by Kelly Bowen
“Yes, yes. Come, Marstowe, mebbe we should retire.” With a look of alarm, Rotham heaved himself unsteadily to his feet and staggered before catching himself. “I’s late.”
The baron smoothed a hand over the front of his coat and frowned, first at Adeline and then at the duke, as if he was unsure what had just transpired. In that moment King almost wished that the man would do something foolish. Something that King could react to with a swift, unyielding violence that would release the hatred and wrath pounding through his veins. Every muscle in his body was tense.
“Jenkins will escort you to your carriage, Your Grace,” the dealer said, nodding at the ox man. “To make sure no one bothers you on your way out, of course.”
The liveried man stepped forward and, with a firm, polite precision that indicated he had done it many times, shepherded the duke and the baron back through the crowd in the direction of the door.
King remained where he was and took a deliberate sip from his glass, once again trying to detach emotion from good sense.
The dealer was gathering the cards with deft movements, and if she was at all flustered by the disturbance, she didn’t show it. “That was very well done,” she said to Adrestia. “I must have a conversation with my modiste about modifying my skirts.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Adrestia replied.
“Of course you don’t.” The dealer smiled faintly. “Allow me to introduce myself. Angelique Lavoie. Lady Angelique if you feel you must.”
Adrestia stared at her.
“Lady Angelique does my accounting,” King said, uncrossing his legs and standing. An uncomfortable restlessness was crawling through him.
“Your accounting?”
“She also owns this establishment,” he added.
“With my husband,” Lady Angelique clarified before transferring her attention to King. “Who is hardly unpredictable. Your presence on my gaming floor at the moment, however, is highly irregular.”
“Perhaps I wanted to play a hand of vingt-et-un.”
“And I am the queen of France.” Lady Angelique’s gaze went back to Adrestia. “A bottle of brandy that you poured liberally but did not take a sip from. An expensive investment, but in my experience—and, I think, yours—nothing clouds a man’s judgment or loosens his tongue more than vast amounts of liquor and a cleverly tailored bodice. The duke and the baron were your marks.”
Adrestia remained silent.
“I am in your debt for your…restrained assistance.” Lady Angelique set the deck of cards aside. “And aside from poor judgment and ill-advised wagers, nothing gets traded more often in a gaming hell than rumor and gossip, usually in front of our dealers and servers. Perhaps I can assist if it is information you are after.”
“Yes,” said Adrestia.
“No,” said King at the same time.
Both women frowned at him.
“You were after information about Marstowe’s money,” Lady Angelique speculated. “Or the missing money, as it may be.”
“You already knew about it,” King remarked.
“Of course I did. I have some experience with missing fortunes.” Lady Angelique gave a small shrug. “But more to the point, we make it our business to know who can honor their vowels.” She picked up the cards again and absently shuffled them. “Or in Marstowe’s case, who might honor them for him. That’s just good business.”
“Do you know where the money is?” Adrestia asked.
Lady Angelique shook her head. “No. The late baron was not well in the year before his death. He withdrew from society and began acting erratically. Dismissed the staff, sold the horses and equipages. He’d wander the city, especially the London dockyards. Became a common sight prowling the London Docks and buying drinks for the Portuguese captains, of all people. Many friends tried to reach out in concern but were met only with suspicion and fear, and wild claims that he had to atone.”
“Atone for what?” Adrestia asked.
King looked away, another wave of wrath almost suffocating him.
Lady Angelique shrugged again. “He barely made sense on the best of days. He was a complete recluse by the end. He had a single visitor the day that he died, and that was the rector of St James’s. So yes, the working theory is that he gifted every Marstowe shilling to the church, but no one has been able to confirm this.”
King kept his breathing steady as the brandy churned in his gut. He really was beginning to wish Adrestia had simply eviscerated Marstowe when she’d had the chance. Then they wouldn’t be standing here, talking about the Westerleigh family and everything it might have to atone for.
“What about the late baron’s wife?”
“The baroness died five, maybe six years before him. Unlike her husband, she was not overly sociable. She was always a very religious person but became a zealot after the deaths of her sons. One in some sort of stable accident, and the younger one to illness not long after. The grande dames of society couldn’t get away from her fast enough.”
The hate and horror slithered out again, thick and noxious, an icy perspiration pricking King’s temples. Before tonight, he had thought that he was immune to such memories. Yet in the space of a single evening, the mere mention of what had transpired that day reduced him to that terrified, helpless eleven year-old, cradling Evan’s bloodied body and betrayed on all sides by those who were supposed to believe him.
“The new baron has been back in London for barely a sennight,” Lady Angelique said. “Apparently it took the estate lawyers a while to track him to Virginia. But I’m afraid that that is the extent of my knowledge.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Adrestia said. “This was productive. Thank you.”
“And we should be going.” King didn’t care if he sounded desperate, and the air seemed to have become stifling, and the space seemed to have shrunk. He needed to get away from here. He signaled a footman and within a minute Adrestia’s cloak had been delivered. “It was lovely to see you again, my lady.” King offered Angelique a brief bow. “My regards to your husband.”
