by Eva Devon
Her chest stilled. Had she uttered that scandalous thought aloud? She couldn’t have. Andrew seemed to be able to read her mind of late.
She dared a glance at him, but he was still just watching the room. She let out the air that had been caught in her lungs, and huffed at herself. Ninny. He just meant that he saw people Clarence had known, as well.
Though now that she was looking at him, she couldn’t drag her eyes away. She’d not seen Andrew in full evening dress since that night he’d abandoned her at the Danburys’ Christmas ball, nearly six years ago to the day. He’d been a beautiful man even then, but now… She had to admit that his tailor had done him justice tonight in his dark-blue jacket, burgundy waistcoat, and close-fitted buff trousers.
But it wasn’t the fine figure he cut that kept Claire enthralled. The years and war had changed Andrew, had given him a lean, hard edge he’d not had before.
And she liked it.
The warmth already in her tummy from the brandy flared. If she were at the Devil’s Den as herself, rather than as her brother, would she be as bold as the other women here tonight? Would she turn her face and give in to the impulse to kiss Andrew before God and everyone?
And would he return that kiss, while sliding his hand down her back and placing it possessively on her derrière, as other men in this room were doing to their lady loves?
“What I haven’t seen,” he went on, oblivious to her risqué wonderings, “is any undue interest in you—from any quarter. Or either sex.”
His words brought Claire out of her reverie. Her eyes returned to the boisterous assemblage.
She hadn’t given much thought to Clarence’s contact being a woman, but it was certainly possible. The person they were looking for could just as easily be one of the beautifully dressed Cyprians as it could be one of the patrons or a game operator or a servant or—
Claire took another gulp from her snifter, which she was surprised to find nearly empty.
“It could be anyone,” she murmured. The enormity of her task threatened to overwhelm her, but Claire beat the doubt back. She had to find something or someone here that would help her discover her brother’s killer. She had to.
She handed off her empty glass to a passing servant and made for the hazard table. “So let’s find him. Or her.”
For the next two hours, Claire and Andrew haunted the tables. And all the while, full snifters of that delightful liquor kept finding their way into her hands by servants no doubt instructed to keep the players plied with enough alcohol to lubricate the play.
She won at hazard, lost at roulette, and made a killing at faro—which, she discovered, was not really a card game after all, but instead a game of chance that happened to use cards.
Through it all, Claire looked everyone in the eye—friend or stranger, lord or servant, doxy or dealer—searching for recognition or some hint of deeper alliance. But all she’d managed to do was send one aging viscount off in an angry huff, dragging his giggling mistress behind him so that “Clarence” could no longer tempt her with his soulful gaze.
“This is hopeless,” she groaned. Her eyes burned and itched from all the cheroot smoke and staring. And they were heavier than they should be—from the brandy, she suspected.
Andrew agreed. “Perhaps we should call it a night.”
Claire nodded, ready to follow Andrew’s lead back through the gaming rooms towards the double doors that led to the entryway. “We’ll try again tomorr—”
A manicured hand slid along the inside of Claire’s jacket sleeve and clasped her arm with possessive familiarity.
“Clarence, darling,” came a husky female purr, as a woman sidled up to Claire and pressed the side of her body full against her—breasts against her arm, hips and thighs touching her own.
For the briefest of moments, Claire froze. That was the best way she could describe it. Her breathing stopped, her heartbeat paused, her mind completely blanked. Then it all slammed back with a jolt that made her suck in air as her heart rabbited and her thoughts flew.
She dared not look at Andrew. She had to play her part.
Claire turned in to the woman with as close to a lazy smile as she could manage and raised her arm to place a kiss upon the back of the lady’s hand. She was only stalling, she knew. She had no idea who this woman was, but it seemed Clarence had. How would she possibly bluff her way through this type of encounter?
The beauty—and she was a beauty, with black hair and delicate features and who smelled of rosewater—laughed at Claire’s gesture.
“Oh, mon cher… Quel gallant! But you must know by now,” she said, her English heavily accented, “a mere peck upon my hand is not nearly enough to satisfy me.”
And she tugged Claire’s face toward hers.
Oh, God. Oh, Lord! What was she to do?
The woman’s lips brushed past Claire’s own, bussing her cheek instead. Her hand came around Claire’s nape and pulled, bringing the two women cheek to cheek in an intimate embrace.
Then a harsh whisper met Claire’s ear.
“Who the hell are you?”
Chapter 8
Shock rooted Andrew to the spot.
In his life, musket balls had whizzed past his head, cannons had exploded all around him, and once a bayonet had nearly skewered him through. But through all that, he had never once frozen on a battlefield.
And yet he could not seem to move.
He couldn’t tear his gaze from the sight of Claire being…what? Fondled? Molested? Nuzzled? And in the middle of the gaming room floor.
But neither could he tear the other woman off of her without opening them all up to dangerous gossip and scrutiny.
Christ, he was supposed to be protecting Claire. But what was he supposed to do in this situation? She must be in a panic right now.
“Ah, darling,” Claire said, her voice low and seductive as hell. Andrew’s whole body reacted to it, even as his mind wondered what the devil she thought she was doing. “You must know by now that that was only the beginning.”
