Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  Lord Ramshay sucked in his breath, then dove forward and kissed her hard. With his hands pressing against her cheeks, his mouth possessed her and she parted her lips willingly, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Catherine reached for him, clutching fistfuls of his coat, tugging him closer.

  She had come for answers. An explanation. But whatever Lord Ramshay’s reason for missing the Viscount’s ball, she didn’t care. His hungry kiss told her everything she needed to know.

  He wants me.

  His lips worked their way along her neck, igniting a fire deep within her.

  And I want him too. More than anything.

  Her hands found his chest, and she pushed him backwards into the parlor. He closed the door behind them and held her against it, his lips finding hers again. He was ravenous, possessive. There was desperation in his touch. His fingers tightened around her shoulder as though she were the only thing stopping him from drowning.

  She welcomed it. She wanted to be seized by him, wanted to help him escape that great expanse of his father’s crimes. She reached up, knotting her fingers through his thick hair. At that moment, it felt that he was all that was keeping her afloat.

  His hand slid down the curve of her throat, coming to rest against her collarbone. She felt his thumb graze the neckline of her gown. She pressed herself against him, urging his fingers lower.

  She opened her eyes to find his gaze on hers, seeking, asking permission.

  “Yes,” she managed, her breath ragged. “Yes, My Lord.”

  His fingers worked beneath the narrow row of beading at her chest. “Patrick,” he told her. “My name is Patrick.” He slid his hand inside her silky bodice and Catherine felt her breath leave her. His fingers ran over the stiff boning of her corset, finding the swell of her breast. She heard a noise escape her throat that did not sound like her.

  What is this man doing to me?

  She wanted her gown in a pool at her feet, wanted her cursed corset in a pile beside it. She wanted those hands, those lips to find every part of her. Wanted him to bring more sounds of pleasure from deep in her throat.

  She grabbed a fistful of his coat to steady herself and felt it slide from his shoulders, dropping heavily at his feet. And then there was a new sensation; his hand reaching down and finding the hem of her gown. His fingers slipped beneath it, working their way along her silky stockings until they reached the bare skin of her thigh.

  The feel of his fingers against her tore a gasp from Catherine’s throat. Her legs felt as though they might give way beneath her at any moment. One hand grappled with the doorframe. With the other, she dug her fingers hard into Patrick’s shoulder. She heard his own muffled cry escape his lips.

  This was wrong, she knew. All of it. But she couldn’t bring herself to care. All that mattered was his hot breath against her neck and that hand working its way higher up her thigh with aching, unbearable slowness. All that mattered was this seemingly-unquenchable fire and Patrick Connolly’s ability to make her feel so dizzyingly good.

  Catherine heard herself groan as his hand moved higher. And a loud knock at the door yanked her from her daze.

  Chapter 22

  The knock at the door sent a jolt through Patrick’s chest.

  How he longed to ignore it. Pretend, just for now, that the world was as it should be. Lose himself in this intoxicating web that Catherine Barnet had spun around him.

  But there could be no ignoring it. A man like him had no such luxuries.

  With a cry of frustration, he pulled away from Catherine.

  “Who could be calling on you at this hour?” Her breath was short and fast, a painful reminder of how this might have ended differently.

  Patrick snatched his coat from the floor and clenched his jaw. “Stay here,” he told her. “I’ll find out.”

  She looked up at him with anxious blue eyes.

  Curse on these bastards.

  Patrick yanked the door open. There on the doorstep stood the portly figure of George Thorne, along with the two men who had been with him at St Giles that evening.

  “What do you want?” Patrick hissed.

  “The money,” said Thorne. “It weren’t all there.”

  Patrick bristled. “It weren’t all there because you put half of it in your pocket. Do you think me a fool?” He tried to keep his voice low.

  Catherine cannot know about any of this.

  Telling her about her father’s debts was one thing. But admitting he had been forced to spend the evening prowling through St. Giles was bound to turn her away.

  “There were plenty more than that missing, My Lord. Ten whole pounds short, it were.”

  Patrick’s eyes flashed. He felt his fist clench involuntarily. Hell, how he longed to strike the man. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

  Thorne and the other man came toward him suddenly, pushing their way into the house. Patrick lurched for Thorne’s arm, but he was already striding into the parlor.

  At the sight of them, a cry of shock escaped Catherine’s lips. She stumbled away from the men and stood behind the chaise. Patrick saw her eyes dart to the fire poker. Was she planning to use it as a weapon?

  “My apologies, Lord Ramshay,” Thorne chuckled. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

  Catherine fixed the men with fierce eyes. “Who are you?”

  Patrick tried to catch her glance, but she turned away hurriedly. He felt something lurch in his stomach.

