"What can they do? I gave Hunt my promissory note; he has the right to call it in. Alerting the authorities will only draw attention and lead Hunt straight to me."
"Perhaps Mr. Hunt can be persuaded to relinquish your debt. If you were too in your cups to know what you were doing—"
Her brother gave a harsh laugh. "That's what the hells count on, sis. Pleading with Hunt? Useless as trying to draw blood from a stone. Believe me, I've seen him put babes to work at his club. Children slaving away to pay off their parents' debts, no doubt."
"Why, that is despicable." Her outrage found a target. What kind of man was this Gavin Hunt? How could he take such advantage of innocents? "He sounds like an utter villain!"
"He is a cold-hearted bastard," Paul agreed. "Unfortunately, he's also a man of his word. 'Tis practically gospel that Hunt always follows through and collects on his debts."
She frowned as her brother poured himself another drink. His fourth, by her accounting. "Don't you think you've had enough? 'Tis the middle of the afternoon, for heaven's sake."
"Then it appears I am behind schedule. I make it a habit to be thoroughly foxed by lunch." He gave the gin bottle a shake. "In point of fact, this rot-gut usually is my lunch."
How could he make light of matters at a time like this? In desperation, she reached over and placed a hand on his arm. "You need a clear head, Paul! How will we come up with a plan to deal with the situation otherwise?"
"Clarity is overrated." Plucking off her hand, he drained his glass. "Besides, I already have a plan. You're looking at it."
Her brow furrowed. "At what, exactly?"
"This." He gestured grandly to the room. "My secret rendezvous. I am in hiding, don't you know. So long as Hunt cannot locate me, he cannot get my deed to the shares."
Percy rolled her eyes. "That is your plan? You'll have to face the problem eventually. How long can you possibly hide?"
"For as long as it takes. I'm rather good at it." He leaned back in his chair and nearly fell off it. "Told the cronies I was off on The Tour, so I shan't be missed for months."
"Dash it all, Paul—"
"Manners, manners, Percy. Don't argue with your elders. 'Tishn't ... 'tisn't seemly," he said. "What would your Lord Perfect say?"
She scowled at Paul's derisive nickname for Lord Charles. For some reason, her brother found it amusing to poke fun at the viscount. "I've told you before—don't call him that. And we've only chatted a handful of times, so he isn't mine."
Not yet, she added silently.
As if reading her thoughts, her brother gave her a snide look. "Oh, you'll have him. Madcap, ain't you, but pretty as could stare ... not to mention stubborn as a bull. A merchant's daughter who'll bring a title up to scratch." A bitter note entered his voice. "Papa would be so proud of his li'l poppet."
"Never mind that. We must discuss next steps—"
But her brother had risen from the table, knocking the now empty gin bottle onto its side, where it rolled hollowly back and forth. He stumbled over to the pallet and collapsed upon the straw. Percy followed and, kneeling, looked down at her sibling with a mixture of aggravation and concern. She smoothed back a blond forelock.
"Least one of us will make him proud." He rolled onto his side, away from her. But not before she caught the wet shimmer upon his lashes. "Leave me be, Percy. 'Tis done. I'm done."
Her heart ached at the naked misery of his tone. Paul had profligate tendencies, true, but she knew him to be a gentleman of character. A noble brother who'd protected her time and again. They'd already lost Papa; she would not lose another member of her family.
Softly, she said, "Remember the time we went boating in Hyde Park?" When she received no reply, she went on. "I insisted I could paddle as well as you."
A pause.
"Only eight years old and already a hellion. Told you to be careful but you wouldn't listen," he mumbled.
Her lips curved. "I never did. So when I tumbled over ..."
"Tried to grab you ... fell in as well ..."
"We both received a soaking before you got us to shore. Then you shouldered the blame, though it got you the tongue lashing of your life and your allowance revoked for months." Her chest tightened. "My big brother. You've always looked after me, haven't you?"
A faint snore came in response. Seeing his closed eyes and the even rhythm of his breathing, she pulled the greatcoat over his sleeping form.
We Fineses never give up—especially not on each other.
