“You already have been. Twice,” Honoria stated her words as matter-of-fact with no real malice. “For the Marquess of Rutland.”
Gillian gently squeezed her hand, calling Phoebe’s attention away from the disgust in Honoria’s eyes. “He is not rumored to be a nice gentleman, Phoebe.”
She pulled her hand back and Gillian flinched as though she’d been struck physically. “Rumors,” Phoebe said again, annoyed with her friends’ inability to see that in their unfavorable opinion of the marquess, they were no different than every other arbiter who’d come before them, holding others in judgment, and ultimately finding them wanting for crimes not truly known—crimes that might not truly be crimes, but manipulated truths. “I do not doubt there are dark pieces to the marquess,” she conceded. The hard glint in those brown eyes, the gold flecks hinted at something desolate, and even as that raised the guards she’d built about her these years to protect herself, the walls were flimsy, because the gentle touch of his lips and his whispered words revealed more and, God help her, she wanted to know all.
“And?” Honoria prodded.
Phoebe gave her head a clearing shake. “And I will be cautious.” She glanced over Gillian’s shoulder at the Captain Cook exhibit. “Nor has the marquess expressed any interest in me.” Though, that wasn’t altogether true. There had been his kiss. Nay, his two kisses.
“Good,” Gillian said.
“Not good,” Honoria corrected, frowning at Gillian. “Don’t you see, Phoebe, if he was an honorable gentleman, if he was good and trustworthy and desiring something meaningful with you, he’d not meet you in these clandestine spots and steal away with you. He’d court you openly, publicly. He’d pay you visits and bring you flowers and make those honorable intentions clear.”
Phoebe troubled the flesh of her lower lip. There was truth to her friend’s words and yet, “Our meetings have been mere chance. He does not steal away with me.” A dangerous excitement swirled inside.
Honoria took a step closer. “Nothing he does is by chance and without purpose.” The unease roused by her friend’s pronouncement stirred to life Phoebe’s misgivings once more.
“What purpose could he have of me or with me?” She knew him not at all. Until their meeting in Lady Delenworth’s gardens, she’d never paid attention to the man whispered about. She didn’t have time for whispers.
Honoria lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “One can never be certain where the marquess is concerned.” She leaned close, lowering her voice. “But he toys with people’s lives as though they are pawns upon a chessboard.”
Phoebe resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her friend’s over-dramatic statements on the powerful Marquess of Rutland. “I will be careful,” she promised, desperate to put to rest the matter of Edmund’s suitability or integrity. “I will not be hurt.” Nor was it likely their paths would cross again.
“Come along,” Gillian murmured, ending any further discourse. “There is still much to see.”
Phoebe trailed along at a slower, contemplative pace behind her friends. It was unlikely she and the marquess would again meet. For a rogue did not have any use or need of an innocent young lady in the market for a husband. And she’d wager her very own happiness that he had little interest in marriage. She stole a last glance back at that enormous pillar they’d hidden behind a short while ago. They might have shared interests and passions, but it was as Honoria said, a confirmed bachelor who studiously avoided ton events had little use for one such as Phoebe.
Even with Phoebe and her friends’ furtive whispers, from his place in the shadows of the museum, Edmund was aware of every word exchanged.
Her erroneous defense of him and his intentions, and her friend, the woman he’d ultimately trap—the cynical, mistrustful Miss Honoria Fairfax. With the exception of their dark coloring, the ladies were foils in every way. Margaret’s niece with her cynicism was a vastly better match for a monster who’d ruin anyone and everyone on his quest for revenge.
He used the ladies’ distraction to take in Phoebe. She folded her arms close to her person, as though shielding herself from her friend’s disapproving words. Any other moment before this one, with any other woman, his gaze would be drawn to the generous expanse of her breasts, mentally stripping her of those modest white skirts. Instead, he fixed on that protective way in which she held herself. Mayhap she sought to shield herself from the truth she knew…a trusting hope in him, that he had no right to, while ultimately knowing as someone inherently good that there was no good in his soul, even as she willed there to be more of him.