“I’ll pass them along.” The gaming hell owner was watching him thoughtfully. “You can find your own way out?”
“We’ll use the back.”
“Certainly.”
King offered Adrestia his arm, and she took it without hesitation, her hand steady. As before, it suddenly became easier to breathe. Unlike before, he was now very aware of the feel of her body as it pressed against his. And maybe this night, with all its emotion and revelations, had exhausted him more than he had wanted to admit, because he leaned into her, drawing strength from her presence.
She squeezed his arm but didn’t look at him. Instead she only paused, turning back to speak to Lady Angelique.
“When you speak to your modiste, spend the money on a quality leather lining,” Adrestia said, gesturing at her skirts. “Otherwise your blade will cut you to ribbons.”
Lady Angelique smiled, though she was still considering King. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Chapter 8
The ride back to Helmsdale was completed in utter silence. Though Adrestia said nothing, King was keenly aware of the weight of her gaze from across the confined space. She watched him steadily, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression unreadable. King gazed back, doing everything in his power to appear unaffected by her scrutiny. He looked away only when the carriage creaked to a stop in front of Helmsdale.
They disembarked and, in continued silence, King led Adrestia up the wide stone steps and into his now-deserted hall, dimly lit by the subdued fire in the hearth. He should be relieved to be home and anxious to retreat to his rooms, his private sanctuary away from this woman who had already seen far too much. But with every step, he became more aware of the heat trapped beneath Adrestia’s hand where it rested on his arm, the soft rustle of her skirts where they brushed against his leg, and the scent of jasmine that swirled around him.
He stopped at th
e base of the stairs and put a hand on the banister, strangely reluctant to ascend. “I selected rooms for you upstairs and had them prepared,” he said stiffly. Rooms not far from his own. Another inexplicable, impulsive decision from that evening.
The very few times he tolerated a guest, voluntary or otherwise, they resided in the small cottage near the stable. Close enough that his men might observe their presence and control comings and goings, and far enough away that they did not threaten King’s privacy.
Adeline Archambault threatened far more than his privacy. He had no idea what he had been thinking, other than that he hadn’t been. But to change his mind now and send her to a dark, freezing cottage would not only be callous, it would make him look like a fool.
“You should find the rooms comfortable,” he continued, as if he had beautiful, bewitching women stay in his home regularly. “If you—”
“Was that you?” she asked, the first words she had spoken since they had left Lavoie’s.
“Was what me?”
“Marstowe’s missing fortune. Did you do that?”
“No.”
“Mmm. I didn’t think so. The timing didn’t make sense, but I needed to hear you say it. Do you know where it is?”
“Not at the moment.” King gestured up the stairs. “If you’d like to get settled—”
“And your ring?” She gestured at the ruby.
“A gift from Evan. The last thing he gave me before he died.”
“Ah.”
“You will not be disturbed in your rooms. My staff are only allowed access to the upper floor at my implicit direction—”
“I will meet Marstowe tomorrow,” she interrupted quietly. “Alone.”
“Absolutely not. I will handle Marstowe.”
She shook her head. “You hired me for just this reason. You’re going to have to trust me at some point.”
“I do trust you.” He just didn’t trust himself.
“But not with the secrets that hurt you the most in the past. The secrets that cause you pain even now.” Without warning, she stepped toward him and caught his hand in hers, turning it over and running her fingers over the proper bandage that had been applied over his palm. He should pull away from her touch, hide his bandaged hand under his coat. But he couldn’t seem to do it.
“You did not follow me tonight because you were protecting your investment,” she continued, her fingers winding through his.
He couldn’t answer because her touch was sending a firestorm of heat through his veins.
“You followed me because you’ve reconsidered,” she said into the silence.
“I beg your pardon?”
She sighed. “You regret your decision to engage my services.” It wasn’t really a question.
“No,” King lied instantly. To admit that very regret now would be to admit failure on his part to preserve control. “We reached an agreement, and I gave you my word. Of all the things that I have lost in this life, the integrity of my word is not one of them. I will not renege on our agreement.” He just needed to manage the outcome.
“You’re not the first to discover after engaging me that some secrets are better left buried,” she said. “And like the others who have come to reconsider, I release you from whatever promises you made regarding our agreement. I will not think less of you. But the sapphire stays with me.”
She was giving him the perfect escape. He should seize her offer. He would simply say goodbye to Adeline Archambault on the morrow, and his secrets would remain safe. Wasn’t this exactly what he had just wished for, sapphire be damned?
Yet he couldn’t say the words. He couldn’t let her go.
“No,” he said, hating the weakness that his answer had betrayed.
“No?” She sounded less than convinced. “I will not judge you for reconsidering your decision. Your pain and your secrets are not commodities that I am entitled to but things that you may entrust to my care should I stay.”
