"Be back by nightfall," Rem murmured, kissing the fragrant hollow behind her ear.
"Nightfall?" Sammy wondered if her legs might give out.
"Um-hum. Be dressed by nine. My carriage and I will arrive then. There are a host of balls and soirees we'll be attending." Rem nuzzled her neck, his breath hot, explicit. "And, imp? Forget what I said about keeping me fashionably waiting. This is one night I want you to be ready for me. Very ready for me."
Samantha's eyes slid shut, liquid heat coursing through her in wide rivers of trembling need. "Tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Rem ... how will you manage ... ?"
"Trust me."
"I do."
"Good." Ever so slowly he released her, bringing her fingers to his lips. "I suggest you retire early, my lady. I don't expect you'll be getting much sleep tomorrow night."
14
White's was bustling with activity—the perfect release for Rem's restless energy. He strolled into the card room, thinking how beautiful Samantha had looked when he'd left her, flushed and impatient, eager to retire early so the morning would arrive that much sooner. The morning ... together with her visit to Allonshire ... and the dark magic of the night to follow.
Tomorrow at this time Samantha would be his.
Just the thought of her in his bed, in his arms, made Rem's entire body harden, throb with an intensity that was as foreign to him as the tenderness that accompanied it. He wanted their lovemaking to be exquisite, perfect, everything Samantha had envisioned it to be. He wanted to join his body to hers, to thereby fulfill all her fantasies, make her every dream a reality.
He wanted to be the hero she insisted he was.
And he knew just the way to do it.
"Gresham, hello. Quite a surprise, seeing you here. We didn't expect you." The Marquis of Gladdington gestured to Rem as he rose from the whist table. "But I, for one, am delighted you arrived. You're most likely the only sober fellow in the room. Care to join this evening's game?"
"Is it my superior skill you require or my as-of-yet unsquandered funds?" Rem chuckled, strolling over.
"Both," Gladdington responded cheerily. "Also, if you glance at the Betting Book, you'll note that your latest conquest is in dispute."
Rem stiffened. "My latest conquest?"
"Of course. The only time you're ever conspicuously absent from White's for any period of time is when you're ... er, diverted by a particular lady. And, as we haven't seen you in nearly a week, we're trying to guess who she might be this time."
"I sincerely hope no one had the poor judgment to risk offending any of White's patrons," Rem commented, reversing his steps and heading toward the infamous Betting Book.
"Offend us? Why ... is your current paramour one of our wives?" Gladdington chuckled.
"Hardly. But I'd best see whose names are penned lest I be challenged to a duel without cause."
In truth, Rem wasn't the least concerned with the upset of his peers, nor did he give a damn whose names were mentioned. But Gladdington's taunt had just spawned an uneasy worry that he had conveniently eluded these past few emotion-charged days. Gossip.
He and Samantha had been seen together, not only for a casual dance at Almack's and an innocent chat at Carlton House, but as a twosome: a covert ride through Hyde Park, an evening at Covent Garden Theater, Lover's Path at Vauxhall... Lord alone knew who had spotted them. Not to mention how many tongue-wagging biddies had spied his phaeton arriving at the Barrett Town house. Dammit, how could he have been so careless? Somewhere in the back of his mind he'd dismissed the notion as preposterous, assuming the beau monde would scoff at the idea of a notorious rake being sexually involved with a total innocent. Hell, he'd scoffed himself not a fortnight ago. But if anyone thought otherwise—if rumors had spread—he would kill whoever had started them.
Whatever names were penned in that damned book, they'd bloody well not be Samantha's.
Expediently, Rem scrutinized the pages. The speculations were amusing, if not accurate. Clarissa's name appeared several times, followed in frequency by the delectably buxom Duchess of Ladsworth, trickling off to a diverse list of equally attractive, overtly available women, who were cited as contenders for Rem's bed. Samantha's name was blessedly absent.
Relief surged through him.
"That's quite an impressive assortment," Rem commented dryly as he returned to the card table. "Although I must admit I'm grateful as hell that Sheltane and Ladsworth are patrons of Brooks's and not White's."
