The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides Book 1)

by Christi Caldwell

  “Lord Westfield,” she greeted, the corners of her mouth pinched, her eyes haggard. “I hope you can forgive my impoliteness in arriving so and at this unfashionable hour.” She paused. “There is a matter of some urgency I would speak with you on,” she said, fanning his apprehension.

  Robert motioned her in. “Please.” He gestured to the leather button sofa, and with the regal elegance of a queen, she swept over to the chair with the possession of one who owned this very room. “Is the duke—?”

  “He is well.” She sat, and then for the first time he could ever recall, the duchess wrung her hands. “I am not here about the duke.”

  He took in that telling gesture that spoke volumes of a woman who’d chided her daughter for laughing too loudly as a child.

  Following his gaze, the duchess stopped abruptly, and then primly folded her hands in her lap. “I am here about Miss Banbury.”

  Her words held him momentarily immobile. “Miss Banbury?” he repeated slowly, and claimed the leather chair across from the duchess.

  The older woman gave a brusque nod, and pulled off her gloves. “I hesitated in coming tonight, my lord. But given our families’ connections, I knew I could trust your discretion.” She laid the elegant pair of gloves on her lap.

  He balled and unballed his hands to keep from shaking answers from her. “Of course,” he said quietly, while his disquiet grew.

  “As you no doubt know, my husband was . . .” High color flooded her unwrinkled cheeks. “In love with his mistress.” Through that admission, Robert remained silent. What was there to say to a proud woman on the matter of her husband’s fidelity—or in this case, infidelity? “It is that love that has so blinded him to Miss Banbury’s true character. I have reason to believe she is stealing from His Grace.”

  Robert stilled. The lady the Duchess of Wilkinson spoke of was incapable of treachery. Did you not believe that about another . . . ? How long had he truly known Helena to reject the duchess’s accusations?

  As soon as the sliver of doubt entered, he quashed it. What need did Helena have to steal from the duke? The man had attached a ten-thousand-pound dowry to her, and would no doubt grab her the moon should she request it.

  “I know it is no doubt difficult for you to hear this, given your budding affection for the lady,” she said. “And she . . .” The duchess cast a glance about, and then looked to him once more. “Her maid reports that she takes the duke’s carriage to unfashionable ends of London to meet someone with those stolen items. The young woman reported that Miss Banbury forces her to stay in the carriage while she conducts her activities.”

  He stitched his brow into a line. Those actions were not consistent with a woman who’d throw herself before a child.

  “I worry for my husband, Lord Westfield,” she said with a strident edge in her tone.

  Robert sat back in his chair. “I do not—”

  “Miss Banbury’s left for St Giles Street.”

  The muscles of his stomach knotted. “Left?” he parroted like a bloody lackwit. Where would she go at this hour . . . and with whom? The doubt and indecision grew as his past merged with his present. What lady with honorable intentions would be found in the streets of Lambeth and St Giles . . . and at this hour, no less? “When?” he demanded tersely.

  “This evening. Not even thirty minutes prior. I had a servant follow her hack.” Her lip peeled back. “To the Hell and Sin Club.”

  The earth hung suspended and then resumed whirring at a too-fast rate. Helena was in the streets of St Giles at this hour. Terror consumed the fertile seeds of apprehension that had previously taken root. It mattered not that she was born to that world, and surely capable of handling herself amongst the seedy underbelly of London society. For her strength, she was not invincible against all manner of danger that existed for man, woman, or child in those streets.

  Liar. Selfishly you’re more worried about her leaving your world, and never coming back . . .

  “I ask that you just be aware.” The duchess interrupted his riotous thoughts. He fought down the urge to throw her out bodily so he could make for St Giles. “I ask that if you see anything suspicious with the young woman that you please speak to my husband.”

  “Of course,” he said curtly. Bloody hell, be gone. Signaling an end to their meeting, Robert climbed to his feet.

  Alas, she’d been bred to be a duchess.

