He strode down the passage to the back off the house. Griffin’s office was located in an annex behind the reception rooms, tucked between the main house and the pantry, kitchen, and mews. From there, he kept an all-seeing eye on the large establishment and everything in it, much like the mythical creature for which he was named.
Although not spacious, Griffin’s office was richly ornamented, almost extravagantly so. The walls, covered in striped paper in rich shades of red, shimmered under the light of several branches of candles as well as gold-plated wall sconces. A highly polished cabinet, lavishly covered in gilt, stood against the wall, and two beautifully fashioned Hepplewhite-style chairs sat before the fireplace grate. Griffin had a passion for Hepplewhite furniture, a rather odd interest for a man of his ilk.
The master of Cormorant House sat behind a massive desk in the center of the room, his dark head bent over a pile of ledgers. He looked up when Aden shut the door and laid aside his pen.
“Ah, Cousin. How delightful to see you.” Griffin had a cultured voice, but it also carried a hint of something ragged and rough, as if the smooth cadences of his aristocratic background had been dragged through the broken, garbage-strewn alleys of Covent Garden.
A fairly accurate description of the man’s history, all told.
“Must you call me that?” Aden took a seat in front of the desk.
Griffin’s dark eyes gleamed with malicious amusement. “You’re the only member of the family who will acknowledge me. How can I resist?”
“Try,” he responded in a dry voice. Aden, of course, shared some of that same problem, but that was the price paid by the bastard son of a prince.
“Speaking of our fathers—”
“Which we weren’t,” Aden said.
“Have you encountered yours, lately?” Griffin asked, ignoring Aden’s interjection. “I’ve been wondering if you’d managed to overcome any of your antipathy for him.”
Aden stared at him, refusing to dignify the absurd question with an answer.
Griffin gave a casual shrug. “Ah, well. One can hardly blame you. After all, Prinny has to be the most disgusting excuse for a prince one could imagine.”
“Except for your esteemed parent.”
Griffin’s father was Ernest Augustus, the notorious Duke of Cumberland and one of the younger brothers of the Prince Regent. In public, Cumberland’s conduct was entirely reticent compared to his brothers, but accusations of murder and even incest, although never proven, were whispered against him, and his cold temperament and sharp tongue earned him more than a few enemies.
But Griffin’s hatred for his father stemmed from the fact that he’d ruined Chloe Steele, Griffin’s mother. An innocent girl of fourteen, Chloe had fallen prey to a young Prince Ernest’s seduction, which had left her pregnant, her reputation destroyed. Chloe had been sent away shortly after Griffin’s birth, and she’d completely disappeared a few years later, seemingly abandoning her son. When Griffin had run away after the death of Bartholomew Steele, his great-uncle and the man who’d raised him, he’d first come to London, looking for his mother. But he’d never found her, and Aden suspected the loss still affected him. No matter what trials Aden had suffered as a result of his parentage, they’d been nothing compared to Griffin’s many tribulations.
Not that they’d ever compared notes. Although Griffin had eventually adopted a cavalier attitude toward the circumstances of his birth, anyone who knew him well had learned to avoid the subject, or risk Griffin’s wrath. What details Aden had acquired about his cousin’s life had come from Dominic, who’d known Chloe as a child. It had been Dominic who’d finally tracked Griffin down in a London gaming hell, where he’d found employment running errands. And it had been Dominic who, years later, had introduced Aden to his cousin. As cousins they were not particularly close, but occasionally they came into each other’s way. Griffin had access to information that Aden often found useful. And, for some strange reason, Griffin seemed to derive enjoyment from acknowledging his familial relationship with Aden.
Griffin let out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose one could quibble, but at least your father isn’t a murderer.”
“That we know of, anyway.”
“Well, your dear pater is certainly guilty of murdering the canons of good taste,” Griffin said in a contemplative tone. “He deserves the hangman’s noose for that, if nothing else.”
Aden laughed, and Griffin cracked a smile, his dark mood seeming to lift.
“Now that we’ve caught up on family,” Aden said, “perhaps we can get to the matter at hand.”
