213 Cullen Lane.
Anthony glanced up from the scrap of paper he held in his hand to the ironcast numbers nailed above the door.
This must be it, he thought to himself, and shoved the paper into his pocket. He mounted the steps of the regal apartment and was met by a high, well-polished mahogany entrance. He knocked on the door of the Lion’s Gate establishment. No response. He knocked again, and when his admittance was still denied, he pounded on the wood with his fist. He’d be damned before he’d stand there all morning, requesting the attention of some lowly gaming hell owner.
At last, he heard the latch lift on the other side of the door. The entrance creaked open.
“May I help you?” came the stiff offer from a rather pale, ornery old man, who was not the least bit intimidated by the grave gentleman hovering above him.
“I am here to see Luther Gillingham,” Anthony said tightly.
“Mr. Gillingham is not available. The club opens at eight o’clock every evening. You may come back to see him then.”
Anthony’s fist landed on the closing door. “Mr. Gillingham will either see me right now or he will forfeit the five thousand pounds owed to him by Mr. Longhurst.”
That got the old guard dog’s attention, and he stepped aside with a sweeping gesture, extending his arm into the main hall. “This way, your lordship.”
It was a few minutes later that Anthony found himself in the manager’s opulent study. The room was filled with the highest standard of goods. Leatherbound books lined the one shelved wall. Pale yellow drapes, satin by the sheen of them, adorned the tall arched windows. And only the softest, most comfortable silk upholstered the armchairs. It was a chamber fit for a noble—which Luther Gillingham was unquestionably not.
“Here you are, my good lord.”
Anthony accepted the offered drink, though the man’s condescending civility was prickling his ire.
Gillingham settled behind his large desk and puffed on his cigar. A gold ring, embedded with a brilliant emerald, winked when his hand twisted and caught the light. “How is Mr. Longhurst? I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Mr. Longhurst is well,” Anthony returned in feigned propriety, then tasted the brandy. He recognized the vintage. The very best, no less.
“We enjoyed his company greatly.” Another deep intake of smoke before he released it slowly. “I do hope to see the good fellow again. Our tables are always open to him.”
Anthony ignored the invitation. “I am here to pay off Mr. Longhurst’s debt.”
“A man who likes to get right down to business.” Gillingham came forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the desk. “I admire that. No sense chitchatting when there’s money involved.”
Reaching into his breast pocket, Anthony pulled out the bank draft. “Five thousand pounds.”
The folded paper landed in front of Gillingham. He eyed the funds for a moment, picked up the draft, then tucked it away in his desk drawer.
“You won’t even read the draft?” said Anthony.
“My good viscount, I would never insult you in such a way.” Then adding in a devilish grin, “I trust you implicitly.”
Anthony restrained his urge to wipe that abrasive grin off the scoundrel’s face. “The debt is paid. You will call off your hounds.”
“But, of course. Business is business, you understand. I had nothing personally against Mr. Longhurst.”
Setting his empty glass aside, Anthony rose from his chair. “Mr. Longhurst has retired from gambling. You will not see him in here again.”
Gillingham also stood in a mock show of courteous respect. “Pity. A delightful chap to the core. We shall miss him.” He came around the desk and extended his hand. “Good day to you, Lord Hastings. I hope to see you again one day, if not your friend.”
Anthony bit back his growl and grabbed the fustian scoundrel’s hand in a firm, brief handshake. “I think not.”
“A great pity indeed. But I extend the invitation to you nonetheless.”
On opening the door for his guest, Gillingham beckoned a beautiful young woman to approach. “Emma is one of our finest hostesses. She will show you to the door, my lord.” Then, with a wink, “Perhaps she will tempt you to return after all.”
Anthony bristled at the mere mention of the woman’s name: the very temptress who had “inspired” Vincent to squander five thousand pounds—his five thousand pounds. Though he had to admit, with one look at the finely dressed whore, he was beginning to understand how his best friend had been lulled into losing the hefty sum in the first place.