Phoebe moved her gaze about the museum, searching, lingering on the place they’d stolen to a short while ago. She thought of him. Unwisely, he thrilled at her preoccupation with him, and for reasons that somehow moved deeper, beyond the revenge he’d exact upon Margaret and the niece she so loved—the woman who, when this plan was complete, would find herself his wife.
He eyed Honoria with an objective eye. Brown hair, lean frame, yet a large bosom, nondescript features. His gaze wandered back to Phoebe, whose luxuriant, silken tresses put to mind images of those chocolate waves cascading over his sheets, wrapped about them in a silken curtain. He wanted her and, by the flare of desire in her eyes and the bold way in which she’d returned his kiss, the lady wanted him as well. Suddenly, the annoyance she’d represented, the necessary pawn upon his chessboard, as Honoria had accurately stated mere moments ago, proved a welcome diversion.
Edmund stayed along the perimeter of Egyptian Hall as he made his way out of the museum. When he stepped outside the building, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness of the afternoon sun. He scanned the clogged roadways in search of his carriage and then bounded down the steps toward the waiting conveyance. His driver pulled the door open.
“My clubs,” Edmund said in clipped tones as he climbed inside the carriage.
The old servant nodded once and then closed the door with a quiet click. A moment later, the black lacquer carriage lurched forward, moving slowly through the busy London streets. Edmund yanked open the curtain and eyed the passing roads until the fashionable streets gave way to the vicious, seamy side of the city. Some of the tension pressing on his chest since he’d momentarily envisioned more with Miss Phoebe Barrett eased with the familiarity of the dark underbelly of the world where no sensible person dared venture. Pickpockets lurked in the streets. Whores lingered on the corners, lifting their tattered skirts to those who’d risk their life and foolishly stroll these streets unarmed. This was his world. This was the world he’d truly been born to and comfortably belonged.
Because…lords, ladies, or common thieves and whores in the den of sin—ultimately they were all the same. All that mattered was survival—social survival, one’s actual physical survival, and in some cases, emotional survival.
A small boy with a black cap darted out into the streets, his cheeks gaunt and smudged with dirt and soot. Not much older than Edmund had been when the carefully constructed lies of his life had been kicked out from under him, and he’d been forced to confront reality—his parents’ faithlessness to one another, the scandalous parties thrown for all the most lecherous reprobates of London Society, and their usage of their own son as an instrument of revenge. He gave his head a shake, dispelling reminders of the naïve boy he’d once been. Edmund eyed another child in the streets who effortlessly raced past a foppish dandy in gold satin breeches, easily divesting the man of his purse. A hard, cynical grin formed on his lips. The man likely wouldn’t know of his carefully removed possessions until he was comfortably ensconced in his clubs. How much stronger that child was and ever had been than Edmund’s younger, foolish self who’d been born innocent and then been corrupted. He almost envied the lad who’d never had grand illusions of what life is or should be.
The carriage jerked to a halt before the stucco façade of Forbidden Pleasures. Without waiting for his aging driver, he tossed open the carriage door and jumped from the carriage, his boots no
iseless on the grimy pavement. He didn’t require his loyal, aging servants to cater to him any more than they’d made it a habit of doing so through the years. Nothing he’d done had merited such devotion, but, at the very least, if they were too foolish to accept their pensions, he’d see to his own blasted responsibilities of opening doors without assistance. He strode to the front of the establishment and the black double-doors were thrown open.
Edmund left the light of day and sailed through the threshold into the dark of the devil’s den. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the thick cheroot smoke that hung in a heavy cloud over the establishment. The raucous laughter of drunken gentlemen blended with the tinkling of coins being tossed upon the gaming tables. He scanned the hall of dissolute lords, waving off the lush, golden beauty who sidled up to him. She turned away on a flounce and went in search of some interested, bored nobleman who’d tup her for a handful of coins. He’d little doubt the loathsome lord he sought was here. He was always here. It was how Edmund had managed to fleece him of a small fortune, including the man’s eldest daughter’s dowry.
