Her Wanton Wager

by Grace Callaway

  "If you tell me to. Of course, I would have the option of trying to change your mind."

  Hah. As if that would happen. "Without force, you say. And if I were to win, you would truly return Paul's vowels?"

  Hunt nodded.

  "Hypothetically speaking, how would this wager be carried out?" she said. "Clearly, I could not be seen with you. My reputation would be torn to shreds."

  Her belly lurched as potential consequences flew through her head. Mama would murder her. Lord Charles would never give her another glance. In the eyes of the world, she'd be revealed as wicked and ill-bred—and she'd be ruined forevermore.

  "My empire is built on discretion," Hunt said smoothly, "so do not concern yourself on that account. I personally guarantee the privacy of our adventures."

  She quelled a quiver at the mention of adventures. Raising her chin, she said, "I have no interest in escapades, sir. How many times would I be subjected to your company?"

  "You wound me, Miss Fines." The cad did not look the least bit affected. "As to the number of visits,"—his gaze fell to the fruit bowl, and his mouth twitched—"'tis unfortunate that I am short on pomegranates at the moment."

  Her brows climbed at the reference. According to the Greeks, after kidnapping Persephone, Hades had tricked her into eating a magical pomegranate. The four seeds she'd consumed bound her to four months living as his Queen in The Underworld. The eerie parallel between the tale and the present situation hadn't escaped Percy, but the fact that Hunt knew of the myth astonished her.

  Her surprise must have shown for he said in dry tones, "In between extorting chaps and running a den of iniquity, I occasionally find time to read."

  She flushed, feeling unaccountably put in her place. Yet what did she care what he thought of her? "You have not answered my question," she said, lifting her chin. "If I am to consider this wager, I would know the precise terms."

  "You are a merchant's daughter, aren't you?" he said. "Very well. I propose we toss for the period of our association."

  "Toss?"

  "Dice, buttercup. You'll roll a pair to determine the number of rendez-vous. During the visits, I won't do anything without your permission. Everything else is fair game."

  She turned the proposition this way and that. If he did not force her, there was no way she could lose. And if she was lucky in her toss, she would only have to see him twice …

  Are you mad? Haven't you gotten into enough scrapes? Don't do something you'll regret!

  Her fingernails bit into her sweaty palms. "May I ... think it over?"

  After a moment, Hunt said, "I'll give you a week. After that, the offer becomes void." Before she could feel relief at the reprieve, he continued, "Just so you know, Miss Fines, if I have to find your brother, he will pay for the inconvenience."

  "I—I have to go," she said through dry lips.

  He bowed. "Adieu, Miss Fines. Until we meet again."

  The very idea set her feet in motion toward the door.

  FOUR

  "So you jus' want me to tail 'er, guv? Nofin' else?"

  "That is correct, Alfie." In the empty card salon, Gavin fixed the dirt-streaked urchin with a steely look. "Keep your eyes on Miss Fines—and your hands out of her purse, do you hear me?"

  Alfie's expression of innocence was worthy of an angel. With a sprinkling of freckles across the slight bridge of his nose and a wide, gap-toothed grin, the boy looked younger than his thirteen years and as if sugar wouldn't melt in his mouth. "Why, I'm as 'onest as the day is long, guv. Honest-to-God Alfred, that's what they're callin' me these days."

  Gavin snorted. Honest-to-God Alfred was one of the most prolific pickpockets in the rookery. At one time, Gavin had thought to reform the boy by hiring him on in the club's kitchens. After a dozen silver spoons and a side of mutton went missing on the first day—followed soon thereafter by Alfie himself—Gavin had reconsidered that idea. Unlike the other street waifs he'd taken in, Alfie had a feral love of freedom that made any kind of routine both unnatural and intolerable.

  Now Alfie worked for Gavin on independent assignment, coming and going as he pleased. The boy came when he was in need of coin or lying low from the Charleys. He left as his mood suited him and usually managed to filch a candlestick or two on his way out. Gavin considered it part of the payment for services rendered. No one knew the streets of London as Alfie did.

