Whitechapel Wagers 02 - Wanton Wager

by Christy Carlyle

  But when she closed her eyes all she saw were the haunting grey eyes of Mr. Selsby staring back at her. She feared she might never forget his eyes. They had struck her immediately, before she knew who he was and the awful truth of why he had sought her out.

  She knew the moment she walked into the room and glimpsed him in all his finery that he was not this Frederick of whom Beth had spoken. She hoped he was the man. If he had been, he might have finally provided some answers about her sister. But she had known he was not. Mr. Selby was something altogether different than a heartless aristocrat who seduced impoverished young women.

  Yet, ironically, he had come for the very same purpose.

  Her insides twisted and sickness nearly overwhelmed her the moment she realized the true reason for his late night visit. The perfect hothouse roses and beribboned gift box should have given her a clue. How was it possible a man with such sad, beautiful eyes could be so desperate as to use another man to procure a woman? His fine looks, bearing, and obvious wealth as displayed by his clothing would have made him a fine catch for any woman.

  Why was it so difficult to feel the same disgust for William Selsby that she bore for Ashdowne?

  It was the pain. Beyond the blue-flecked grey eyes, she had glimpsed a man in pain. She had seen it in so many people at the hospital. Not just physical pain, but need, the longing for human tenderness, for comfort to quell a wound that went deeper than cuts and aches and bruises.

  Though he appeared outwardly fit, with his tall, lean body and bright eyes, Mr. William Selsby had been wounded. She detected a slight limp in his gait and realized his cane, as many gentleman carried, was for more than just affectation. Once she caught him wincing as he watched her. Some injury must trouble him a great deal. Yet she imagined the pain she saw in his eyes was not just about whatever accident or encounter had left his body damaged. His eyes spoke volumes more.

  No one had ever looked at her as he had looked at her. Though Ada was not unaware of the gazes occasionally directed her way, she imagined most people stared at the oddity of her flame red hair. And there was one young doctor at the charity hospital who smiled at her a bit too long whenever their eyes met in the course of a busy day. But he did not look at her, did not caress her with his gaze, the way that Mr. William Selsby had. She had seen appreciation in Selsby’s gaze, as if he found her pleasant to look upon, but there was something more—a heat, a sizzling burn of desire that seemed to emanate from him. He wore an expression that said he wanted her more than anything in the world. That she, above all other women, was worth having. His desire had tugged at her from across the room, curled about her body, and warmed her in places no man had ever ignited before.

  But Mr. Selsby was not the man who should be kindling her senses. He was no better than the wretched aristocrat who had sent him. And that was the man she needed to speak to. Never mind the golden-haired man with warm eyes and a beautifully-shaped mouth. She needed to focus her thoughts on Frederick, Lord Ashdowne. He had to know something of Beth, where she might be, why she had gone missing. Ada shook away the idea he might be responsible for her sister’s disappearance, that he might have done something unspeakable to her—like the monster who prowled the streets of Whitechapel.

  A thought struck her and she took the eight steps between the upstairs and main area of the pub as quickly as she could. Most of the patrons had dispersed for the evening, and only a few weary souls still slumped against the bar or huddled at one of the corner tables.

  She scanned the room for Mr. Selsby. As tall as he was, she would have been able to spy his black evening wear easily, no matter how crowded the pub. Then she saw the roses. They lay on a table not far from the bar. Wilted, they seemed to melt against the table top. She approached the empty table and stroked her finger along one velvety red petal.

  “Harry? Do you recall the man who sat at this table?”

  “Course I do. ‘E’s the toff what called on you earlier in the ev’ning.”

  “I need to find him.”

  “What for?”

  “He knows the lord that Beth was always going on about. Lord Ashdowne is his name. If I could speak with him, maybe…” Ada huffed a sigh of frustration. “I do not know. Perhaps he could tell me what’s happened to her.”

  Ada lifted a finger to her mouth to bite her nail. Mama would slap her hand if she saw her. But she wasn’t there to see, and it seemed to alleviate the ceaseless churning in her stomach and the ache beginning in her head.

