His eyes narrowed even more. “I’m Abram. What do you think I’m speaking of, Miss Wren? The goddamn weather?”
Well, at last, she was witnessing a side of him that was not charming.
She blinked. “You are Abram? I must beg your pardon, Mr. Sutton. I thought your Christian name was Rafe.”
He made a low sound in his throat, rather like a feral animal. “I’m not saying my name is Abram. It’s flash for saying I’m naked. I was trying to keep your sensibilities in mind, you being a lady and such. Are you a lady?”
He did not mean lady in the sense she feared, she told herself, though her heart was hammering wildly and her mouth had gone dry.
“I am a respectable woman, Mr. Sutton,” she said coolly. “If you are in en dishabille, the fault is yours. I was most distressed with your behavior last night.”
He paled.
She knew the swift pinprick of guilt, then feverishly tamped it down.
“I didn’t… Hell.” He raked a hand through his tousled curls, the effect rendered somewhat comical by his attempt to hold the counterpane with one hand instead of two. He nearly dropped the right side, and the most shameless part of her would not have minded if he had one whit. “What happened between us, Miss Wren? Last night?”
Nothing was the proper answer.
Although, to be fair, that was rather concise. The truth was that he had been pleasant and charming, fretting over the welfare of his sister-in-law, Lady Octavia, who had been attacked by a madwoman and who had required stitching up by a surgeon. Thanks to the upended nature of the household, the two of them had been closeted away with Persephone’s charges, attempting to distract them from the surrounding mayhem.
But after the girls had gone to sleep in the nursery for the evening, the attention he had paid her had triggered all the fears she had tried so hard to bury after what had happened at her last situation. She had panicked. Armed with the laudanum she had been carrying with her ever since that awful night, she had struck when Rafe Sutton had been distractedly pacing the salon. But she had given him far too much. Before her scattered wits had been able to comprehend what she should do to rectify her error, he swooped down upon her, taking up his glass. He had swallowed his brandy in a mad rush, the laudanum too.
But she could not tell him that. Because she needed this position. She needed to remain where she was.
Only without Rafe Sutton’s interference and vexing presence.
“Miss Wren?” he prompted, waiting.
“You do not recall?” she returned, her mind whirling.
She needed to be certain he had no memory of the manner in which he had fallen so easily. If he were to go to his brother with concerns regarding her character…
She could not bear to think it.
“Of course I do not,” he gritted. “If I did, I’d have no need to ask.”
The sounds of other servants moving about could be heard in the hall, and her heart plummeted to her toes. It was one thing for the girls to have witnessed their uncle at her door—children could be easily bribed, she had discovered—but it was another for any of the domestics to find Mr. Rafe Sutton here in her room, alone and naked, with her.
“You must dress and go at once,” she hissed, careful to keep her voice low lest any curious ears were listening near to the door. Her years of experience as a governess had taught her to expect anything.
He was frowning at her, his displeasure evident in the crinkle of his brow. “Miss Wren, I insist—”
“You have already done enough damage,” she interrupted, fear making her throat go thick. “Dress and go before anyone else finds you here.”
He regarded her, jaw clenched, stare impenetrable. And then, without a word, he turned away and set about hunting his discarded garments from the floor. On any other occasion, she would have laughed at the sight of this big, masculine man struggling to maintain his modesty in the counterpane whilst thrusting himself into yesterday’s coat. But as the sun rose higher and the danger of discovery grew, all she could do was bite her lip and watch as he finished his hasty dressing and sent a glare over his shoulder in her direction, along with a warning.
“This is not the last you shall hear of this, Miss Wren.”
He shrugged the counterpane to the floor. Where was his cravat? She could not say.
She told herself it was his warning that sent the shiver shuddering through her and not the sight of that strong, lean form, striding from her chamber.
But then, Persephone Wren was a dissembler, and she had been one for nearly the last seven years. That was hardly new. However, in the past, it had never been herself she had been deceiving.