But Emma’s ringlets of gold and pouty lips were soon dismissed from Anthony’s mind, his attention snagged elsewhere. It was the glimmering jewel cushioned snuggly between the two bountiful mounds of her breasts that caught his eye. A jewel that looked strikingly familiar.
The memory struck him soundly. It was the very same gold locket that Sabrina always wore, complete with a lion’s head engraved in the oval face.
Anthony was baffled. How could Sabrina have the exact same necklace as Emma Kingsley? It made no sense.
But he had lingered too long on the locket, he realized, and promptly composed himself. Gillingham was watching him with avid curiosity, so he made a quick reference to his moment of pause.
“Very tempting indeed,” said Anthony, indicating to the woman’s breasts, hoping Gillingham would accept the aloof explanation at face value. “Good day to you.”
He promptly turned on his heels, and in long, arrogant strides, trailed after Emma’s swinging hips, all the while mulling over what he had just seen. It wasn’t until the temptress had shown him to the door, and he’d glanced once more at her locket and then to the brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, that he made the connection.
Anthony smothered the sprouting fear inside him, and with a few parting words to Emma, to throw off any suspicions he might have aroused, he ducked into his waiting carriage and ordered the driver to take him home directly, though he didn’t intend to remain there for very long.
It was clear to him now. Those two scoundrels in the woods really had been chasing after the locket. That meant they worked for Gillingham. It also meant Sabrina was still in danger, for a ruthless man like Luther Gillingham would never give up his search for a prize he greatly valued.
Anthony had to go back to the gypsy camp.
He had to warn Sabrina.
Back inside the Lion’s Gate, at the far end of the corridor, an inquisitive Luther Gillingham remained standing, regarding the tall silhouette of Lord Hastings disappear from view.
When Emma eventually made her way back down the hall, he grabbed her by the arm, demanding harshly, “What did the viscount say to you?”
She jerked her arm free. “He only asked how much it would cost to spend the night with me. But I don’t think he is of any great value to us.”
She flounced off, Gillingham glaring after her. But he was no longer convinced it was Emma’s breasts that the viscount had found so enticing.
Chapter 18
“Y ou’ll beat the skirt to shreds.”
So startled by the interruption to her solitude, Sabrina released said skirt, and then clambered after it before it drifted away downstream. By the time she made her way back to her washing spot, she was met with a fit of giggles.
“You frightened me,” Sabrina accused.
“Did I?” chuckled Gulseren, as she came to squat beside her cousin. “You are too sensitive. What is the matter?”
Sabrina went on with her work, smacking the skirt against the rock, trying to break up the stubborn mud clustered around the hem. “Nothing’s the matter. I’m distracted, is all.”
“Hmm. I wonder what’s distracting you.” Gulseren tapped a finger against her chin. “Did an elf scurry by, flooding your ears with tales of hidden gold? No? Let me think. I know! A dancing bear was just entertaining you! Not that either? Well, what else could it be…?”
“Don’t tease me, cousin. You kno
w the wedding is on my mind.”
“Ah, the wedding.” There was a giggle by her ear before Sabrina felt a pair of slender arms coil around her neck. “I forgot all about the wedding. The very wedding that will soon make us sisters.”
Sabrina looked over her shoulder at her cousin with a helpless smile. She already loved Gulseren like a sister, but becoming a wife would bring the two of them even closer together, and not just in terms of kinship, but in friendship as well.
Gulseren was already married, and Sabrina had never really understood what life was like for her cousin, her existence being one of lonely freedom. Now she would. In three days time, she too would become a wife. No more would she sit idly by and listen to the women talk about things she knew nothing about. Soon she would join in those talks herself, finally able to understand a sacred part of gypsy life.
“Your father is worried about you, Sabrina. He thinks you’re not behaving as a proper bride should.”
