A Rakes Guide to Pleasure

by Victoria Dahl

  A few minutes passed, perhaps an hour, and he blinked awake again. Before he'd even had time to stretch his limbs, memory returned and, with it, anger. His muscles froze to stone.

  What the hell had he allowed to happen? What the hell had he done!

  Hart's body responded to that question by swelling with a renewed arousal that only further infuriated him. How quickly he'd been pulled back into the depths of his unnat­ural lusts. How easy to transform from the self-controlled duke into the debased rake. For God's sake, if she started spreading tales of his little show . . .

  Hart sat up and reached over to jerk the bellpull, but he'd only brushed it with his fingers when his valet tapped at the door.

  "Enter!" Hart shouted. His blood was rolling too quickly through his veins and pushing heat into his face. He wanted to take back the night or at least turn it into something else. Something he controlled, despite his challenge to Emma. Somehow this seemed so much worse than being caught ravishing a woman in the card room. To be snickered at. To be turned into a freak . . .

  His head spun as Wellford brought tea and toast into the room. "I'll need hot water for washing," Hart barked.

  Wellford murmured, "Immediately, sir," as he bowed back out the door. He did not say, "Of course, sir. I bring you hot water every single morning, even when you haven't debased yourself for a woman."

  Hart gulped the scalding tea. As the liquid burned down his throat, his brain slowly began to right itself. He wasn't a foolish young man anymore. He may have indulged his baser needs last night, but there was no evidence, no proof in his own handwriting to titillate his peers. At worst, a story might circulate and then he'd make that woman pay.

  He finished his cold toast, and Wellford returned with a steaming ewer of water. Wellford set out towels and soap next to the basin, then shaving powder and a razor. "Shall I return in a moment to shave you, sir?"

  "Yes," he answered, but he was thinking of the woman across the hall, wondering if she were still abed. It didn't matter. He'd track her down and make himself clear. She had more to lose in this affair than he did. Risking exposure was one thing, and he could decide what he'd risk. But to let her have control—that had been a mistake.

  A half hour later he was feeling more himself and almost entirely unashamed as he shot his crisp white cuffs and rolled the tension from his neck. "Would you send a message to Lady Denmore's room, Wellford? Inquire if she requires an escort to breakfast."

  Wellford disappeared with his usual grace. Hart's brain began to buzz again, but this wasn't anxiety, it was anticipation.

  Of seeing her again and what the day would bring. Would she be cool this morning, or still trembling with need? Would she make him laugh or yell? And tonight . . . How would their game play out? Whose room would be invaded? How far would it go?

  He was in control again. He could handle this situation. He could handle her.

  "Sir?"

  "Mm."

  "It seems Lady Denmore has departed, sir."

  "All right." She'd damn well better be in the breakfast room this morning. If he caught her in . . .

  Wellford's throat had caught a particularly large and un­manageable frog.

  "Yes, Wellford?"

  "According to the chambermaid, Lady Denmore left this morning around eight. Lord Moulter was kind enough to lend his coach."

  Hart froze in the act of tucking an extra handkerchief into his coat pocket. "Pardon?"

  "I believe she has returned to London, Your Grace."

  Hart's fantasy of control vanished with a little pop that stung more than just his pride. Oh, yes, he would make that woman pay.

  Hart looked away from the distant sight of Emma's front steps and glared down at Stimp. "Her home was broken into almost two days ago. Why the hell didn't you send word?"

  "I'm not exactly part of the household, guv. The house­keeper didn't tell me 'til last night. Then I had to find a man to write the note for me and a rider to carry it. I must've missed you."

  "You are supposed to be watching the house."

  "Well, it's a big house, isn't it? And a long night as well."

  "Do you know who it was, this supposed thief?"

  The boy broke into a smile wide enough to reveal one missing tooth. "I don't know his name, but I know where he's sleeping."

  Hart's mood immediately improved and he responded with a predatory smile. "Even better. Lead the way."

  "It's blocks away. Call for your damned carriage. 'At's what it's for."

