cried Mr. Rutgers. “I offer twenty quid for the chance to win a song.”
“Offer fifty and I shall make it a private performance,” responded Miss Sherwood gaily as she settled at the card table.
She was no better than a common trollop, Broadmoor decided, trading her favors for money. He felt his blood race to think that the fate of his family rested in the hands of such a hussy. He could tell from the swiftness with which she shuffled, cut, and then dealt the cards that she spent many hours at the tables. Her hands plied the cards like those of an expert pianist over the ivories. He was surprised that her hands could retain such deftness after watching her consume two glasses of wine within the hour and welcome a third. He shook his head.
Shameless.
Broadmoor felt as if he had seen enough of her unrefined behavior, but something about her compelled him to stay. Miss Sherwood, who had begun slurring her words and laughing at unwarranted moments as the night wore on, seemed to enjoy the attentions, but despite her obvious inebriation, her laughter sounded forced. There were instances when he thought he saw sadness in her eyes, but they were fleeting, like illusions taunting the fevered brain.
It was foolhardy for a woman to let down her guard in such company. She would require more than the assistance of the aging butler and scrawny page he had noticed earlier to keep these hounds at bay. Could it possibly be a sense of chivalry that obliged him to stay even as he believed that a woman of her sort deserved the fate that she was recklessly enticing? His family and friends would have been astounded to think it possible.
“My word, but Lady Luck has favored you tonight!” Rutgers exclaimed to Miss Sherwood, who had won her fourth hand in a row.
“Miss Sherwood has been in Her Company the whole week,” remarked Mr. Wempole, a local banker, “since winning the deed to Brayten. I daresay you may soon pay off your debts to me.”
Broadmoor ground his teeth at the mention of his late uncle’s estate and barely noticed the flush that had crept up Miss Sherwood’s face.
“It was quite unexpected,” Miss Sherwood responded. “I rather think that I might—”
“That were no luck but pure skill!” declared Viscount Wyndham, the future Earl of Brent.
“Alas, I have lost my final pound tonight and have no hope of winning a song from Miss Sherwood,” lamented Rutgers.
“I would play one final round,” said Miss Sherwood as she shuffled the deck, the cards falling from her slender fingers with a contented sigh, “but brag is best played with at least a fourth.”
“Permit me,” said Broadmoor, emerging from the shadows. He reasoned to himself that he very much desired to put the chit in her place, but that could only partly explain why he was drawn to her table.
She raised an eyebrow before appraising him with a gaze that swept from the top of his head to the bottom of his gleaming boots. “We welcome all manner of strangers—especially those with ample purses.”
Brazen jade, Broadmoor thought to himself as he took a seat opposite her and pulled out his money.
“S’blood,” the schoolboy groused immediately after the cards were dealt and reached for a bottle of burgundy to refill his glass.
Glancing up from the three cards he held, Broadmoor found Miss Sherwood staring at him with an intensity that pinned him to his chair. The corners of her mouth turned upward as her head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Looking at her sensuously full lips, Broadmoor could easily see how she had all the men here in the palm of her hand. He wondered, briefly, how those lips would feel under his.
“Our cards are known to be friendly to newcomers,” she informed him. “I hope they do not fail to disappoint.”
He gave only a small smile. She thought him a naïve novice if she expected him to reveal anything of the hand that he held.
Darcy turned her watchful eye to Newcastle, whose brow was furrowed in deep concentration. She leaned towards him—her breasts nearly grazing the top of the table—and playfully tapped him on the forearm. “Lady Luck can pass you by no longer for surely your patience will warrant her good graces.”
Radcliff tried not to notice the two lush orbs pushed and separated above her bodice. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat for despite his inclination to find himself at odds with anything Anne said, he was beginning to believe his aunt. Miss Sherwood possessed a beauty and aura that was like the call of Sirens, luring men to their doom. His own cock stirred with a mind of its own.
