“Thought perhaps he’d be keen on having a membership in the club if he’s only a few hours away.” Distance was no deterrent to those who indulged in vice. Although he did hope Somerdale would fail to notice the erratic course of their conversation, that when it had begun Drake could not have known it would end here. Considering how much scotch Somerdale had downed, Drake was surprised the man could follow the cards, much less the direction of their discourse.
Somerdale chuckled. “Not Wigmore. He doesn’t gamble, he doesn’t drink. He’s quite the paragon of virtue.”
“Still, I should like to send him an invitation.” He removed a small black book and pencil from his jacket pocket. He used it to keep a list of things that needed to be tended to around the club. He opened it to a blank page and passed it across the table. “If you would provide the details for the post.”
With a shrug, Somerdale took the offerings in hand and began scribbling out the address. Drake would send a message, determine if the uncle was safe at home. If not, he would alert Scotland Yard that they needed to search the river for another body. It was quite possible that leaving in the late hours of the night, they’d been set upon. Or perhaps Somerdale was not the gentleman he appeared.
When Somerdale handed back over the book and pencil, Drake tucked them away.
“May we get on with the play now?” Avendale asked laconically.
“Actually, I just remembered a matter that needs my attention.” Drake signaled to one of the footmen. “Randall, take over dealing.”
A spark lit the man’s eyes. They all wanted to become dealers or croupiers. This was the first step.
“Surely whatever it is can wait,” Langdon said. His father, too, was a murderer. The knowledge should have made Drake feel more equal to the heir of the Claybourne title. But the Earl of Claybourne had killed a man who justly deserved killing. The same was not true of Drake’s mother. She’d deserved nothing but kindness and it had been denied her.
“Your responsibility is to begat an heir; mine is to see that the club makes profits. Yours is a far more pleasurable task.” He stood. “Gentlemen, enjoy your play.” He jerked his head toward another footman. “Gregory, I have need of you. Come with me.”
With Gregory trailing behind him, he strode through the room, down the stairs, and into his office. His pitiful attempt at a reference letter remained where he’d left it. He balled up the nonsense, tossed it in the wastebasket, and began anew.
This time involved the careful penning of an invitation to the Earl of Wigmore. He placed it in a vellum envelope that bore the emblem that represented Dodger’s Drawing Room. Then he sealed it with wax. He handed it over to the young footman. “I want this delivered to the Earl of Wigmore personally, to no one else. Only him. If he’s not there, I want you to ferret around until you discover if he ever returned from London.”
“Yes, sir.”
Taking the small book from his pocket, he found the location of the earl’s estate and passed it over to Gregory. “You’re not to tell anyone that I asked you to do this or to say a word about the additional information I seek.”
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t need to remind the footman that his position here depended upon his discretion. Drake had the power to hire, let go, and promote. He was obeyed without question, had been since he’d taken over the reins of running the establishment from Jack Dodger.
He then retrieved some coins from the safe and dropped them into Gregory’s waiting palm. “For your journey. Whatever is left over is yours to keep.” Considering the amount he’d handed over, a good deal should remain. “Hire a horse. Based on the distance, I expect to have your report tomorrow evening.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be careful.”
The man did little more than nod, before leaving.
Shortly afterward, Drake left as well. It wasn’t often he lied to his friends, but tonight the club’s profits were the last thing on his mind. First and foremost was unraveling the mystery of Lady Ophelia Lyttleton.
Chapter 10
It was half past two when he unlocked the door, crossed the threshold into his residence, and halted. Something was different. Perhaps it was that he was seldom here at this time, last night being an exception. But even as he considered it, he knew it was more than that. It felt different. It didn’t seem as empty. A lamp had been left burning on the first step of the stairs, as though she’d thought—or perhaps hoped—he’d return early.
He hadn’t planned to. He’d gone to Scotland Yard to inquire after any murders that might have taken place the night before. He’d spoken with Sir James Swindler, a friend of the family who wouldn’t question Drake regarding his strange curiosity. The inspector confirmed, unfortunately, that some killings had occurred, but all the victims had been identified. None apparently was the Earl of Wigmore.
Drake had gone to the coroner’s. No unclaimed corpses there. But that didn’t mean anything. The attack could have happened elsewhere, could have been handled by other police, other coroners. The attack could have happened and the victim not yet discovered.
Perhaps it wasn’t an attack. Only an accident. A careless driver losing control of the horses, the coach spiraling off a bridge. A spoke breaking, causing a carriage to careen off the road and into the river.
A hundred possibilities existed. Only someone with his past would immediately jump to the conclusion of foul play. From the moment Frannie Darling had taken him from the streets, he had been sheltered, but images of pain, suffering, and fear had already been branded into his consciousness. The loving arms and gentle smiles could not erase the horrors he’d witnessed, could not prevent the nightmares from rising up on occasion.
He was no doubt a fool not to tell Somerdale about his sister, to return her to her brother’s keeping. Yet he was picking up the lamp and ascending the stairs to check in on her, confident he would find her asleep. In his bed, no doubt. Lady Ophelia Lyttleton would not sleep on a cot.