  Sparing a haughty glare for the little urchin, Hart raised a hand. As the sound of horseshoes against stone drew closer, Stimp's eyes grew brighter. He struggled to remain expressionlessly unimpressed, but he was only a child after all. His big brown eyes glimmered with joy, and Hart had to hold back a snort. The boy fought hard for his dignity, and Hart would let him have it.

  "In," he ordered as the wheels slowed to a halt. The boy jumped in, agile as a cat. "Push up that little hatch there and tell the driver where to go."

  Stimp needed no further prompting. He took over directing the carriage, opened all the windows and settled into the cush­ions, lap blanket pulled high against the breeze he'd created.

  He shouted instructions several times. The carriage turned left and right and right again, then seemed to go through the same motions once more. Hart was certain the journey was rather longer than strictly required.

  "What do you know?" he asked Stimp.

  "Whoever he is, he's a stranger 'round here. A big fellow. Closemouthed but not good at keeping hid."

  "The same man who paid you for information last month?"

  "The same. And he come back last night too, dumb as you please. I chased him off and followed him. Wasn't sure you'd want the constables involved."

  Hart shrugged, unsure himself.

  "He went straight to a tavern, drunk himself into a mean stupor, and he's been snoring it off at this lodging 'ouse ever since."

  Hart tugged his watch free. "It's three in the afternoon."

  "He drank 'til seven this morning." He was impressed with the lad's fortitude. "You must be tired, Stimp."

  The little shoulders shrugged, though his eyes shown with pleasure again. "Spying ain't exactly hauling coal." The boy's eyebrow rose in a startlingly accurate impression of Hart's favorite expression. "It's practically gentlemen's work, isn't it, guv?"

  Hart found himself holding back another smile. No wonder the street rat reminded him of Lady Denmore. Insolent to the core. "I'm not entirely sure I trust you, Stimp."

  The boy's laughter rang like a bell as they finally jerked to a stop.

  When Hart stepped down, he found himself at the door­way of a rambling three-story structure that seemed to stretch on for the entire block. Stimp darted past him and through the propped-open door. Sparks began to race over Hart's skin as he followed through narrow halls. The air was just as cold as it had been outside, but it was thicker here, tainted with bodies and old, bad cooking. He took care not to brush against the mottled gray walls.

  What the hell did this man living in cold and filth have to do with Emma? His anger was sharpened and magnified by his doubts about her. This man was no ordinary thief. There was something else going on, something to do with gambling, he didn't doubt. Idiot woman.

  He ran up the stairs after Stimp, around a corner and into an even darker hallway. Stimp slid to a stop in front of a bat­tered brown door. Hart waited for the boy's nod before he smashed the door open with the flat of his hand.

  Two men looked up from sleeping pads and caught sight of Hart's face. They'd scrambled up and out the door within three heartbeats, abandoning the third man curled into the corner.

  Hart picked his way through a maze of stained, rumpled blankets and nudged the man with his boot.

  "That's 'im," Stimp offered as Hart nudged again, much harder this time. The man stirred and gin fumes wafted up like pungent smoke.

  "Christ."

  "If he's from the country, he's likely no
t used to that brew."

  Grimacing at the idea, Hart leaned down and grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt. Whatever stained it was dry at least. A good shake roused the drunk bastard, but his eyelids fluttered closed as soon as Hart stopped shaking. "Wake up, you thieving wretch."

  "Ernnh," was the only reply.

  "Damn it." He yanked the man to his feet, rather unsuc­cessfully. "Either stand or I'll drag you down the stairs." He had to get the man out into the fresh air. Hell, he had to get himself out into the fresh air, the combination of gin and stale sweat and God knew what else was making his eyes water.

  He dragged the man across the room and down the hall, thankful when he woke enough to slide his feet beneath him to bear some of the weight.

  "Stairs," Hart warned before he pulled him, thunking, down the steps.

  The loud groan of protest was easily ignored, but the big hands that came up to clutch Hart's wrists were more intru­sive. Not only were they sticky, they were strong as hell. He tossed the man out the front door and wiped his arm against his jacket.

  By the time he made it into the open air that smelled of coal smoke instead of gin and onions, Stimp was standing guard, arms crossed and eyes glaring at passersby.