  There must be some way to find a titled lord, even without the aid of Mr. Selsby.

  Harry’s deep voice startled her from her racing thoughts.

  “Your man took a hansom. Old Jerrold and my brother were both working the street outside this evening. I can ask. Could be one of them what took your toff into the city.”

  Harry said the words as if he did not wish to do the service he had offered. She beamed the most sincere smile she could muster at half eleven on the longest day she could recall to indicate her gratitude.

  “Thank you, Harry. May I help you close up?”

  “No, you may not. I sent you up for your kip hours ago and ‘ere you are back again.”

  Harry didn’t say another word, just lifted the hand which held the damp rag he was using to wipe down the bar and pointed above his head, to her family’s lodgings. She took his meaning and gave him a grin.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Beck. I am on my way.”

  Sleep was essential if she was to rise early in order to speak to Beth’s friend, Nancy, again and then seek out Lord Ashdowne.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Will’s eyes snapped open and he waited for the sense of dread that greeted him most mornings. It was an anxiousness accompanied by hazy memories of his dreams—dreams of blood and dust, of battle cries, and the clash of steel, men, and horses. But there was no dread, only a sense of longing and the memory of a woman with quiet confidence and unusual beauty.

  It was ridiculous to spare a single thought for Miss Hamilton. He would never see the woman again. Even if he wished to, she certainly had no desire to continue their association. He’d proved himself to be the worst kind of man, one ruled by his passions. Yet it was ironic she might think him a libertine when the reality was so different. If he had known passion the past handful of years, he would not have played the fool and taken Ashdowne up on his debauched wager.

  He focused on the familiar ache in his arm and leg, and the thumping pain in his head. After returning from Whitechapel, the whiskey decanter had beckoned, but he could not fool himself into justifying it as medicinal. He had not been in physical pain, though his conscience gnawed at him from the moment he had arrived at Miss Hamilton’s doorstep until the moment he’d returned to his own.

  Banging sounded at his door to match the drumbeat in his head.

  “Will, are you still abed?”

  His sister would have done well in the Hussars. Rising early was as much a principle with her as a habit.

  Will pulled on his trousers and a fresh shirt before answering, but Kate—never one to wait for anyone—was rattling the latch on his bedroom door.

  “May I enter?”

  “Do I have any choice?”

  Will spoke the words with well-intended sarcasm, but they also reminded him of a matter he needed to address. It was high time his sister found some worthy cause to occupy her time and talents, if not a husband who could provide her the love and attention she deserved. He was grateful Kate had been there after his return from the war, and she had been tireless at nursing him back to health. But he was back on his own two feet, and it wasn’t fair to hamper his sister’s second chance for marriage and a family of her own.

  “No, I suppose you don’t.” Kate entered the room with a small tray laden with a bowl of porridge and a steaming cup of coffee. Will didn’t even try to stifle his smile.

  Six years his junior at nine and twenty, Kate was still a vibrant, intelligent woman with much to offer any suitor. Her widowhood at ninetee
n was far behind her, though Will had rarely detected any urgency or even real interest on her part to marry again. Yet it would be for the best. He could not allow his sister to be wasted on spinsterhood and caretaking for her older brother.

  It suited them to lodge together at the moment, but he knew she would be happier as mistress of her own home.

  “Don’t even consider getting used to such treatment.” She set the tray on the table near his chair by the fireplace and turned to him, her hands planted firmly on her hips. “I heard you come in late last evening. Far too late. And you woke me when you stumbled to your bed long after midnight. Dare I ask?”

  Though her face was fixed in a stern expression, Will heard no real anger in his sister’s tone. She worried over him to a ridiculous degree, especially considering he was the elder between them. But Kate took after their mother, a bit heavy-handed in everything she did and eager to know the whys and wherefores of everyone’s business. With Kate, still quite young and lovely, most were willing to dismiss her manner as simple curiosity or a bit too much exuberance. With their mother, it was not unusual to hear even her own brother refer to her as a harridan. Will hoped Kate would not end up bearing the moniker one day.