  “Get out of my house,” Patrick demanded. “Whatever you need to discuss with me, we can do it outside.”

  Thorne ran a finger along the top of a velvet armchair. “I’ve told you what we need to discuss, My Lord. The money you gave me. It weren’t all there.”

  “Money?” Catherine repeated. “What money?”

  Patrick opened his mouth to speak, desperate to scrabble together some pitiful explanation.

  But Thorne spoke first. “Your friend Lord Ramshay has been known to frequent the Red Queen in Seven Dials,” he told Catherine. “Got himself into a spot of bother or two at the Whist tables.”

  Catherine’s eyes widened. The coldness in them made Patrick’s stomach knot.

  “These are lies, Catherine,” he said. “I swear it. They’re all lies.”

  “Lies,” Thorne snorted. “Just look at the way you’re dressed. Don’t look like a baron to me. You look like some degenerate what’s been creeping about the gambling dens in Seven Dials all night.”

  Catherine’s knuckles whitened around the top of the chaise. She said nothing.

  “Get out of my house,” Patrick hissed. “Before I’m forced to get my pistol.”

  Thorne chuckled. “Aye, because that worked so well for you last time.”

  Seized with rage, Patrick lurched toward him, snatching hold of Thorne’s collar. One of the other men yanked him out of Patrick’s grip.

  Thorne sniffed loudly. “The money, My Lord. The ten pounds. My boss wants it.”

  Patrick shook his head. “I don’t care what your boss wants. You’re not getting another penny from me.”

  * * *

  Catherine heard the door thud as the men disappeared from the house. She stared at the floor, unable to look at Patrick.

  The Red Queen in Seven Dials…

  Catherine knew the name all too well. She had heard it spoken of at her brother’s trial. An illegal gambling den in which Robert had hidden contraband for the smuggling operation he’d been recruited by. A place so depraved and deadly even the authorities were loath to enter.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Patrick on the other side of the room. His hands dug into the pockets of his dark coat.

  “Don’t look like a baron to me. You look like some degenerate what’s been creeping about the gambling dens in Seven Dials all night.”

  No.

  She refused to believe it.

  She dared to look up at him, trying to see behind his eyes. He had not been in such a place, surely. He couldn’t have…

&n
bsp; “Who were those men?” she asked shakily.

  He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know who they are.”

  “They seemed to know you!” Catherine felt herself beginning to tremble. Out of anger or fear, she couldn’t be certain. Perhaps both.

  “They came to my door several nights ago,” he admitted, eyes down. “Asking for money. I believed they may have known my father.”

  “Known your father?” Catherine repeated. “Just like the man in Newgate?”

  She stared at him. How desperately she wanted to believe there was nothing more to this than a son burdened with his father’s debts. But the pieces did not add up.

  “Those men said you were in Seven Dials tonight. Is that why you weren’t at the Viscount’s ball?”

  Patrick drew in his breath. “Yes. I—”

  “Seven Dials?” Catherine snapped. Though she had never been to the place, she had come to know well of the kind of men who frequented it. Men who spent their time in brothels and taverns and illegal gambling dens.

  And has Patrick been spending his time there too?

  Kind, decent Patrick Connolly who had seen her to Newgate? The man who had made her body respond in ways she had never imagined possible…

  Debt collectors appeared at his door each month, he had told her. If such a thing were true, why would he have needed to spend his night in Seven Dials paying back the men he owed?

  “Lord Ramshay? Are you lying to me?” The words felt trapped in her throat. How could she bear to think such a thing?

  She had believed he had been nothing but honest with her. Surely after all he had told her about his father and his acquaintance in Newgate he might have no cause to keep things from her. But perhaps the acquaintance in Newgate was just the beginning of Lord Ramshay’s story.

  She had always been a fool when it came to such things. Had always been blind.

  She thought back to the gossips in St. Matthew’s churchyard.

  “How could anyone have lived under the same roof as the man and not known what he was up to?”

  She turned back to Patrick and looked him in the eye. “Do the gambling debts belong to your father?” she asked pointedly. “Or do they belong to you?”

  He let out his breath. “Catherine, please, I—” He rubbed his eyes. “I went to Seven Dials tonight,” he told her. “Because Thorne and his men came to my house and threatened me. They said if I didn’t pay them the money they wanted, they would hurt someone in my household.”

  “Thorne?” Catherine repeated. “So you do know him.”

  Patrick sighed heavily. “He told me his name. Nothing more. I’ve never been to the Red Queen in my life. It’s the last thing I want to do, after all the trouble my father found himself in. The things Thorne said tonight were nothing but lies.”

  “Why lie?” Catherine demanded. “What would that achieve?”

  “I don’t know,” Patrick admitted. His voice was husky.

