Christ. Max had to unlock his clenched jaw to mutter, “How much has he demanded to date?”
Charlie worried at her rouged lower lip for a moment. “I’d rather not say. But it’s more than I can continue to pay on an ongoing basis. I’ve gone through all of my pin money, and I’ve had to pawn some of my jewelry”—tears welled in her golden-brown eyes —“and I also gave Rochfort a pearl and diamond brooch that once belonged to my dearly departed mama. But I can’t go on this way with this sword of Damocles constantly hanging over my head.” She lifted her chin, and her gaze glittered with determination. “So, I decided to periodically follow Rochfort, and when I discovered that he often visits the Rouge et Noir Club late on a Friday evening, well, it seemed I had no other choice but to do what I’m doing tonight. Despite the danger.”
“Charlie, I wish you’d come to me soon—”
Without warning, Charlie threw her arms around his neck. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered urgently. “Quick. Pretend to ravish me.”
Pretend to ravish his best friend’s sister? Again? Good God. He already felt guilty as hell for dragging Charlie onto his lap and putting his hands all over her the first time. Of course, he’d been trying to protect her, but he couldn’t do such an outrageous thing twice. Why, he’d known Charlie since she was a sixteen-year-old girl. A chit straight out of the schoolroom.
Although, she was hardly a girl now…
Charlie’s spectacular breasts—breasts that he’d been trying very hard to ignore since he’d first laid eyes on her in her scandalous cyprian’s costume—were pressed firmly against him. Soft and warm, like two delectable plump pillows. If he glanced downward… Christ, that cleavage… Looking down was the last thing he should do.
His hands slid to her waist, which was also a very bad idea as he encountered a sliver of warm, silken, naked flesh between the bottom of her corset and the waistband of her drawers. Moving his hands farther south was obviously out of the question, so he placed his palms on her shoulder blades and rested his cheek upon her head, her thick chestnut curls tickling his jaw. It was a platonic embrace, nothing more.
But then Charlie moved, her belly brushing against his hips, and despite his best efforts to remain unaffected, interest stirred within his trousers. Bloody hell. To make matters worse, it was clear that a copulating couple in the nearest bedchamber was approaching the climactic end of their amorous ride together—a headboard repeatedly banged against a wall, and a woman was gasping and frantically crying out the name of the Lord and several Christian saints over and over again.
Think of something else, Maximilian Devereux. Anything… His horses. Yes. Max focused on the Thoroughbred filly he would choose to race at Newmarket in a few weeks’ time. And then there was that bay Arabian stallion he was thinking of buying to sire— Damn and blast. Don’t think about mating of any kind, in any context.
No, it was best to think about some other innocuous or even unpleasant topic. Like his mother, Cressida, and her infernal griping about his need to enter the marriage mart and choose a duchess. Someone from her carefully composed list of this Season’s most eligible debutantes. The thought of wooing some well-bred, well-connected, perfectly groomed, and accomplished chit should be enough to dampen his ardor.
Only he currently had a sweet-smelling, generously curved, too-brazen-for-her-own-good chit in his arms. The very same chit who’d nearly blown his head off when she’d readily sat upon his lap and placed her lips against his neck a few minutes ago. And now she was practically curling herself around him like an affectionate cat.
Oh, devil take him. Max groaned inwardly. Now he was thinking about pussies.
Whoever was in the hallway was drawing closer. He could hear the heavy, unapologetic thud of booted footsteps and the low rumble of a man’s voice. A woman’s peal of laughter was followed by a sharp slap and a squeal.
God, he wished they’d both bugger off so he could get Charlie out of this den of iniquity. As the minutes ticked by, the odds that she would be recognized by some male member of the ton who knew her were rapidly increasing.
A door slammed, then Max breathed a sigh of relief. Putting Charlie firmly away from him, he said, “You’re sure Rochfort is in Madame Erato’s room?”
