“Clara, then. What do you do here?”
The woman had the look of one who’d swallowed a plate of rancid kippers. She cast a desperate look at Ryker. “I . . .”—color bloomed on her cheeks—“oversee the young women who are employed here.”
“Ah, lovely. How very progressive of you to employ female staff members.” Ryker almost choked, earning a peculiar glance from Penelope, before she returned her attention to Clara. “Thank you for offering to see me to my rooms.” She tugged free her gloves and slapped them together. Her eyes lit on a particular patron, and she waved excitedly. “Oh, it is Lord Maxwell.”
Ryker looked to the chestnut-haired lord, seated at a hazard table. The earl offered a wave and smiled at Penelope. That bloody, cocksure half grin. Something primitive and raw uncoiled within Ryker, like a serpent poised to strike.
“I’m going to visit with Lord Maxwell before I retire to my rooms.” Ryker stared dumbly while she started across the hell.
“Where in hell do you think you’re going?”
His wife faltered and turned back. She scratched at her brow. “To pay my regards to Lord Maxwell.” She motioned to the still-grinning earl. Only now, the man stared back through narrow eyes that contradicted any hint of affable gent. “He is Christian’s closest friend. Well, one of his closest friends, beyond the Duke of Blackthorne.”
“Who in blazes is Christian?” Or the Duke of Blackthorne, for that matter?
She stilled. “Who is . . . ?” Penelope searched her eyes over his face. Then a clear, bell-like laugh spilled past her lips. Her delicate frame shook with the force of her amusement. “Oh, you’re teasing. Of course you know Christian is my brother-in-law. He was at the wedding. Who is Christian?” she asked to herself.
Actually he hadn’t remembered any such thing. The man was the Marquess of St. Cyr, a onetime patron at his tables. Beyond his involvement with the club, there was nothing else to remember about the man.
Still mute, Clara alternated a wide-eyed stare between husband and wife.
“This is not a bloody parlor,” he gritted out. “This is a gaming hell’s floor.”
Penelope’s effervescent smile slipped, and damn if he didn’t feel like the bully she’d charged him with being earlier.
“I have business to attend,” he said, realizing even as the words left his mouth that he, Ryker Black, had just . . . answered to someone, and Clara’s ever-widening eyes indicated she’d heard it, too.
Penelope sighed. “Very well. Then mayhap later you can show me about our club?” There it was again, our club? The lady was mad. And then she only proved just how cracked in the head she was. She offered the roguish earl another wave. Ryker made to look away but then froze, his gaze riveted on the tautness at the corners of her full lips.
Her smile stretched so wide it quavered, and then fell. His wife narrowed her eyes, and he followed her stare to the dandy seated at a gaming table with a prostitute on his lap. “Ryker,” Penelope said carefully. “What are they doing?” She jabbed her finger across the club to that same couple. The gentleman palmed the woman’s breast, raising it to his mouth—
And by Christ, if it wasn’t he whose neck went hot. Ryker looked hopelessly to Clara, and she retreated several steps, making herself scarce.
Bloody hell. There would be no help there. “Come along,” he bit out, reaching for his wife’s arm. The last place a lady of the ton belonged was here amongst the sin and depravity of the club.
His wife glowered down at his hand, and he let his arm fall to his side. “I will leave.” Thank the bloody devil. Apparently, he’d paid penance enough enduring the hell of this day. “After you explain just what those women”—she motioned once more to the scantily clad women working the floors—“are doing.”
“Isn’t it clear?” he bit out.
This time, color fired her cheeks. “I expect it seems like it should be clear, and yet, surely you do not run a . . . a . . .” If her face went any redder, she would set his club afire. “That kind of establishment,” she amended, on a furious whisper that was nearly lost to the raucous club activity.
Ryker closed his eyes a moment and counted to five. He opened them once more. “I am not having this discussion here. Now.” Or ever.
She planted her arms akimbo, and by the determined glint in her eyes, he’d have to drag her from the floors before she left.
