Conspiring with a Rogue (7 page)

“Maybe it is,” he said and strode past her toward the bed. The muscles in his back rippled as he bent down and grabbed his shirt. Her fingers burned to touch him, caress him, care for him. She pressed her hands to her heated cheeks. She had to get control. Fanning her face, she prayed she did not look as aroused as she felt.

Drake turned toward her, his impassive face registering nothing strange about her appearance. “Where’s your woman, if you’re here?”

Whitney immediately thought of her wayward betrothed. “At home where she belongs,” she replied hotly, meaning every word. “Where’s yours?”

He glanced down at his hands, twining his shirt around one fist until the material was all knotted. “I’m not sure. She left me for another man.”

Whitney backed toward the wall, forcing her shaking legs to move. When her hands touched the cool stone, she leaned against the wall with relief. He was talking about her. She had no right to feel happy, but nevertheless, relief and happiness coursed through her.

Drake frowned fiercely. “Enough sharing.”

Whitney nodded. Knowing how much he cared for her would just make things harder.

“I’m here to forget her,” he said flatly.

Whitney wanted to scream―out of joy or frustration she couldn’t decide. He was a mess because of her.
Her.
This was terrible in a wonderful sort of way. There had been a part of her that was very afraid he would quickly forget her. She certainly didn’t want him to suffer, but it was nice to know she had not been easily replaced. Careful not to stare at him, she asked, “Why here?”

“The women, of course.” He looked at her curiously.

She could have done without hearing that, but of course it had been a stupid question. Anger surged at the thought that she had sacrificed everything for him and he might throw it all away on a meaningless life with a dozen loose women. “Perhaps you should be searching for one woman,” she suggested, flinching at the bitter bite of her tone. “A good woman,” she added just to make sure he understood her. “
Not
a woman of the night.”

Drake frowned. “What do I want a good woman for?”

By God, if she had a large stick she’d clobber him over the head with it. She drew in a steadying breath. “For affection and love.”

“I don’t want
affection
or
love
.” He spat the words as if the mere act of saying them was vile.

This was just perfectly awful. She’d sacrificed her life with him so he would not lose his dreams, and he wanted to share those dreams with who?
A demirep
? More likely a dozen demireps? The thought boiled her blood. Maybe she was misunderstanding. She’d felt scattered since seeing him. “So you come to the club for―” She swallowed convulsively and forced herself to say the word. “Pleasure.” She glanced around the room at the deep wine bed curtains and plum silken bed raised on a dais. This place offered nothing but corrupted sex.

He gave a curt nod. “I only want pleasure.”

“Only pleasure?” she echoed, feeling as if someone had punched her in the stomach.

He shrugged. “Well, I do plan to become a carefree rake, but I’m not the sharing kind if you don’t mind.”

If I don’t mind
? She minded! She minded a great deal. Her heart cried out, but her brain needed to be reasonable. Of course, he had to move on to another woman—but it was supposed to be
one
woman, not a hundred harlots. He was meant to meet a nice woman, get married, settle down, have babies and a full, wonderful life. Her stomach turned with the thought of her plan and what he was doing.

What could she do or say as Mr. Wentworth to make Drake see the error of his thinking? He was going to throw away the life she had sacrificed for in order to become a notorious rake. He was a mess and it was all her fault, but if she had stayed he would now be penniless and stripped of his company―his greatest dream―which would have
also
been her fault. So much fault was bloody tiresome.

She licked her lips and prayed she was not digging a hole Mr. Wentworth could not climb out of. “Seeking a woman for pleasure and nothing more is a mistake.” She didn’t give a fig that she sounded preachy.

“Really?”

“Truly.”

Drake cocked an eyebrow at her. “Funny that’s your opinion, since you seem to be more than willing to make the same mistake.”

