‘I haven’t come to play.’ The words sounded foolish even to his own ear.
‘Then why the hell are you here?’
This came from a third gentleman who had somehow appeared behind Crispin without his notice. Despite the crowd in the room, Crispin had angled himself so he could have a clear view of the floor, yet the tall, intense gentleman behind him seemed to originate from thin air. He flicked his eyes to his comrade from school only to discover him gone, lost to the crush of players who all seemed to dress in the same shade of grey. He returned his attention to the question asked.
‘I’m looking for Mr Sinclair.’ He would avenge Vivienne’s dishonour. He held no doubt her troubles began and ended in this establishment. ‘I have a matter of great appositeness to discuss.’
‘Then you’ve wasted your time.’ The man paused for less than a minute. ‘Cole Hewitt, proprietor of the Underworld. Sinclair isn’t here. Would you like to join in one of the games? You look like a man who knows how to wager sensibly.’ He canted his head with an encouraging backward nod. ‘Daventry, wasn’t it? Why don’t I extend you credit so you won’t wager with your own money, as a courtesy for your trouble, considering you’ve wasted your time?’
‘I don’t think that wise. I only came to speak—’ Crispin took a small step backward as if he could disengage from temptation simply by providing distance from the table.
‘Nonsense. Why not take advantage of my offer? You’ve nothing to lose. Here, let me get you started.’ Hewitt waved a hand to an attendant who responded with expedience, and before Crispin could determine exactly what transpired, he stood at the side of a large felt-covered table with a pair of dice in his hand.’
‘Relax.’ Hewitt nodded his head again, this time intended towards the man who monitored what transpired at the table. ‘Mr Daventry is playing as my guest. Permit him the usual courtesy until he’s had his fill or decides to continue play by his own choice.’
‘I doubt that will happen.’ Crispin looked intently at the dice in his palm. ‘I’m not familiar with the rules.’
‘You needn’t be.’ Hewitt nudged his elbow. ‘Try your luck. You can always walk away. That’s the beauty of this hell. It’s all about choices and you certainly look like a reasonable gent.’
He didn’t say more and as Crispin watched Mr Hewitt’s retreating form he wondered at the man’s sincerity.
Vivienne lay in her bed and stared at the lavender canopy, her eyes wide open now, her heart closed tight. Having Nettlecombe to herself was surprisingly comforting. The staff rarely disturbed her other than to enquire about meals. The hours she’d spent staring at her mother’s portrait and talking in a low whisper proved a balm to her soul.
With alarming aversion, she realized were Max to show at her doorstep she would have trouble resisting him, wanting to believe he spoke with rash anger at his town house and now regretted every word. But intelligence won out, the likelihood of the occurrence slim odds. With painstaking accuracy, she examined every word they’d exchanged, every kiss and caress, unable to understand what would cause him to react with recusant detachment after their intimacy. Once the strange visitor had shown on the doorstep, Max had returned to the bedchamber with fierce intent in his eyes. Almost as if he’d forgotten what had transpired, as if she did not exist in his world.
Since their first meeting, he’d taken pleasure in reminding her how their lives ran at crosses, their perspectives perpendicular, his parentage vulgar. She’d never considered it, unwilling to judge him on the actions of his father. What of his family life, his mother? They’d hardly talked it would seem, their communication composed of reckless kisses and unspoken secrets.
For reasons she couldn’t explain, his actions tempted her to know him better, test the boundaries, and explore the dark place that made him act the way he did—all power and command, muscular virility, yet tender lover. The strong contradiction made her feel protected and cherished, and most of all alive.
Still she knew of no way to command her heart to release its feelings for him, to stop hoping he would knock on the door and apologize, or somehow explain his rash decision to send her away after their shared intimacy. The humiliation cleaved her in two.
Something drove Max. Something damning and powerful of which he would not allow her to know. And with that isolating conclusion, she fell asleep with tears in her eyes.