  "You are to report her activities back to me," Gavin said. "I want to know where she went and who she spoke to. If you see a gentleman who looks to be her brother, I want to be apprised." Percy's voice suddenly played in his head. I have found my one true love and nothing could make me betray him. Gavin's hands curled in reflex. "Actually, if you see her talking with any gentleman, I want to know. Immediately."

  "O' course, guv. You can count on me," Alfie said. "Anyfin' else?"

  "No, that is all for now." As the boy started for the door, his tattered rags flapping around his thin body, Gavin sighed. "Hold up."

  Alfie turned, cocked his head.

  "Find the housekeeper. She'll get you cleaned up and give you a meal before you go."

  A sly smile tucked into the boy's cheeks. "Can one o' the 'ouse wenches give me the washin'? The pretty red-headed one wif the big—"

  "Alfie," Gavin said in a warning tone.

  "Right. The 'ousekeeper it is." The boy scampered off, whistling as he went.

  Alone, Gavin watched the dark street from the bow window. He usually savored this slice of peace before Covent Garden filled with the carts of the costermongers, bakers, and other tradesmen with their wares. Today, however, the scene struck him as barren, cold; he had an odd yearning to see the sun break across the cobblestone and the flower stalls blossom into color.

  At the sound of footsteps, he dismissed the fanciful notion and turned to see Hugh Stewart stride in. As usual, his mentor's broad, flat features had a disgruntled air, and the greying auburn beard housed a scowl. Built as solidly as a brick house, Stewart's menacing mien had preserved their hides during the years in the hulks and even after their release, when the two of them had scraped by as guards-for-hire in the stews. Now that The Underworld was a success and they'd become nearly respectable, Stewart's looming figure still came in handy, keeping rowdy customers in line.

  "How'd we do tonight?" Gavin asked.

  Dropping into a chair, Stewart stretched out legs thick as tree trunks. "Broke up three knife fights and five fisticuffs," he rumbled. "Then caught a git cheatin' at the cards and had to give 'im a beatin' myself. And that's to say nothin' 'bout the backbitin' 'twixt the 'ouse wenches."

  In sum, business as usual. Gavin poured out whiskey and joined the other man at the table. "What is amiss with the wenches?"

  Stewart downed the shot and gave him a sour look. "'Tis the bloody Roman Suite again. They all set their sights on the same toff. Told you, didn't I, that havin' all 'em hen-wits plyin' their trade in one room was bound to lead to trouble."

  "The Roman Suite adds to the club's ambiance," Gavin said.

  Stewart's broad brow furrowed. "The what?"

  "The setting. We're The Underworld after all. What would hell be like without an orgy?"

  "Never did get all your fancy words, but if I know one thing, it's that females bring nothin' but trouble." Stewart scratched the back of his neck. "And speakin' on that matter, I 'ave to tell you again, lad: I've got a bad feelin' in my gut 'bout that Fines girl."

  "I have the situation well in hand." Gavin savored the slow burn of his drink. The hot tingling was not unlike what he'd felt around Miss Percy Fines ... only then the sensations had centered farther south on his anatomy. In fact, just thinking of her—that bright, shining hair, the cheeky attitude—was enough to stir his rod.

  "What sort o' female prances around in breeches?" Stewart said. "And to 'ave the bollocks to demand you give up what's owed to you?"

  "She is brazen, I'll grant you that." In truth, Percy's contradictions intrigued Gavin. She exuded both girlish innocence a
nd womanly allure … not to mention a hellion's spirit. Recalling the way she'd called him an arrogant ass, his lips twitched.

  "Nothin' but trouble, mark my words. Them so-called ladies'll use their wiles on you, all flutterin' eyelashes an' swishy silks. Before you know it, bam"—Stewart slammed his fist on the table—"they've hung you out to dry or worse."

  His mentor was speaking from experience. Long ago, Stewart had fancied a well-bred miss who had seemed to return his affections ... until one day her father caught her and Stewart in flagrante. Then she'd turned on her lover; her accusations of assault had not only broken Stewart's heart, but they'd landed him in the prison hulks as well.

  "You can't trust a woman, lad, and that's fact."

  "Don't worry your head over it," Gavin scoffed. "For when have I lost mine over any female?"

  Stewart's mouth formed a grim line. "There's always a first time."

  "Not for me," Gavin said.