CHAPTER 2
Having been born to the rookery and lived all his life there, Rafe had never minded it. The stench was almost familiar. The danger, quite expected, if not appreciated. The desperation, an eternal reason to continue working one’s fingers to the bleeding knuckles. And so it was, that as he returned to The Sinner’s Palace after fleeing his brother’s Mayfair town house with yesterday’s togs—sans his damned cravat, which he had never found in his hasty search of Miss Wren’s quarters—he inhaled deeply. A lungful of chamber pots, horse dung, and stale piss, as it happened.
With a slight tinge of sour wine and fish.
Of course, it was raining, which never helped matters much.
A flurry of movement at the edge of his vision caught his eye, and he turned, thinking he had spied the figure of a cove there. Hope rose that his brother Loge, who had gone missing, was still somewhere about. There had been the mysterious chap who had come to Lady Octavia’s aid and then disappeared the night before to bolster this optimism, for he had resembled a Sutton. But the street was empty. Must have been his tired eyes playing tricks on him. With a sigh, Rafe trudged on.
When he reached the private entrance, he entered, passing by the guards and slipping into the hidden quarters of The Sinner’s Palace. He and most, but not all, of his family—thanks to the marriages of his sister Caro and brother Jasper, their ranks had dwindled—dwelled within. Rafe removed his hat and coat, performing the same routine he had thousands of times before, wondering why today should feel differently.
It should not, he decided.
It did not.
He would forget all about Miss Wren and her sunset hair and warm brown eyes and that plump little mouth that begged to be kissed and the promise of lush breasts he had spied beneath her unappealing gown the evening before… Damn it, there he went again. Yes, the governess was undeniably what any man in the East End with a set of eyes would deem a dimber mort. In other words, a pretty wench. But he had seen—and tumbled—many pretty wenches. There was nothing different about this one. Well, nothing save the mystery of what had happened between them.
You have already done enough damage, she had said. Which rather begged the question. What damage? He knew he would never have forced a woman, regardless of how inebriated he was. But he had been naked. In her bed. Had he taken her virginity then? Was that the damage she spoke of?
Hell, he most certainly hoped not. Deflowering his brother’s new governess was the work of a scoundrel.
On a sigh, he rounded a corner and collided with a chap wearing a hat pressed low over his brow. The unexpected jolt sent a spear of pain through his skull, reminding him that he had an aching garret. Curse it all, why did his head hurt so much? Rafe raked his fingers through his hair and discovered a knot on his scalp that was the source of the pain.
Surely Miss Wren had not bludgeoned him.
Had she?
“Oh dear,” said the fellow into whom he had plowed, his voice familiar. “Forgive me.”
Not just familiar, that voice, but feminine as well. Belatedly, it occurred to Rafe that the fellow was not a man at all. Rather, he was a she. And either he was well and truly addled in the upper story, or his sister Pen was wearing trousers and dressed as a cull.
“Pen?” he bit out.
“Damn,” she muttered.
But since Jasper had started a family of his own, that left his siblings decidedly adrift. Which meant Rafe, the only brother currently standing in the hall, witnessing Pen’s frolics, had to take action.
He pinned her with his most disapproving glare. “Penelope Sutton, what in the devil’s arsehole are you doing running about the halls dressed as a cove?”
She blinked, then smiled with far more cheer than the situation merited. “I wasn’t running, brother.”
“Splitting hairs.” He crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to allow the smile threatening to creep over his lips to do so. It wouldn’t do for the minx to think he found her antics humorous. “You know damned well what I meant.”
She sniffed. “If you must know, I was on my way to meet the gin merchant.”
He raised a brow. “In such a fashion?”
“My gowns are in need of laundering.”
He knew a lie when he heard one, damn it. “You’ve nary a single one that’s clean?”
“Not one.” She kept smiling, but she was shifting from foot to foot, as if she could scarcely wait to be free of his presence and questions.