The door creaked beside her, saving her from having to come up with a suitable reply, but presenting her with a far more pressing problem. She flinched at the sight of Saint Lucifer, illuminated partially by candlelight. Shadows from the corridor darkened the left side of his face to give him a sinister appearance. The man hovered at the threshold. One hand gripped the door with his long, bony fingers and the other hand held a lit cigar. Whitney shivered at the dark look the man gave her. He took a long pull off his cigar, his eyes raking up and down her person. “I couldn’t help but overhear a bit,” Saint Lucifer drawled as he stared hard at her. “What are you here for if not wicked pleasure?”

“Me?” She stalled, trying to think of precisely the best way to answer. Something in his tone sent warning bells off in her head. He didn’t believe the story Peter had supplied to get Mr. Wentworth admitted. She was sure of it, from the undercurrent of disbelief in his voice, to the way he scrutinized her, to the downturn of his mouth.

Lucifer swaggered into the room and stopped directly in front of her, his nostrils flaring as he brought his head forward until she had to crane her head to see his face. He raised the cheroot to his thin lips again, dragged deeply from it and sent a puff of white smoke straight into her face.

Swallowing convulsively, she struggled not to cough but her blasted eyes watered, and she was afraid if she tried to blink away the tears she would only draw more notice to her problem. Lucifer thrust a white handkerchief at her. Wicked amusement danced in his gaze, causing her heart to plummet all the way down to her uncomfortable Hessians.

“Wipe your eyes, Mr. Wentworth. I take it you do not smoke?”

She shook her head, thrust the lacy handkerchief back at him and wiped her sleeve across both her eyes, her stomach turning from all the smoke she had inhaled from the blighter. Lucifer snuffed the cigarillo out against the wall. “You appear to be a saint among sinners.”

“I’m no saint.”

“We shall see, won’t we?” He glanced from her to Drake. “We seem to have a problem, gentlemen.”

“What’s that?” Drake asked lazily.

“Monique, come,” Lucifer demanded. Monique scrambled into the room, her gaze darting to all present. “Monique tells me you two are fighters rather than lovers.”

“I wasn’t aware a man could only be one,” Whitney snapped, disliking Lucifer more and more.

A deep chuckle rumbled from the man’s chest. “Normally, a man can be
many
things. But inside these walls we have strict rules.”

“I’ll bet I can guess one of them,” Drake said. “No fighting.”

“Bravo, Mr. Sutherland. And they say Americans are dull witted. Here you’ve just proved how wrong they are.”

“They also say Englishmen are pompous peacocks,” Whitney said, eyeing Lucifer’s diamond brooch on his shirt. “I’ve never liked a man overly concerned with adornments.”

Lucifer’s brows came together in deep scowl. God, she was an idiot for wanting to take up for Drake. She could not afford to fail at gaining membership to this club. Lillian had come here,
or intended to,
the day she disappeared, and Whitney meant to learn why. She doubted many things in her life, but not that angering Lucifer would prohibit her gaining admission.

After a moment, Lucifer reached out and gave her a stinging slap to her back. “You’re a queer fellow. Lucky for you, I rather like oddness, but rules are rules. You both understand, I’m sure.”

Rather than wait for them to agree, Lucifer grabbed Monique by the arm and hauled her up against him. “Which one of these bucks started the fight?” He glanced from Drake to Whitney, his gaze settling on Whitney and a smug smile coming to his lips. “Correction, one stallion and one half buck who doesn’t like adornments.”

Monique pointed a shaking finger at Drake. “He did. Though that one—”―she wrinkled her nose at Whitney— “gave yon fine man odd looks.”

“Thank you, Monique. You may go.” Monique sauntered from the room, swaying her hips while looking back at them, her lustful gaze locked on Drake. It was amazing the woman made it out the door without running into the frame. Whitney wished heartily Monique would have at least tripped and stubbed her toe. Ire wriggled its way under Whitney’s skin and lodged itself there, as permanent as one of her bones.

As the door clicked shut, Lucifer faced them both, crossing his arms over his chest. “One of you must go.”

