“Do you mean to tell me that Edward lost Brayten in a game of cards?” Broadmoor demanded.
“I had it from Mr. Thornsdale, who came to me at once after it had happened. I would that he had gone to you instead! Apparently, Edward had to wager Brayten to win back his obligation of eighty thousand pounds.”
“Eighty thousand pounds!” Broadmoor exclaimed. “He is a bigger fool than I feared.”
“I wish you would not speak so harshly of your cousin.”
“Madam, I shall have far harsher words when I see him!”
“It is the work of that harlot.” Anne shook her fan as if to fend off an imaginary foe. “A sorceress, that one. The blood of pagans runs in her veins. Her kind practice the black arts. Yes, that is how she swindled my Edward. She ought to be run out of England!”
He narrowed his eyes. “Of whom do you speak?”
“Darcy Sherwood.” Anne shuddered. “Her sister and stepmother are the most common of common, but Miss Sherwood is the worst of them all! I hear the Sherwoods are in no small way of debt. No doubt they are only too happy to put their greedy hands upon our precious estate! I wonder that the darkie, that wench, had orchestrated the entire episode to avenge herself for what Edward had done to her sister—as if a gentleman of his stature could possibly look upon such a common young woman with any interest.”
It had been five years, but Broadmoor remembered the Sherwood name. Only it had been Priscilla Sherwood that had posed the problem then. He had not thought the young lady a suitable match for Edward, who had formed an unexpected attachment to her, and severed the relationship between the two lovebirds by removing his cousin to Paris, where Edward had promptly forgotten about Priscilla in favor of the pretty French girls with their charming accents.
But Broadmoor had only vague recollections of Miss Darcy Sherwood, the elder of the Sherwood sisters.
“Oh, wretched, wretched is our lot!” Anne continued. “To think that we could be turned out of our own home by that piece of jade.”
“That will not happen,” Broadmoor pronounced, setting down his glass. Perhaps Anne was right and he should have taken more of an interest in Edward’s affairs.
Relief washed over Anne. “How grand you are, Radcliff! If anyone can save our family, it is you! Your father and mother, bless their souls, would have been proud of you.”
His thoughts turned to the woman upstairs. Penelope would not be pleased, but he meant to have his horse saddled immediately. His first visit would be to Mr. Thornsdale, a trusted friend of the family, to confirm the facts of what Anne had relayed to him.
And if Anne had the truth, his second visit would be to Miss Darcy Sherwood.
That wicked harlot.
CHAPTER TWO
NO ONE NOTICED the gentleman sitting in the dark corner of Mrs. Tillinghast’s modest card-room. If they had, they would have immediately discerned him to be a man of distinction, possibly a member of the ton. His attire was simple but elegant, his cravat sharply tied, his black leather boots polished to perfection. On his right hand, he wore a signet bearing the seal of his title, the Baron Broadmoor.
Upon closer inspection, they would have found the edition of The Times that he held before him and pretended to read was over two days old. Why he should be reading the paper instead of participating in the revelry at the card tables was a mystery unto itself. No one came to Mrs. Tillinghast’s gaming house to read. They came for three distinct reasons: the friendly tables, the surprisingly good burgundy, and a young woman named Miss Darcy Sherwood.
That wicked harlot.
Somewhere in the room a clock chimed the midnight hour, but the wine had been flowing freely for hours, making her partakers deaf to anything but the merriment immediately surrounding them. From the free manner in which the men and women interacted—one woman seemed to have her arse permanently affixed to the lap of her beaux while another boasted a décolletage so low her nipples peered above its lace trim—the Baron wondered that the gaming house might not be better deemed a brothel.
The only person to eventually take notice of Radcliff Barrington was a flaxen-haired beauty, but after providing a curt answer to her greeting without even setting down his paper, he was rewarded with an indignant snort and a return to his solitude. He rubbed his temple as he recalled how he had left the hysterics of his aunt only to be met upstairs with a tirade from his mistress about the impolitesse and hauteur of Anne Barrington to come calling at the residence of a woman she had hitherto acknowledged with the barest of civilities. After noting that the waistcoat upon the chair had disappeared upon his return, Broadmoor had turned the full weight of his stare upon Penelope, who instantly cowered and, upon hearing that he was to take his leave, professed that naturally he must attend to the affairs of his family with due speed.