"Understandable," Gladdington agreed. "But tell me, Gresham. Are you going to end our speculation and arouse our envy by telling us who your current interest is?"
Rem's dimple flashed. "I think not. I'll let the book become a bit plumper in wagers and more extensive in names before I satisfy your curiosity."
Gladdington groaned. "I was afraid you might say that. Very well, then, I suppose we'll have to settle for your superior card playing."
"Hello, Gresham." The voice was distinctly familiar, and Rem averted his head, surprised and pleased to see Viscount Goddfrey approaching him.
"Goddfrey ... welcome home." Rem extended his hand.
Soberly, Goddfrey shook it. "Gladdington, I'd like a word with Gresham. Would you mind delaying your game a moment?"
"Not at all," Gladdington assured him. "There's no hurry. Our final two players are satisfying their thirst."
Goddfrey drew Rem off to a quiet corner across from White's bow window. "Thank you," he said simply.
"No thanks are necessary." Rem didn't pretend to misunderstand. "I was delighted to participate in Knollwood's downfall; he's destroyed too many innocent men. As for the message I sent you, I'm only glad I knew where to reach you. With that filthy parasite locked up, I felt certain you'd want to return to your family ... and your business."
"You were indeed correct. But my gratitude isn't limited to your missive. It also extends to your generous loan."
"Loan?" Rem's brows rose in question.
"I know you paid off my debts, Gresham," Goddfrey replied quietly. "It wasn't easy to pry the information out of my colleagues. According to them, my anonymous benefactor wanted to spare his reputation by keeping his embarrassingly vast business loss as quiet as possible. He assured them he planned to tell me he'd repaid the debt as soon as I arrived in London ... and compensated them generously for their discretion. But since he—you—obviously opted not to tell me, they eventually decided I had the right to know. I found the details very informative, as I couldn't quite remember your owing me any money at all, much less two hundred thousand pounds.
"Moreover, the most remarkable transition seems to have occurred during my absence. I've regained the trust of all my former business associates. And why? All because of the astounding profit I presumably made from my business transaction with the Earl of Gresham." Goddfrey's eyes grew damp. "There aren't words to express my thanks, Remington. And, now that my life has been mercifully restored, I intend to pay back every penny."
"You needn't repay nor thank me. The money I used wasn't mine." Rem grinned. "Actually, your thanks should go to Knollwood. His blackmail funds are what paid your debts. All I did was arrange to borrow the exact sum that I knew you owed your creditors. So, it all worked out rather nicely. Besides," Rem's grin grew broader, "Mr. Knollwood will have no use for such a vast amount of money in Newgate, now will he?"
Goddfrey chuckled. "I suppose not."
"And I expect he'll be there for a very long time. So, as I said, no thanks or repayment are necessary. Unless, of course, you'd like to join our game and allow me to divest you of your money at the whist table."
"Someday perhaps," Goddfrey agreed, without a trace of bitterness or regret. "But not just yet. I have things to put in order and a profit to show before I'm ready to resume gambling. My priorities have changed—significantly."
"I understand. And I wish you the best of luck."
Goddfrey gestured toward the card room. "You'd best join the others. An
d I shall join my family." He cleared his throat. "I'll never forget what you've done for me. Should you ever need a favor, you know where to turn."
Rem watched Goddfrey go, feeling that familiar, incomparable sense of peace that always pervaded him when he'd seen justice served. The rightness made all the ugliness worthwhile.
Lost in thought, Rem returned to the card room, absently noting that the whist table was now full, save him.
"Good evening, Gresham. It's been some time."
Sliding into his seat, Rem glanced across the table and nodded cordially to the elderly Marquis of Hartley. "How have you been, Hartley?"
"Well. Quite well. It appears you and I are partners this evening."
"Excellent. We should do splendidly. I'm feeling especially lucky tonight."
"Then, 'tis a pity we're not partners, Gresham," an unwelcome voice responded. "I've been extraordinarily lucky throughout the day, and my good fortune promises to continue well into the evening ... and beyond."
The pointed words and polished smile came from Viscount Anders.