Griffin rose and strolled to the cabinet. As usual, he was dressed simply but expensively in black. Only the white linen of his shirt relieved his dark garb. With the thin scar that cut from his left temple down below his cheekbone and his black hair pulled back in an old-fashioned queue, he looked like a buccaneer. A refined one, but a buccaneer all the same.
He extracted a bottle from the cabinet and poured out two brandies, handing one to Aden.
“Your little problem,” Griffin said, leaning against his desk, “is currently upstairs with her idiotic brother in one of the card rooms.” He held up a hand. “And, yes, she is well guarded. My factotum is up there along with two of my men. No one will harm her.”
“How bad is it? Tell me they just didn’t waltz into the place, the Lady Vivien Shaw and her brother, the Honorable Kit Shaw.” Christ. Did she have any idea what she was doing to her reputation?
“She’s in disguise,” Griffin said, trying to hold back a grin.
Aden frowned. “As what?”
“I believe she’s attempting to portray herself as a mysterious widow. She’s swathed in enough veils and drapery to decorate half of Carlton House. It’s a miracle she can even see what she’s doing.”
“Her disguise obviously didn’t fool you,” Aden pointed out.
“No, but I believe it’s managed to trick everyone else, which should surprise me but doesn’t. Most of the men who grace my establishment are fools, of course, all too ready to be parted from their ill-gotten gains.”
“And what’s the brother’s role in this little charade?”
“He is attempting to portray himself as her cicisbeo. Failing miserably, I might add.”
Aden hauled himself to his feet. “Which room?”
“The Green Room.”
Aden cursed. The Green Room was infamous throughout the ton. Only the most hardened gamblers and degenerate rakes crossed its threshold. The stakes were astronomical, with entire fortunes won and lost in one night.
“A question, Cousin,” Griffin said as he followed him to the door. “What is she doing here? Even for an accomplished gamester like Lady Vivien, this is rather reckless.”
“She’s attempting to tow Kit and her mother out of debt,” he answered from between clenched teeth. It made perfect sense, now that he thought about it. For a lunatic, anyway, which he was beginning to think she might be.
Griffin nodded. “One has to admire her courage, if nothing else.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Bloody well, at last report,” his cousin replied, cracking a smile. “She’s holding her own against Barrymore and Castle, which is really quite extraordinary.”
Aden spun on his heel and hurried toward the stairs, his cousin’s mocking laugh echoing behind him.
Leave it to Vivien to sit down at a table with the most unrepentant rakes in the city. When he got her away from that table, she’d find herself in an even more difficult situation—explaining her actions to him.
For her first experience of a gaming hell, Vivien had been pleasantly surprised. The appointments were elegant, the rooms decorated with tasteful luxury, running heavily to the classical style with touches of French extravagance. The champagne was delicious and well chilled—she managed to sneak in a few sips under her veils—and she had no doubt the food laid on in the supper room would be fresh and well prepared. She’d been too anxious to eat earlier in the day, pre
occupied with planning tonight’s expedition with Kit, and she allowed herself a tiny sigh at the thought of having to forgo Griffin Steele’s lovely food. But she couldn’t manage to eat behind all these veils. Her stomach might grumble at her, but it was imperative she keep her identity unknown.
She and Kit had argued long and hard over her plan, and he’d only agreed to her scheme when she told him she planned to go in disguise. After they considered and discarded a number of possibilities, the idea of a veiled widow had seemed most likely to fit their needs. Kit had also been insistent they play at the gaming hell where they stood the least chance of running into someone who knew Vivien well. She might be swathed in two layers of black veils and careful to keep her voice to a low murmur, but her disguise wouldn’t fool a friend or close acquaintance.
They’d also sought a club catering to hardened gamesters and reckless, wealthy men, the kind who weren’t averse to losing monstrous sums of money in one night. They also needed a house with a reputation for fair play and, according to Kit, The Cormorant fit the bill nicely. Its clientele was well heeled and its owner known for keeping the play honest while not asking inconvenient questions of his patrons.