  He'd learned his own lesson about females early in life. His mother had been a clergyman's daughter, and she'd never let him forget her station, despite the fact she'd had him out of wedlock. Disowned by her good family, she'd spent the years thereafter reeking of blue ruin and blaming her bastard son for her misfortunes. She'd made Gavin mind his p's and q's and beat him senseless if he dropped so much as a consonant or made a mistake on his lessons. Up until the day she'd abandoned him, she'd been a blowsy, sanctimonious drunk.

  Middling class morality—there was nothing he hated more.

  Despite his inexplicable attraction to Percy, he couldn't deny she represented the double standards he despised. Headstrong, impulsive, and more than a little hot-blooded by his reckoning, she nonetheless carried herself as if she were a proper young lady. The hypocrisy of her mission annoyed him further: she blamed him for her brother's feckless actions. As if he'd held a gun to Paul Fines' head and forced the fool to gamble away the family fortune!

  "My only interest in Miss Fines is the role she'll play in my vengeance," he said flatly. The fact that I want to fuck her senseless doesn't change anything—except make my plans more enjoyable to carry out. "I am going to ruin her and obtain her brother's shares of the company." He tossed back the rest of the whiskey. "Retribution, Stewart, that's what this is about."

  "Nothin' like revenge to warm a fellow's 'eart, eh?"

  He smiled wryly at the other's approval. Stewart sounded as proud as if Gavin had just graduated first class from Oxford instead of announcing he meant to seduce a genteel virgin. In a way, Gavin supposed his commitment to righting old wrongs was a rite of passage. In the stews, there was no code more fundamental than an eye for an eye.

  Gavin tipped his empty glass over on the table. "Speaking of retribution—is the meeting with the other houses set?"

  "Blind Stag next week. Can't say I'm lookin' forward to rubbin' elbows with the bastards."

  Several nights ago, cutthroats had held up two customers leaving The Underworld. Not only had the pair been beaten and robbed, but they'd been warned by the masked assailants that all those patronizing Gavin's club could expect the same fate. News of the attack had spread like wildfire, hurting business. It didn't take a genius to surmise that the other Covent Garden club owners had benefited from Gavin's misfortune. But which of the blighters had instigated the attack?

  The most likely players—Robbie Lyon, Warren Kingsley, and the O'Brien brothers—wouldn't blink an eye to do violence. Gavin needed a show of force to stave off future aggression. He'd decided to start by calling a meeting where he would flush out the culprit.

  "Have our men track our competitors in the meantime. One of them sneezes, I want to know about it," Gavin said. "And contact Magnus. I need his help locating Paul Fines."

  "Don't know why we have to involve that crafty codger," Stewart grumbled.

  Though Stewart despised John Magnus, Gavin liked the scoundrel. Magnus was old as the hills, and though his was a fading star, he still did business as a trader of information. Magnus' secrets had proved useful to Gavin in the past. Perhaps because they shared physical deformities—the other man had lost an eye in his youth—Magnus had shown a paternal bent towards Gavin … a fact that seemed to nettle Stewart to no end.

  "Call for Magnus," Gavin said firmly. "I want Fines found."

  Scowling, Stewart left to attend to the tasks.

  Gavin made his way through the gaming rooms, nodding to the staff cleaning up the night's excesses. When he'd first laid eyes on the place years ago, it had been a dilapidated shack with rotting beams and tumble-down walls. He'd seen its potential at once. It had taken his life savings—earned through a combination of violence and investment—to buy the place.

  Pausing to gaze around the brilliant circular marble foyer, he didn't doubt that his risky venture had paid off. Three premier stories of the tried-and-true triumvirate of depravity—gaming, drink, and whores—and all of it belonged to him. Normally, this fact brought a charge of satisfaction. Today, however, he felt ... weary.

  He continued to an alcove in the hallway. Running his fingers along the wall, he released a hidden mechanism, and a panel swung open. He'd had this private corridor built so that he could survey the entire house at his discretion. The passageway snaked behind the walls of every room on every floor. From the card parlors to the wenches' quarters, he monitored all that passed in his domain. Some might call his a controlling nature—and they'd be right on the money.

  Power was everything; he'd never be without it again.