  “It was to do with Lord Ashdowne. You did wish me to renew my acquaintance with him.”

  “But you did not take the carriage. Don’t tell me you walked all the way to Lord Ashdowne’s and back in the middle of the night.”

  A sizable inheritance from their father meant Will could afford to keep a brougham, and he was not surprised Kate was attuned to its comings and goings.

  “I took a hansom.” It was the truth, the part it was easy to tell, even if he could not bring himself to admit the rest.

  “Why on earth would you take a hansom when you have a perfectly good carriage at your disposal?”

  “Whimsy?”

  She glowered at him now. It was another trait she had inherited from their mother, though Will admitted Kate had perfected the art.

  “I am going to call on Ashdowne this afternoon as well. I shall take the carriage this time if it puts you at ease.” He knew she did not give a fig how he traveled, though she may have worried how his leg would hold out for the handful of miles between Ashdowne’s Mayfair townhouse and theirs in the slightly less fashionable part of the London. “There is an unresolved matter between us.”

  Will took a sip of his coffee, now more warm than hot but still strong and satisfying, and avoided his sister’s direct gaze.

  “That sounds ominous.” She had abandoned her school mistress stance and began tidying his room as she spoke.

  “Kate, leave it. I can look after myself. And what I cannot tidy, Sally will see to.” Their single housemaid was affable and reliable, but her sense of clean and his sister’s were ever at odds. “And there is nothing ominous regarding my business with Ashdowne.”

  It was as close to lying to his sister as Will had ever come.

  “Then what must you see him about?” She wanted details. And the less he was willing to divulge, the more she would dig.

  “Just the matter of a wager.”

  She heaved a sigh as if his revelation was an enormous letdown.

  “Oh, you gentlemen and your wagers.”

  Were they gentlemen? Little did she know how far he and Ashdowne had fallen from gentlemanly wagers.

  ***

  “Where are you going in such a hurry, Ada? And why have you not told Mama?”

  Ada’s twelve-year-old sister Vicky was born to be a sentry. She had a quick eye and even quicker mind, and Ada had never met another person with a keener memory for details. She should have known she could not dress and break her fast and leave their lodgings without Vicky taking notice.

  “Mama and I spoke last evening. She knows I am going to speak with Nancy again this morning.”

  “About Beth?”

  Vicky’s voice wobbled a bit whenever she spoke Beth’s name and it sent a stab of misery straight through Ada. She reassured Vicky every day, but she could not expect the child not to worry as fiercely as she did for their sister’s safety.

  “Yes, darling, about Beth. And there is someone else I must speak to as well. He may know something about Beth that can help us find her.” As soon as Ada spoke the words, she wished she could take them back. They sounded too hopeful, even to her own ears. The last thing she wanted to do was give Vicky false hope, yet neither could she stomach lying to her.

  “Is it Ashdowne?”

  “How do you know that name?” Had Beth divulged more to their little sister than she had to Ada or their mother?

  Vicky reached into the folds of her skirt, into the tiny pocket that Beth sewed into every one of them for her, and produced a cream-colored piece of paper. It was the piece of paper Ada had taken from Mr. Selsby, the one with their address and Lord Ashdowne’s tasteless message written on one side. Ada took the card Vicky offered, flipped it over, and looked at the opposite side.

  Ashdowne. Four Grosvenor Square.

  “You’re not cross, are you? That I took it? I was going to give it to you. I promise I was. I only just found it in the sitting room where I heard you arguing with that man last evening.”

  Vicky’s words tumbled out on top of one another, the way they always did when she was trying to talk her way out of a scolding.

  Ada reached out to clasp her sister’s hands. “Vicky, calm yourself. No, I’m not cross. In fact, I am very grateful you found it. But I was not arguing with that man last evening, and you were meant to be in your bed.”