  Hart paused to consider how best to wake the drunkard. A bucket of cold, foul water over the head? A boot to the ribs? The appeal of giving the man a good thrashing proved tempting, but Hart reconsidered even as he drew his foot back. The man knew Emma somehow from somewhere. He might not reveal their secrets, but she would.

  "Help me get him into the carriage."

  Stimp's eyebrows neared his hairline. "He's likely to cast up his accounts all over your finery if you bounce him around in there."

  "We'll put him on the floor and pray for the best."

  Stimp shrugged his opinion and helped wrestle the man's large body through the narrow opening. They had him halfway in when the driver jumped down and offered his shoulder as effective leverage.

  The driver dusted off his shoulder. "Perhaps you'd prefer to ride above, Your Grace."

  "Perhaps I would. Stimp?" But Stimp declined, unwilling to give up what might be his last carriage ride.

  They were back at Emma's street and pulling into the alley within minutes, the driver having taken a more direct route. Stimp jumped from the coach with a pointed frown.

  "Go and fetch Lady Denmore, Stimp."

  The boy made sure to toss a scowl over his shoulder as he skulked toward her back door. Hart followed at a distance, keeping close to the damp brick wall. He heard Stimp walk down the steps, heard the door open.

  "Yer mistress," Stimp said. Footsteps rushed across a stone floor and the door opened again.

  "Where have you been? I sent word hours ago. I need your help."

  Hart swallowed the fury that rose at the sound of her voice. She'd abandoned him without a word. Like a rented mount.

  Stimp was making his excuses when she interrupted. "That man you claimed to have run off has returned. Had you noticed?"

  "Aye."

  Her impatience vibrated through the atmosphere. "Oh, you had? Because the very man I hired you to watch out for has likely broken into my home. You were supposed to be keeping an eye out, but you've only come around once in three days. Did he pay you off?"

  "Who?"

  "The man who broke into my home!"

  "Well, I took his ha'pence that first day, but I already told you about that."

  "Stimp, listen." She sounded frightened now. Desperate. "If you can't find out who he is and what he wants, I at least need him gone. This is important. Is there some way he can be gotten rid of?"

  Hart blinked and stepped back, shocked at her vicious-ness.

  "Well. . ." Stimp tapped his foot. "I'm sure I know one or two who might be willing to open the man's throat, but it'll cost more than—"

  "No! Good God, what kind of child are you? I don't want the man murdered! I just need him run off. For good this time."

  Hart felt muscles he'd never recognized relax at her words. The woman was wily and deceptive, but she'd never struck him as violent.

  "What if I were to catch 'im for you," Stimp went on, seemingly unfazed by the exchange. "For, say, a half crown? Would that suit yer—"

  "Enough," Hart said, and crossed the half-dozen feet to her stairway.

  Emma yelped when she spied him, though she clapped a hand over her mouth to try to stop it. But she couldn't hide the fear that blazed to life in those hazel eyes. Stark alarm was followed quickly by bright, scrambling thoughts.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked from behind her fingers, but then she lowered her hand and stepped out from the doorway. "I am not receiving visitors, Your Grace. Please send a note next time."

  "First of all. . ." He had to unlock his jaw if he wanted to continue. His teeth were beginning to ache. He just felt so . . . outraged. Yes, outraged. Used, even. And expecting to be betrayed.

  "First of all, if I sent a note, you would never admit to re­ceiving visitors, correct? Second, I am not here to pay a social call, or not a pleasant one at any rate."

  She clearly did not know what to think. Her eyes darted from him to Stimp, then back. "If this is about Moulter's . . ." She blushed. Actually blushed. "I apologize for not leaving word. I simply did not have time."

  "Liar. You knew that night that you were leaving in the morning. Let's not pretend you were anything but dishonest."

  Her eyes flicked to the boy again. "Regardless—"

  "Yes," Hart sneered. "Regardless. It has nothing to do with that night except as it pertains to the news you received in that note."

  "There was—" She broke off and studied him, trying to read his hand and not succeeding in the least. "There was a personal issue. Now if you will excuse me."

