Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “How many times?” If James had been so lost to propriety that he had singled this girl out, then perhaps Richard was right and the situation was indeed serious.

  “Once.” Richard shrugged. “He may have danced with her again. I didn’t stay to see.”

  “Once!” Philip felt his own anger surge. “For God’s sake, Richard, he only danced with the girl once?”

  “Once was enough, damn it.” Richard threw himself into the chair opposite Philip. “I know James, Philip. You know that I do. God, I’ve watched him and studied him my whole bloody life. I saw his face when he danced with her. I’ve never seen him look that way. I tell you, he wants her.”

  “Wanting doesn’t necessarily mean marriage.” Philip was thinking quickly. He needed to come up with a plan before Richard did something stupid. “Why not wait and see if he loses interest?”

  “He won’t lose interest.” Richard drummed his fingers on the chair arm. “Not in time. He wants her in his bed, and he’ll have her there if I don’t do something soon.”

  “But maybe she doesn’t want him. She is an American, and Americans hate titles, don’t they? Maybe she doesn’t want to marry a duke.”

  Richard reached for the brandy decanter again, but his hand seemed steadier. He poured two glasses this time and offered one to Philip.

  “I danced with her. She claims she is not interested in James, but I don’t believe her.” Richard took a long swallow of brandy. “Something’s holding her back, but it’s not lack of interest. I looked at her, too, when she and James were dancing. She wants him. I’d swear it.” He studied the firelight in his brandy glass and smiled. “I may have sown a seed of discontent, however. I told her that James was a rake.”

  “James?”

  Richard laughed. “You know that’s one explanation of James’s nickname that circulates through society.”

  “Yes. So you’ve already dealt with the problem.”

  “No.” Richard shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Not definitively. Women are so fickle. They drift with the wind and the wind of James’s desire is going to blow this American into his bed. No, I still think I had better kill the girl.”

  Philip leaned forward. “Richard, I promise you if you kill Miss Hamilton, the authorities will not look the other way as they did with the whore at the Green Man. This is London and the girl is the Earl of Westbrooke’s cousin, besides being a friend of the Duke of Alvord—and of Lady Gladys and Lady Amanda Wallen-Smyth.”

  “I can handle the situation.”

  “No, you can’t. There has to be another way.”

  “I can kill James instead.”

  “No. We’ve been through that before.” Philip swallowed a large mouthful of brandy. He’d been arguing with Richard against his assassination efforts for months. The man seemed incapable of comprehending the simple fact that, should James die under suspicious circumstances, the authorities would look to Richard as the natural suspect. Who else would benefit from James’s untimely death?

  Each time Richard had hired some new accomplice to attempt the deed, Philip had had nightmares. He did not want to see Richard dancing from the end of a rope, nor did he want to join him on the gallows.

  “There must be another way to manage this problem.”

  Suddenly, Richard grinned. “I could rape the girl. Make it look like she wanted it. James would never take my leavings.”

  Philip sat up, his brandy forgotten. He believed—prayed—Richard had more sense than to kill Sarah Hamilton. Rape, however, was a different issue. It would take just a few moments in a darkened garden to accomplish that task.

  “No, Richard, don’t do it. James would kill you.”

  “James? My little cousin, James?”

  “Your little war hero cousin James, lauded in the dispatches for the number of Frogs he sent to their Maker.”

  “You worry too much, Philip.”

  “You don’t worry enough.” Philip’s mind raced. “If you want to do this, we need to find someone to do it for you.”

  “I’m done with using incompetent fools.”

  “Yes, but I’ve heard Dunlap is in town.”

  “The New York whore trader?”

  “The same. He’s competent and ruthless and you have him by the balls.”

  “True.” Richard swirled his brandy around his tongue. “Still it would be very pleasant to plow a female James fancied.”

  Philip leaned over and put his hand on Richard’s forearm. He couldn’t keep a note of panic from creeping into his voice.

  “Please, Richard. Dunlap will get the job done at no risk to you.”

  Richard stilled, staring at Philip’s hand on his arm. Philip was afraid Richard would shrug him off. It would hurt, but he had been hurt so much in the last few years, what did another wound matter?