It took Rem a split second to respond—not because he hadn't a ready answer, but because he was seriously considering knocking the smug look off the viscount's face. Quickly, he reconsidered. Making a scene was the most imprudent thing he could do. It would necessitate an explanation, which would, in turn, dredge up the cause of their rivalry and implicate Samantha in precisely the way he had vowed to avoid. Moreover, his own curiosity was now doubly peaked by Anders's appearance at the whist table. The Bow Street men had confirmed that the viscount's records proclaimed him as nearly bankrupt. Yet, in the past two days, Anders had gifted Samantha with an extravagant bejeweled necklace and was now complacently sitting in White's, prepared to enter into a potentially high-stakes game of whist.
Where the hell was this bastard getting his money? Keeping his expression carefully blank, Rem replied, "What we have in common, Anders, is that we both play to win."
"True. How regrettable that only one of us can do so." Anders inclined his head toward Gladdington. "Deal."
"So, where have you been keeping yourself, Gresham?" Hartley inquired. "You've been conspicuously absent from the card rooms."
Rem arranged his hand. "Actually, I've just joined the ranks of the shipping community."
"Have you?" All three men looked surprised.
"Indeed. Plans for my brig are in the making. With a modicum of luck, I'll soon be reaping the profits of merchant trade." Intently, Rem studied his cards. "I'm ready to begin whenever you are, gentlemen."
"What do you know about the shipping trade?" Anders demanded.
Rem looked vastly amused. "Need I remind you that the sea was my home during the decade I served the Royal Navy? I assure you, no one can assess the potential of a ship better than I. As for trade, let's just say that I make it my business to thoroughly research a subject before I invest my money. And who knows? Perhaps with my experience, I can make my fleet immune to whatever disasters seem to be befalling England's vessels."
Hartley took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. "Who, may I ask, is constructing your brig?"
"Barrett Shipping." Rem met the marquis's anxious gaze. "Your company is more than reputable and highly trustworthy, Hartley," he assured him. "But I've done business with Drake Barrett in the past and—"
Hartley cut Rem short. "Please, you needn't explain. Grayson Barrett was my dearest friend. His son Drake is a fine man and their company is above reproach. I harbor no resentments. I merely asked." He cleared his throat. "The brig Anders just lost... that was built by Barrett Shipping, was it not?"
"It was."
"I was afraid so." Hartley shook his head nervously. Three of the lost ships were constructed by my company," he admitted. "The situation is terribly unsettling."
"Are we going to play whist or commiserate about our lost ships?" Anders bit out.
Testy,
Rem mused, casting a sidelong glance in Anders's direction. I wonder why. "Fine," he said aloud. "Let's begin." The first hand was over quickly, Rem skillfully managing to accumulate an exorbitant number of points.
The stakes were doubled.
The next hand resulted in Rem and Hartley together amassing an even greater score.
The stakes doubled again.
The tension swelled.
The evening wore on.
Rem and Hartley continued to win, and Gladdington and Anders continued to raise the stakes.
It was nearly dawn when Gladdington tossed down his cards. "I've definitely had enough." Ruefully, he glanced at his scorecard. "I shudder to think how much we've lost."
"Over ten thousand pounds, I should think," Anders replied. Calmly, he reached into his pocket, withdrawing the requisite number of bills, leaving, as Rem could see from the corner of his eye, nearly twice that number intact.
"Ah well," Anders rose, stretching, "it appears my fortune lies elsewhere today. Therefore," his gaze flickered briefly to Rem, "I'd best get some rest. I have an important social engagement this afternoon."
"Really?" Gladdington leaned back in his chair. "With young Samantha Barrett?"
Beneath the table, Rem's fingers gripped his knees.
"As a matter of fact, yes," Anders said with a meaningful smile.
"I suspected as much. At first I wondered if Gresham might be pursuing her, but I dismissed that as nonsense." He shot Rem a knowing look. "A child fresh from the schoolroom certainly isn't your style, is it?"
Rem arched a brow, seizing the opportunity he'd awaited. "Quite the contrary. What I'm attempting to do is look out for Samantha's well-being. Her brother is exceedingly concerned, and with good reason. An innocent beauty like Samantha needs to be shielded from the lechers of the ton."