“They are prostitutes,” he said bluntly.
His wife gasped. “That is horrid,” she said, on a scandalized whisper.
He dragged a hand over his eyes. “It is good business, and it provides safety for women in need. They might be working at what you deem a shameful job, but they are doing it in a secure environment.”
At last she fell silent, and giving thanks, he again motioned Clara over. The other woman hurried over when Penelope spoke. “Would you have allowed your sister to . . . to . . . do that?” Clara fell back. “Be a prostitute,” Penelope clarified.
Was he truly debating his hiring of prostitutes with his wife? If a single soul on the streets of the Dials overheard this discourse, Ryker would be ruined forever. “My sister was a bookkeeper,” he bit out.
“And who is your bookkeeper now?” she pressed.
He gave thanks for small favors. He’d far rather answer her questions about his bookkeeper than the women on the floor. “Adair is serving the role until we find a proper replacement.” He looked out amongst his nearly empty club and found curious stares of his patrons and employees leveled on him. “Now, I need to see to my—”
Penelope folded her arms. “Hmph.”
Do not ask. Do not ask . . . “What?” he snapped.
“Surely, if your sister has proved the most proficient worker in the past, you can see that any woman is capable of that role? I expect I would far prefer that manner of security than . . .” He raised an eyebrow. “Than the former,” she settled for. “No woman would want that manner of work, Ryker. A woman wants a life that is free of danger.”
“I agree.” She beamed. “Which is why I want you off the floor.” Her smile fell. “Now.” And before she could open her mouth, he motioned to Clara and gave thanks as Clara, this time, ushered Penelope from the floors.
As she walked away, he surveyed his club, mentally counting the empty seats. He didn’t need the distraction of a wife. A young lady from the peerage, no less who entered his club and challenged his order. The one constant, the one familiarity, was these walls.
Fuller than yesterday but still not near the numbers they brought in on other days at this time. His gaze strayed to Lord Maxwell. The other man continued to watch him, and then in a manner similar to Lady Poppy’s earlier that morn, he touched the corner of his eye.
The bastard would threaten him in his own club? Had the lady been romantic with that gent before Ryker had found her hiding under Helena’s bench? Another primal fury rolled through him. It was only because the lady was now his wife, and as such he’d expect the same loyalty he would from her that he did from—
“You’re going to have your hands full with that one.”
Adair’s voice penetrated his thoughts, and he stiffened.
Adair peered at him. “Did you not hear me?”
“I heard you,” he lied brusquely.
The other man chortled. “I never thought I’d see the day Ryker Black was wedded to a fancy girl wearing white skirts.”
I am eighteen, nearly nineteen . . . Nor had there been anything girlish in the way she’d pressed her hot body against his, urging more from him with those breathy moans. “She is not a girl.”
“What?” Adair scratched at his head.
“Never mind,” he muttered. He flexed his shoulders. “Where is Calum?”
“Saw Her Ladyship’s trunks brought to your rooms.” Her Ladyship.
He tightened his mouth. “Send him to my office when he is through.” Ryker immediately started for the private suites.
“Seeing to business on your wedding night, my lord?” The
other man laughed behind him. “If that isn’t just like you, Ryker Black.”
Yes, it was just like him. He’d taken a wife to save his club, but ultimately he was, and would always be, the same driven bastard who cared about nothing and no one—beyond the Hell and Sin.
Chapter 10
Dearest Fezzimore,
You are the only one who listens. The only one whom I can speak to about my greatest miseries. And I shall confess the most mortifying of all those miseries. I have never been kissed. Poppy quite gleefully points out that not even a naughty village boy will steal a kiss . . . and I fear I shall die—kissless.
Penelope
Age 13
There were prostitutes inside her husband’s club. Young women, dependent on men, forced to sell themselves and their self-respect. She frowned. And her husband allowed it to carry on under the roof of his establishment. No, that would not do, at all. She sighed. She’d always wanted to visit a gaming hell, and now she lived inside one of those clubs. Only . . . what she’d imagined . . . and what, in fact, was, well . . . they were entirely different things.