  Instead Richard’s other hand came up to rest on Philip’s.

  “You really worry about me?” There was a note of vulnerability in his voice that Philip hadn’t heard in a long time. He turned his hand over to grip Richard’s.

  “I do.”

  Richard kept his head lowered, staring at their clasped hands. “After all I’ve done to you?”

  Philip squeezed Richard’s hand. “Yes,” he said. “I love you.”

  Richard looked up. His face was strained, his eyes bleak. “Show me, Philip. Please.”

  It was the invitation that Philip had been waiting months—years—to hear. “Of course.”

  “Richard Runyon’s here to see ye.”

  “Shit!” William Dunlap leaned back from his ledger books, pushing his chestnut hair out of his eyes. “What the hell does he want?”

  “Damned if I know.” Belle LaRue, the madam of this particular establishment and Dunlap’s occasional mistress, frowned. “He’s not a regular here, I can tell ye that. Came once and mauled Gilly pretty bad. Had to have the surgeon see to her.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” The Rutting Stallion, being on the Thames, was one of Dunlap’s rougher whorehouses, but Runyon could be meaner than any seaman or docker. Dunlap sighed and stood. “I’d better see him. The sooner I find out what he wants, the sooner we’ll be rid of him. Where’d you stow him?”

  “In the red parlor. Figured ye didn’t want anyone else to see him.”

  “Exactly right, love.” Dunlap put an arm around Belle’s ample waist and took a kiss. He liked his women big, with wide fleshy hips, lovely soft bellies and thighs, and tits a man could lose himself in. His boys he liked young and skinny. Contrast, he thought as he opened the door to the red parlor, was the spice of life.

  And Runyon was the rot. Dunlap had dealt with some pretty awful characters in his line of work, but Runyon was one of the worst. He took a moment to observe him.

  Runyon stood by the window, peering out between the heavy red drapes. The weak morning light did not soften the sharp angles of his nose and cheekbones, nor warm his cold blue eyes. Runyon always had a whiff of madness about him, but Dunlap sensed he was closer to the brink since last he’d had the unpleasant occasion to be in his presence.

  “Runyon,” Dunlap said cautiously, “what brings you to the Rutting Stallion so early? The girls won’t be ready to entertain for a few hours.”

  Runyon let the curtain fall. “I’m not here for the girls, Dunlap. I’m here to see you. I have a little job that needs your special skills.”

  “Oh?” The room was too damn dark. Dunlap wanted to see Runyon’s every move. He walked to the near window and pulled the drapes wide. The chances that a denizen of this neighborhood would be up so early were minimal, and most would know that there’d be nothing interesting to gain from peeping into this room’s windows.

  “I have a girl I need you to seduce as publicly as possible.”

  “A girl? Why don’t you do it yourself? I’d say you were quite capable.”

  “Capable? Oh, yes. More than capable. But there are”—Runyon paused and smiled slightly—“complications.”

  “Complicat
ions?” Dunlap felt the pit of his stomach drop, though he kept his face expressionless. He’d had years of dealing with scum. A man didn’t build a small empire in the flesh trade if he didn’t know how to hold his cards close to his chest. “What kind of complications?”

  “Nothing you need be concerned about.”

  Those were the worst kind. “What’s the girl’s name?”

  “Sarah Hamilton. She’s an American, like yourself.”

  “So? And why exactly does she need seducing?”

  Runyon examined the nails on his right hand. “My cousin James has a slight interest in her. I wish to scotch it before it becomes a problem.”

  “Your cousin James, as in the Duke of Alvord?”

  “Yes.”

  Shit, Dunlap thought, this was bad. Not only was Alvord physically imposing, he had vast financial and political power. He had friends, even some who lived on the shadowy side of London. Dunlap did not want to make an enemy of the Duke of Alvord. He had not lived to the ripe old age of thirty-five by antagonizing powerful men. If Alvord cared about this girl, he would make inquires. Dunlap kept his business interests as discreet as he could, but he was no damn magician.

  Well, he hoped the duke’s interest in this girl was indeed slight, because he couldn’t flat refuse Runyon. Runyon knew too much about that unfortunate mistake in Paris with the Earl of Lugington’s son.