"I quite agree," Hartley interceded fervently. "Why, Grayson's daughter is little more than a babe. I can remember the day she was born!"
"So Drake Barrett has elicited your services, has he, Gresham?" Gladdington looked thoughtful. "Well, that certainly explains your attentiveness to his sister." Casting a sidelong glance at Anders, Gladdington turned his questions to the viscount. "And what are your intentions toward Samantha? I hear tell you visited the Barrett Town house three times already this week. Is there anything you'd care to share with us?"
Hartley's head snapped around. "Anders, I didn't know you were pursuing Samantha Barrett."
"Relax, Hartley." Anders's tone was dry. "Your friend Grayson would approve. My intentions toward his daughter are completely honorable." He smoothed his waistcoat. "The way things look, Samantha will finish this Season as my wife."
Rem's chair scraped the floor loudly. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I, too, must get some rest."
"Ah, yes. Your new business venture, Gresham." Anders's gaze narrowed on Rem's face. "When will this exemplary brig of yours be ready?"
"My plans will come to fruition as soon as possible." Rem scooped up his winnings, his jaw clenched to restrain the fury threatening to erupt. "You may rely upon it."
"Anders is doing something illegal. I'd stake my life on it." Rem shoved the end of his cravat through its loop, yanking the ends into a knot with all the venom he wanted to use on Anders's throat.
Boyd polished off his brandy, watching in amusement as Rem fumbled with his cuffs. "Are you certain you're not letting personal feelings cloud your thinking?"
"You know me better than that." Rem shrugged into his coat. "I've never permitted sentiment to interfere with business."
"You've also never been in love."
"Samantha has nothing to do with this."
Boyd gave a pointed cough.
"All right. I despise the man. If he goes near Samantha again, I'll kill him. But that has nothing to do with my suspicions."
"That's honest enough. And you certainly have reason to question the viscount's actions. With a company that's nearly bankrupt, and no other visible means of income— despite his pompous boasts to the contrary—how did he manage to pay for an elaborate
necklace and satisfy losses of over ten thousand pounds at White's?"
"Precisely. That is just what I intend to find out. Tonight." Frowning, Rem rebuttoned his waistcoat. "Bloody evening clothes."
"I know you gambled till dawn, but you've gone without sleep many times before. Never have I seen you so out of sorts. What the hell is wrong with you?" When a grunt was his only response, Boyd tried another tactic. "Why not summon your valet to help you dress?"
"As you might recall from our years at sea, I'm perfectly capable of donning my own clothing," Rem snapped. "Without the aid of a valet. Moreover, the point is a moot one. I gave my valet—and all the other servants—the night off."
"Why?"
"That leads me to the reason I asked you to stop by— other than to fill you in on the situation with Anders. I need a favor."
"Anything."
"In approximately"—Rem glanced at his timepiece— "four or five hours, I shall need a diversion. I'd like you to provide it. In the interim, my gardener, who is the last of my servants to take his leave tonight, will require your assistance. I'd greatly appreciate if you'd give him whatever help he needs."
"This sounds intriguing." Boyd's eyes twinkled. "I must admit you've sparked my curiosity."
"I'm sure I have." A corner of Rem's mouth lifted. "Will you do it?"
"You know I will." Boyd waited expectantly. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"
"No."
"No?"
"Excluding, of course, your part in it. The rest, I'm certain, you'll easily deduce on your own."
Grinning, Boyd watched as Rem fastened his final button with a flourish. "I can hardly wait."
Samantha was thinking much the same thing. The difference was that, unlike Boyd, she knew exactly what tonight was about.
Knotting her palms in the silken folds of her gown, Sammy tried to concentrate on Cynthia's casual discourse rather than dwelling on the excitingly forbidden moments that hovered just beyond reach, mere hours away.
It was futile.
"These jeweled combs will set off your gown exquisitely," Cynthia commented, holding them up to Sammy's hair. "The deep purple stones are a perfect contrast to the pale lilac of the dress."
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