  Climbing to her feet with unhurried, graceful movements, the older woman firmed her mouth. “His Grace has a large heart, but flawed judgment where women are concerned.” With meticulous movements, she pulled on her gloves and abruptly turned the discourse. “I can expect to see you at the ball tomorrow evening, my lord?” Was she mad? That she could so casually move from talk of Helena paying a night visit to the Hell and Sin, and then speak to him of her bloody ball?

  Robert offered a deep bow. “Of course, Your Grace.” He followed her to the door, and reached for the handle.

  “Again, I thank you for your prudence with this matter. Given my relationship with your father and the late duchess, I would see you protected from Miss Banbury’s machinations.”

  Smoothing her palms over her skirt, she gave a slight, dismissive, very duchess-like nod, and he drew the door open.

  As she took her leave, he closed it, and stared at the wood panel. His mind spun with the charges and accusations leveled by the duchess. Charges and accusations that could never be true about Helena Banbury. Except . . . what was she doing at Lambeth this morn, alone . . . ? With a curse, he stalked to the front of the room and yanked the door open, bellowing for his carriage.

  The duchess’s warnings harkened back to those issued by another. Warnings given twelve years ago by a hardened duke who’d seen the treachery in Lucy Whitman when Robert had been blinded.

  Surely he’d not be a fool twice where young women were concerned?

  He frowned as a wave of guilt assailed him at that willingness to believe ill of her. Helena did not even belong in the same category of a woman such as Lucy. Those two were nothing alike.

  Except in his weakness for them.

  Chapter 18

  Rule 18

  Danger comes in many shapes and forms.

  A person could never forget the smells and sounds of St Giles. The dank scent of refuse and rot permeated the air, penetrating the carriage.

  Seated as she’d been for the past thirty minutes, Helena sat on the uncomfortable bench of the hired hack, and closing her eyes, welcomed the familiarity of it all.

  Here, in these rough, dark streets, life made sense in a way she understood.

  She opened her eyes and stared out the ripped curtain.

  Amidst a sea of dark, cracked, and crumbling buildings stood one impressive stucco structure. Awash in candlelight, it conveyed a sense of day amongst night. She touched her fingertips to the muddied windowpane. This hell represented an escape from her past, and a solid, certain future. Her ruthless brother had sent her away as a test of sorts.

  After questioning her judgment from one chance encounter with a nobleman, Ryker singlehandedly decided her fate. He’d scuttled her off to Mayfair. For his ill opinion in her judgment, she was not her mother.

  Or she’d told herself that for the course of her life. Several dandies crossed the street, climbing the steps of the Hell and Sin. The club doors opened, and the light cast by crystal chandeliers spilled onto the front stoop. And then closed once more.

  Helena pressed her forehead against the warm windowpane. In the end, she’d proven Ryker correct in all his worst suppositions about her.

  She had been weak. Only she had been seduced, not by fine fabrics and pretty baubles, but by kindness. She had entered the world of polite Society resolved to hating everything and everyone connected with that world. And here she sat, her heart hopelessly belonging to a future duke.

  A broken laugh spilled past her lips, and she buried it in her hands. Oh, it was the manner of irony the Great Bard himself could not have crafted better.
The bastard daughter of a duke, who’d judged her own mother, had committed the same folly.

  She let her trembling hand fall to her lap. If she spent the remaining days and months with Robert, amongst the haute ton, she would lose every part of herself that she valued. She’d abandon every pledge she’d taken.

  She needed to leave that world, and return here.

  Letting the curtain fall into place, Helena drew her cloak hood up and reached for the handle.

  Her fingers froze, and she stared blankly at her scarred hand.

  For if she climbed those steps and disappeared inside, she would never, ever see Robert again, but for perhaps nights when he visited the hell. Time would pass, and she would continue tending her books, and he would carry on as he had before he’d agreed to her madcap scheme. Then he would marry and have perfect, flawless noble English babes. Vicious blades of jealousy ravaged her.

  Helena dug her fingertips into her temples and rubbed. Indecision raged in her breast.

  If she did step out of this carriage and demand to be seen, always unbending, would Ryker even take her back until the terms of the agreement he’d laid out had been met?