  “How am I supposed to meet this American?”

  “Come to the Easthaven ball tonight.”

  Dunlap snorted. “The Earl of Easthaven’s a regular at one of my houses, true, but I’m not on his guest list, I assure you.”

  Runyon shrugged. “I didn’t think you were. I’ll get you an invitation—and an introduction to Miss Hamilton. Just be sure you show up.”

  “And if I’m successful and Miss Hamilton is ruined in grand style? Do you really think Alvord will die of a broken heart?”

  Runyon smiled, a chilling pull of lips and teeth. “Death comes to all men.”

  “Sometimes with help,” Dunlap said, hoping Runyon didn’t expect him to do that chore, too.

  Runyon’s grin widened. “Sometimes with help,” he agreed.

  “I shall have to make you known to Miss Hamilton, Mr. Dunlap. She’s from the colonies, too.”

  “That would be delightful.” Dunlap smiled faintly at his dancing partner, Lady Charlotte Wickford. Runyon had introduced him to this pocket harpy the moment he’d crossed Easthaven’s threshold. She had looked him over carefully. He was used to women assessing him, but usually they were looking for their own use. Not Lady Charlotte. Her eyes were as cold as Runyon’s. He would bet a night’s profits that she also wanted to separate Miss Hamilton from the duke.

  It was a huge joke that he was here waltzing with the ton. Most of the men in the room had visited at least one of his whorehouses. Some were avid patrons. Yet not one of them knew who he was. He knew them, however. He chose his madams carefully. They were shrewd businesswomen and excellent spies. Knowledge was power, and Dunlap loved power, even more than money and certainly more than sex.

  The music drew to a close and Lady Charlotte dragged him off the dance floor. She had spotted her quarry. They were bearing down on a tall, thin, redheaded girl, half hidden by a small forest of potted palms. Dunlap sighed. He’d known this chore would not be enjoyable. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d humped an unappealing female. For a few years while he was growing his fortune, he’d had a side business servicing wealthy, bored wives. He’d screwed everything from young matrons, barely wed, to wrinkled matriarchs. He would get this job done, too.

  Sarah hovered by a small patch of palms, waiting for young Mr. Belham to bring her a glass of lemonade. The ballroom at the Earl of Easthaven’s house was hot and crowded. She had again danced every dance, but instead of feeling exhilarated, she felt sweaty and out of sorts.

  She had barely spoken to James since she’d left him in his study the night of Lizzie’s come-out. That was just as well, she reminded herself frequently, but she still felt a distinct hollowness in her middle. She saw him just a few yards away and faded farther into the palms. Mr. Belham might have difficulty locating her, but she’d rather risk that than James snubbing her.

  “Think Alvord will offer for the American?”

  Sarah froze, then turned her head slowly. A palm frond brushed along her cheek. Her retreat into the greenery had brought her within a foot of a small group of society bucks. If she moved away now, they might well notice her. She would prefer to avoid that embarrassment.

  “That’s what the odds favor at White’s.” The man snickered. “Hard to see why the Monk would want to bed that skinny mare.”

  The other men laughed. “Certainly ain’t much to pillow the ride.”

  “Must like ’em that way. The Wickford chit doesn’t have much meat on her bones, either.”

  “Come on, Nigel! The American has to be warmer than the Marble Queen.”

  “Hear she ain’t warm in the pockets, though. Hasn’t got a feather to fly with.”

  “Alvord’s got enough of the ready—don’t need a wife to add to his coffers. They’re already overflowing.”

  “True.” The first man dropped his voice. “Maybe she’s got other, less obvious charms. Suppose she’s learned some bed games from those Red Indians? Savages, don’t you know. Still part animal, some say.”

  There was complete silence for a moment. Sarah feared her concealing palms would combust from the heat of her cheeks.

  “Do you suppose he’ll share? Once he gets his heir, of course,” one man whispered.

  “Don’t know. I’d get in line for her—especially after the Monk teaches her all the tricks he likes. Man must have tried almost everything.”