"Now it's my turn," she whispered, "and I won't let you down."
TWO
The light of morning filtered through the office windows. Despite being occupied at his desk, Gavin Hunt noted the way the rays radiated across the sitting area, gleaming off the mahogany furniture and gilt accents. He liked light. Craved it, for all the years he'd gone without. Even with his current success, he still conducted most of his business in the dark. Above the marble fireplace, the gold ormulu clock chimed the hour as eleven, the pleasant sound obscured by the chamber's other occupant, who was bent over the short end of his desk.
"That's it, Hunt, plow me 'arder." Panting, Evangeline Harper looked back at him over her bare shoulder. Brassy curls framed her sharp, feline face, and she tugged suggestively at the rope that bound her wrists at the small of her back. "You know I like it rough. I want to feel ev'ry monstrous inch o' your prick."
"Then take more of it," he said and obliged her with a deep thrust.
Her spine arched in ecstasy, the hills of her buttocks jiggling as he pounded into her. At one time, these games they played had excited him; at the present moment, however, he almost wished she hadn't shown up unannounced and randy for a tumble. Though his body was going through the motions, his mind resisted participating. It had been doing that a lot lately; 'twas as if he'd lost interest in all his vices. God help him, even fucking had become routine.
Evangeline moaned, pushing back against him. On the blotter beside her writhing form, his lucky dice rattled in their cup. Two sixes, face up.
Gripping her hips, he pumped harder. Mayhap he'd just been working too hard. As owner of The Underworld, the most notorious gaming hell in Covent Garden, he existed in a savage, cutthroat world. Two months prior, a fellow proprietor had wound up dangling from a tree. The cove's tongue had been cut out, his hands and feet missing. No culprit had been found, but everyone in the stews knew one of the rival houses had done the deed. Besides The Underworld, there were four other prominent establishments. All of them were run by men powerful and ruthless enough to kill.
After the last customer had left this morning, Gavin had planned on meeting with Hugh Stewart, his mentor and trusted overseer of the club. They had much to discuss due to a recent attack on patrons of The Underworld. But then Evangeline had shown up, flashing a big smile and equally sizeable tits. Gavin had thought a fast, hard plowing might do him good before settling down to business as usual.
"Don't stop, I'm close, I'm going to spend so 'ard—" she wailed.
The dice continued to jump in rhythm to their coupling. Moaning, Evangeline gyrated her cunt against the wooden edge as he fucked her. If her hands were free, he was certain she'd be frigging herself with abandon. She was as efficient about her pleasure as he was about his. Her eyes were closed, her thoughts concealed. For the two of them, sex was always this way: an activity done together yet separately. Like him, Evangeline had come from the rookery, and they shared a survivor's philosophy.
Be in control. See to your own interests. Reward loyalty … and punish betrayal.
At the thought of betrayal, a muscle ticked in his jaw. The small movement caused a twinge along the right side of his face. The scar that ran from cheek to chin was the memento of a man who'd survived hell—and who now ruled it. The popularity of his establishment had brought him wealth and connections; he now possessed the power to pursue the one goal that had sustained him through his darkest hours.
He'd lived for the promise of vengeance, and it would soo
n be his.
That got his juices up. Holding her steady, he shoved his cock harder, deeper, each thrust an assertion of dominance. Control. All those who owe me will pay. Scarlet dimmed his vision.
"Mary's tits, I'm comin' ..." she cried.
Release boiled up his shaft, and he, too, spent himself with a shudder.
After a moment, he untied her, and they each set about tidying themselves. By the time he'd rid himself of the French letter and fastened his trousers, she was fully dressed. A habit of her profession, he supposed, though he knew she styled herself as an actress these days. Not that it mattered to him. Like a cat, Evangeline landed on her feet, and he respected that.
"Will you stay for coffee?" he asked.
She smiled. Some of her paint had worn off, revealing the thin outline of her lips. "Cor, what would we talk about, Hunt? The bleedin' weather? Nay, I think we've done our business together an' done it well. Best be on my way now."
"Before you go, I have something for you," he said.
