Her Wanton Wager

by Grace Callaway

  Following his mentor's gaze, Gavin saw a drunken strumpet in the street up ahead. With a bottle of gin in one hand and a rod in another, she shouted obscenities at a boy and beat him as he huddled against a wall. A scene straight from Gavin's own childhood. Inside his gloves, Gavin's fists clenched ... but he walked on. From his own experience, he knew that interfering would only guarantee the boy double the knocks afterward.

  Motherly love, he thought with derision. Nothing hurt more.

  Then his glance shifted over to Stewart, and his scar throbbed with another indelible memory. He and his mentor had never spoken of that first night in the hulks. Stewart had done what needed to be done; Gavin had never blamed him for it. After all, some things were best left unsaid, and the two of them had never had any use for sentiment. They were men of action: they worked together, fought together, and watched each other's back.

  Then why did he sometimes sense that dark moment hovering between them?

  "You alright, lad?"

  Stewart's voice yanked him back to the present. His mentor was giving him a strange look. "I'm fine," he said. "Just, er, thinking."

  "Not about that chit, I 'ope," the other man said sourly.

  In truth, 'twas a fair guess seeing as how thoughts of Percy continued to plague Gavin. She mystified him. One minute, she'd showed uncommon concern for a mere street boy and the next she'd torn up at Gavin for no reason. Then she had apologized, and her sincere acknowledgement of her mistake had floored him.

  He couldn't recall the last time anyone had cared to have his forgiveness (and certainly never a female). Nowadays, people feared to cross him at all—and if they did, they either hid the fact or found someone else to blame. In his mother's case, she'd found the most convenient solution of all: she'd blamed him for her failures.

  Percy's honesty, her obvious concern that she'd misjudged him, had blown through him like a zephyr from some exotic, sun-drenched land. His chest had prickled with warmth, pins and needles awakening a dormant part of him. In that moment, it had seemed that she ... cared. About him. Then came their kiss. Christ, the way she'd responded to him, her intoxicating taste and wanton passion—

  "Don't like that look on your face, Hunt," Stewart said.

  Feeling like a idiot, Gavin coughed in his fist. "I'm, er, reviewing strategy for the meeting. Thinking on how best to approach the other club owners."

  "Shoot first and don't get shot," came the laconic reply.

  They approached the center of the Dials, where the seven streets collided in a celebration of depravity. Taverns faced each other on all seven apexes, and prostitutes swarmed even at this early hour to ply their trade. Bending their heads, he and Stewart entered through the low doorway of the Blind Stag. The tavern was packed with the usual crowd of riff-raffs, the air ripe with the stench of stale ale, smoke, and unwashed bodies. Pushing their way through the rowdy main room, they went upstairs to the private meeting chambers. Gavin was not surprised to see who'd been the first to arrive.

  "Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley."

  He bowed over the bejeweled hand the latter held out as if she were royalty. Which, in a manner, she was. Mavis Kingsley came from powerful criminal stock; her father, Bartholomew Black, was an infamous cutthroat who controlled much of the Seven Dials. Several years ago, Mavis had wed Warren Kingsley, owner of The Palace. Kingsley's club now almost rivaled the success of The Underworld, in no small part due to Mavis' connections.

  Gavin exchanged bows with the richly dressed Adonis standing beside her.

  "La, Mr. Hunt, such fine manners you have." In contrast to her husband's polished good looks, Mavis had a plain face, sallow and sharp-edged from a chronically frail constitution. Even her opulent gown could not hide the meagerness of her figure. "I was telling Kingsley here that we should have you over for supper soon. All work and no play, as they say."

  "How kind of you," Gavin said noncommittally.

  "I could arrange for a few eligible ladies to be present as well." Mavis batted sparse eyelashes. "'Tis past time there was a Mrs. Hunt, wouldn't you agree, Kingsley?"

  "Of course, my dear," her spouse said indulgently. "Marriage makes the man."

  On the rare occasion Gavin had thought about wedlock, he'd pictured his bride as a hard, practical sort ... mayhap like Mavis, though he wouldn't suffer being led by the bollocks like Kingsley. His would be a properly submissive wife. Who'd be loyal and content with a partnership based on mutual benefit.

  A woman the very opposite of the troublesome Miss Fines.