A lyrical laughter transcending the steady murmur of conversation and merrymaking broke into his reverie. It was followed by a cacophony of men exclaiming “Miss Sherwood! Miss Sherwood!” and begging of said personage to grace their gaming table of faro or piquet. Peering over his paper, Broadmoor paused. For a moment, he could not reconcile the woman he beheld to the devil incarnate his aunt had described.
Miss Darcy Sherwood had a distinct loveliness born of her mixed heritage. The gown of fashion, with its empire waist and diaphanous skirt, accentuated her curves. The pale yellow dress, which Broadmoor noted was wearing thin with wear, would have looked unexceptional on most Englishwomen, but against her caramel toned skin, it radiated like sunshine.
Her hair lacked shine or vibrancy in color, but the abundance of tight full curls framed her countenance with both softness and an alluring unruliness. However, it was her bright brown eyes, fringed with long curved lashes, and her luminous smile that struck Broadmoor the most. It was unlike the demure turn at the corners of the lips that he was accustomed to seeing.
He felt an odd desire to whisk her away from the cads and hounds that descended upon her like vultures about a kill. But this protective instinct was shortlived when he saw her choice of companions was one James Newcastle.
Miss Sherwood could not have been much more than twenty-five years of age. Newcastle was nearly twice that, and it was all but common knowledge that he buggered his female servants, most of whom were former slaves before the British court finally banned the practice from the Isles. But then, the man was worth a hefty sum, having benefitted tremendously from his business in the American slave trade.
“A song, Miss Sherwood!” cried Mr. Rutgers. “I offer twenty quid for the chance to win a song.”
“Offer fifty and I shall make it a private performance,” responded Miss Sherwood gaily as she settled at the card table.
She was no better than a common trollop, Broadmoor decided, trading her favors for money. He felt his blood race to think that the fate of his family rested in the hands of such a hussy. He could tell from the swiftness with which she shuffled, cut, and then dealt the cards that she spent many hours at the tables. Her hands plied the cards like those of an expert pianist over the ivories. He was surprised that her hands could retain such deftness after watching her consume two glasses of wine within the hour and welcome a third. He shook his head.
Shameless.
Broadmoor felt as if he had seen enough of her unrefined behavior, but something about her compelled him to stay. Miss Sherwood, who had begun slurring her words and laughing at unwarranted moments as the night wore on, seemed to enjoy the attentions, but despite her obvious inebriation, her laughter sounded forced. There were instances when he thought he saw sadness in her eyes, but they were fleeting, like illusions taunting the fevered brain.
It was foolhardy for a woman to let down her guard in such company. She would require more than the assistance of the aging butler and scrawny page he had noticed earlier to keep these hounds at bay. Could it possibly be a sense of chivalry that obliged him to stay even as he believed that a woman of her sort deserved the fate that she was recklessly enticing? His family and friends wou
ld have been astounded to think it possible.
“My word, but Lady Luck has favored you tonight!” Rutgers exclaimed to Miss Sherwood, who had won her fourth hand in a row.
“Miss Sherwood has been in Her Company the whole week,” remarked Mr. Wempole, a local banker, “since winning the deed to Brayten. I daresay you may soon pay off your debts to me.”
Broadmoor ground his teeth at the mention of his late uncle’s estate and barely noticed the flush that had crept up Miss Sherwood’s face.
“It was quite unexpected,” Miss Sherwood responded. “I rather think that I might—”
“That were no luck but pure skill!” declared Viscount Wyndham, the future Earl of Brent.
“Alas, I have lost my final pound tonight and have no hope of winning a song from Miss Sherwood,” lamented Rutgers.