This afternoon, she’d asked her banker to withdraw one thousand pounds from her account. Stuffing the wad of notes in her purse had made her sick with anxiety, but she had no choice. Her word as a newcomer would have meant nothing to Steele. Only by providing a stake would she be able to play the kind of game that suited her purpose.
Fortunately, her nerves had settled as soon as she started to play, and Vivien now glanced with satisfaction at the tidy pile of markers growing in front of her. She and Kit had done very well, especially against the likes of Barrymore and Castle. Kit was under strict instructions to play straight, leaving the brain-work and subtleties to her. So far, he’d been following her lead, playing a respectable if cautious game.
“Your play, Madam,” Barrymore intoned in a bored voice.
She pretended to study her cards, and then trumped his ace. Barrymore pressed his lips into a thin line, once again displeased.
He and Castle had initially seemed quite keen to take her on when she and Kit first entered the card room. Even through the layers of dark veiling masking her face, she had seen their gazes filling with an unholy mix of lustful curiosity and greed. To such jaded men, she must have presented an interesting challenge, and they’d made several bald innuendoes when they’d first started to play. Kit had turned beet red but he’d managed to keep himself under control, maintaining the fiction of her masquerade as a merry widow. Vivien had also blushed at their remarks, and had blessed the veils that covered her. As inconvenient as all the swaddling was, she was grateful for the protection.
But the crude remarks and her opponents’ enthusiasm for the game had markedly decreased in the last hour as the points on her tally had added up and her pile of markers had grown. Vivien was hitting her stride and the cards were cooperating. The bets had been high and reckless from the start. With a little luck over the next few games the rubber would be hers, along with a very sizable increase in her winnings.
And she had to admit she’d be happy to take her winnings and exit. Despite the elegance of the surroundings, corruption whispered through the air like a dark symphony. Women, beautiful birds of paradise in the employ of the house, drifted in and out of the rooms, their expensive perfumes carrying the heavy scent of decadence. They wove their soft white arms around the men at the tables, whispering seductive lies, enticing them into their beds. Those men—men like Castle and Barrymore—had the coldest and the most calculating gazes Vivien had ever seen. Part of her relished the opportunity to best them, but they made her skin crawl, nonetheless.
Kit played the final trick of the current game, flashing a triumphant smile. Behind her veiling, she grinned. If they kept this up—
Her mind stuttered when a large, masculine form loomed close over Kit’s shoulder, blocking the light from the wall sconces.
“What the devil,” Kit snapped, twisting around in his chair.
The words died on his lips at the same moment Vivien’s stomach pitched upward into her throat. She stared at the man standing behind her brother, straining her eyes to confirm what couldn’t possibly be true.
Except that it was.
“Why, Mr. Shaw,” Aden drawled in a dangerously soft voice. “Imagine running into you at The Cormorant. Not your usual sort of haunt, is it?”
“I, ah, no . . . that is to say . . .” Kit stuttered.
Vivien gripped the edge of the table, silently begging her brother to button his lips. She tried stretching out a leg, hoping to give him a warning nudge with her foot, but couldn’t reach him. Right now, her veils figured as the only barrier between her and certain destruction.
But when Aden’s gaze fastened on her, she knew destruction had arrived. Even through the layers of net she could see the fury in his dark eyes, even though his features showed no sign of emotion. She reluctantly admired his discipline as panic roared through her veins.
For a few nauseating seconds, she thought she might faint. And for a few more seconds, that seemed the desirable option. Unfortunately, she’d never fainted in her life, and it didn’t appear as if she was going to pick up the habit anytime soon.
“Mr. Shaw, you seem to have a mysterious companion. Perhaps you will be so kind as to introduce me,” Aden said, resting a heavy hand on Kit’s shoulder.
“Smith,” her brother blurted out. “My friend goes by the name of Mrs. Smith. She’s a widow, but she prefers to remain incognito. I’m sure you understand.”
Vivien’s chest squeezed so tight she could hardly breathe, but she had to give Kit credit for trying.