And then Claire’s hands slid down the woman’s silk-clad back and grabbed the stranger’s arse like it belonged to her!
Holy hell.
The black-haired woman threw back her head with a throaty chuckle and Claire flashed her a rakish—yes, rakish—grin.
Andrew could only gape at the pair of them.
“Then we must hurry,” the woman said, taking Claire’s hand, “as I should hope to find satisfaction at least twice before dawn.”
And with that, she pulled Claire towards the wall of private rooms, and away from him.
That finally got him moving.
Andrew pushed through the crowd, staying just steps behind Claire. He had no intention of calling out or making a scene, but neither would he let Claire disappear behind one of those closed doors without him.
He couldn’t even imagine what might happen there. Well, he could, but—
Claire and the mystery woman stopped at the third door from the back, and had just opened it when Andrew strode up behind them.
“Barton,” he said, still at a loss at how to extricate Claire from this folly without giving away her identity.
Both women turned to look at him, cerulean-blue eyes and vibrant green ones pinning him in place.
Now what? He cleared his throat. “A word, if you please.”
Claire laughed good-naturedly, as any one of his companions would if his annoying mate was interfering with his wenching. “Shove off, Sedgewick,” she said. “I’m busy.”
Andrew nearly choked. Had Claire just told him to shove off so she could dally with a strumpet to protect her identity as Clarence?
That was taking the ruse a bit far.
What’s more, he had no intention of shoving anywhere.
“Clarence,” he warned.
The green-eyed beauty stepped to him then, and put a hand upon his cheek. “Listen, lamb,” she purred. “I know I said it took much to satisfy me, but even I can only handle one gentleman at a ti
me.” She gave him a pat and a wink. “Perhaps tomorrow night.”
Then she and Claire slipped into the private room and slammed the door in his face.
In. His. Face.
Bollocks.
Andrew tried the handle, but it wouldn’t give.
He jerked on it again, anyway. Damn it. Now what? Did he break the bloody door down? Did he stand here and wait for the inevitable shriek of surprise and then whisk Claire out of the Devil’s Den the moment the door opened?
A few sniggers came from behind him. Andrew let out a growl. That’s all he and Claire needed—a group of drunken revelers hoping they would come to blows over a light-skirt for their entertainment. He smoothed his expression and turned his back to the door, sending enough glares that most returned to their own business.
But he couldn’t mind his. What was going on in there? He strained to hear, but the doors must have been thick, because no sound escaped.
He raked a hand through his hair as he fell into an agitated pace. He’d known this was a bad idea. He never should have brought Claire here. He should have locked her in her townhouse, hired guards to man the doors, and left her there until this whole thing was over.
Instead, he’d allowed her to continue to dress as a man, work with men day after day, come to a gaming hell, drink spirits, gamble, be a witness to hedonism, and even grab another woman’s arse.
He didn’t think he’d ever get that image out of his mind. Claire’s hands sliding possessively over pink silk… He blinked to clear his head. Who would have ever thought Claire would do such a thing? Certainly she’d had more brandy than was wise tonight, but to do that?
He stopped pacing, shock wearing off as his brain kicked back in.
Why would Claire do something so outrageous?
And then it hit him, and he felt like the slowest arse in five counties.
Claire must think the black-haired beauty was Clarence’s contact.
A cold fist knotted in his chest. If that were true, the woman could be dangerous. No one knew for certain where Clarence was knifed, only that the last place he’d been seen for certain was here…and Claire was alone in a locked room with her.
That cold fist turned to fire inside him. Everything in Andrew urged him to knock the door down and get Claire out of there, investigation be damned.
No. No, a more reasoned part of him said. If this woman was their last lead, he didn’t want to spook her into running. They needed to know what she knew.
But he couldn’t stand out here and do nothing.
Think, you arse.
And then he remembered. When the Devil’s Den first opened, all the talk amongst the young bucks had been about the peepholes hidden in the private rooms. If your own carnal amusements weren’t exciting enough, you could watch those of the couples next to you. It had been quite a discovery for a bunch of lads who often claimed more experience than they actually had—and rather educational.
Andrew strode to the door of the room directly to the right of the one Claire was in and tried the handle. It gave way and he pushed into the room.
The sound registered first, the rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh punctuated by the high-pitched moans and deep grunts of pleasure.
Then the rutting man inside the room noticed him.
“What the devil?” the gentleman roared, though he didn’t stop his thrusting. His paramour was bent over the arm of a chaise before him, her skirts thrown up over her back.
Hell. It was the viscount who’d threatened to horsewhip Claire earlier for trying to “seduce” his mistress. The silly chit had been flirting shamelessly with both Claire and Andrew at the hazard table. Indeed, the woman now looked over her shoulder and winked at him, even as another man rode her.
“My apologies,” Andrew muttered, backing out as quickly as he could. Just before he got the door closed, he stated more loudly, “These doors lock, you know.”
He blew out a breath as he hurried to the room on the left of Claire’s. This time when the handle gave, he opened the door cautiously.