His slight movement seemed to catch her eye instantly, but she responded only by reaching for her glass of wine. After taking a long drink, she slammed the glass down upon the table. “Shall we make our last round for the evening the most dramatic, my dears? I shall offer a song—and a kiss…”
A murmur of excitement mixed with hooting and hollering waved over the room.
“…worth a hundred quid,” she finished.
“S’blood,” the schoolboy grumbled again after opening his purse to find he did not have the requisite amount. He threw his cards onto the table with disgust and grabbed the burgundy for consolation.
Newcastle pulled at his cravat, looked at his cards several times, before finally shaking his head sadly. Miss Sherwood fixed her gaze upon Radcliff next. He returned her stare and fancied that she actually seemed unsettled for the briefest of moments.
Almond brown. Her eyes were almond brown. And despite their piercing gaze, they seemed to be filled with warmth—like the comforting flame of a hearth in winter. Broadmoor decided it must be the wine that leant such an effect to her eyes. How like the Ironies in Life that she should possess such loveliness to cover a black soul.
“Shall we put an end to the game?” Miss Sherwood asked.
“As you please,” Broadmoor replied without emotion. Her Siren’s call would not work on him. “I will see your cards.”
He pulled out two additional hundreds, placing the money on the table with a solemn deliberation that belied his eagerness.
Smiling triumphantly, Miss Sherwood displayed an ace of hearts, a king of diamonds, and a queen of diamonds.
“Though I would have welcomed a win, the joy was in the game,” Newcastle said. “I could not derive more pleasure than in losing to you, Miss Sherwood.”
Miss Sherwood smiled. “Nor could I ask for a more gallant opponent.”
She reached for the money in the middle of the table, but Broadmoor caught her hand.
“It is as you say, Miss Sherwood,” he said and revealed a running flush of spades. “Your cards are indeed friendly to newcomers.”
For the first time that evening, Broadmoor saw her frown, but she recovered quickly. “Then I presume you will hence no longer be a stranger to our tables?”
Broadmoor was quiet as he collected the money.
“Beginner’s luck,” the schoolboy muttered.
Newcastle turned his attention to Broadmoor for the first time. “Good sir, I congratulate you on a most remarkable win. I am James Newcastle of Newcastle and Holmes Trading. Our offices are in Liverpool, but you may have heard of the company nonetheless. I should very much like to increase your winnings for the evening by offering you fifty pounds in exchange for Miss Sherwood’s song and, er, kiss.”
“I believe the song went for fifty and the kiss a hundred,” Broadmoor responded.
“Er—yes. A hundred. That would make it a, er, hundred and fifty.”
“I am quite content with what I have won. Indeed, I should like to delay no longer my claim to the first of my winnings.”
“Very well,” said Miss Sherwood cheerfully as she rose. “I but hope you will not regret that you declined the generous offer by Mr. Newcastle.”
She headed towards the pianoforte in the corner of the room, but Broadmoor stopped her with his words.
“In private, Miss Sherwood.”
In contrast to her confident manners all evening, Miss Sherwood seemed to hesitate before flashing him one of her most brilliant smiles. “Of course. But woul
d you not care for a supper first? Or a glass of port in our dining room?”
“No.”
“Very well. Then I shall escort you to our humble drawing room.”
Broadmoor rose from his chair to follow her. From the corner of his eye, he saw Newcastle looking after them with both longing and consternation. As he passed out of the gaming room, he heard Rutgers mutter, “Lucky bloody bastard.”
For a moment Broadmoor felt pleased with having won the game and the image of his mouth claiming hers flashed in his mind. What would her body feel like pressed to his? Those hips and breasts of hers were made to be grabbed…
But hers was a well traversed territory, he reminded himself. Based on his inquiries into Miss Sherwood, the woman changed lovers as frequently as if they were French fashion, and her skills at the card table were matched only by her skills in the bedchamber. The men spoke in almost wistful, tortured tones regarding the latter and often with an odd flush in the cheeks that Broadmoor found strange—and curious.