Aye, he knew the signs. Hell, he was cut from the same cloth, and he had spent many a morning after a night of debauchery either avoiding or lying to Jasper about what he had done and where he had been. Which begged a question.
Why would she be dressed as a man at this hour of the morning?
“The gin merchant ain’t coming today,” he said, remembering that fact a bit belatedly, for their brother Hart often dealt with the merchants and their accounts. “Thursdays are the day when he shows his ugly face.”
It was true—the gin merchant was an ugly, unscrupulous scoundrel. But by all that was holy and good, his jackey was fine.
“That is puzzling.” Her smile slipped a bit. “Perhaps Hart had his days confused when he asked me to take his place.”
Hart was sharper than a murderer’s blade when it came to such matters.
“Or maybe you are lying,” Rafe countered smoothly. “Where have you been, Pen? I don’t want to tell Jasper about this adventure of yours, but I will if I ’ave to.”
And hellfire, there he went again, losing his h like the lowborn rookery rat he was. As their circumstances had improved, Jasper had seen them all educated as best he could. To be sure, the Suttons were no lords and ladies. But they had done everything in their power to make The Sinner’s Palace one of the most well-known establishments in the East End. Along with the Winter family, they ruled supreme.
And what a rule it was.
“Rafe,” Pen said, a plea in her voice and her eyes both. “There is no need to tell Jasper about seeing me dressed as I am. Please. You know how protective he is.”
That nettled.
He raked his fingers through his hair and winced when he unintentionally connected with the sore lump once more. “And I ain’t?”
What did you strike me with, Miss Wren?
It was clear he had some business yet to conclude with the fiery-haired woman.
“Of course you are protective.” Pen patted his shoulder. “I hardly meant to say you aren’t.”
“I ain’t one of Jasper’s dogs. No need to pet me.”
Or to attempt to distract him, which was what she was doing. He wasn’t a green lad. He knew all the tricks, having employed them himself on innumerable occasions.
“I do miss Barnaby,” his sister said with a sigh.
He missed Jasper’s dogs as well, and he couldn’t deny it. Well, mayhap not Arsehole. The scamp was always eating his boots, barking, or otherwise causing mischief.
“Get your own hound then,” he suggested. “It ought to keep you busy enough that you aren’t wandering about dressed like a lad and finding yourself in all manner of scrapes.”
She tugged at the cravat she wore, pulling at the knot—a damned fine one, in his estimation. “Perhaps I will. But for now, I ought to at least make certain the gin merchant is not here.”
“Scovey ain’t here and you know it,” Rafe countered. “Who taught you to tie such a fine knot?”
Doing so was an art. It had taken him years to perfect the skill. A man had to at least play the part of a gentleman sometimes.
“I taught myself.”
“Stop lying.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you didn’t ’ear me, maybe you should open your wattles,” he suggested, perhaps unkindly.
Pen’s shoulders went stiff beneath that ridiculous coat she was wearing. Christ, she had stuffed them with something to make herself seem larger than she was, and more masculine too. What the devil? Something suspicious was afoot.
“My ears are open,” she snapped. “Why are you speaking flash?”
The answer was easy. “So you remember who and what you are. You’re a Sutton, girl. As am I. You cannot fool me. Something is amiss here, and I won’t stop until you admit it.”
Someone had taught Pen to tie a proper cravat. Someone had been the reason she was sneaking about like a common thief, dressed as a cove and lying to her brother.
“And why should you think I’m trying to fool you, Rafe Sutton?” she demanded, planting her hands on her hips.
Now she was trying for outrage? Ha! He would not be distracted.
“Who?” he demanded curtly. “Give me a name. Tell me who the worthless fribble is. There has to be a gentleman involved. Am I wrong?”
She went pale. “Rafe, please.”
“No secrets, Pen,” he said, refusing to soften. “Suttons protect our own. Jasper ain’t here, but I am. So you answer to me now.”