Opening one of the desk drawers, he removed a filigree locket. A lordling had wept as he'd handed over the family heirloom. All Gavin had cared about was that the piece would fetch a pretty price. While he had no use for sentiment, he did believe in fair exchanges. He dangled the necklace in front of Evangeline.
"Oooh, that's pretty," she cooed. Slipping the chain over her head, she wiggled her shoulders until the locket slid into the deep crevice between her breasts. "How does it look?"
"Like it's found an enviable home," he said.
She laughed and gave him a saucy wink. "'Til the next time, eh?"
After she departed, he rang for coffee and returned to his desk. Knowing the troublesome business that awaited him, he couldn't summon the wherewithal to search out Stewart. Instead, he picked up the pair of dice, tossing them from hand to hand. He felt on edge, sated yet somehow empty. He was stifling a yawn when the knock sounded. The coffee, about bloody time. When the footman scurried in, a harried look on his face and no silver pot in hand, Gavin scowled.
"S-sorry to trouble you, sir," the servant stammered. "There's a gent 'ere, askin' for you. Says it's urgent."
"Who is it?"
"Gave the name Fines, sir," the footman said.
Paul Fines. Gavin sat up straighter in his chair. "Young toff, dressed to the nines?"
"Sounds like 'im, sir."
"Send him in," Gavin commanded.
He let the dice fall onto the desk, smiling with grim satisfaction as they rolled up sixes. For months, he had bided his time, waiting for the opportunity to take Paul Fines down. The fool had already been barreling down a path of self-destruction, and a game of faro had delivered the finishing blow. Yet instead of fetching the deeds to Fines & Company as he'd promised, the blasted cull had reneged and done a flit. Gavin's men had been searching for Fines for days.
With Fines' shares, Gavin could gain control of Nicholas Morgan's company and set the wheels of vengeance in motion. Because of Morgan, Gavin had spent ten years in the hulks for a crime he did not commit. The ever-present tide of darkness rose within him; he held it off with a familiar barricade of rage. Anger had given him the power and will to survive, and it would help him see justice done.
With simmering anticipation, Gavin watched as the door opened and a figure entered the room. He registered the slight build, the way the overly large green cutaway coat flapped around slender legs. The brim of a hat curved low over short brown curls. The fellow looked up, and Gavin felt an odd jolt in his gut.
The eyes that met his were wide and thickly lashed and the color ... he'd never seen eyes so blue. Vivid and pure, the shade of a summer sky in a painting. Befuddled, he took stock of the rest of the face: fine contours, pert nose, and a bushy mustache that overshadowed the small, neat features. A stranger—and definitely not Paul Fines.
"Who the bloody hell are you?" Gavin demanded.
The youth seemed to hesitate on the threshold. Then he straightened his shoulders and came toward the desk, each step infused with coltish energy. He stopped on the other side of the polished mahogany; his head tipped to the left as he perused Gavin, his gaze catching on the scar. Gavin expected the usual averting of the eyes, signs of fear or disgust, yet the clear blue orbs did not waver in their bold assessment.
Devil take it, he was being sized up. In his own bloody office and by a cheeky chap not half his size.
"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Hunt." Despite the soft and rather musical voice, there was no mistaking the other's determined manner. "My apologies for calling uninvited. I had no choice, you see—"
"Piss on the song and dance. I want to know who you are and why you lied about being Paul Fines."
The oversized patch of hair trembled upon the lad's upper lip. Not with fear, as one would rightly expect, but with … indignation? "I did not lie, sir. My name is Fines."
Gavin's eyes narrowed. "Who is Paul Fines to you?"
"He is my brother." The little chin went up. "And I have come on his behalf."
Did the greenhorn take him for a fool? Beneath the desk, Gavin's hands curled into fists. He'd made it his business to know the ins and outs of his enemy's adopted family. Jeremiah Fines, the patriarch and founder of Fines & Company Shipping, was dead four years. He'd left a widow, Anna, and two children. The heir and eldest was Paul Fines, and he had no brother. Just a spoiled hellion of a younger ...
Bloody fucking hell. It can't be.