Chapter Twenty
Max climbed the stoop and entered the upper rooms of the Underworld, tired and frustrated from the night’s wasted effort. Pouring a healthy brandy he settled behind his desk, aware the hell downstairs thrived with business, the ambient noise level contained though the privacy curtains remained closed. Everywhere he looked he saw traces of Vivienne. His office evoked images of her lush curves crushed against the velvet drapery or below on the gaming table. If he closed his eyes he could still see her in the throes of passion, as beautiful as a vision he dared not dream.
Bloody fool. Why wouldn’t he let the past go? The love of a good woman lay in reach. Still he couldn’t push beyond his thirst for revenge. It comprised so much of his life. What would fill the emptiness were he to end the mission? There was a time when he wished for what all men desire: a wife and contented family. He envisioned sons, more than he could count, anxious to be a father to each one of them. He’d guide and teach, protect and provide with unerring dignity. He would comprise everything he missed in his youth and all he’d yearned for ever since.
A double knock sounded on the door and he dismissed his irrelevant musings, washed away with a long swallow of brandy. ‘Enter.’
Cole dropped into the couch as was his habit, fingers drumming in restless agitation against the leather cushion. ‘The Daventry pup was in tonight.’
This gained Sin’s attention. ‘Looking for me, was he?’ So Adonis fancied himself Galahad? Had Vivienne run to him for aid and comfort? Had she allowed him to soothe her tender feelings? The thought churned his already sour stomach. ‘And?’ He spat the word.
‘You’ll want this.’ Cole extended his arm across the space separating the couch from the desk and Sin snatched the paper, anticipating the message vilifying his character or, worse, threatening some type of disruption to his life if he didn’t steer clear of Vivienne. Moot point now, wasn’t it?
He dropped the paper to the blotter, unready to see the words.
‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ Cole’s voice expressed impatience and disbelief. ‘What kind of hell owner are you?’
The goad was the last straw. He flipped the paper open with the tip of his pointer finger. It took half a minute for the words to register then he sat forward and pulled the note into line. ‘That sum can’t be right.’ He slanted a look to Cole who wore a bemused smile.
‘Damn me if it isn’t.’
The last thing Sin expected was to own Daventry’s vowels but there it was in black ink, an elegant signature and a debt of fifteen thousand pounds.
‘Vivienne.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘So formal.’ Ellis Downing attempted a smile. ‘The best part of my arrival home is having breakfast with you. What happened while I was gone? Were you lonely or did you spend time out of house?’
How to answer? So much had transpired in the last two days, yet none of it seemed fit to share. She’d decided last minute to join her stepfather for breakfast out of courtesy and, too, to escape the four walls of her room. It was as if she’d entered mourning all over again with this new death of hope.
‘I visited with Sophie.’ She buttered her bread and placed it on the edge of the plate. ‘You were only gone two days. Hardly time for anything significant to happen.’ She should cut out her tongue for the lie that she told.
‘You look distressed, dear. I have news to share and I hope it cheers you. I’ve instructed the staff to ready the house for our arrival. Now that we’ve started upon our new beginning, a move is in order. Don’t you agree?’
At her
stepfather’s first mention of relocating to Surrey she’d rebelled, but considering her recent heartache, the idea held appeal. A change of scenery, concentration on setting the house to rights, perhaps immersion in mundane tasks, would relieve some of her despair. It was startling how quickly her view of the situation had changed, but then again the fault fell to Max.
‘Yes.’ She raised her eyes and forced a smile. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Then we shall move at once. I’ll instruct the servants to begin packing on the morrow. We’ll close Nettlecombe and move to the countryside, just you and I.’ He beamed as he spoke, his voice as enthusiastic as his expression. ‘I knew you would eventually come to realize this was meant to be.’