“I am. My informant—a croupier who works here—is the brother of my lady’s maid. I have no reason to distrust his intelligence. Only…” She released a frustrated huff. “Only we’ve been dillydallying about so much, I’m worried Rochfort will have finished with Madame Erato before we’ve had a chance to steal inside and go through his clothes.”
Max cocked an eyebrow. “You are not to set foot in that room. I’ll do it. And I wouldn’t worry too much. Rochfort strikes me as the sort of man who likes to get his money’s worth. With any luck, he’s currently balls deep in—”
Goddamn it. Had he really just said that? What was wrong with him? “My sincerest apologies for being so crude. I meant to say, let’s hope he’s currently…occupied.”
Charlie gave a small laugh, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think you sometimes forget that I’ve grown up in a household full of males. Having four brothers—especially someone like Nate, who used to be a thoroughly wicked rake—does mean that one learns rather a lot about the opposite sex. And that includes inadvertently hearing all kinds of improper things. How else do you think I acquired such ‘singular knowledge’ about taboo topics not meant for a young lady’s ears? So, I wouldn’t be too concerned. I promise I won’t gasp or faint with horror.”
Max nodded. “Right. Good. You stay here. This shouldn’t take too long at all.”
He was about to step out into the hallway again when Charlie suddenly stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips were soft and warm and pliant. “For luck,” she whispered. “And thank you.”
Max tugged at the cuffs of his evening jacket to keep himself from sweeping Charlie into his arms again. Jesus Christ. Where had all his studied, polite nonchalance gone? He’d been practicing amiable indifference around Lady Charlotte Hastings for years. Which was the fitting and right thing to continue to do, despite the rather bizarre circumstances they currently found themselves in. And then, of course, he’d long ago promised Nate, her brother and his former comrade-in-arms, that he’d never go anywhere near Charlie.
Clearing his throat, Max murmured, “No thanks are necessary, my lady. As Nate’s friend, it’s my duty to see you safe.” And he meant it. This injustice, Charlie’s ill-treatment, could not continue. He would end it tonight if he could.
“Yes…” Her shy smile slid away before she added stiffly, “Quite.”
Setting aside the uncomfortable notion that he’d unwittingly hurt Charlie’s feelings, Max approached Madame Erato’s door. Like Charlie had done earlier, he pressed his ear to the wood paneling, then smiled to himself when he detected the unmistakable sounds of frantic fornicating. Excellent.
He tried the handle and was not at all surprised to find that it was locked. However, given Madame Erato had conveniently left the key in the keyhole, breaking in would be child’s play. After sliding his linen kerchief beneath the bottom of the door to catch the key on the other side, it was but the work of a moment to poke it out of the lock with his narrow-bladed pen knife. Max winced when there was a faint metallic clatter on the other side of the door, but hopefully Rochfort hadn’t noticed.
A swift but gentle pull on the kerchief, and the key was Max’s.
Steadfastly battering down the urge to pummel Rochfort into dust as soon as he entered the chamber, Max drew a deep breath and stepped inside. Even though the room was filled with shadows—a pair of candles and a dying fire were the only sources of light—he quickly located the baron in the curtained tester bed, going at it hammer and tongs. And thankfully, the dog’s back was to the door. When Madame Erato suddenly flung her head back and screamed, “Oh, my lord, yes! Harder, harder, harder,” at the top of her lungs, Max suspected the courtesan wouldn’t notice his intrusion either.
A few furtive steps across the room was all it took for Max to reach the chaise longue where Rochfort’s discarded clothes lay. Breeches, shirt, waistcoat, evening jacket, and boots in hand, Max beat a hasty retreat, then locked Madame Erato’s chamber from the outside.
Charlie rushed over to him, her kohl-rimmed eyes huge in her pale face. “You are simply amazing, Max,” she breathed. “I didn’t even consider that the door might be locked.”
Max shrugged. “You forget I’ve been here before,” he said, then winced at the fact he’d all but admitted that he was familiar with the ins and outs of the brothel. Retreating to the window embrasure, he tossed Madame Erato’s room key into one of the potted ferns. “Right, let’s check these clothes and leave before Rochfort realizes he’s been had.”