“I would play one final round,” said Miss Sherwood as she shuffled the deck, the cards falling from her slender fingers with a contented sigh, “but brag is best played with at least a fourth.”
“Permit me,” said Broadmoor, emerging from the shadows. He reasoned to himself that he very much desired to put the chit in her place, but that could only partly explain why he was drawn to her table.
She raised an eyebrow before appraising him with a gaze that swept from the top of his head to the bottom of his gleaming boots. “We welcome all manner of strangers—especially those with ample purses.”
Brazen jade, Broadmoor thought to himself as he took a seat opposite her and pulled out his money.
“S’blood,” the schoolboy groused immediately after the cards were dealt and reached for a bottle of burgundy to refill his glass.
Glancing up from the three cards he held, Broadmoor found Miss Sherwood staring at him with an intensity that pinned him to his chair. The corners of her mouth turned upward as her head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Looking at her sensuously full lips, Broadmoor could easily see how she had all the men here in the palm of her hand. He wondered, briefly, how those lips would feel under his.
“Our cards are known to be friendly to newcomers,” she informed him. “I hope they do not fail to disappoint.”
He gave only a small smile. She thought him a naïve novice if she expected him to reveal anything of the hand that he held.
Darcy turned her watchful eye to Newcastle, whose brow was furrowed in deep concentration. She leaned towards him—her breasts nearly grazing the top of the table—and playfully tapped him on the forearm. “Lady Luck can pass you by no longer for surely your patience will warrant her good graces.”
Radcliff tried not to notice the two lush orbs pushed and separated above her bodice. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat for despite his inclination to find himself at odds with anything Anne said, he was beginning to believe his aunt. Miss Sherwood possessed a beauty and aura that was like the call of Sirens, luring men to their doom. His own cock stirred with a mind of its own.
His slight movement seemed to catch her eye instantly, but she responded only by reaching for her glass of wine. After taking a long drink, she slammed the glass down upon the table. “Shall we make our last round for the evening the most dramatic, my dears? I shall offer a song—and a kiss…”
A murmur of excitement mixed with hooting and hollering waved over the room.
“…worth a hundred quid,” she finished.
“S’blood,” the schoolboy grumbled again after opening his purse to find he did not have the requisite amount. He threw his cards onto the table with disgust and grabbed the burgundy for consolation.
Newcastle pulled at his cravat, looked at his cards several times, before finally shaking his head sadly. Miss Sherwood fixed her gaze upon Radcliff next. He returned her stare and fancied that she actually seemed unsettled for the briefest of moments.
Almond brown. Her eyes were almond brown. And despite their piercing gaze, they seemed to be filled with warmth—like the comforting flame of a hearth in winter. Broadmoor decided it must be the wine that leant such an effect to her eyes. How like the Ironies in Life that she should possess such loveliness to cover a black soul.
“Shall we put an end to the game?” Miss Sherwood asked.
“As you please,” Broadmoor replied without emotion. Her Siren’s call would not work on him. “I will see your cards.”
He pulled out two additional hundreds, placing the money on the table with a solemn deliberation that belied his eagerness.
Smiling triumphantly, Miss Sherwood displayed an ace of hearts, a king of diamonds, and a queen of diamonds.
“Though I would have welcomed a win, the joy was in the game,” Newcastle said. “I could not derive more pleasure than in losing to you, Miss Sherwood.”
Miss Sherwood smiled. “Nor could I ask for a more gallant opponent.”
She reached for the money in the middle of the table, but Broadmoor caught her hand.
“It is as you say, Miss Sherwood,” he said and revealed a running flush of spades. “Your cards are indeed friendly to newcomers.”
For the first time that evening, Broadmoor saw her frown, but she recovered quickly. “Then I presume you will hence no longer be a stranger to our tables?”
Broadmoor was quiet as he collected the money.
“Beginner’s luck,” the schoolboy muttered.