  The girl looked momentarily pleased with herself and then contrite. “I was asleep, but then I woke. You did raise your voice to him at least once, though his voice always remained the same. It was very pleasant, was it not?”

  Vicky was right. She usually was. Ada had raised her voice to Mr. Selsby, and he did have an undeniably pleasant voice. It was a voice she had heard in her head from the moment she woke, as she went over every word between them again and again.

  It was a good thing Vicky had not caught a glimpse of the man. She did not want to be reminded of how handsome he was, though she did not need reminding. She could not shake the memory of his face, and his haunted grey eyes.

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Does that man—the one with the kind voice—know where Beth is?”

  He didn’t even know who Beth was, and he had come looking for her, so he could have had nothing to do with the girl’s disappearance. Yet something inside of Ada yearned to speak to him of the situation with her sister. She told herself it was because he might reveal details about Ashdowne the man would not divulge himself. She tried not to think of the real reason he had come seeking her sister.

  “No. I’m afraid he knows nothing about it at all.” No, Mr. Selsby knew nothing, and the pain and desire she saw reflected in his gaze represented just the sort of complication she did not wish to admit into her heart and mind. His intentions had been completely dishonorable.

  Now if only she could forget him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Will reached Ashdowne’s front door earlier than the fashionable hour for morning calls. He had to speak his piece with the man and then see what he could do about the younger Miss Hamilton. If Ashdowne would not settle some funds on her and make amends for his deception, Will would do what he could, despite whatever objections the elder Miss Hamilton might have. He suspected she would have plenty.

  The same butler who answered his knock earlier in the week opened the door of Ashdowne’s townhouse. The man was young and his arrogant bearing matched his master’s.

  “I wish to speak with Lord Ashdowne.” Will could hear voices from within the house as he spoke. It seemed the Ashdownes were entertaining early, but now that he was on the man’s doorstep, he wouldn’t be deterred.

  “Of course, Captain Selsby.”

  Perhaps the chap was more accommodating than he looked.

  He lad lifted an arm to point toward the study where he had waited for Fre
derick the first time he had visited.

  “May I take your coat and hat, sir? I shall inform Lord Ashdowne you have arrived for the early luncheon.”

  The last thing Will wanted to do was sit down at table with Ashdowne, but he did not have a chance to explain that he only wished to speak with the man for a moment. The butler ushered him into the room quickly and exited with as much haste, closing the door behind him.

  Ashdowne’s stuffed menagerie stared down at him as Will waited a quarter of an hour before the aristocrat entered the room, dressed in a fine suit more suited to evening wear than a morning luncheon. He looked every inch the titled lord, and he was beaming, in high spirits and wearing his signature wolfish grin.

  “Selsby, didn’t expect to see you again so soon, old man. Do not tell me you’ve come to regale me with tales of my flame-haired East End lovely. I couldn’t bear it.” He bent toward Will as if to impart a secret. “Truth be told, I already miss the girl. I did not exaggerate her charms, eh, Selsby?”

  If Ashdowne was talking about the same woman Will met last evening, then he would have to agree. Amply endowed with many charms, Miss Hamilton could easily entice a man, but Ashdowne was referring to an eighteen-year-old young woman who believed his intentions had been honorable.

  “I never met Beth. I met her sister.”

  “Sister? Ah yes, older, I believe. My Beth gave me to believe she was a bit of a spinster. Never met her.”

  The ease with which Ashdowne dismissed Ada Hamilton gave Will a surge of satisfaction. He was pleased the man had never set eyes on her and did not refer to her in the possessive way he did her sister.

  “Is she a redhead too?”

  Will ignored the question, though a flash of her crimson hair passed in his mind’s eye. He could remember every detail of its shade, and the way the lamplight set it aglow.

  “Miss Hamilton tells me you seduced her sister by promising to marry her.”

  Ashdowne had been busying himself with retrieving a cigarette from a silver case. At Will’s words, he thrust the cigarette into the fireplace.