And holy hell, but what a frightening realization that was. The responsibility of his siblings rested heavy as a boulder on his shoulders.
The breath escaped Pen in one big rush. She lowered her head, tucking her chin to her chest. “Luddaydenweer.”
He blinked. “That makes no sense, sister. Speak slowly. Concisely.”
There was a fancy cull’s word. One he had learned as a young man, when he had finally discovered how to read. Reading and tupping were his two favorite entertainments.
“Lord Aidan Weir,” she repeated. “But you must not be angry with him, Rafe. Going to the matches has been my idea.”
“Matches?” His scowl deepened. “You’ve been running about dressed as a cove with Lord Aidan Weir, attending boxing matches?”
He was more than familiar with Lord Aidan, who was the third son of a duke and an unrepentant rakehell. He had witnessed him at The Garden of Flora on more than one occasion, always with at least two of the ladies at that establishment hanging from his arms. Not the sort of chap a man wanted sniffing about his sister’s skirts. By God, if the bastard had touched a hair on Pen’s head, Rafe was going to punch him right in his lordly ivories. Hopefully, he’d knock out one or two…
Pen glanced up at him, wincing. “No need to yell, Rafe. It isn’t as if we were going about picking pockets.”
“Has he touched you?” he demanded, already plotting the drubbing he would deliver to Lord Aidan.
It hardly mattered that the man was a frequent and well-paying patron at The Sinner’s Palace. Rafe would not stand idly by while some arrogant lordling defiled his sister.
“No, he has not,” Pen said, shaking her head swiftly. “Why does no one believe me that we are friends?”
He narrowed his eyes, considering her. “Because lords like him aren’t friends with a Sutton like you without him expecting something. You aren’t to see any more of Lord Aidan. The man is a lecherous scoundrel, and you’ll not be tainted by ’im.”
But Pen, bei
ng Pen, crossed her arms over her chest, taking on a mulish expression. “How would you know if he’s lecherous? Lord Aidan has been a gentleman to me, quite unlike some lords I could name.”
“No more dressing as a cove and no more sneaking about with that devil,” Rafe told her flatly.
“You are judging him without knowing him,” she countered, looking like one of Jasper’s dogs when someone was trying to take his favorite bone. “If it were not for Lord Aidan, I would have been attending the matches on my own. Would you prefer that?”
Trouble. Sisters—and all females, really—were trouble.
This one especially.
“You aren’t to go to the matches, Pen. It ain’t a place for women. There’s blood and violence and dangerous coves. You belong ’ere at The Sinner’s Palace, tending to the ledgers and watching over Lily and the lads.”
“Yes, of course I belong here, where it is convenient for you all to have me. I’ll not hide away with the ledgers forever. I want freedom and adventure!”
Christ.
His head was throbbing now.
Curse you, Miss Wren.
“This freedom and adventure you speak of, Pen, it isn’t what you think. Believe me. I know the sort of man Lord Aidan is. He’s the sort who will bed you and forget you because you’re a Sutton from the stews and he’s the son of a duke. He’ll leave you with a babe in your belly and not so much as a handful of notes and ’e won’t look back.”
“You’re wrong about him,” Pen defended.
Lord save him. He was going to have to talk to Jasper about this most unwanted development. And the rest of their brothers as well. Hart and Wolf would need to keep an eye on her and see that she wasn’t free to roam about.
“I ain’t wrong,” he told his sister. “Trust me, Pen. I only want what’s best for you. Now get to your rooms and change into one of your gowns before the men see you dressed this way.”
“You’re insufferable,” she announced, and then she huffed past him like a storm blowing into the sea.
Well, perhaps she wasn’t wrong about that bit. He couldn’t deny it.
Rafe sighed and thought better of running his hand through his hair again, on account of that damned knot on his scalp. He would have to pay Jasper a call in Mayfair.
Sutton’s Sins: The Sinful Suttons Book 2 Page 2