He looked away, aching with the strange longing that he had felt the first time he had laid eyes on her. He wished that she would rant and hurl accusations at him. He needed her angry. This gentle dissection of his soul was disquieting.
“And what if I had reconsidered?” he demanded harshly. “If I told you that I will simply kill Marstowe for what he did? What then?”
Her fingers tightened around his. “That would be your decision, of course.”
“Jesus. I don’t think you’re hearing me. I could have killed him tonight. Thought about it more than once.” His voice echoed loudly in the empty hall.
“Yet you didn’t.”
“I could have.”
“And so could I. You don’t scare me, King.”
“I should scare you,” he growled. “I am not a good person.”
“Then what does that make me?”
“What?” Her question caught him off guard.
“I pulled a blade on the baron tonight, and you did nothing. Weren’t even troubled.”
“I knew exactly what you had done. Why the hell would I be troubled? You are magnificent with both your wits and your weapons.”
She made a funny little noise. “But that’s just it. You are the first person to make me feel…seen.”
His gaze came back to hers. She was still watching him, her expression even, her eyes like pools of quicksilver. The urge to kiss her, to make her feel far more than merely seen, was overwhelming. This woman deserved so much more. She deserved to feel treasured and adored and respected.
But not by him.
He’d had women in the past, brief physical interactions that left both sated but that had never, ever involved emotion. Those interactions had barely involved kissing, or even much undressing, for God’s sake, much less conversation or the surrender of secrets. Adrestia deserved a man as honorable as she was.
He should walk away from her right now.
Instead he lifted his free hand, pulling at the ties of her cloak for the second time that night. The wool slipped off her shoulders and pooled at her feet. He ran his fingers along the edge of her jaw, tipping her chin up. He could feel the warmth of her breath against his hand, the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips.
Her eyes dropped to his lips, and whatever rational thoughts he was still clinging to scattered. He took a step forward, closing the gap between them. “Adrestia—”
“Adeline,” she whispered. “Call me by my real name.”
His breath caught, and for a wild, insane moment, he wished he could offer her the same. Because she made him feel seen too.
And that realization was terrifying. Even worse, he couldn’t seem to muster the wherewithal to care.
“Adeline,” he repeated, and her shiver as he uttered her name almost brought him to his knees. His thumb drifted over her bottom lip, and she closed her eyes. He backed her up a step against the wall. Desire licked through him, and he—
“Sir?” A door on the far side of the hall creaked open, and light flared. King stumbled away from Adeline and turned to find Elliot gripping a small lantern while rubbing his eyes sleepily. He was still dressed in his livery from the auction.
“What are you still doing up?” King asked. Besides saving me from doing something monumentally stupid. He’d already capitulated to weakness and lost enough control for one night. He could not afford to lose any more.
“Waiting for you, sir.” His bright green eyes slid past King. “Your belongings are in your room upstairs, miss,” he told Adeline. “I collected them from the Four Cocks for you.”
“You did wh—” She stopped. “Thank you,” she replied politely.
“How did you do it?” he asked, his face brightening. “How did you buz the key from Smithers?”
King groaned. “Elliot—”
“Assumptions,” Adeline said, smiling at the boy.
“Assumptions?”
“When Smithers looked at me, he wasn’t looking at a thief. He assumed I was a wealthy, refined lady, there by invitatio
n. Had we been anywhere less, had I been wearing anything less, had I been acting as anything less, his assumptions would have differed, and he would have had his guard up. Costuming and presentation makes all the difference, and they’re worth investing in.”
“Where did you work most?” Elliot asked eagerly.
“The Paris cabarets,” she answered easily. “And gardens similar to the pleasure gardens you have here in London.”
“Do you think that maybe you could show me—”
“Go to bed, Elliot,” King interrupted. Because if he let him, Elliot wouldn’t stop talking, judging from the besotted look on the boy’s face.
“But—”
“I have an appointment at the St James’s Church tomorrow afternoon at two. First thing tomorrow morning I need you to make the arrangements to have my carriage ready to ensure I am able to leave on time.”
“Yessir.”
“Now go to bed. It’s late.”
“Yessir.” Elliot’s face fell and he dutifully slipped back across the hall, vanishing back through the narrow door at the end.
“You sent a child to the Four Cocks?” Adeline asked as the door closed behind him.
King kept himself a careful distance from the seductive siren that was Adeline Archambault. He used to sneer at the stories of hapless sailors, thinking them weak and pitiable, without willpower. In retrospect, his naivete suddenly seemed laughable.
“Do not let Elliot’s appearances fool you,” he told her, seizing the safe subject she offered. “He probably has more sharp, pointy blades hidden on his person than you do. He is an opportunistic viper in the guise of a cherub. Worked the Finish for four years before he came to work for me.”
“The Finish?”
“A coffeehouse in Covent Square. It’s popular with gentlemen trying to correct the previous night’s bad choices with coffee. A rich hunting ground for those with clever hands and clever blades. The two of you can compare notes tomorrow.”
“And why does he work for you now?” she asked.