The click of Clara’s heeled boots sounded around the halls as she ushered Penelope to her new rooms.
The woman stopped, and Penelope nearly crashed into her back. “Here we are, my lady,” the young woman murmured. She shoved the door open.
Penelope pushed aside her disappointment, as the welcome excitement, though somewhat muted, returned. Her new rooms were, no doubt, extravagant, lavish rooms befitting a wicked gaming hell. Penelope stepped inside.
Her heart sank. “This is it?” she blurted. Where was the crimson coverlet? The lush carpet? The naughty murals? She glanced about. But for a large mahogany four-poster bed, an armoire, a nightstand, and a lacquered bronze mounted table, not a single accessory filled the sterile space. Not a painting. Not a window. Nothing. Disappointment filled her. Not even a desk. Where in blazes was she going to journal?
Clara smirked. “Is the room not to your liking, Mrs. Black?”
She’d have to be deafer than a post to fail to hear the hard edge to that query. Penelope forced another smile. “Everything is”—horrid—“perfect,” she substituted. Her cheeks were going to shatter if she had to don one more falsified grin.
“Is there anything else you require, my lady?”
“No, thank you,” she assured, eager to be alone. “That will be all, Clara.” As soon as the tall Spartan-like woman took her leave, Penelope resumed her study of the cheerless space. She walked a circle about her new chambers, and at the desolateness of it all, sadness gripped her.
None of this day had gone as planned, hoped, or dreamed. First there had been her miserable wedding and the stilted breakfast. Then the discovery of her husband’s . . . hell. And now these chambers.
It wasn’t that Penelope required fripperies and baubles to be happy . . . she just required . . . cheer. A happy painting, like the ones painted by her sister-in-law Juliet that had always been her favorites. Or flowers. Something that brought happiness.
The cold of the hardwood floors penetrated her flimsy satin slippers, and she shivered. And a carpet. Not one of those ornamental Aubussons either, but a plush one she could sink her feet into while she wrote.
While she wrote . . .
Her heart caught.
Her diary. She’d instructed her maid to pack the cherished book.
A knock sounded at the door, cutting into her panic, replacing it instead with a giddy lightness. Ryker! She’d unfairly judged him as being impolite and unfeeling. He’d not forgotten her.
She raced over and pulled the door open. “Ry . . . oh.” Her words trailed off in disappointment at the tall, dark-haired figure to fill the doorway. A familiar figure.
“My lady,” the man greeted. The same man who’d been conversing with Ryker the day she’d snuck off to the Hell and Sin Club.
“Penelope,” she corrected. “You are . . . ?” For a long moment, she believed he’d ignore her request.
“Calum,” he said with a gruffness that had surely been learned side by side with his brother.
Her gaze went to the brutish-looking servants at his back, bearing her trunks. She brightened. “Oh, lovely.” Hurrying aside, she motioned them in.
The man with his dark brown hair and hard eyes frowned at her for a long moment.
What in blazes had she done now? Had there been some unspoken test she’d failed?
He motioned several burly servants inside, and they carried her trunks over to the armoire. One of the men, a bald, stocky fellow, glanced her way. Penelope took a step back under the depth of hatred in his eyes. Then, without another word, one by one, they filed from the room and closed the door behind her. But not before she detected the flash of antipathy in the bald servant’s eyes.
Disappointment clutched at her. And as she was left alone, the weight of her false bravado and forced cheer sagged her shoulders. She stared at the doorway. I refuse to cry.
It hardly mattered if the workers inside her husband’s gaming hell liked her or not. It didn’t matter if she’d been ordered from the floors in curt tones, better reserved for a naughty child.
Liar. She hugged her arms tight to her chest. It did matter.
Her husband had been quite clear in calling her a girl. He agreed with Jonathan and Mother, in terms of Penelope’s wisdom. And yet for the naïveté they believed she possessed, and the romantic hope that she did, in fact, carry, she was most assuredly not a lackwit, and she knew with but a handful of glances that the people here hated her.