He imagined rousting her from slumber, sending her to her bedchamber. The satisfaction of it, the delight of putting her in her place was tempered by the worry at the edge of his mind. He didn’t like not knowing what had happened to her. If Somerdale was telling the truth—if he was not—either way, something dastardly seemed to be at play.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he opened the door to his bedchamber, surprised to find the bed empty, but not at all surprised to see the bed remained tousled; the ashes from last night’s fire were still a heap in the hearth.
Had her memory returned? Had she tried to make her way home? He tore down the hallway to the corner room and shoved open the door.
She was there, curled on the cot, a lit lamp on the floor. The relief that swamped him was unwanted and disconcerting. He wasn’t supposed to care about her well-being, and yet for some unfathomable reason he did. But she was safe, not running hither and yon about London. He should leave. Return to the club and see to its profits.
Instead he approached quietly, and only as he neared did he realize that she was trembling as though he’d only just pulled her from the river. She wore one of his shirts again, the linen falling just above her knees. Her eyes were squeezed shut tight. Her breaths were harsh pants as though the air she required was elusive and distant. Her arms were crossed closely over her chest, her hands balled into knots.
“Phee?” Lightly he touched her shoulder and she struck out, arms flailing about madly.
“No, no! Don’t touch me. Don’t!” A shout, then a whimper, a tiny cry as she folded in on herself.
He remembered the words from last night, how he’d assumed they were directed at him. Perhaps they were directed at someone else. An attacker. Thieves could have tried to rob them. He could quite see her sticking that pert little nose of hers up in the air and informing them that their behavior was inappropriate and not to be tolerated.
She continued to shiver. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Sweat beaded her neck. She was constrained on that h
orrible tiny uncomfortable cot. What the devil had possessed him to think it would be fun to force her to sleep there when a perfectly good bed sat unused in his bedchamber in the evening?
All thoughts of lessons and retribution fled. All he wanted was for her to feel safe. To be safe.
“Phee?” He kept his voice calm, gentle, a tone he used to settle nervous horses. He’d always had a way with the great beasts, had even for a time considered becoming a stable boy, then a groom, but he was the ward of a duke and duchess who had grander plans for him. Bending his knees, he slipped his arms beneath her. “Shh,” he whispered when she responded with a mewling. “It’s all right. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Lifting her up and cradling her against his chest, he realized her bare legs graced his arm with the wondrous feel of her silken skin. It was completely inappropriate to be thinking of her skin, of her flesh touching his.
With her fingers tightening around the shirt he wore, she snuggled her head into the nook of his shoulder. Her breaths lengthened as she drew in great drafts of air, as though she were delighted by a fragrance. His.
Ridiculous. Whatever was wrong with him that he would have such inane thoughts? She was no doubt simply relishing the warmth from his body, feeling as though she were tucked into a safe cocoon. No harm would come to her while he was near. Somehow she must have sensed that. Which should have made him feel better but didn’t.
He carried her to his room and set her down gently on the bed, cursing his eyes for noticing how the hem of his shirt had ridden up her thighs. In spite of her short height, she had long, slender legs and the most delicate ankles. He was half tempted to place a kiss there. Instead he flipped the covers up over her, surprised that she hadn’t awakened. Apparently she was an incredibly deep sleeper, even when nightmares flourished.
He went to the fireplace, crouched, and did what she should have done earlier: swept out the ashes, arranged the coal and logs. Then he struck a match, lit the kindling, and watched as the fire took hold.
He heard a sob being choked back. Damnation. Unfolding his body, he strode back over. She was restless again, rolling her head from side to side, murmuring to be left in peace, but she didn’t sound as though she would find any peace this evening.
Leaning in, he touched his fingers to her cheek. “Phee?”
She inhaled deeply, once, twice. “You returned.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and her lips lifted up into the smallest of smiles. “You chased away the monster. You and your dragon.”
He felt as though he’d taken a hard punch to the gut. Her words, her smile. She never smiled at him like that, nor could he recall seeing that smile bestowed upon others. Yet there was an honesty in it. No artifice. No pretense. No role playing.
“What monster?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see him clearly. Perhaps I should have a dragon inked on my back.”
He imagined a dragon in flight over her slender back, what she would endure to possess it. “It’s a very painful process. Once you begin, you can’t stop. What good is only a piece of the dragon?”
“I suppose you’re right.” She pressed her lips together before gnawing on the lower one. The action went straight to his groin. It was the shadows, his shirt draped over her skin, her in his bed.
“I have so many questions,” she said, distracting him from dangerous musings.
“We’ll get to them in the morning. You need to sleep now.”
“I don’t understand my clothes.”
“Have they been talking to you then?”
Her smile grew slightly. “No, but they’re wrong. I don’t have a nightdress.”
“We’ll discuss it all later, after you’ve rested.” He was delaying the inevitable, but he didn’t want to lose the way she was looking at him, as though she accepted him, as though she didn’t distrust him.