Charlie muttered something that sounded a lot like “damn, bloody damn” when they ascertained that Rochfort had clearly lied to her. It seemed the baron didn’t have her notebook on him at all times. They hadn’t discovered a housekey in any of his pockets either.
“Now what do I do?” Charlie murmured in a quivering voice. Slumping against the wall, she looked up at Max with wide haunted eyes. “I have to get that book back.”
Upon seeing her devastation, a hot wave of anger burned through Max. Frustrated beyond measure, he roughly yanked open the window and hurled Rochfort’s clothes out into the street in disgust. “I’ll think of something—” he began, but then there was a shout, and a violent blow was leveled at Madame Erato’s door.
“Time to go.” Grasping Charlie’s hand, Max tugged her into the corridor, and they sped toward the servants’ stairs. Within a few minutes, they’d reached the back door to the club.
The doorman, Arthur Fudge, greeted Max with a wide grin. “Your Grace,” he crowed. “Wha’ a pleasure it is to see you again. It’s been a while, ain’t it?” He then gave a knowing wink. “An’ I see you’ve chosen a fine little ladybird to keep you company tonight.”
Charlie stiffened, and Max only just stopped himself from planting a punch in the bruiser’s smirking face. “If you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a hurry, Fudge,” he said, gesturing at the door.
“Of course. Sorry, Your Grace.” The doorman pulled a thick woolen cloak from a peg and held it out to Charlie. “Don’t forget this, miss.”
“I’ll take it from here.” Max draped the garment over Charlie’s shoulders. As the door opened and lamplight spilled over her face, he caught the shadow of a grateful smile. No doubt Arthur Fudge had said something entirely lecherous to her earlier on. The slimy bastard.
They hurried down the alleyway and into the street, where a hackney waited.
A young woman threw open the door and called out tearfully, “My lady. Thank God.”
“This is the carriage you took here?” Max demanded as he eyeballed the coarse-looking hackney driver and the fairly dilapidated cab.
Charlie released a frustrated sigh and rolled her eyes. “Really, Max? After all the things that I’ve done tonight, you now choose to take me to task about my choice of conveyance? It’s not as though I could have used my father’s town coach.”
“I suppose not,” Max grudgingly conceded as he handed Charlie in. After instructing the driver to take them to Berkeley Square, he leapt in after her.
“What? You’re coming too?” Her expression was aghast as he took the unoccupied seat opposite her and her maid.
Max cocked an eyebrow. “Really, Lady Charlotte? After all the things that I’ve done tonight, you choose to take me to task about this? As a gentleman and a family friend, it would be remiss of me not to see you home now, wouldn’t it?”
Charlie gave a disgruntled harrumph and settled back against the torn leather squabs. “I suppose you’re right,” she grumbled, then directed her gaze out the window to the fog-shrouded London streets. After a brief pause, she added, “I should be thanking you—and I am grateful for your assistance, more than you could know—but I’m also cross with you.”
“Cross with me?”
“Yes, and my brother and the rest of your friends too. Indeed, all the so-called gentlemen of the ton. How ironic that I once wanted to enter one of your male dominions to see what all the fuss was about. But now that I have, I rather wish I hadn’t. Why on earth you choose to frequent places like the Rouge et Noir Club…” She shook her head and emitted a derisive huff. “I mean, gambling is one thing, but cavorting with those poor women who work there...” She shuddered.
“I assure you, all of the women wish to be there and are paid well. No one is taken advantage of.”
“Oh, and you’d know, would you?” Her voice was stiff with indignation as she added, “Enduring Fudge’s lewd remarks was enough for me.”
“I’m sorry he was disrespectful, Charlie, but you shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”
“And why were you there? Actually”—she directed her gaze toward the streetscape again—“I don’t want to know.”
“I was in the mood for a game of Faro or vingt-et-un. That’s all.”
“Of course you were.”
