Her Wanton Wager (25 page)

"Here we are," the bawd announced.

They'd reached a pair of doors at the end of the corridor. A pair of columns flanked the entrance and supported a plaster pediment in the manner of a classical shrine. The bawd unlocked the door with a key and bowed with dramatic flourish. "I give you,
messieurs
, The Temple of the Rod."

The high-ceilinged room was supported with columns and painted with frescoes to resemble a holy place of antiquity. The activities currently taking place, however, bore no resemblance to any ancient worship Gavin was aware of. Clad in skimpy tunics and golden sandals, the molls here wielded various instruments of torture: birches, paddles, even the occasional cat-o'-nine-tails. The hiss and snap of leather and wood elicited groans of pleasure from the bound, naked male patrons.

"Blimey, these sods belong in Bedlam," Stewart muttered under his breath. "They can't be right in the upper storey. No sane man would allow such a thing—'tis a bloody disgrace."

Gavin had to agree. His shoulders tensed as a whore with a shiny black whip landed a particularly robust blow. It reminded him all too keenly of the hulks. The punishments meted out for the amusement of the guards and the endless struggle for dominance amongst his fellow inmates. He couldn't fathom yielding control to another, much less finding pleasure in such a thing.

In sexual matters, as with everything else, he would always be the one on top. A scenario flashed in his head ... of Percy bound and begging for his touch ... Even as his groin tightened, he acknowledged that what he wanted from her transcended ropes and cuffs. Those trappings were mere symbols of his deeper need: to have her complete surrender. To know he didn't need to tie her up for her to stay. To know without a doubt that she belonged entirely and only to him. Forever.

Madame Antoinette approached a brunette who was busily employing a leather crop to the reddened backside of a man bound face-down to a table.

"
Cherie
," the bawd said, "have you seen Mademoiselle Whippit?"

The brunette paused, tapping her chin with the tip of the crop. "Earlier, she came in with one o' 'er regulars, a ginger-'aired fellow. They're in one o' the back rooms, I reckon."

"
Merci.
Carry on."

The brunette winked and then said in the high, strident tones of a schoolmistress, "Now, my naughty Johnny, did you forget your homework again?"  

Pleasured yelps rang behind them as the bawd took them to the back of the temple and through a curtain. Doors lined both sides of a hallway; Madame stopped at a closed door on the right. She placed her ear against the door and then knocked discreetly. When no answer was forthcoming, she frowned.

"
Excusez-moi, messieurs
," she said, fitting her key to the lock. "Wait here a moment. I shall return shortly."

As the bawd went inside, closing the door behind her, Stewart said in a low voice, "Wait my arse. I say we go in there an' take 'im now. We can buy the bawd's silence."

Gavin nodded. He readied to shoulder the door down—at that instant, a scream rang through the walls. With a quick glance at one another, he and Stewart knocked the door off its hinges. They rushed through an antechamber, into the back and there ...

"'Oly Mother o' God," Stewart said.

Gavin had seen plenty of violence in his life; even so, the scene lurched his stomach. On her knees, the bawd clutched a pink wig, rocking beside the small figure lying on the floor. With shorn brown hair and open yet unseeing eyes, Miss Whippit resembled a pretty doll whose neck had been snapped in a childish temper. Behind her, spread-eagled upon a wooden rack, lay a more grotesque end, if death could be compared.

Robbie Lyon's throat had been sliced, ear to ear. His eyes bulged from their sockets in an expression of unholy fear. He'd likely watched as his life had gushed from him, bathing his wiry nude form and pooling onto the floor beneath. Flies had already begun to gather and feast; Gavin's gaze shot to the open window.

He and Stewart exchanged a grim look. Apparently, they had not been the only ones looking for Lyon. And someone had gotten to him first.

"There's going to be hell to pay," Stewart said softly.

"Aye." Gavin could feel the storm rising.  

TWENTY-THREE

"Lord above, Miss Percy, is that any way to tidy up?"

Percy paused in the act of nudging a book beneath her bed with her foot. From across the chamber, Lisbett pinned her with a rheumy yet eagle-eyed gaze. 'Twas a look Percy knew well; after all, she'd grown up under the housekeeper's firm auspices—and Lisbett had been old even back then. Still spry and tough as a soup chicken, the good woman continued to rule the roost and keep the Fineses in line.

"Caught red-handed," Percy said with an affectionate grin.

She retrieved the offending object and went to shelve it in its proper place. 'Twas after supper, and Lady Tottenham was already abed. Lisbett had come up for a bit of a chat, but being the housekeeper, couldn't help but try to bring order to the chaos that was Percy's bedchamber.

"Away but a few weeks and the place goes to pot." Shaking her snowy head, Lisbett carried a basket of fripperies over to the armoire. "I'll have a word with Violet, I will—" She broke off as she stumbled. The bin thumped to the floor, scattering items everywhere.