As with the card-room, the drawing room was modestly furnished. Various pieces were covered with black lacquer to disguise the ordinary quality of their components. A couple giggling in the corner took their leave upon the entry of Miss Sherwood, who closed the door behind him. Sitting down on a sofa that looked as if it might have been an expensive piece at one time but that age had rendered ragged in appearance, he crossed one long leg over another and watched as she went to sit down at the spinet.
Good God, even the way she walked made him warm in the loins. The movement accentuated the flare of her hips and the curve of her rump, neither of which her gown could hide. And yet she possessed a grace on par with the most seasoned ladies at Almack’s. She did not walk as much as glide towards the spinet.
“Do you care for Mozart?” she asked.
“As you wish,” he replied.
She chose an aria from Le Nozze di Figaro. The opera buffa with its subject of infidelity and its satirical underpinnings regarding the aristocracy seemed a fitting choice for her. Save for her middling pronunciation of Italian, Miss Sherwood might have done well as an opera singer. She sang with force, unrestrained. The room seemed too small to hold the voice wafting above the chords of the spinet. And she sang with surprising clarity, her fingers striking the keys with precision, undisturbed by the wine he had seen her consume. Despite her earlier displays of inebriation, she now held herself well, and he could not help but wonder if the intoxication had not all been an act.
“My compliments,” he said when she had finished. “Though one could have had the entire opera performed for much less than fifty pounds, I can understand why one would easily wager such an amount for this privilege.”
“Thank you, but you did so without ever having heard me sing,” she pointed out.
She wanted to know why, but he said simply, “I knew I would win.”
Her brows rose at the challenge in his tone. The work of the devil could not always prevail. He ought bestir himself now to broach the matter that had compelled him here, but he found himself wanting to collect on the second part of his winnings: the kiss.
She rose from her bench, and his pulse pounded a faster beat. She smiled with the satisfaction of a cat that had sprung its trap on a mouse. “Would you care to test your confidence at our tables some more?”
“Are the bets here always this intriguing?” he returned.
“If you wish,” she purred as she stood behind a small decorative table, a safe distance from him.
She began rearranging the flowers in a vase atop the table. “How is it you have not been here before?”
The teasing jade. If she did not kiss him soon, he would have to extract it for himself.
“I did not know its existence until today.”
She studied him from above the flowers with a candor and length that no proper young woman would dare, but he did not mind her attempts to appraise him.
“You are new to London?”
Feeling restless, he stood up. He did not understand her hesitation. In the card room she had flaunted herself unabashed to any number of men, but now she chose to play coy with him?
“My preference is for Brooks’s,” he stated simply. “Tell me, Miss Sherwood, do your kisses always command a hundred pounds?”
Her lower lip dropped. His loins throbbed, and he found he could not tear his gaze from the maddening allure of her mouth.
“Do the stakes frighten you?” she returned.
“I find it difficult to fathom any kiss to be worth that price.”
“Then why did you ante?”
“As I’ve said, I knew I would win.”
He could tell she was disconcerted, and when he took a step towards her, she glanced around herself as if in search of an escape.
Finding little room to maneuver, she lifted her chin and smiled. “Then care to double the wager?”
“Frankly, Miss Sherwood, for a hundred pounds, you ought to be offering far more than a kiss.”
As I am sure you have done, he added silently. He was standing at the table and could easily have reached across it for her.
Her eyes narrowed at him. No doubt she was more accustomed to men who became simpering puppies at her feet. Perhaps she was affronted by his tone. But he little cared. She was too close to him, her aura more inviting than the scent of the flowers that separated them. He was about to avail himself of his prize when a knock sounded at the door.
“Yes?” Miss Sherwood called with too much relief.
The page popped his head into the room. “Mistress Tillinghast requested a word with you, Miss Sherwood.”