He curled his fingers into a reflexive ball, his fingers digging crescent marks into the flesh of his hands. One of those daughters meant nothing to Edmund in the scheme of his revenge. The other was no longer a shiftless, shapeless lady in white skirts. The now dowerless young woman was Phoebe Barrett with cautious eyes belied by a trusting smile and her damned dreams of exploration. Edmund abhorred himself for the guilt that snaked through him for being the man who’d stripped her of her dowry. A growl worked its way up his throat. Just then, he located Phoebe’s father, seated at a faro table; a buxom, brown-haired, young woman who might as well have been his own daughter’s age upon his lap.
Why should he note such a detail? And why should that detail matter so very much? What in hell madness was this? He thrust back the peculiar thoughts. The wistful woman’s loathsome father was to blame. If it hadn’t been Edmund, it would have been some other who’d bested the viscount in faro, and he was all the richer for that defeat. Except, there was no sense of triumph in that rationale. Bloody hell, he didn’t want to feel guilt or regret or any emotion—feelings weakened a man.
Fueling the icy fury coursing through him and the tumult of emotions he couldn’t put to sorts, Edmund stalked through the club. Young gentlemen gulped and ducked out of his way, cutting a wide path for him. He drew to a stop beside the viscount’s chair. The old man fondled the dark beauty’s breast, cupping the pale mound of flesh that spilled over her lacy top. “Waters,” he said on a slow, lethal whisper.
Viscount Waters scrambled to his feet so quickly he upended the woman on his lap. “R-Rutland.” The woman caught herself against the table and then with her lips pursed in displeasure at her partner’s careless handling, turned and sought companionship with another. “D-Did you want to s-see me?” Those bulging, bug-like eyes darted about, unable to meet Edmund’s gaze. How very different this shiftless, spineless coward was from his daughter who met Edmund’s gaze unapologetically. Then, would she if she knew who he was—truly knew who he was?
“Walk with me.” Not waiting to see if Waters followed, Edmund turned on his heel and stalked through the crowd, toward his empty tables at the far back corner of the club.
The viscount lengthened his shorter stride in a bid to keep pace. “H-Have I done something w-wrong? Was my daughter not where she said she’d be?” He wheezed from the exertion of his efforts.
Oh, the lady had been where the viscount had promised. Staring wide-eyed at that damned map and dreaming of travels to Wales, when other ladies would have been lusting after the latest French fabrics and baubles. He wanted nothing to do with those damned too-trusting eyes. Edmund jerked out a chair and claimed a seat with his back pressed against the wall. The position allowed him the advantage of surveying the crowd, without being vulnerable with his back exposed.
Having been unable to match Edmund’s long, quick stride, Waters hurried over belatedly and made to pull out the seat opposite him. He hesitated and eyed Edmund with a nervous glimmer in his blue eyes.
Edmund started.
“May I?”
But for the bug-like bulge—the color was Phoebe’s and it roused reminders of the woman he’d taken his leave of a short while ago. Instead of the greed and fear in her sire’s eyes, however, Phoebe’s had sparked with intelligence, hinting at a keen wit that threw into question how she could possibly share the blood of one such as Waters. “Sit,” he snapped.
The viscount immediately hefted his bulky frame into the chair opposite Edmund. The wood groaned in protest.
He’d learned long ago the other man’s weakness; his almost rabid fear of Edmund and so he toyed with Waters the way a cat did its prey. He deliberately motioned forward a scantily clad, ethereal beauty with a silver tray. She moved with slow, languid steps; a deliberate sway of her generous hips meant to entice. He eyed her dispassionately, from the interest in her green eyes to the manner in which she darted the pink tip of her tongue out, trailing it along the seam of her lips.
The man smacked his lips. Waters’ second vice. Women.
The woman stopped beside the table. “My lord,” she purred and set down her tray with a bottle of fine, French brandy and two glasses. She fingered the crevice between the enormous mounds of her abundant breasts, an invitation in her eyes.
“That will be all,” he said coolly.
He waved her off. With a pout, she sauntered away.