  Catherine swallowed heavily, forcing away a sharp pain in her throat.

  I can’t let myself get drawn into this world. I can’t let myself be hurt by another man’s mistakes. I will be not be deceived by Lord Ramshay the way I was deceived by my brother.

  “I need to leave,” she said stiffly. “I’m sorry. I should never have come.”

  Patrick tried to reach for her arm as she passed, but she yanked away sharply. Made her way out into the hallway and pulled open the door.

  “Catherine,” Patrick called, as she made her way down the front steps. “You would believe these men over me?”

  She looked back over her shoulder at him. “I don’t know what to believe,” she admitted. “But I cannot be a part of this.” Her throat clamped. “I’m sorry, Lord Ramshay. You’re not the man I thought you were.”

  Chapter 23

  Catherine hurried down Lord Ramshay’s front path before he had a chance to respond. The wind stung her cheeks and whipped her neatly-curled hair against the side of her face.

  She pushed away her angry tears. The events of the night felt like a blur.

  What was I thinking?, she asked herself, for not the first time that night.

  Love, she was beginning to see, made a person blind. And it also made them a damn fool.

  Had she been seen at his townhouse it would have caused a scandal from which she might never have recovered from. A part of her was grateful for the appearance of the men at the door. Had she stayed in Lord Ramshay’s arms for a moment longer, she would have given herself to him entirely. Ruined herself for any man desperate enough to make her his wife. She had little enough to offer a potential husband without losing her virtue as well. Those men in black had saved her from making an enormous mistake.

  She hurried back toward the Viscount’s manor. She had been at Lord Ramshay’s house for far longer than she had intended. There was every chance Aunt Cornelia would have discovered her missing by now.

  And then there was Lord Ayton. He had seen her leave the ball. Surely he had known she was not waiting for her lady’s maid to fetch a cab. She knew he was friends with Lord Ramshay too. Was there any chance he might have known where she was going? Her cheeks blazed at the thought.

  Her body ached with lingering pangs of the desire Lord Ramshay had stirred within her. But now she saw the truth with sudden, sickening clarity.

  Letting herself fall for Patrick Connolly had been the gravest of mistakes.

  * * *

  Patrick opened his eyes. Morning light was searing through the gaps in the curtains. He sat, bleary-eyed, and rubbed his aching neck. He had not gone to bed the night before. After Thorne—and Catherine—had left, he had whittled away the hours with a brandy glass in his hand, his thoughts knocking together until he wanted to cry out.

  It had become sickeningly clear that these men were not going to leave him alone. Whoever they worked for would hound him until he had nothing left.

  But worst of all had been the doubt in Catherine’s eyes. Her bitter, dejected words.

  “You’re not the man I thought you were.”

  Catherine had come to believe him involved in illegal gambling; a thing he had come to despise more than anything else on this Earth. Thorne and the other bastards couldn’t have chosen a worse time to show themselves.

  Wearily, Patrick climbed to his feet. He’d fallen asleep on the chaise for what felt like no more than a couple of hours. His eyes were heavy and his legs felt like lead. But he needed to think clearly.

  He went upstairs and splashed his face at his wash stand. The cold water sluiced away a little of his exhaustion. He changed out of the clothes he had slept in. The faint waft of Catherine’s lavender scent clung to the collar of his coat.

  With clean clothes and an enormous mug of coffee, he returned to the parlor and resumed his pacing.

  He had to dig deeper. Had no choice but to find out exactly who these men were working for and why they had come after him. Was it solely about money? Surely not. This city was full of noblemen with far deeper pockets than his. Were they somehow seeking to draw him into the underworld, that domain his father had secretly inhabited?

  He needed to know everything. And he couldn’t do this alone.

  I need to see Edmund and Simon.

  Though a part of him was desperate to speak to his friends immediately, Patrick held himself back from appearing on the doorstep of Featherstone Manor.

  There was no way he could show himself in front of Catherine.

  Patrick was hit with a fresh wave of regret.

  How perfect it had felt to have her in his arms. For those all-too-fleeting moments, his troubles had seemed distant. With Catherine Barnet’s body pressed against his, the rest of the world had begun to fall away. As memories of the night left a stirring in his chest, Patrick was seized with fresh determination. He had to stop these men. Had to prove his innocence to Catherine. He had no choice.

  Last night has shown me I cannot live without her.

  Patrick scrawled hurried messages to Edm
und and Simon, requesting they meet him at the Grand Hotel that afternoon. As he called for his footman to deliver them, he was hit with a bolt of uncertainty.

  What if my footman is behind all this? What if he is the one letting these men inside?

  The thought felt preposterous, but Patrick knew he would be foolish not to entertain the idea.