  "A man makes 'imself. 'E can't depend on no one—and 'specially not one in a skirt," Stewart said tersely. "Anyone who says differently is a fool."

  Mavis gave a brittle laugh. "Never argue with a bachelor."

  "While we have you, Hunt," Kingsley said, "I wanted to express my outrage at what happened to your patrons. Know that you have my full support in getting to the bottom of this."

  Utter claptrap, of course. Less business for The Underworld meant more for competitors like The Palace, and they both knew it. Kingsley had always been a tricky, underhanded bastard. Years ago, before his marriage to Mavis, he and Gavin had had a "misunderstanding" over a wench. Gavin had given Kingsley a public drubbing, leaving the man weeping in the dirt like a babe. He was certain Kingsley had never forgiven him for the humiliation.

  "That is the purpose of meeting with all the houses today—to discuss how to avoid such incidents in the future," Gavin said evenly.

  "But we can't be certain who to trust, can we?" Kingsley made a show of shaking his well-coiffed head. Not a single strand of golden hair fell out of place. "Though it pains me to say it, I've had suspicions for a while now about Lyon—"

  "So that's why me ears were burnin'," announced a roguish voice. "Back-bitin' again, are we, Kingsley?"

  Robbie Lyon, proprietor of Lyon's Lair, stepped into the room with his typical flourish. Despite his wiry build, the man was a scrapper and one who never pulled his punches. He was like a small mongrel who'd take any opportunity to piss on you, just for the hell of it. Last year, he and Gavin had had a few skirmishes over territorial lines, so he, too, had cause to make trouble for The Underworld.

  "Nonsense," Kingsley said, the smile never slipping from his face. "You must be hearing things in your old age."

  Lyon bristled from his grey mane to his thick-soled boots. "Care to test out more than my hearin', you lily-livered dandy?"

  "Gentlemen, please." Mavis coughed delicately. "A lady is present."

  Snorting, Lyon ran the back of his hand under his nose. "Get your mount under control, ma'am, and then we'll get to the business o' meetin'."

  As the two men glowered at one another, their guards reached for their steel.

  "Not starting the fun without me, are you lads?" said a rich, lilting voice.

  All heads turned as the final two members joined the group. Though Patrick and Finian O'Brien shared a mother, their appearances did not betray their relationship. Patrick was as tall as Stewart and twice as wide, with the traditional red Irish coloring; Finian, the younger brother, had the rangy look of a rat with beady brown eyes and a thin mustache.

  Bad blood existed between Gavin and both O'Briens. Half dozen years ago, Gavin had outbid Patrick to secure the property for The Underworld, and the latter held a lasting grudge. As for the younger brother, cases of expensive French brandy had once gone missing from Gavin's storeroom and somehow ended up at Finian's club. Gavin wouldn't trust either O'Brien farther than he could toss him.

  Kingsley straightened his velvet lapel. "You haven't missed a thing, O'Brien," he said easily. "Lyon and I were just arsing around."

  "If that's the case, let's eat," Patrick said. He licked his lips as he looked over at the abundant sideboard. "Ah, no one roasts a joint like the Blind Stag. Been buried to the armpits in fish of late, on account of Mrs. O'Brien's plan to reduce me." He winked at his brother. "Never heard her complaining about my size in the bedchamber, though, eh?"

 
Mavis Kingsley sniffed and returned to the table, her husband following at her heels.

  Minutes later, they were all settled around the long trestle, a mimicry of a genial gathering as each of them was backed by armed guards. Sitting at one end, Gavin could feel Stewart's bristling impatience beside him.

  No time like the present.

  "Thank you all for coming," Gavin said. "I invited you today to discuss the assault on my customers." A quick scan around the table did not reveal any nervous twitches or flutters; then again, he didn't expect any. He was dealing with a band of seasoned cutthroats, after all. "Not only did they sustain grave injuries, but the smear to my club's reputation cannot be overlooked. Whoever was behind the attack aimed to halt business to The Underworld."

  "How terrible." This came from Kingsley, who was seated to Gavin's right. "Have you any idea of the perpetrator? You have the backing of The Palace to set this matter right."

  "Maybe 'twas you who set the matter in motion," Lyon said with a sneer.

  "Why you uppity little—" Kingsley began.