He rose from the head of the table and approached. Vivienne watched in question. What was he about now? Every time she believed she discovered common ground, something tipped the scale and found her offset. She smoothed her hands flat across the tablecloth and inadvertently bumped her teacup, the saucer falling to the floor followed by the spoon that rested on the base. ‘Oh dear.’
She barely had time to push back her chair to escape the mess when her stepfather crouched down and reclaimed the china. He waved off the servant and sent the footman from the room before he finished gathering the broken teacup. Placing the glass pieces and spoon gently on the table, he rose.
‘Vivienne.’ He said the word with finality and stared into her eyes with solemn intent.
‘Yes?’ She stood now too, unsure what he might say and anxious to reconcile. She searched his expression for any clue until something minuscule changed, the measure of his observation, the mood of the air between them.
‘I’ve missed you.’ He reached forward to touch her cheek and she gasped, a shudder of revulsion crawling up her spine. She stepped backward, her bottom hitting into the upholstered dining chair, yet he continued to advance. His eyes lowered and he neared. Did he mean to kiss her? The idea seemed inconceivable. She scrambled in a panic to escape his pursuit, unsure how to react and at the same time scared witless.
Afraid to wait for his reaction, she fled the room, grabbed her pelisse from the hook near the front door and hurried down the front steps, through the wrought-iron gate to the kerb. She stumbled, righted herself and continued out into the street, dodging an oncoming carriage, the pounding noise of horse hooves echoing in her ears. Once across she continued for several blocks until she at last located an available hackney. Thankful for the coin purse tucked in her pocket, she paid and directed the driver, her pulse in a frantic race as she rushed to the Daventry town house. For she had nowhere else to go and the Underworld no longer posed an option.
Sophie would help her calm the hysterics that threatened were she to pause for longer than a breath. She’d always considered the Daventry town house her second home, one where she felt safe and loved. How she wished now she’d confided in her friend with the unpleasant suspicions concerning her stepfather’s advances.
She knocked at the front door harder than necessary, aware the hour was unusually early though Gilbert would never question. He was pleased to show her into the parlour as was their regular routine. Except this time Gilbert did not open the door. Instead Lord and Lady Hastings—Sophie’s parents—stood in the front hall, their expressions grave. Sophie appeared at her mother’s elbow in the next instant and, at her friend’s insistence, Vivienne was shown inside.
‘What’s happened?’ Reading the emotion displayed on her dearest friend’s face, Vivienne’s heart fell, her own upset forgotten in the wake of this new concern. ‘Please, Sophie, you’re scaring me. Say something. Were you expecting your parents’ return? They hardly spoke as I greeted them.’
Together they settled on the window seat near the front of the room and her eyes darted around the interior, touching on all the familiar items she’d memorized through all her visits as if seeking comfort before settling on Sophie’s strained frown.
‘It’s Crispin. Thank heavens my parents returned this morning because my brother left London with no explanation and if it weren’t for their support I don’t know what I would do. I’m so worried. Why would he leave without reason? Nothing makes sense.’ Tears slid down Sophie’s cheeks and she was quick to dab at them with the handkerchief crumpled in her fist, her words spilling out twice as fast. ‘We are so close. I feel…’ She stopped to sniffle and collect herself. ‘I feel betrayed that he wouldn’t confide in me concerning whatever troubles him. Instead he packed a bag and left without a word. He didn’t even say goodbye.’ She covered her face with her hands, the handkerchief falling into her skirt as Vivienne followed its path downward.
‘Oh, Sophie. Do you think he did something rash? Try to remember every word from your last conversation and I will do the same.’ She rubbed her palms together as if to generate memory of every scrap of their last discussion. ‘He stormed out of the room when I visited and we discussed my upset. He looked so determined and angry. Do you think he acted on my behalf? What if he went to the Underworld? I couldn’t bear it if something happened and I instigated the fault.’