Mayhap she was the child everyone took her as. In this instance, she wanted to flee and return to the familiar comforts of her own home with Jonathan lamenting the woes of being a brother to troublesome ladies. And Mother lecturing. And Poppy teasing. And Sir Faithful yapping. And . . .
A strangled sob lodged in her throat, and she gave her head a shake. Pathetic, too. In addition to childlike, she was pathetic. Stalking over to her trunks she sank down.
She didn’t even have her maid here. The girl who’d served her faithfully for two years had not wanted to live inside a gaming hell. Nor had Penelope’s family held her to that requirement.
She’d married a man who worked on his wedding day and smiled not at all. And beyond that, she knew next to nothing about him. And they would share a bed.
Penelope did another sweep of the barren, cheerless room. She would wager her very life that Ryker Black was so buried in his responsibilities that things like material comforts were beyond his notice.
Regardless of what she’d hoped for in a husband and marriage, or what he’d wanted in a wife, their fates were inextricably intertwined. They could either go through life miserable . . . or try to make a go at it.
If there was one armoire, well, they would simply have to share it until there was a second. With a renewed purpose, Penelope fetched her writing supplies and journal, and with the nightstand as a makeshift desk, she frantically dashed off a list of what was required to transform the chambers into proper chambers.
In the next hours, Penelope carefully removed Ryker’s garments and set them on the bed. She then set to work taking all the dresses out of her trunks. Next, she gathered his shoes and her slippers and neatly arranged them so only the tips of them jutted out from under the bed.
She worked until her lower back ached and her hair hung loosely from the once-intricate chignon arranged by her former maid. As she consulted her list, a gnawing ache filled her belly, followed by a loud growl. With a frown, Penelope glanced to the metal clock atop the mantel.
She flared her eyes. Five hours? She’d been alone, journaling and cleaning this room, for the better part of five hours? And if she had a blasted window in her chambers mayhap she would have noted the passing time. As it was, her groom remained less than conspicuously absent. Without even a thought for a wedding dinner.
It was one thing for the gentleman to have essential business to attend. It was quite another to shut one’s bride awa
y and forget her, on one’s wedding night, no less.
She drummed her fingertips on the side of her skirts. If Ryker thought she would be content in this empty room, without a hint of company, then he was mistaken. She was going to be a proper wife—even if he didn’t intend to be a proper husband.
Penelope started for the door.
It was time to find her husband.
With Calum’s eyes burning a hole in him, Ryker surveyed the gaming hell’s floors.
“What?” he asked impatiently.
The other man didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Numbers are still down for the past three days. There was a fight earlier between two members.”
He frowned. Where Diggory had been content serving the underbelly of Society, the man who’d replaced him—the apprentice so few knew anything of—had made a concerted effort to attract the peerage to his den. “Killoran’s men?”
Calum cracked his knuckles. “He’s poised. It’s no secret Killoran wants a share of the ton.”
Ryker flattened his lips. For the danger posed by Diggory, and his attempts to weaken the Hell and Sin, they’d never battled over the same patrons. Ryker’s clients were not Diggory’s. With that man’s death, Killoran had stepped in, and the unspoken rules that had been laid out had been redefined.
“There is talk at the tables,” Calum said, interrupting his thoughts. “About the interloper from the Dials who bedded an earl’s daughter.”
Seeds no doubt being planted by men with sizable debt, whom Killoran found and put to work for him.
He tightened his hands into fists. “I didn’t bed her,” he whispered, mindful of the patrons close at hand. I did something far more dangerous . . . I kissed her. And by God, if he didn’t want to know her mouth again.
“It doesn’t matter,” Calum said with a too-casual shrug. “It is the perception.”
Ryker flexed his jaw, taking in the lords moving between gaming tables, men who came here to drink, wager, and partake in the services of the whores. The same bastards would step into his club, and then condemn his actions. Then, what did one expect of a nobleman? “I married her.”
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