  "Lark!" Hart shouted over his shoulder.

  A lot of thumping and grunting preceded his driver's ap­pearance, but Hart kept his eyes on Emma, measuring her smallest reaction. She looked worried and scared, but he didn't sense even a hint of recognition on her part. Then again, the woman was a consummate gambler, which meant she was a consummate liar.

  "Your thief," he said simply when Lark dropped the man on the ground next to Hart.

  "Is he . . .?" She swallowed. Hart watched hope and dismay, disgust and anxiety, shudder over her face. One emotion replaced the other in a dizzying show. "He's dead?" she finally asked.

  "No, simply drunk. Do you recognize him?"

  She stepped up two stairs and craned her neck. Her hands held her skirts in a death grip. "No."

  "Well then, let's find out what he was looking for, shall we?"

  Hart crouched beside the now snoring man. "Wait!" she cried, just as his palm cracked against the stubble-rough cheek. The man grunted and stirred, but nothing more.

  "Wake up," Hart growled and slapped him again.

  "Sir," Lark said as he appeared at Hart's side with a bucket filled with murky water.

  "Perfect." Hart's murmur was overtaken by Emma's re­newed command to wait. She flew up the stairs, close enough when Hart dumped the bucket that drops of dark water soaked into her gray skirts. She jumped back as the drunk finally sputtered to life. The man roared, spitting water, flinging it wide as he threw his arms out.

  Hart resolved to take a bath within the hour as he dug his fingers into the man's dripping hair and yanked.

  "What is your name?"

  The man grunted and swung, earning himself a hard kick to the thigh. He yelped as Hart snarled, "Your name."

  "Arse."

  "Your name is Arse?"

  "No, you're an arse. Now let me go before I tear your arm off, you rump eater."

  Hart held up a hand to stop Lark's approach. He let go of the man's hair and smiled when his skull hit the ground with a meaty thump. The bastard was still reaching for his head when Hart carefully placed a boot over his throat and let some of his weight bear down.

  The brown eyes began to bulge almost immediately. The hands flew from his bruised head
to Hart's ankle, but Hart pressed harder. "Remove your hands from my person or I'll be sure to lose my balance and crush your worthless throat."

  The hands shook, but they rose an inch above the shiny black leather of Hart's boot. Hart eased up and let the man wheeze out a few breaths.

  "Now I'm sure you are lying there thinking that in this en­lightened age, in this modern city, a man cannot simply kill you in an alley in broad daylight and get away with it. But let me introduce myself, Mr. Arse. I am His Grace, the eighth Duke of Somerhart. I could kill you in front of the House of Lords and they would all swear they'd seen noth­ing. And if they didn't, I could buy the judge presiding over the case and walk away a free man. So do not doubt that if you don't give me what I want, I will kill you and never spare your sorry life another thought.

  "If you refuse to cooperate, Lark here"— the man's eyes rolled toward the driver—"will drop your body in the Thames while I attend the theatre this evening. Am I making myself clear?"

  The man's face had faded to white, but it quickly began to turn a dull green. He stretched up his chin so that he could nod past Hart's boot.

  Thinking of the wounded attitude his valet would assume at having to clean vomit from his master's boots, Hart slowly slid his foot down to the ground.

  "And watch your language. There is a lady present."

  Hart was thankful when the man's color returned to a more normal shade of unhealthy white. Then the brown eyes rolled again, and his gaze caught on Emma who had re­treated to the bottom of the stairs. The white face tensed, and Hart could trace the rush of his blood as a flush rose up to the man's greasy hairline. His mouth twisted in a sneer of hatred as he pointed a finger at Emma.

  "You," he spat, malice rolling off him in gin-scented waves.

  Emma backed farther away, but she was caught like a cor­nered fox by the closed back door. "No," she whispered, and Hart felt betrayal looming close.

  "Whore," the man spat, but worse than his vitriol was Hart's gaze. He studied her like a falcon would study a mouse. Emma had not imagined her unmasking would happen in front of him, had never planned for it. How was she to vanish if a sharp-eyed bird of prey stood between her and freedom?