Gavin pushed to his feet. At the sound of the skidding chair, Fines gave a start, hands flying instinctively to his chest. Those fingers, Gavin saw, were slim and dainty and tipped by neat, oval fingernails.
"I'll have your name," Gavin said, his jaw clenched.
A cough, followed by a gruff reply. "It is Percy, sir."
I'll be damned.
He rounded the desk. "Percy … short for Percival, I assume?" he inquired in silky tones.
"Everyone, um, calls me Percy. You may call me Fines, if you like."
"Well then, Percy," he said deliberately, noting the flush creep up those milky cheeks, "what is it that I can do for you today?"
"I have come to discuss my brother's vowels. To negotiate their release, in point of fact."
Gavin had to give the chit credit for her brazenness. For he had no doubt that Percy was none other than Paul Fines' younger sister, Persephone. God's teeth, she had a bigger pair of bollocks than most men. Brutes twice her size quaked before him and would sell their own mothers before they dared to deceive him. Yet here she was, masquerading in that ridiculous get-up and demanding to negotiate with him?
In most cases, he'd have quashed such impudence immediately. But this reckless hoyden … he did not know whether he admired her ingenuity or wanted to throttle her for it. While he made up his mind, he saw no harm in teaching her a little lesson.
"Something tells me I'll want a drink for this discussion." He felt her wary gaze follow him as he went to the liquor cabinet and filled two glasses. Returning, he held one out to her.
Taking it cautiously, she sniffed the beverage. Her nose wrinkled. "What is this?"
"Whiskey, of course. The beverage of choice amongst gentlemen." He raised a brow. "Surely you've had it."
Her lush, sable lashes swept up; he was once again struck by the radiance of her gaze. Bright as bloody sunshine upon a lake. With eyes like that, did she truly think that she could pass for a gent?
"Of course I've had whiskey. 'Tis my favorite, as a matter of fact," she said stoutly.
She was also a terrible liar, he observed; if she turned any redder, she'd be mistaken for an apple. Indeed, her cheeks had just the right curve to make a man want to take a bite. He found himself wondering what she looked like without the mustache and wig. Without the gentleman's clothes, as well. Or any clothes, for that matter.
Hmm, interesting direction his thoughts were taking.
"Bottoms up," he said, raising his glass.
Squaring small shoulders, she took a breath … and downed the
drink in a gulp. The result was predictable though no less delightful for it. Her eyes watered, and she began to sputter.
"Like it?" he said.
"It's d-delicious," she choked out. "The b-best I've ever tasted."
"Have another, then." He made to take her glass.
She yanked it out of reach. "No! I mean, thank you, I've had quite enough." She cleared her throat. "I wish to discuss the matter of Paul's debt now, if you please."
He waved her into one of the chairs facing his desk. He remained standing, leaning casually against the mahogany edge. "Discuss away."
She sat, and he had to firm his lips at the way she crossed her Hessians primly at the ankle. "My brother is a gentleman of good character," she began. "This has all been a terrible mistake. That night, when he got lured into your den of vice, he'd had too much to drink ..."
Christ, the mercy approach. His eyeballs twitched upward. Given her show of resourcefulness thus far, he'd hoped for something a might more original.
"Gentleman or not, your brother knew exactly what he was doing when he wagered against the house," he said. "You are familiar with the expression, one reaps what one sows?"
She frowned at him, the hairs of her fake moustache bristling like a porcupine. His fingers itched to rip off that despicable strip. To get a clear look at her once and for all.
"And there are no exceptions to that?" she asked. "Mr. Hunt, can you not find it in your heart to show a little mercy?"
"In a word? No."
"Then at least give my brother time to pay off what he owes you."
"He's had his time." Gavin studied the nails of one hand. "Now he owes me his shares of the company."
"But the company is our Papa's legacy. All that he worked for … and all that we have left of him." Her voice hitched. "Please, sir, you cannot ask Paul to sign it over to you."
The pleading expression in her azure eyes would melt any heart—any heart not made of stone. As it was, even he felt a slight and foreign twinge in the vicinity of his chest.
"Surely we can come up with an alternative?" she said.
Her Wanton Wager Page 2