Miss Sherwood excused herself and walked past him. The room became dreary without her presence. Though at first he felt greatly agitated by the intrusion of the page, he now felt relieved. He had a purpose in coming here. And instead he was falling under her spell. Shaking off the warmth that she had engendered in his body, he forced his mind to the task at hand. Now that he had gathered his wits about him, he shook his head at himself. Was it because he had not completed bedding his mistress that he found himself so easily captivated by Miss Sherwood?
He could see how this place could retain so many patrons and ensnare those of lesser fortitude and prudence like Edward. Even Mr. Thornsdale, whom Broadmoor would have thought more at home at White’s than a common gaming hall such as this, revealed that he had known of Edward’s increasing losses to Miss Sherwood because he himself was an occasional patron. Mr. Thornsdale had also offered, unsolicited, that he thought Miss Sherwood to be rather charming.
But Broadmoor doubted that he would find her as charming. The fourth Baron Broadmoor had a single objective in seeking out Miss Darcy Sherwood: to wrest from the wicked harlot what rightfully belonged to his family. And he meant to do so at any cost.
CHAPTER THREE
“NOW WHO DO you suppose that tasty morsel of a stranger be?” wondered Mathilda Tillinghast—dubbed ‘Mrs. T’ by her gaming hall patrons—as she observed Darcy staring into the vanity mirror. Once a beauty who could summon a dozen men to her feet with a simple drop of her nosegay, Mathilda was now content to use Darcy as the main attraction of the gaming hall. “I find the air of mystery about him quite alluring.”
“I thought for certain that I had correctly appraised his position,” Darcy said, still wondering how she had lost that hand of brag. She had begun working at the gaming hall ever since her father, Jonathan Sherwood, had passed away ten years ago and left the family the remains of a sizeable debt, and rarely misjudged an opponent. What was it about the stranger that had sent her thoughts scattering like those of a schoolgirl?
She was both intrigued and unsettled by him. Instead of luring him into more rounds at the card tables—and the kiss would have been a perfect bait with any other man—she found herself timid. Mathilda would have found it incomprehensible that she, Darcy Sherwood, who had taken many a man to her bed in more ways than most women could imagine, should be afraid of a simple kiss. When the page had
appeared, she could not wait to escape and was now reluctant to leave the refuge of Mathilda’s boudoir.
“How could I have lost?” she wondered aloud.
Mathilda snorted. “You sound as if you were in mourning, m’dear. Tisn’t as if you lost any money. Wouldn’t mind taking your place, in fact. Would that I were your age again. Give you a run for your money I would, ‘cept for Newcastle maybe—you can have him.”
Darcy shuddered. “If he had not boasted of how well his former slaves were treated—‘better than courtesans,’ were his words—and then to say that these women ought to be grateful for his kindness—I might have developed a conscience towards him. But knowing that his wealth comes from that horrible trade that ought to be outlawed if only Parliament would listen to Sir Wilberforce, I have no remorse of relieving him of some of that money.”
“He can easily afford it, m’dear. They all deserve what they get if they are fool enough to fall for a pretty face.”
“Who deserves it?” blurted Henry Perceville, Viscount Wyndham, as he entered the room unannounced and threw himself on the rickety bed. Despite his slender build, the mattress promptly sank beneath his weight. His golden locks fell across a pair of eyes that sparkled with merriment.
“Men,” Mathilda answered.
“Nonetheless,” said Darcy as she tucked an unruly curl behind her ear, “I should be relieved to give up the charade and restore what little dignity is left for me. Never to have to counterfeit another interested smile or to feign enjoyment at being fondled by every Dick and Harry…to be free…”
“You have the means to end the charade this instant—you have the deed to Brayten!” protested Henry.
“Which I mean to return. I feel as if I have fleeced a babe.”
That Wicked Harlot (A Steamy Regency Romance Collection Book 2) Page 2