Newcastle turned his attention to Broadmoor for the first time. “Good sir, I congratulate you on a most remarkable win. I am James Newcastle of Newcastle and Holmes Trading. Our offices are in Liverpool, but you may have heard of the company nonetheless. I should very much like to increase your winnings for the evening by offering you fifty pounds in exchange for Miss Sherwood’s song and, er, kiss.”
“I believe the song went for fifty and the kiss a hundred,” Broadmoor responded.
“Er—yes. A hundred. That would make it a, er, hundred and fifty.”
“I am quite content with what I have won. Indeed, I should like to delay no longer my claim to the first of my winnings.”
“Very well,” said Miss Sherwood cheerfully as she rose. “I but hope you will not regret that you declined the generous offer by Mr. Newcastle.”
She headed towards the pianoforte in the corner of the room, but Broadmoor stopped her with his words.
“In private, Miss Sherwood.”
In contrast to her confident manners all evening, Miss Sherwood seemed to hesitate before flashing him one of her most brilliant smiles. “Of course. But would you not care for a supper first? Or a glass of port in our dining room?”
“No.”
“Very well. Then I shall escort you to our humble drawing room.”
Broadmoor rose from his chair to follow her. From the corner of his eye, he saw Newcastle looking after them with both longing and consternation. As he passed out of the gaming room, he heard Rutgers mutter, “Lucky bloody bastard.”
For a moment Broadmoor felt pleased with having won the game and the image of his mouth claiming hers flashed in his mind. What would her body feel like pressed to his? Those hips and breasts of hers were made to be grabbed…
But hers was a well traversed territory, he reminded himself. Based on his inquiries into Miss Sherwood, the woman changed lovers as frequently as if they were French fashion, and her skills at the card table were matched only by her skills in the bedchamber. The men spoke in almost wistful, tortured tones regarding the latter and often with an odd flush in the cheeks that Broadmoor found strange—and curious.
As with the card-room, the drawing room was modestly furnished. Various pieces were covered with black lacquer to disguise the ordinary quality of their components. A couple giggling in the corner took their leave upon the entry of Miss Sherwood, who closed the door behind him. Sitting down on a sofa that looked as if it might have been an expensive piece at one time but that age had rendered ragged in appearance, he crossed one long leg over another and watched as she went to sit down at the spinet.
Good God, even the way she walked made him warm in the loins. The movement
accentuated the flare of her hips and the curve of her rump, neither of which her gown could hide. And yet she possessed a grace on par with the most seasoned ladies at Almack’s. She did not walk as much as glide towards the spinet.
“Do you care for Mozart?” she asked.
“As you wish,” he replied.
She chose an aria from Le Nozze di Figaro. The opera buffa with its subject of infidelity and its satirical underpinnings regarding the aristocracy seemed a fitting choice for her. Save for her middling pronunciation of Italian, Miss Sherwood might have done well as an opera singer. She sang with force, unrestrained. The room seemed too small to hold the voice wafting above the chords of the spinet. And she sang with surprising clarity, her fingers striking the keys with precision, undisturbed by the wine he had seen her consume. Despite her earlier displays of inebriation, she now held herself well, and he could not help but wonder if the intoxication had not all been an act.
“My compliments,” he said when she had finished. “Though one could have had the entire opera performed for much less than fifty pounds, I can understand why one would easily wager such an amount for this privilege.”
“Thank you, but you did so without ever having heard me sing,” she pointed out.
She wanted to know why, but he said simply, “I knew I would win.”
Her brows rose at the challenge in his tone. The work of the devil could not always prevail. He ought bestir himself now to broach the matter that had compelled him here, but he found himself wanting to collect on the second part of his winnings: the kiss.
She rose from her bench, and his pulse pounded a faster beat. She smiled with the satisfaction of a cat that had sprung its trap on a mouse. “Would you care to test your confidence at our tables some more?”
“Are the bets here always this intriguing?” he returned.
“If you wish,” she purred as she stood behind a small decorative table, a safe distance from him.
She began rearranging the flowers in a vase atop the table. “How is it you have not been here before?”
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