  “Heard he had three whores at once—and they weren’t skinny bitches, either.”

  “Three? How was there room in the bed?”

  “The whores were the Monk’s bed.”

  “Ah, the Monk’s hard cot.”

  “Ain’t the cot that was hard.”

  “Miss Hamilton.”

  Sarah jumped. She turned quickly to find Lady Charlotte Wickford looking at her through the palm fronds.

  “Uh, hello, Lady Charlotte.” Sarah stepped out of the greenery. She was still distracted by the conversation she had just overhead. She hadn’t understood everything the men had said, but she’d understood enough.

  Lady Charlotte twitched her lips in what passed for her smile. “How fortunate that I saw you hiding in the foliage, Miss Hamilton. Let me introduce Mr. William Dunlap to you. He is a fellow countryman.”

  “Oh.” Sarah looked at the tall man standing next to Lady Charlotte. He was the most beautiful male she had ever seen. He had thick chestnut hair, dark brown eyes, and finely sculptured features. A small scar by the right corner of his mouth and the slightest bump in his otherwise classically straight nose kept his face from being perfect.

  “How do you do?”

  He took her hand and lifted her fingers to his lips. “Very well, now. It is so pleasant to meet another American. Would you care to dance, Miss Hamilton?”

  Sarah felt unaccountably flustered. There was something almost predatorily male about this man.

  “Well, I am waiting for Mr. Belham.”

  “Here’s your lemonade, Miss Hamilton.”

  Mr. Belham had returned. He was not the most handsome of London bucks in the best of circumstances, but compared to Mr. Dunlap, he was actually grotesque. He looked as though he had been pulled into this world by his nose, with his forehead and chin left to catch up. They had not yet done so. Sarah suspected he was buzzing around her in the hopes of meeting James.

  “Mr. Belham,” Lady Charlotte said, “how nice to see you. I’ll take that lemonade, if you don’t mind. Miss Hamilton was just going to dance with Mr. Dunlap.”

  Mr. Belham’s eyes widened and his small chin flapped harmlessly under his prominent nose. The orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz.

  “Yo
u go ahead, Miss Hamilton. Mr. Belham and I will have a comfortable coze, won’t we, sir?”

  Apparently the thought of a comfortable anything with Lady Charlotte Wickford struck poor Mr. Belham dumb. Still, he managed to nod.

  Sarah looked back doubtfully as Mr. Dunlap led her onto the dance floor.

  “I suspect Lady Charlotte, like many of her friends, doesn’t realize that there is a difference between Boston and Baltimore. So, where are you really from, Miss Hamilton?”

  Sarah laughed. “Philadelphia. And yourself?”

  “New York, but I have been to Philadelphia.”

  “Alas, you are more well traveled than I. I had never left my city until I boarded the ship for Liverpool.”

  Mr. Dunlap was an accomplished dancer and an entertaining conversationalist. Sarah enjoyed their set. She hadn’t realized how homesick she was for the familiar tones of an American accent. It was a relief to discuss politics with someone who, like she, did not believe in monarchy or primogeniture. Still, there was something about Mr. Dunlap that made her uneasy. He was pleasant, educated, and witty, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that his performance was a well-polished act, that his handsome face and cultivated manner were a facade behind which something very different lurked.

  She laughed, shaking off her fantasies. If it was a façade, it was a very striking one. Other women were eyeing him and sending Sarah nasty looks. She might as well enjoy their envy until the music stopped.

  James was staring, too. She caught his gaze as Mr. Dunlap expertly swung her through a graceful turn. Was he jealous? Good. He had been ignoring her so assiduously, she had wondered if she had turned invisible. She was tired of being the little American charity case.

  When the music ended, James appeared by her side.

  “Hello, Sarah. Introduce me to your partner?”

  There wasn’t much else she could do. “James, this is Mr. William Dunlap of New York. Mr. Dunlap, his grace, the Duke of Alvord.”

  James nodded curtly. “Dunlap. If you’ll excuse us, I believe this is my dance?”

  Sarah believed nothing of the kind, but she wasn’t going to wrestle with James. His gloved hand had already imprisoned hers. She smiled brightly.