  Mavis cut her spouse off. "There is no need to point fingers amongst friends, Mr. Lyon." Her smile could slice diamonds. "And we are old friends, are we not? As I recall, you are acquainted with my father."

  The implied threat in Mavis' words brought a chill over the room. Few would dare cross Bartholomew Black. Those who did wound up strung up by the thumbs—with the rest of their body parts scattered in the Thames. Gavin had never met Black in person, and he planned to keep it that way.

  "This hasn't a thing to do with your pa, and you know it," Lyon muttered—but he fell silent after that.

  Mavis' eyes honed shrewdly upon Gavin's face. "As my husband was saying, have you any idea who is responsible for this heinous crime?"

  "I'd wager Hunt has his pick of enemies." Patrick looked up from the mound of food on his plate. "Who knows how many skeletons he's got rattling in his closet?"

  'Twas true that a man couldn't get to where Gavin was without treading on a few toes. He'd made his fair share of enemies in the hulks, for instance; of the few convicts who'd survived, none had the sophistication to carry out such a revenge. Moreover, Gavin couldn't think of anyone from his past who had as much to gain as the bastards in this room.

  "There are enough live bodies for me to consider," he said, "without digging up corpses."

  "A man who pilfers another's good fortune has what's coming to him." Chucking a rib-bone aside, Patrick O'Brien gave a satisfied belch, causing Mavis to shudder. "No crime in that."

  Gavin reined in his temper. "The property was not yours to lose, O'Brien. I outbid you, and The Underworld belongs to me. End of story."

  "If it wasn't for you, I'd be rolling in the ready." Behind pads of fat, Patrick's small hazel eyes glinted with malice. "Instead, I had to make do with an inferior club at an inferior location. You owe me, Hunt, and don't think I'll forget it."

  "I don't owe you a bloody thing. Look to your own ham-handed management if you want something to blame. Only a fool would do business with moneylenders."

  Patrick's fist pounded against the table, rattling the dishes. "You insolent pup, I'll rip your head off."

  "I'd like to see you try," Stewart growled from behind Gavin.

  The armed men in O'Brien's corner leaned forward.

  Shoving to his feet, Gavin said, "I'll take on any challenge, and I'll do it man to man. You want a pummeling, O'Brien? Come and get it."

  The Irishman's face purpled with rage. The buttons on his waistcoat strained as he tried to get to his feet, but fell back, wheezing. "I'll give … you … a basting ... any time …"

  "Hush, Patrick. Remember what the physician said." Finian gave a sharp nod to one of his guards, who set about loosening Patrick's neck cloth. "As you can see, Mr. Hunt, my brother is in no shape for violence. We came today to make peace, not war."

  Muscles bunching, Gavin looked around the table and read hostility in every gaze. "Hear me now: I will not countenance further aggression against my club." Staring down each cutthroat in turn, he vowed, "All actions against me will be returned ten-fold. If it's blood you want, it's blood you'll get."

  Lyon was on his feet in an instant. "Who're you to make threats?" he barked, rolling up his sleeves. "I'll take you down a notch, boy, an' see what tune you're singin' then."

  Gavin's blood went from a simmer to a boil. He knew well enough the rules of the stews: fight violence with violence. Reasoning had no place in dealing with these buggers, and he'd never in his life backed down from a fight. Stepping back from the table, he made a come-hither motion with his hand.

  Lyon charged at him, knife raised. Gavin sidestepped the attack, shoving his elbow into Lyon's back. With a grunt, Lyon fell forward, smashing against the sideboard, raining food everywhere. But the bastard recovered, rising and coming again, this time feigning the attack so that Gavin had to spin at the last second to avoid being gutted. Acting on pure instinct, Gavin jabbed his elbow up, connected with the other's windpipe; Lyon grunted, his knife clattering to the floor.

  Taking the advantage, Gavin drove Lyon into the wall, pinning his opponent by the neck. As his fingers squeezed the other's throat, the dark power of the hulks washed over him.

  "I give ... " Lyon choked out. "Let me ... go ..."

  The call of violence rippled through Gavin's blood. His grip tightened, and Lyon's eyes bugged out. Behind him, Gavin heard the squeal of chairs, felt Stewart's towering presence at his back.