There was a sudden pang in her heart. Her nerves threaded to form a taut knot in her belly. “Why does he think that?”
“Because you have been very quiet of late.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Yes, but you are also a bride, and brides are never quiet.”
The knot in Sabrina’s belly tightened. She had tried, she really had, to mask her gloomy mood from her father. She’d stayed away from the man as best she could, so he wouldn’t notice her sullen features. But he could always tell when something was troubling her. Now he’d sent her cousin to investigate what that something was, and Sabrina didn’t know what to say. How could she explain the feelings of turmoil inside her without revealing who had triggered them? How could she admit that a man haunted her dreams—a man not her betrothed?
“Is something bothering you, Sabrina?”
“No,” she was quick to refute, and gave her head a firm shake for good measure. “I’m just nervous about the wedding.”
That got her a kiss on the cheek. “I was nervous too. But don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”
Sabrina dearly hoped so. As her wedding day approached, foreboding shadowed her thoughts. She was sure she would betray her encounter with Anthony in some careless way, and then she would be shunned and scorned by her people.
Sabrina kept her fingers busy, wringing the water from her skirt, and her thoughts away from doom. “I’ll speak with my father when I return to the camp.”
“Good. Saves me the trouble of being a messenger.” Gulseren unhooked her arms from around her cousin’s neck and moved to crouch beside her again. “I have a surprise for you.”
“What is it?”
“An early wedding gift.”
Eyes filling with appreciation, Sabrina looked down to the beautifully beaded leather pouch, perfect for storing all her charms and herbs.
She dried her wet hands against her skirt before she accepted the gift. “Thank you,” Sabrina said softly, and fastened the pouch around her waist. “I’ll wear it always.”
“See that you do. I didn’t spend weeks fiddling with the beads to have all my hard effort hidden away.”
With a grin, Sabrina reached for another piece of clothing and dipped it into the stream.
“Do you need any help with your wedding clothes?” her cousin asked.
She gave her head a brisk shake. “I’m almost finished. There are only a few more coins to sew into the hemline of the skirt.”
With a sly smile, Gulseren replied, “Don’t forget to sew a few coins into the wedding sheets, too. It will bring your future children good luck.”
Cheeks brightening at the mention of such a thing, Sabrina immersed herself in her laundry, trying to ignore the spirited laughter coming from her cousin.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t look behind you,” Gulseren chuckled. “Your cheeks might darken even more.”
But, of course, Sabrina now had to look, and her eyes pinned on the slowly approaching figure of her betrothed. Her blush deepened.
Istvan was heading toward the two young women with a timid smile on his face. He was tall, like his father and her father and all Kallos men in general, with the same dark brown hair and soft blue eyes. He was also slender for his height, but then, so too had her father been at his age, and he’d eventually developed into a strong and robust man—though Anthony was already strong and robust.
There it was again, that wicked thought. She had to forget about Anthony. Guilt slashed through her for making a comparison between her betrothed and the viscount. Istvan didn’t deserve such treatment in her thoughts. He was a good man. He would make a good husband…so why couldn’t she see him as her husband?
“I have come to speak with my betrothed,” he said hesitantly, his eyes darting between Sabrina and the ground.
Gulseren nodded, smiling at her brother, and then winked at Sabrina before she skipped away. Sabrina wanted to reach out and stop her cousin from leaving, but she realized how foolish that would seem, and instead, turned her eyes to the water and her clothes.
Crouching beside his betrothed, Istvan cast her a wary smile. “More and more caravans are arriving by the day,” he said shyly. “My father says there will be up to two hundred gypsies gathered here in time for the wedding celebration.”
Sabrina gave him a half smile in return and continued with her laundry. Guilt kept her from saying anything. She had yet to be married, and already she had betrayed her husband in her heart. It was hard to look at Istvan without feeling her remorse increase tenfold.
But Istvan wanted her attention, and the gentle pressure of his fingers on her wrist forced her to surrender it.