She shook her head. “I don’t like to sleep.”
“You were having a nightmare. No one, nothing here will harm you. I’ll keep watch.”
“None of this, my being here, makes sense to me.”
“It will, very soon, I’m sure.”
She studied him as though striving to ferret out the truth, but he wasn’t lying. He would tell her everything tomorrow evening, after Gregory returned. Meanwhile, he would have another day of her scrubbing his back.
“I’m so cold,” she said quietly. “It’s as though I’m frozen throughout.”
He couldn’t make the fire any larger, and he had no more blankets, blast it all. He supposed he could heap his clothes on top of her. Or he could give her warmth in another way. “Don’t be alarmed but I’m going to lie on top of the covers and hold you. All right? I can warm you that way.”
She nodded. Removing his jacket, he spread it over her hips. He tugged off his boots. So the buttons wouldn’t scrape her, he draped his waistcoat over the chair. For his comfort, he unfolded his neck cloth and set it aside. Then he climbed on the bed, stretched out beside her. She came into the curve of his shoulder as though she belonged there, her hand curling against his chest. Placing his arm around her, he drew her nearer. With his free hand, he rubbed her back down to her waist, down to where the covers had gathered. He didn’t want to consider how close his hand might be to the bared flesh of her thighs.
“I can’t decide if you like me,” she said so softly he almost didn’t hear her. “You seem to care for me, like now, and other times you have no patience with me.”
“We just don’t know each other very well I suppose.”
“Then tell me a story.”
A story. Yes, he supposed he could do that. He’d told a good many to Grace when she was a child. “Once upon a time there was a cobbler and his wife—”
Laughing with that sweet sound that he had only discovered she possessed, she lifted her head and met his gaze. “You are not on the verge of telling me the story of the cobbler and the elves.”
“You know it?”
She gave him a pointed look. She’d given him many in the past, but none like this. It was teasing, amused. It made him want to plow his hands into her hair, bring her down for a kiss that would warm her, scorch her soul. It made him want to keep her here. It made him want to know her. It unsettled him to think she could be very different from what he had always known.
“Of course I know the story. I don’t want you to tell me a fairy tale, silly. I want you to share something about you. Tell me a story about you.”
Silly? He was far from silly. He considered castigating her, employer to employee, yet he didn’t want to lose this moment. For the life of him he didn’t know why he wanted to hold on to it. Share something with her. He had spent his life erecting a wall that only a select few could peer over, but none could see through completely. He even held things back from the Mabrys. He didn’t believe anyone could accept him completely as he truly was. He could give her something to use against him, so he had to be very careful in what he shared.
She settled back down, nudging her head in the hollow of his shoulder until it fit perfectly.
“Warmer?” he asked.
“Yes. But I’m still waiting for the story. Tell me something from when you were a boy.”
Those tales would satisfy the Brothers Grimm. “As I mentioned earlier I began my life on the streets. I survived by skill, cunning, and quickness. But still food, clothing, warmth were scarce. I remember the first time I ate until I was full. I was eight at the time. Meat pies. Then I promptly brought them all back up.”
“Ew! I think I would rather hear the cobbler’s tale.”
“I thought you might.”
She was quiet for a very long time. He thought perhaps she was drifting off. Then she said, “I can’t imagine that my life is very happy. I can’t seem to feel any joy in being here.”
An awful thought jarred him. Had she deliberately jumped into the river intending to do herself harm? Had his kiss so repulsed her—no, her plunge
in the river had nothing to do with him. Nor with her wishing herself harm. If he knew anything at all about her, it was that she thought too highly of herself to deny the world her existence. Her loss of memory was simply disorienting to her.
“You take great pride in your place,” he said. True, even if it was her place in the aristocracy to which he referred.
“Do I?”
“Yes. You are well versed in your duties. You carry them out with extreme diligence. You’ve set an example for others that few can imitate.” Again, all true, although he’d never considered the merits of them, but they were there even without his recognizing them.
“Are those words from my letters of reference?”
“Only my observations.”
“Did you bring the letters?”
“I seem to have misplaced them, but I shall find them.”
“Why did you return early?”
“Because I was … concerned for you.” Because she was driving him more mad without her memory than she ever had with it.
“I’m warm now,” she said. “No longer shivering.”
He supposed that was his signal to leave her. He should be incredibly relieved. Instead, he found that he enjoyed holding her, inhaling her unique scent, speaking low with her—even about nothing of significance—while shadows danced around them. Disturbing her as little as possible, he eased off the bed.
With her head on the pillow, she tucked a hand beneath her cheek and regarded him. “I like this bed better. It’s more comfortable.”
“You may use it when I’m not here.”
“But you’re here now.”
“Yes, but I won’t be sleeping.”
He stood there until he was relatively certain that she had drifted off. Then he pulled over the chair, sat, and began his vigil.
Only because she was Grace’s friend, and his sister would never forgive him if something awful happened to her. His remaining had nothing to do with the glimpse she’d given him of a lady he had never before met.
Once More, My Darling Rogue Page 10