The thought that Charlie might think less of him sat uncomfortably in Max’s gut. Even so, he attempted to justify his behavior and that of other men of his ilk. “Men have needs, Charlie. And at the risk of sounding defensive, perhaps even mean-spirited, I feel compelled to add that even if I had gone to the Rouge et Noir Club to cavort with one of the club’s courtesans, it’s really none of your business.”
“Clearly.”
Long, silent minutes passed in which Max studied Charlie. Despite her current prickly mood and earlier display of bravado at the club, he could see that she was deeply troubled. Her fingers were knotted tightly together in her lap. Her posture was rigid and her face drawn.
The peculiar, completely foreign urge to comfort her by drawing her into his arms was back again, but Max ruthlessly pushed it aside. It was not his place to do that. He reminded himself that deep down he was hard-hearted. Unsentimental. He’d been bred that way, and he couldn’t be anything else.
Yes, he must keep his distance, just like he’d always done. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do everything in his power to extricate Charlie from the mess she was in.
She was his best friend’s sister, and it was the right thing to do.
When the hackney drew to a halt outside Hastings House in Berkeley Square, Max leaned forward and touched Charlie’s arm. “Don’t fret, my lady. I promise you that I will fix this problem with Rochfort. By this time tomorrow night, I will have retrieved your notebook from his townhouse, and then you can put all of this behind you. Forget it ever happened.”
“Thank you, Max,” she murmured, then met his gaze directly. “And I’m sorry for my waspish outburst. You’re right. How you choose to spend your evenings is none of my business. It’s not as though I’m unaware of the different sets of rules governing the behavior of the sexes. I might consider them to be unfair, but railing at you won’t change how Society works. And the last thing I want is for there to be any discord between us. If you hadn’t been at the Rouge et Noir Club tonight, who knows how things would have turned out?” Her golden-brown eyes glistened suspiciously, but then she offered him a bright smile. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
“A smile like that is all I need from you,” he replied. “And your assurance that if you ever find yourself in trouble again, you will come to me for help straightaway. After all, that’s what friends are for.”
Her expression grew shuttered, and for the second time that night, Max was struck by the uncomfortable feeling that he’d somehow inadvertently upset Charlie by underscoring their friendship.
“Well, given my propensity for getting myself into scrapes, I’m afraid you might regret such an offer.” Her tone was laced with a trace of bitterness as she gathered her cloak about herself. “One doesn’t acquire the label of ‘disreputable debutante’ without good reason. But I’ll keep your kind offer in mind. Good night, Your Grace.”
&nbs
p; Without waiting for him to open the door or hand her down, Charlie exited the hackney coach, then rushed up the stairs of Hastings House with her maid scurrying in her wake.
Bloody hell. Max ordered the driver to take him to Grosvenor Square, then slammed shut the hackney’s door. Why were women so damned complicated? And Lady Charlotte Hastings was even more unfathomable than most. Brazen, beguiling, and infuriatingly problematic.
Yes, problematic, and not because of this stolen diary and blackmail business. He’d just stated they were friends. But deep down he knew that was a lie. Because after tonight’s escapade, he could no longer deny that he wanted Charlotte Hastings. The smoldering ember of desire that he’d been valiantly trying to smother for so long had suddenly, and most inconveniently, flickered to life.
Damn it.
Somehow, he was going to have to snuff out this lustful spark for Charlie, and quickly. If Nate ever found out that he, Maximilian Devereux, the Duke of Exmoor, was harboring impure thoughts about his sister, he would be a dead man.
Chapter 3
The Season is fast approaching, and if you’re an aspiring debutante, are your preparations well in hand? Competition to catch oneself an eligible gentleman of means is always fierce, and the wise debutante always plans ahead to ensure she is off to a good start that will put her ahead of the field.
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Essential Style & Etiquette Guide
Hastings House, Berkeley Square, Mayfair
March 27, 1819
“Now, there’s no need to look quite so reproachful, Peridot,” remarked Charlie as her tortoiseshell cat watched her remove the lid from a box of Gunter’s marzipan-coated sweetmeats. “I know it’s Lent, so I’m only going to have one.”
How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes Page 3