“A veiled widow. How very delightful.” Aden gave her a graceful, mocking bow. “Mrs. Smith, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Vivien hardly knew how to respond. She’d never seen this side of Aden before, and it unnerved her to the point of idiocy. But as much as Aden’s anger unsettled her, she knew he wouldn’t expose her to damaging gossip. All she had to do was finish this game and make a graceful retreat. Yes, she would be subjected to a stinging lecture from her erstwhile suitor, but it would be a small price to pay for the tidy purse she’d won tonight. As long as he didn’t tell Cyrus about tonight’s escapade, she and Kit should escape fairly well.
Holding on to her nerve by the merest thread, she gave a dignified nod by way of greeting.
“As you can see,” Lord Castle sneered, “the lady’s words are few and far between. One would think she had something to hide. I, for one, would be delighted to discover her secrets.”
Vivien froze at the malicious tone. Castle hadn’t earned his name as the Vicious Viscount for nothing. She rarely encountered him since he usually shunned ton events, but she had little doubt he would relish destroying her reputation if he discovered her identity.
Aden’s gaze flitted to Castle. “My lord, I see you are between hands. Perhaps you would be willing to relinquish your seat to me. I’m certain you must want to stretch your legs, or perhaps visit the supper room.”
Alarmed, Vivien peered at Aden through her veiling. Castle looked as flummoxed as she felt.
“Why the hell would I want to do that? I’m in the middle of a game. You’re mad if you think I’m going to give you my place.”
Aden gave him a smile so cold Vivien half expected to see icicles form on Castle’s long nose.
“Then you’d better reserve a cell in Bedlam,” Aden said, “because I intend to take your seat. It’s up to you how easily I do so.”
Castle leaned comfortably back in his chair. “Don’t be a fool, St. George. I’m sure the lady will be happy to oblige you in whatever way you fancy once our game is finished.”
Vivien’s breath caught in her throat when Aden gave a negligent shrug. “Have it your way,” he said, moving toward the viscount.
Castle came to his feet just as Aden reached him. Vivien also scrambled up, although she hadn’t a clu
e what she could do to prevent the impending mayhem.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to do anything. Griffin Steele suddenly appeared from nowhere, sliding gracefully into the small space still separating the two men.
“Gentlemen,” he said in a soothing voice. “This is unnecessary. I’m sure we can find a satisfactory solution to this little problem.”
He turned his back on Aden, which surprised Vivien. Aden was a quiet man and not given to dramatics—except for tonight, apparently—but no one in his right mind would underestimate him. But Steele didn’t seem worried in the least.
“Get the hell out of my way, Steele,” Castle snarled. “That bastard insulted me, and I’ll not put up with it.”
Steele chuckled indulgently. “In this establishment, my lord, bastards are always welcome. I suggest you remember that if you wish to continue taking advantage of my hospitality. Now, why don’t you let the captain take your place? In exchange, I’ll fetch a bottle from my private stock of champagne for you to enjoy at supper. Compliments of the house, naturally.”
He raised a long, elegant hand and beckoned to a woman hovering over one of the other tables. She swiftly came to her employer’s side, waiting to do his bidding.
“Eloise will be happy to escort you to the supper room, Lord Castle,” he said, making it sound like an order.
Steele was neither as tall nor as broad as Lord Castle or Aden, but he possessed a lean, graceful physique that held whipcord strength. And at this moment, a lethal and focused sort of energy shimmered in the air around him. If there was danger in the air, it came from the proprietor of The Cormorant, not from Castle or even from Aden.
In fact, Aden had stepped back a few paces and crossed his arms over his chest, assuming a relaxed pose and looking positively amused. Vivien peered at him, amazed to see a small but genuine smile shaping his mouth.
Mystified, she sank back into her chair. What in heaven’s name was going on?
Finally, Castle shuffled his feet and his gaze cut sideways to Eloise. “Oh, devil take it! Have it your way. But I have no doubt she’ll fleece you too, St. George. She’s a sharp, unless I miss my guess.” He cast an angry glance at Steele. “Didn’t expect that sort of thing at The Cormorant.”
Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard Page 21