  With quick movements Helena pressed the handle and stepped down from the carriage. She cast a look up at the driver perched atop the box. “Wait for me and there will be more,” she pledged, handing over several coins. Standing in watch, as a pair of stumbling fops climbed the steps of the club, she waited until they’d entered the Hell and then gingerly picked her way across the street.

  She’d grown up here. Had known no other way of living until just a month and a week ago, and yet dread raced along her spine. The sense of being watched. Inaction in the Dials often meant death, and yet she went still. Her gaze strayed to a solitary figure leaning against a dilapidated building. A cap pulled low over his eyes, the man remained with his arms folded. He shoved the hat back and grinned coldly. Diggory.

  Oi’ll beat ye until ye listen, girl . . .

  She swayed dizzily, and wrapped her hand about a nearby lamppost to keep herself upright. A scream built inside and hovered on her lips.

  Raucous laughter spilled into her whirring nightmare, and she opened her eyes. Blinking, Helena looked to that broken-down building for that hated figure.

  Except for the dandies entering Ryker’s club, not a soul lingered. Some of the tension left her. What weakness had overtaken her since she’d left this world that she’d made monsters out of shadows? It only affirmed how very desperately she needed to be back. Drawing the hood of her cloak further over her forehead, she burrowed inside, and quickened her stride.

  Her bloody dagger. Robert still hadn’t returned that precious piece, and lulled by the seeming safety in the duke’s residence, she’d shamefully not given it a proper thought—until now.

  A stranger stepped out of the alley between two buildings, and her heart quickened as the absolute folly in being here flooded her with a belated apprehension. She shot a quick glance back at the waiting hack, and then hurried forward. Helena reached the alley between the Hell and Sin and the next set of establishments.

  Someone wrapped a hand around her forearm, and her pulse sped up. Diggory! She opened her mouth to tear down the streets of St Giles when the stranger clamped a large, gloved hand over her mouth. Helena bit hard, the taste and scent of fine leather flooding her nose, and a harsh, angry voice cursed against her ear.

  A very familiar voice. Helena’s shoulders sagged. “R-Robert?” How was he here?

  “You are as bloodthirsty as the day I met you, Miss Banbury,” Robert drawled.

  Of course, he’d come to his clubs. She slid her eyes closed, and let her shoulders relax. Of all the bloody bad luck. Except . . . she squinted into the inky dark of night. A hardened suspicion glinted in his eyes.

  “What are you doing, madam?” His terse, more duke-like command raised a frown on her lips.

  He’d expect her to account for her whereabouts? Wasn’t that the way of the world, then? Women were not afforded the luxury of going where they wished, when they wanted. Even with her role as bookkeeper that existential truth had held. Capable with numbers and charged with accounting, she’d been given explicit rules . . . for her protection.

  Yet where had the ownership of her own self existed, even when she was employed at the Hell and Sin?

  “What are you doing here?” she returned.

  His eyebrows lowered. Then, as a lord, he’d certainly never been expected to account for his whereabouts.

  Robert dipped his face close to hers, and with the space shrunk between them, the seething suspicion blared bright in his blue eyes. “I am here for you, madam.”

  She gulped, the menacing arrangement of his features at odds with the charming rogue she’d come to know these days. Swallowing hard, Helena glanced from her brother’s gaming hell and then back to the hired conveyance. For a very brief, tiny moment, she considered darting across the street and fleeing so there were no questions to answer.

  Robert wrapped his hand around her forearm, again.

  She narrowed her eyes on his gentle hold, prepared to send him to the Devil for that dark suspicion. What would you expect . . . ? Ladies do not visit St Giles . . . and certainly never alone . . . Even with a justifiable reason for that suspicion, pain stabbed at her. Her chest heaving, she met his unflinching stare. “Did ye believe oi’m up to some havey-cavey activity, moi lord?” She tauntingly slipped into coarse street tongue.

  Her annoyance swelled as he remained coolly unaffected, and silent. Staring at her in that piercing, searching manner.