‘He adores you, that I know, but I don’t see how that would lead him to flee the city.’ Sophie shook her head and gathered the wrinkled linen to crumple in her lap then smooth it in a repeated exercise of worry. ‘He cares for you deeply and fancies himself your protector, but it doesn’t explain why he would abandon London when I’m here and you’re here…and now Mother and Father have returned. Where did he go? I’m terribly worried and I don’t know how to help him.’ A fresh set of tears threatened but Sophie maintained her composure. ‘You know my brother almost as well as I. What should I do?’
‘Nothing.’ Vivienne gave her head a resolute shake. ‘This time you are to do nothing. Stay here with your parents and keep them calm. They must be terribly distressed. Crispin isn’t the type of gentleman to cause needless worry and run from a problem. I have no idea why or what he’s thinking right now, but I might have a way to find out.’
‘Truly?’ Sophie grasped Vivienne’s hands in her own. ‘Do hurry and send word if you discover anything to ease Mother’s mind and calm the rest of us.’
‘Of course. You have my word.’ They hugged tightly and she left, her feet hardly able to carry her fast enough, the troubles that caused her to run to Daventry House pushed aside in deference to this new dilemma.
She reached the hackney stand on the corner of Cork Street, a good seven blocks from the Underworld, but after setting the driver on a fast course she realized her error and redirected the man to Conduit Street where she’d walk the final way to Maxwell’s town house.
As she’d discovered during her previous visits, the street was quiet so she took the steps quickly and dropped the brass, determined to discover why Crispin would leave London without cause or prudent notice. Something unidentifiable told her Max was at the root of the problem or, worse, perpetuated an incident that drove Crispin away. An ache of incrimination settled in the pit of her stomach. She could hardly blame Max when she owned partial responsibility. She should never have sought out Sophie when she was bereft from Max’s rejection.
Coming here now was another rash decision, one that tweaked her pride and smacked her integrity, most especially when she hadn’t sorted her feelings, but she needed to discover as much as possible to repair the breach for Sophie’s sake. Her own heartache was of little consequence.
The door swung open and she startled. Max eyed her warily though he didn’t question her reason for appearing on his stoop. Instead he gave a sharp nod before easing into the shadowy vestibule to allow her room to enter. Once the door closed behind her, he spared no further courtesy.
‘You shouldn’t have come here.’
He spoke with an edge of command. His voice sliced through her, cold and detached.
‘You let me in.’ She wouldn’t be forced away though her heart broke a little from his disregard. This matter was of vital importance.
‘I wanted you off the
steps where anyone on the street could see you.’
Her heartbeat faltered. The blunt words shocked.
‘I needed to come.’
He glanced at her briefly and continued into the closest room where the double doors opened to a welcoming salon. Not what she expected, but she wouldn’t let the discovery detract from her purpose. She measured his mood with careful observation. ‘I…’ Perhaps she shouldn’t bare her soul. ‘I have a favour to ask.’ She swallowed hard, unsure how he’d react. Her heart beat hard with indecision; meanwhile there he stood looking devastatingly handsome. He wore no boots, buff breeches and a white linen shirt open at the throat. That darkened vee of skin, exposed by the gaping width of his collar, set her pulse to race in the same manner it always did.
He slid his eyes to hers with the words, shrouded emotion concealed in a hard glare. ‘No, I can’t help you.’
A strangely anticipatory response considering she hadn’t explained what she needed. Why? Why was he determined to shut her out when they’d shared breathtaking intimacy, their souls intertwined? She needed to understand. ‘What drives you to force distance between us?’ She’d come to discuss Crispin, but somehow, one glance at him and all emotion became raw. This wasn’t supposed to be about her feelings. Best she address the reason she’d hurried across town; still the words lay hot on her tongue, begging to be voiced. How could she gain his trust in as much to reveal Crispin’s problems if he wouldn’t carry on a civilized conversation?
‘I’m not good for you. I’ve told you the same numerous times though you fail to listen.’ He diverted his eyes with the curt reply.
The Den of Iniquity Page 19