The chamber was empty, thank God.
He slipped in and threw the lock behind him. He didn’t wish to be caught playing peeping Tom by another amorous couple looking for a swiving spot.
He hoped the gaming hell hadn’t plugged the holes in the intervening years. After surveying the wall that separated his room from the one Claire was in, he removed the center painting. Andrew breathed a sigh of relief. The peephole was still there.
He bent, put his eye to it, and waited for his sight to adjust to the light of the neighboring room.
He immediately sought out Claire… There. His chest lightened when he saw her. She was fine, it seemed, standing next to an identical chaise to the one he’d just witnessed being used so lasciviously. He was glad to see Claire was not touching the piece of furniture. No telling what had happened on it recently.
Again, he berated himself for ever bringing her here. Claire was too innocent and fine for a place such as this. But he’d live with that regret later.
Now, he tried to hear what was being said.
Because that was what the two women were doing. Talking. Though he’d swear it looked as if both of them had been crying.
“…never…”
“…then…”
“…by…”
“…over…”
Damn. He could only catch the occasional word, no matter how hard he listened.
It was enough, for now, to know that Claire was safe. He’d continue to watch so that if he saw anything untoward, he could break down the door and get to her in moments.
As he watched the women speak to each other, most of the tension that had been building throughout the night began to flow out of him. He’d been on edge since the minute they’d stepped into the carriage at the townhouse and it had only gotten worse as he’d followed Claire into the Devil’s Den.
She, on the other hand, had been magnificent tonight.
After that initial wide-eyed hesitation, Claire had navigated the place as if she’d been born to it…and had impressed the hell out of him.
However, the more she’d relaxed into her role, the more agitated he’d grown. He’d thrown himself into watching the crowd with ruthless focus. Yes, because he needed to see if Claire was garnering any undue notice. But in truth, he found he couldn’t look at her without fearing that everything he felt for her would be written on his face like an awful gambler’s tell.
He’d never felt more protective of—nor aroused by—any woman in his life.
And it clearly wasn’t because of her appearance. Her resemblance to her brother when dressed as a gentleman was uncanny and rather disconcerting.
But it hadn’t made him want Claire less.
If anything, he wanted her more. Her bravery, her determination, and her fierceness drew him like the lure of a croupier’s last call to lay his bets.
And oh, how he wanted to. Claire was worth risking everything on.
If only he were fit to play at her table.
Andrew tensed as the black-haired woman moved toward Claire and reached for her neck. Adrenaline shot through him, and he nearly bolted for the door, but Claire’s calm acceptance stilled him. The woman only tugged at Claire’s cravat, mussing it thoroughly before reaching into her hair and giving it a tousle. Then she pulled some long black strands from her own coiffure to give them both a just-having-trysted look.
Andrew released a breath.
As a final touch, the woman leaned in to kiss Claire’s cheek, leaving a tell-tale imprint of dark rose lip salve on her skin.
And to Andrew’s surprise, the two women embraced before turning toward the door.
He straightened, dropping the portrait frame back over the peephole, and made for his own door. He made it out before Claire and her companion, and had just enough time to lean casually against the wall as they exited arm in arm.
But when he saw Claire, his indifferent demeanor fled. Oh, there was a smile on her fac
e, and damn him if it didn’t even look like a sated one, but her complexion had gone pale and her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. He frowned. What had happened inside that room to upset her so?
He pushed off the wall and went to her. The women halted as he reached them.
“Until we meet again, mon cher,” the green-eyed lovely said, taking her hand from “Clarence’s” arm. She turned to Andrew and tipped her head to the side, giving him a speculative stare. Then she smiled, her lips curling seductively. “Perhaps, dear lamb, we shall let you join us next time after all.”
Then with a saucy wink, the woman glided away and disappeared into the crowd.
Andrew didn’t watch her go. His one priority was Claire. He dropped his head so only she could hear him. “Are you all right? What happened in there?”
Claire just gave a small shake of her head, all pretense of her rakish smiles gone. Alarm clanged in his gut, and he noticed how tired Claire looked all of a sudden. Indeed, exhaustion and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on weakened her voice to a mere whisper when she finally spoke.
“Just take me home.”
Chapter 9
Claire poured herself another brandy from the crystal decanter in the library. Candlelight winked off the cut glass as she tilted the bottle, giving the impression of tiny flames in the amber liquid. Good. She wanted it to burn away this pain in her heart.
She took a swallow.
“Wouldn’t you rather have tea?” Andrew suggested quietly from behind her. “Or perhaps even coffee?”
She heard the cautious concern in his voice. He was probably worrying that she was drunk as a broken wheelbarrow by now. And given that this had been her first night drinking hard spirits, perhaps she should be.
But she wasn’t. She’d never been more sober. Or more heartbroken.
Or as coldly furious.
Given her moody silence on the carriage ride home, Andrew must surely think her mercurial. But she hadn’t been quite ready to talk to him then. She’d learned too much tonight, and she just didn’t know how she felt…about any of it.
Still, he’d respected her wishes in the carriage, and now he deserved to hear everything that she had.