  Ribald laughter sounded from the opposite direction, and she stiffened.

  Several gentlemen strolled in their direction, and Robert released her arm, his meaning clear. She was free to dictate the terms of their discussion. The trio of loud, stumbling men sprung her into action. Tamping down her frustration, Helena started back toward her hired hack, with Robert easily matching her steps. They reached the carriage and he pulled the door open.

  Handing her inside, he followed; his tall, broad muscular form shrank the small quarters. He claimed the opposite bench and folded his arms. And said nothing.

  Helena shoved back her hood, and glared. “You followed me.” She hated that the sharp charge rang thick with hurt, preferring her fury.

  “You were at Charing Cross Road and now here. Hardly fashionable ends of London for a lady to visit.”

  “I never professed to be a lady,” she gritted out at his high-handedness.

  “What are you doing here?” he pressed.

  They remained seated, locked in a silent battle. Helena jutted her chin. If he thought to cow her into answers, he was to be sadly mistaken. She’d perfected the art of silence at the hands of men far crueler, far more terrifying than Robert, the Marquess of Westfield. Her cheek throbbed. How peculiar to actually be grateful for that painfully earned lesson.

  Robert broke the impasse. “The duchess believes you are stealing from His Grace.”

  She narrowed her eyes, even as a sharp pang struck her heart. “Is that what you believe, my lord? That I’m a thief?” He gave no outward reaction to her volley. Instead, he sat in cold, unyielding silence. Emotion roiled in her breast: fury, pain, regret. She’d lost her heart to a man who’d question her honor. A fool. She’d been a bloody fool for having lost her heart to him. Unable to meet his eyes, Helena jerked her gaze to that slight crack in the curtains, and stared out to the dirtied London streets.

  “No,” he said quietly.

  She stiffened, but did not take her attention from the front façade of the Hell and Sin.

  “I do not believe her.”

  She didn’t want it to matter, but his words did. And yet . . . “You are here though, aren’t you?” she taunted, slipping a harsh, humorless smile at him.

  He quirked a single golden eyebrow, and how she hated his cool. “Would you not have me find out what has you first at Charing Cross and now the Hell and Sin Club . . . in the dead of night, no l
ess?”

  After years of being expected to answer and account for her every action and movement, and the stifling oppressiveness of that, she boiled over. Her patience snapped. “Go to hell, Robert,” she spat. Ryker, Robert, her other de facto brothers, they thought they were all deserving of explanations, as though she were a child. “You ask questions and demand answers.” She raked her gaze over his elegant, flawless person. From the top of his thick gold hair and his unblemished olive-hued skin to the tips of his shiny boots. “Do you know why I’m here?” She didn’t allow him to reply. “I’m here because this is my home.” She rested her palms on her knees and leaned across the space between them. “My brothers own the club.”

  Surprise flashed in his eyes.

  The fight drained through her tautly coiled body, seeping through her feet, and she sank back in her seat. “I am their bookkeeper, Robert. This morning I was visiting their liquor supplier.” Bitterness twisted her lips. Or she had been the bookkeeper until they’d decided it easy enough to cut her from the fabric of the club. She braced for the shock or condescension over that revelation. After all, ladies didn’t oversee businesses.

  Part of her wished for him to sneer at her revelation, for it would make it easy to despise him for his judgment. “I resulted in your loss of that position,” he said quietly.

  Helena remained close-lipped.

  “Why are you here?”

  Because I need to be. Because the longer I remain in your world, the more I lose pieces of my soul, so that nothing will remain but a weak woman like my mother . . .

  She stiffened as he touched his knuckles to her jaw, gently bringing her gaze to his.

  “You were leaving.” Shock underscored those three words that were more statement than anything else.

  Looking into his eyes, the flash of pain did not speak of a man indifferent to her.

  And she didn’t know what to do with that emotion.

  He dragged his hand over his face.

  “They sent me away,” she said softly, and he dropped his arm to his side to look at her. She needed him to understand why she was here, and why she could never be part of his world.