  He followed the corridor all the way to his private wing at the back of the building. Sunlight hit him as he entered his suite; the series of spacious chambers had large windows overlooking a vibrant gated garden. His own personal oasis. Yawning, he headed to the bedchamber. He waved off his valet, and not bothering to draw the curtains, stripped off his clothes and climbed naked into the postered bed.

  Despite his fatigue, the moment his head hit the pillow, his mind leapt awake. The cursed habit of too many years spent in the rookery, where vigilance had been the key to survival. Where between one eye blink and the next, a man could get himself gutted if he let his guard down. Gavin lay there, surrounded by the smell of fresh linens and sunshine, staring up at the embroidered bed hangings. And instead of sleep came the unbidden memories of his past.

  He'd been a boy not yet ten when his mother deserted him. Alone in the world, he'd faced the chilling prospect of the workhouse when a sweep named Grimes had come along and offered him an apprenticeship. Relieved at the prospect of learning a trade, of joining a coterie of boys his own age, Gavin had gone along.

  What a bloody fool I was.

  He'd soon learned that his new master cleaned more than chimneys—Grimes had used his sweeps to rob some of the finest homes in the City. The bastard had a predilection for violence ... and also for young boys. The knowledge had come too late; Grimes had kept his apprentices caged like slaves. The first time Gavin had been summoned to the master's chamber, he had feared the worst.

  He'd not been the only boy sent for that night. Nicholas Morgan, one of the older boys, had been there too; Grimes' depravity had known no bounds. Helpless fear had twisted Gavin's empty belly as he'd crossed the creaky threshold toward the master, whose eyes had glowed a sinister orange in the firelight. But then matters had taken a different turn. A knife had flashed in Morgan's hand and landed in Grimes' chest.

  The bastard had deserved the blade in the heart; Gavin wished he'd put it there himself. Morgan's sin had not been killing Grimes, but what he'd done afterward. Gavin could still feel the sharp steel, wet with blood, pressed against his own throat.

  One word o' this to anyone, an' I'll gut you like a pig, you understand?

  Dazed, he could only stare into Morgan's hard eyes.

  Answer me, you filthy git! The blade bit into his throat, and he felt a sticky trickle—his blood or Grimes', he didn't know. Your silence or I'll end your miserable life right now. Don't think I won't do it.

  A whimper sprang from hi
s throat. He heard his own voice, words tattered by sobs. Don't leave me here. I'm scared. Take me with you, please …

  Shame simmered as Gavin recalled how he'd begged Morgan to take him out of that place. Instead of showing mercy, Morgan had knocked him senseless. When he'd come to, flames had consumed the room. A lamp lay shattered by the curtains. Morgan had wanted to burn all the evidence, had left him to die … only he hadn't. Gavin had suffered a worse fate. He'd escaped the fire only to be caught and found guilty of arson. No one had listened to his cries of innocence; no one had cared that he was a child, alone and afraid. The only silver lining had been the ruling of insufficient evidence for murder, else he'd have swung from the gallows for certain.

  Instead, they'd tossed him into the prison hulks along with the most hardened and depraved of criminals. Ten years he'd spent in that rotting hell for another man's sins. Had it not been for Stewart, Gavin might not have survived. His scar burned at the memory—he tamped down the dark swell of emotion. Stewart had protected him and taught him the skills to protect himself. The practice of ruthless violence had kept him alive. He'd endured perdition, knowing that one day he would exact his pound of flesh.

  Morgan had caused Gavin's suffering; Morgan would pay.

  With his company ... and his family.

  Despite her innocence and fresh beauty, Percy Fines was a creature of strong passions. Gavin had no doubt that she would accept his wager—out of loyalty to her brother, yes, but also out of curiosity. Desire. He hadn't mistaken the flicker in her eyes at the word adventure. Nor the way her bosom had risen and fallen when he'd come near, those pillowy lips of hers parting with each breath. Though she might not recognize the welcoming signs of her own body, he did.

  He exhaled, his blood heating at the welcome diversion. Without realizing it, he'd begun to stroke his cock. The shaft stiffened in his fist as he closed his eyes and imagined taking Percy here, in this very bed. Pinning her wrists above her head, he'd strip away the layers until she could hide from him no more. No disguises, not even a shred of clothing between them.