  "Lad?"

  His mentor's voice returned him to the present. Nothing to be gained from killing Lyon. With an effort borne of sheer will, he loosened his death-hold. Lyon sank to the ground, gasping like a landed trout.

  Pivoting, Gavin faced the audience. This time, he saw fear and grudging respect in their eyes. "Let this be a lesson to all," he said with softly. "Cross me, and you'll pay."

  Finian reacted first, taking his brother by the arm. "Come, Patrick, let us go. There's nothing to be gained from acting like a bunch of jackals."

  With a glare at Gavin, Patrick O'Brien stomped out of the room followed closely by his brother and their men.

  "I don't need your bloody help!" This came from Lyon, who shoved away his guards' efforts to assist him. Stumbling to his feet, he bared his teeth. "Mark my word, this isn't the end of it, Hunt."

  "I won't have mercy the next time," Gavin said.

  Swearing, the wiry figure stalked off with his coterie. Which left Gavin with the Kingsleys.

  "What coarse language and in front of a lady. Lyon's nothing but an uncouth brute." Kingsley's face creased with distaste. "You can take a man from the stews but never the stews from the man."

  Teetering, Mavis murmured through pale lips, "Kingsley, I think I need to rest now."

  "Of course, my dear." Her husband put a solicitous arm around her. "Hunt, I'll drop by soon, and we'll discuss things under more civilized circumstances."

  The two departed, leaving Gavin and Stewart to look at each other.

  Gavin rubbed his neck. "Went well, don't you think?"

  "Got your point across," Stewart said.

  ELEVEN

  The gallant steed pulled up in front of Miss Farnham just as she stumbled out of the bushes. She recognized the rider as Lord Petersby, the object of her secret crush. As she gazed up into the perfection of his face, time seemed to stand still. Lord Petersby's refined voice cut through the passionate swell of violins in her head.

  "Is that you, Miss Farnham?" Holding up a quizzing glass, he peered at her. "My dear lady, what has happened to your bonnet? And are those grass stains on your gown?"

  Too late, she realized that the journey through the forest had left its mark.

  —from The Perils of Priscilla, a manuscript sitting upon the desk of P. R. Fines

  "Is anything amiss, Miss Fines? You seem preoccupied."

  "Oh, um, it's nothing."

  With a guilty start, Percy directed her gaze back to Lord Portland. They were strolling along Ro
tten Row, the most fashionable stretch of Hyde Park. At this time of the afternoon, members of the ton crammed the tree-lined path. Some descended from the cluster of gleaming carriages to walk on foot whilst others paraded on horseback; all vied to see and be seen. Percy noticed how passersby—the ladies in particular—slid appreciative glances at her companion.

  She couldn't blame them. Lord Charles cut a dashing figure in his crisp china blue cutaway jacket and buff breeches. A polished walking stick swung with elegant indolence from his hand. The sun glinted off the rich auburn hair curling over his ears whilst his boots reflected a mirror's shine; it seemed even dust daren't meddle with such masculine perfection. She ought to have been prancing with joy to be at his side.

  Instead, that infernal kiss with Hunt kept interrupting what ought to have been a prime opportunity to advance her acquaintance with the viscount. Her hands balled inside her butter-smooth gloves, and her cheeks grew uncomfortably warm. Why had Hunt affected her so? She was not in love with the bounder. Even if she found him the teensiest bit attractive—in a rough, uncouth sort of way—it was no excuse for her actions. She'd acted worse than a trollop.

  Her heart thudded as she recalled the sensations he'd elicited in her. So strong ... and intense. Beyond anything she'd come across in novels—and she'd done a lot of reading.

  Dash it all, I am not a wicked girl! Hunt ... caught me off guard, was all.

  'Twas true that witnessing him with those children had revealed a hidden side to the man. There was more to him than met the eye. A mystery below the surface—

  "I think you have wandered off again, Miss Fines."

  Focus! "I am ever so sorry, Lord Portland," she said. Who cares if Hunt is an enigma? He is your opponent now—and a tricky one at that. Don't forget how he lulled you into a sense of false security with that first kiss. Think how smug he'd be if he knew you were thinking about him instead of your beloved. Summoning her brightest smile, she added, "It must be the heat. I think it has addled my senses."