His eyes were searching, even eager, as he waited to learn of her reaction to his pending gesture. “I have something for you.” He unfurled his palm to reveal a gold bracelet with a tiny horseshoe charm dangling from it.
“It’s beautiful, Istvan,” she said quietly, and allowed him to fasten the clasp around her wrist, her hand shaking the entire time.
She felt shame welling up in her breast. Everyone was thrilled about the approaching wedding. There would be much feasting and drinking and dancing in three days time. Hearts were merry—all those except for the bride’s. And she hated being the only miserable one.
With dismay, she realized she’d need far more luck than a golden horseshoe charm to make her future life with Istvan a pleasant one.
“I will leave you to finish your chores,” he said and walked away.
Sabrina looked after him, her heart in chaos. Misery gave way to anger. This was her wedding. Was she really going to spend it sulking? Was she going to pine away for some viscount she would never see again?
What a ridiculous thing to do.
With newfound resolve, she decided to partake in the festivities and enjoy herself. She was going to learn to love her husband as a wife should. She was going to be happy. Her encounter with Anthony would not cloud her future contentment. She was determined not to let it.
It was the crescendos that guided Anthony toward the gypsy campsite. He had heard the music before he saw the signs of smoke coming from the bonfires dotting the encampment.
He now crouched on the hilltop, masked by the darkness, gazing below at the bubbling festivities. He recognized the sounds of fiddles and tambourines, and there was laughter and singing voices. Clapping hands served as drums, beating in time to the lively music, as the dancers twirled in each other’s arms, their bright garments mixing in a brilliant display of whirling color.
It was a large camp, larger than he had imagined. There were so many wagons that he wondered how he was ever going to find Sabrina amid such commotion.
But his quandary was short lived. He spotted the long flowing locks of sable black hair, and then he heard the sparkling and spirited laughter. He had never heard her laugh before. Such an infectious sound that filled him with indescribable warmth.
She was happy…and he was going to shatter that happiness with his barged interruption. But he didn’t have a choice
. He had to warn her of Gillingham’s intentions. He had to make sure she was safe. He owed her that much.
She was dancing in a young man’s arms, her movements fluid in her long, bright green skirt. Something sparkled from the hemline, something he wasn’t able to discern from a distance. He only saw the glittering adornments as she spun and spun by the fire’s light.
It was like a solid punch to his gut. Was this her wedding? Is that what all the dancing and feasting was about? Is that why she was dressed so colorfully? He had come too late…No, wait. What was the matter with him? He hadn’t come to interrupt her life, to stop her from getting wed. That she was married didn’t change his intention. He still had to warn her of the danger she was in.
But how? He couldn’t just amble down the hillside and join in the carousing. He knew how much gypsies distrusted outsiders. They might even mistake him for one of Sabrina’s former aggressors, and he hadn’t come this far to get his head cracked wide open.
He would have to flag down Sabrina’s attention. He only needed a few words alone with her, to caution her, and then he would be on his way.
His horse secured to a tree, Anthony made the slow and solitary descent. He steered clear of the cluster of dancers and roasting pits, where most of the gypsies were gathered. He lurked instead in the shadows of the brightly adorned wagons that circled the encampment.
Ducking behind each wagon, he made his way closer to Sabrina.
It took him a few minutes to pass by the wagons without detection. He stopped behind a bright red one, situated closest to where Sabrina was dancing. And now he need only capture her attention.
That was going to prove difficult, though, even from his more advantageous position. He couldn’t call to her, she would never hear him with all the boisterous music and laughter swarming around her. And if he was to shout, well, he’d garner a trifle more attention than he was really after. A hand signal seemed appropriate, but she would have to be looking directly at him to notice a few flickering fingers in the darkness.
He would have to wait, he supposed, until the ideal moment, when he was sure to gain her notice. And so that was what he did. He hunkered low, to remain unobtrusive, and watched her.
A Forbidden Love Page 16