The viscount groaned, alternating his gaze between the departing beauty and the full bottle of spirits. “What have I done now?” he asked, sounding more like a petulant child than an aging viscount.
Edmund yanked off his gloves then tossed them aside while studying Waters through narrowed eyes; this man whose daughter dreamed of escaping. Was it a wonder when she’d been forced into a miserable existence with this fiend as her father? To keep from dragging the other man across the table and choking the air from his lungs, Edmund gripped the edges of the table so hard his fingernails marred the smooth, mahogany wood. Relishing the viscount’s discomfiture, he forced himself to lighten his grip. He reached with deliberate slowness for the bottle. He splashed several fingerfuls of brandy into his glass and then, knowing it would drive the other man to near madness, filled it to the remainder of the brim.
Tired of the man’s presence, Edmund brought them ’round to the reason for this meeting. “I’m here to discuss your daughter.”
“Eh?” Waters scratched his furrowed brow. “I thought you wanted the ugly one, the Fairfax girl.” At the further narrowing of Edmund’s eyes, he continued on a rush. “Of course you’re welcome to my daughter, either of my daughters,” he amended. He wrinkled his nose, giving him the look of a small rodent. “Though, if you take my youngest daughter, Justina, then I can let Allswood have Phoebe and my debts to that man…”
Edmund set his glass down and reached across the table. Lip pulled back in a snarl, he clasped Phoebe’s father about the neck, effectively cutting off air flow and silencing the man. The viscount’s words roused images of Allswood laying claim to Phoebe. “Shut your goddamn mouth, Waters,” he hissed. All the while an icy rage seared through him. No one dared tread upon that which he had already claimed. Even in the spirit of pretend courtships.
He released the man with such alacrity, Waters collapsed back in his seat, taking great, heaving gasps of air. It was a testament to the evil that went on in this place that only mildly curious glances were tossed their way. “I’d charged you the task of finding out her interests.”
What if I were to say I’m not escaping but searching…
Waters rubbed his neck where Edmund had so roughly handled him. “The gel likes her travel books, I told you,” he whined.
In short, the man didn’t know a jot about his daughter beyond that. Edmund layered his elbows upon the table and leaned across the smooth, mahogany surface, shrinking the gap between them. “I intend to find out for myself, Waters.”
&nb
sp; The viscount’s cheeks turned ruddy and then in a shocking display of courage and boldness, he said, “You aren’t going to ruin the chit, now are you?” Ah, so there was a bit of fatherly loyalty to the woman. Waters’ beady eyes darted about the club and then returned to Edmund once more. “Can’t have you ruining her. Not when I can use her to make a match.” Of course, that would account for any father’s sense of concern for his daughter’s virtue.
Edmund downed the contents of his brandy in a long, slow swallow and set the glass down hard. With a last, disdainful glance at the corpulent lord, he shoved back his chair and stood.
“Rutland?” the viscount’s pleading voice called after him.
He ignored the other man and continued his path through the clubs with renewed purpose for Phoebe Barrett. The viscount asked him not to ruin his daughter, failing to know she’d been ruined the moment she’d made friends with Miss Honoria Fairfax.
Silently he catalogued the viscount’s newest revealed weakness—using his own daughter as a pawn.
Chapter 7
The following morning, Phoebe, inside the Viscount Waters’ carriage, rolled slowly through crowded London streets. She fiddled with her reticule. At any other moment, and any other time before, an eager excitement would have consumed her every thought so all she might think about was this trip she now made.
You’d go to Wales to be closer to your Vikings, instead of spreading your wings and daring to dream…you deserve more in your dreams and for them…
Edmund, a mere stranger to her just three days ago, had somehow reached inside her and seen both the hopes she carried and, more, the secrets she kept, even from herself. “Oh, it is ever so exciting.” Her sister’s lyrical sing-song voice called her to the moment. Justina fairly bounced on the edge of her seat. At seventeen, there was still an honest innocence to her younger sister’s happiness. “New shops, new books.” A wistful expression stole over her face. “Oh, I cannot wait until I make my Come Out.”
A Heart of a Duke Collection: Volume 1-A Regency Bundle Page 145