Conspiring with a Rogue (13 page)

She glanced at her hands, trying to get her emotions in control. When she finally looked up, Drake’s gaze rested on her. His dark eyes bored into her and an old familiar warmth pulled at her insides. Good God, she had to get away from him.

Drake studied Wentworth but quickly looked away when the man’s eyes started to resemble Whitney’s again.
Damn it all
. It had to be the unusual color of Wentworth’s eyes and the long black lashes that made Drake think of Whitney when he looked at that man. Drake’s stomach turned. Odd resemblance or not, it was disgusting to think of a woman when one looked at a man. He picked up his glass and downed the whiskey in one gulp. The liquid burned, which suited him fine. Maybe it would burn away his repulsive contemplations. How had he come to this—celibate, in love with a woman who had left him, and seeing her resemblance in a narrow-arsed fellow?

Ridding himself of Wentworth’s presence was the best and only course of action, but damned if he didn’t feel compelled to help the man. After all, Wentworth did get booted out of the Sainted Order because of him. Besides his culpability in that situation, the fellow needed to be made into a man worse than anyone Drake had ever met, and he had come across some real Miss Mollys in his time. If Wentworth kept on in Society like this, the Brits would hang him for sodomy before the month was out, whether the man really preferred men or not.

Resolved to help, Drake set his glass down and leaned forward so no one would overhear what he was about to say. “I want to give you a gift.”

Wentworth shook his head. “No, thanks. So far all you’ve given me is trouble.”

The man had a point, but his snide comment still irritated Drake. “That’s fair. But now I want to give you pleasure.”

Wentworth’s eyes popped open as wide as two full moons. “I meant it when I said I’m no back-door usher, but I’m flattered.”

What the hell was Wentworth talking about? “What do you mean you’re flattered?”

“That you find me attractive, I suppose.”

Drake snorted. “That’s not what I meant, you fool. I want to give you a superbly trained courtesan for the night. My treat for the trouble I’ve caused you. Her name is Caprice Mills, and I have it on good authority that she’ll service you more thoroughly than any of the women you would have sampled at the Sainted Order.”

Leaning back in his chair, Drake waited for hearty thanks to pour from Wentworth’s mouth. Instead, a grimace contorted the man’s features before he managed to control himself and school his obvious dislike of the idea.

A warning went off in Drake’s head, and he knew better than to ignore it. The last time he had dismissed an uneasy feeling, Whitney had disappeared from his life, leaving only a note that she’d found “someone more exciting.” He’d be damned if he would ignore his unease ever again. Something was off about Wentworth. Either the man really was a Miss Molly, or he was a liar and was trying to get into the Sainted Order for some reason other than to bed one of the renowned women who dwelled among the Saints. Either way, Drake intended to find out. He leaned forward and braced his hands on the table. “What are you hiding?”

Wentworth stared at him, a frown working between his brows. He turned his palms face up. “As you can clearly see, I’m hiding absolutely nothing.”

“Funny,” Drake said, but he was not amused. He was more convinced now than a second ago that this man was concealing something. “What
secret
are you hiding?”

“Secret?” Wentworth repeated, his voice breaking so high he almost sounded like…like a
woman
.

“Yes, secret. You know? A thing you want no one else to know.”

Wentworth shrugged. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Not just yet, Wentworth.” Drake stood and grasped the man’s arm as he tried to turn and leave. “I don’t much care for several of the men at the Sainted Order, but there are a few who are close personal friends. Beyond that fact, I don’t appreciate being lied to, and you, sir,
are
lying. You can tell me the truth right now. Or I’ll beat it out of you.”

Wentworth stared at him coolly. “I don’t believe you have the stomach to beat a man.”

“If I find the task distasteful,” Drake said, “I’m sure my crew at the docks won’t mind doing the deed for me.”

Wentworth tried to jerk his arm free, but Drake held tight. Drake had never beaten anything out of a man, and he really didn’t want to start now. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll let you go. Lie to me, and I promise you’ll find yourself stripped naked and tied to a pole at the docks for a whipping.”

The threat was so imaginative and untrue that Drake almost smiled. He had to give Wentworth credit. The man didn’t so much as blink at Drake’s threat, but his breath increased and his pulse beat rapidly at his neck. Taking advantage of the man’s obvious fear, he shoved Wentworth into a chair and sat down opposite of him. “Speak.”

The man stared at Drake for a moment, his indecision apparent. Finally, he swallowed and spoke. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

Wentworth folded his arms over his chest in a mutinous gesture.

“Damn it, man,
who
?”

“A missing woman,” Wentworth mumbled. “A friend.”

Drake studied the man’s strained face. “Why didn’t you just say so? Why do you think she was involved with the Sainted Order?”

“I have proof,” Wentworth said, his voice sounding strained. “The Sainted Order was the last place Lillian was known to be going.”

Lillian? Drake
frowned, trying to recall if he had heard the name mentioned at the Sainted Order. He liked neither Lord Cadogan nor Lord Camden, and a missing girl smacked of foul play. “Maybe I can help you find this Lillian,” Drake offered, thinking a diversion from his own troubled life might be just the thing he needed.

Drawing back as if he had been slapped, Wentworth shook his head. “No. I work alone.”

The words held a finality Drake recognized immediately. He released the man but could not resist pointing out an obvious problem. “How do you suppose you’ll learn anything since you can no longer get into the Sainted Order?”

“I’ll think of something,” Wentworth replied before rising. “Good night,” he offered quickly and turned and walked away without waiting for Drake to respond.