“Which one do you suggest?” she asked, pointedly cutting her eyes at Drake.

Lucifer chuckled at her. “You’re not very subtle, Mr. Wentworth. But I’ll not be the decision maker.”

“Aren’t you in charge?” she persisted, hoping to prick the man’s pride.

“Of course. That’s why you have to do what I say. As I said moments ago, I don’t normally consider that a man can’t be a fighter as well as a rutter, so choose a method of fighting and then the winner gets to rut all he likes.”

His disgusting suggestion made her ill, but Mr. Wentworth wouldn’t think so. She forced a smile to her face, praying she looked amused and not revolted. She knew precious little about fighting, save the way her cousins always used to go to Gentleman Jackson’s to box. Surely Lucifer wasn’t suggesting that. “As in boxing?” she blurted out loud.

“Excellent.”

She blinked in surprise. What was excellent? Had she just inadvertently agreed to fight Drake?

“I’m in agreement,” Drake said.

Her breath caught at his confirmation of her suspicion. She seemed to be on a collision course with disaster, and she wasn’t sure how to get off.

“Two days’ time, in the outside courtyard at midnight,” Lucifer pronounced. “You both need to leave until then.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but snapped it shut when Lucifer pierced her with his steely gaze. “In case you’ve ideas of lingering, I’ll send Demetrius to make sure you depart.” As he stalked out the door, Lucifer brushed past her. She stumbled a bit and reached out to gain her balance, grabbing for the wall, but ending up grabbing Drake’s solid chest.

Before she could properly gain her balance or her senses, he shoved her away. She stumbled into the brick wall but managed to stay upright. When she glanced up, Drake glared at her. Dear God, what had just happened?

“Fool,” he snarled. “You’re going to get yourself killed. Don’t think I won’t fight you just because I feel sorry for you. No one is going to stand between me and my chance to forget.”

So much for getting as far away from Drake as quickly as possible. She slid to her bottom as Drake stormed from the room. She would see him again in two days’ time when he fully intended to beat her to a bloody pulp, unless she could come up with a way out of this mess.

Several hours later in the shadowy corner of the Primwitty library, Whitney waited for Sally to come down from her bedroom. She flicked the edge of the cream card she held in her hand, but made no move to light a candle to read it. She knew what it said. She’d reread the blasted thing at least a hundred times since Mr. Lloyd had given it to her. This card was the reason she had sought membership at the Sainted Order. This bloody card was the reason she had come face-to-face with Drake tonight, though she should not be anywhere near him for his sake.

She ran her finger back and forth across the sharp edge, the point of the card stock digging into her finger. Why had Lillian,
an innocent
, visited a sex club? The very idea of Lillian at that place made Whitney’s skin crawl, but it seemed certain she had been there, or had intended to go there.

Whitney tapped the card against the table. Her inability to unravel the mystery or even turn up any clues was maddening. And matters were fast becoming overly complicated. Contacting Sally and involving her had been necessary, but the duchess was a wild card Whitney prayed she could control. If only she’d known anyone else other than Sally’s husband, Peter Primwitty, who might be able to gain her admittance into the Sainted Order.

Why me?
Whitney groaned and rubbed her throbbing temples. She was so tired she could barely think straight, let alone figure out her problems or this mystery.

A clock chimed twice from the dark corner of the library, furthering her anxiousness. How blessed long could it possibly take for Peter to fall asleep? They had arrived back at the house an hour ago. Time was ticking away. She needed to figure out how to get Drake to change his mind about fighting her, and she needed Sally’s scheming mind to do it.

Had Sally not understood the mouthed words “problem” and “library”?” If Sally didn’t return soon, Whitney was going to have to come up with a plan all on her own. The thought made her groan. She needed Sally. No one could conceive a deception better than the meddling Duchess of Do-Good.

As if beckoned by Whitney’s thoughts, the library door creaked open and Sally crept into the room. She closed the door softly behind her and tiptoed across the carpet.