Drake watched the man depart until he was no longer visible in the crowd. Settling back into his chair, he contemplated what Wentworth had told him. Was Lillian a friend, a lover or someone even closer to Wentworth? He hoped for Wentworth’s sake the girl was not someone too close. Drake knew too well the pain of losing the woman he loved. Thoughts of Whitney filled his head and caused him to reach into his topcoat and pull out the small bundle that he carefully read every day. He ran his fingers over the silky brown ribbon binding the bundle. It was still hard to believe the notes and letters Whitney had once penned him were all he had left of her.

He had made a promise to himself this morning, when he gazed in the looking glass and did not recognize the half-crazed man staring back, that tomorrow—now today—he had to stop waiting for her. She was not coming back.

He sat for a while, allowing the hum of voices, shuffling of cards, rolling of dice, and clinking of glasses around him to numb him, consume him. After another drink, he rose and made his way to the enormous fireplace in the corner of the room. A quick glance told him no one took any notice of him. He untied the russet ribbon that matched her eyes and threw it in the fireplace. Quickly, before he lost his nerve, he separated one piece of parchment from the rest, shrugged on his coat and stuffed it into the inside pocket. The rest of the bundle he tossed into the fire and stood watching as flames licked at the edges of the parchment, singeing the paper orange, then black, and causing the parchment to curl up until there was nothing left but ashes.

He touched the letter in his pocket. Had he done the right thing destroying all he had left of her? Doubt seized him. He hurried through the club and out the door into the cool night air, not stopping until he was around the corner where he knew his carriage to be parked. His driver was nowhere in sight, but that was to be expected since he had told the man he would be inside at least two hours, and it had been less than one. It was a relief to be alone, though. The carriage was dark, almost too dark to read, but a little sliver of moonlight provided just enough light. With trembling fingers, he carefully unfolded the last letter Whitney had written him and pressed it under his nose. Her scent of lavender still lingered after all these months, and his chest throbbed with bittersweet happiness.

There was not enough light to read it, but he made out a word here and there if he angled the paper the right way. He didn’t really need to read it. Each word was scorched in his memory. The content was the same, would always be the same. She had met a man who had opened her eyes to
true
passion, and she was leaving Drake for this nameless, faceless rake.

Drake took Whitney’s miniature out, pressed it to his lips before throwing it out the door. The clank of metal hitting gravel told him the miniature had not landed overly far away. His immediate instinct was to bound out of the carriage and retrieve it, but he forced himself to sit perfectly still until the desire had ebbed to one he could control.

What if he had not made himself wait to bed her? Would they still be together if she had known the true measure of his passion for her? She had desired him, he was sure. Her body had reacted to his mere kiss or the touch of his hand against hers, but he had wanted her first time to be as his
wife
. He had strove all his life to be an honorable man, not a dishonorable beggar like his father, and taking Whitney before they were wed was something his father would have done. The man had two bastards before he’d ever wed Drake’s mother, after all.

If he ever met the man who had seduced Whitney, he would kill him. What he would do if he saw Whitney was more complicated. He had hated her, grieved her, longed for her return, and now he was determined to forget her before he destroyed himself. He folded her letter and put it back in his coat pocket. This one thing he would keep in case he took it in his head to grieve her again. This letter served to remind him she had not really loved him after all. This was a new day, his new beginning.

A woman’s musical laughter floated in the air. He glanced out the window, and his heart lurched. A petite woman with long blond hair clung to a sailor’s arm. From a distance, she could have been mistaken for Whitney. His blood pounded in his ears. If he ever saw Whitney again, he knew what he would ask her. Had she ever really loved him? He hated himself for wanting to know; he hated himself for not knowing. Perhaps once he really perfected being a rake, he would no longer care.

Footsteps crunched in the gravel, and his driver, Dithers, appeared around the corner. The man’s eyes bulged when he saw Drake. “Mr. Sutherland. I beg your pardon! I thought you said two hours.”

Drake waved a hand. “I did. Don’t bother yourself over me. It’s been a nice break. Were you playing dice?”

“No, sir. I drove my cousin’s hackney for him. A man from the club hailed Sherman, but as Sherman was readying the hackney, he stepped off the curb wrong, and he thinks he broke his hand. I thought I had plenty of time to help.”

“That’s fine. You did the right thing.”

“Oh, good. Thank you, sir. Took me a bit longer than I thought, though.”

Drake nodded without comment. Once you got Dithers started on a subject, it was hard to get the man to quit talking, and all Drake really wanted to do was go home.

Dithers did not take the hint. He leaned his elbows on the carriage window, a sure sign a long story was about to follow.

“It’s getting awfully late, isn’t it, Dithers?”

“Sure is, Mr. Sutherland. That’s what I told Sherman’s last passenger, Mr. Wentworth. I couldn’t be driving him two places, but the man insisted.”

Curiosity won over Drake’s desire to not encourage further conversation from Dithers. “Where did you take Wentworth?”

“First, he had me take him into Golden Square to Wentworth Investigations, but when we got there, he took one look at the fancy carriage of the Marquess of Davenport sitting before the house, and Mr. Wentworth demanded I turn around and leave his own home at once.”

Drake was perturbed by his coachman’s information. What in the world was Rutherford doing at Mr. Wentworth’s home? Or was it the man’s business? And where had Mr. Wentworth ended up going? “Where did you take Wentworth next?”

Dithers stood straight, a bemused smile spreading across his face. “To a fine house, indeed. I drove him to the town house of the Duke and Duchess of Primwitty. Her Grace came to the door herself. Grabbed Mr. Wentworth by the arm and pulled him inside, she did. She’s very beautiful, if I may say.”

“You may. And you may also take me home now.” What in the blazes was going on? Drake sat back in his seat with a frown, trying to follow the mysterious Wentworth’s trail. The man was looking for a girl, Lillian. He thought her to be last seen at the Sainted Order and obviously in some trouble. He was to be married but did not seem to really like women, though he professed, overly much, that he did.