"Are you alright, dear?" Percy rushed over to steady her. With a stab of worry, she felt the frailness of the bones beneath the black bombazine. As a girl, that shoulder had been invincible and a resting place for all hurts. "You mustn't over do. Sit down and have a rest."

"'Tis my dashed joints." The housekeeper gave a disgruntled sigh as Percy helped her into a chair. "Aging is a petty business, miss, and made tolerable only by its alternative."

"You're not allowed to grow old on me," Percy said lightly.

Lisbett snorted. "You aren't a girl any longer. Soon you'll be married to a fine lord with a home of your own. You'll have no need of old Lisbett and her managing ways."

An odd panic clutched Percy's heart. After all she'd experienced with Gavin, she knew she was no longer the girl she'd been even a few short weeks ago. Her life's course had altered: she was falling for a man more complicated than she'd ever imagined. Who answered every need in her—including some she hadn't even known existed—and who made her want to do the same for him.

Everything was changing; she both feared and anticipated what lay ahead. Could her family accept her choices? Would they support her decisions, whatever the consequences?

She crouched down next to the woman who'd taken care of her all her life. Who'd crooned Gaelic lullabies to put her to sleep and who'd seen her through many a scrape. "I'll always need you, Lisbett. And I shan't be married so soon as you think." With a tremulous smile, she said, "Not to a fine lord, at any rate."

"Is that the direction the wind blows now, my girl?" When Percy gave a small nod, Lisbett peered at her closely. "So in the time I was gone you threw over Lord What's-his-name?"

"I discovered Lord Portland and I were not suited." Percy cringed at the memory. "In fact, he was not at all the man I thought him to be."

"I could have told you that, missy, and spared you the trouble."

"But you never met the viscount," Percy said in surprise.

"Didn't need to. Know you, don't I, like the nose on my own face. You were chattering on like a girl with her head in the clouds,"—Lisbett patted her on the cheek with a wrinkled hand—"not a woman readying herself for marriage."

"Well, I hope the others take the news as well as you do," Percy said. "I fear Mama will be ever so disappointed." Her gaze went to the family portrait on the wall, and a lump formed in her throat. "And Papa ... oh, Lisbett, do you think I have let him down?"

"Let Mr. Fines down?" Lisbett said, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"You know how he went on about me marrying a title."

"I knew your father longer than you did, and what he wanted was for his children to be happy," the other said firmly. "And if you ask me, there's more to happiness than a fancy title and a house in Mayfair."

Percy agreed wholeheartedly. With a thrum of hope, she wondered if Lisbett could be convinced of the merits of her plan to live life on her own terms.

"As for your mama, she wants your happiness as well." Lisbett wagged a finger at her. "You've had your share of predicaments, missy, and there's to be no more of that, viscount or no viscount. When Mrs. Fines comes home, you best show her what a proper good girl you can be."

Percy wrinkled her nose at the admonishing tone. No doubt her relationship with Gavin Hunt qualified as a predicament ... if not a full-blown disaster. What was she thinking? The housekeeper would never understand her desire to be with Gavin. In fact, Lisbett would probably box her ears. Soundly.

"I'll do my best—" Percy began when a loud thud cut her off. "What on earth was that?"

"It came from down the hall. Mrs. Fines' bedchamber, I reckon." The other rose, the wrinkles on her brow deepening. "None of the servants would be there this time of night. I best go have a look."  

"Why don't I go instead," Percy said.

Lisbett harrumphed. "I'm not so old that I can't make a trip down the hall, missy."

In the end, they both went. Percy took the lead, her lamp flickering in the dim corridor. As they headed toward Mama's suites, the muffled sounds grew louder. Through the closed door of the chamber came the soft whir of drawers opening and closing. Sounds of a furtive search.

The hairs on Percy's nape prickled. "Should we go and alert Jim?" she whispered.

"Jim? By the time the old codger takes his creaky bones up the stairs, the thief will have made off with the whole house," Lisbett grumbled. "No, wait here a minute. I know what to do."

A few minutes later, Lisbett returned carrying something in her hands. Percy put down the lamp to take what the housekeeper thrust at her. "Um, a cricket bat?"

"Nicked it from Master Paul's old room," the other replied matter-of-factly. "One for each of us. We can't go in there unarmed, can we?"

Percy straightened her shoulders. "Right. So what is the plan?"

Lisbett's gaze had a maniacal gleam. "We surprise the ruffian and wallop him into submission. Then we tie him up,"—she held up the coil of rope in her other hand—"and send for the constables. No two-bit Billy is going to waltz into our house and get away with it."

"Brilliant idea," Percy said. "I'll go in first."

"Mind you take a swing right away, my girl," the housekeeper said sternly. "Make it a good, solid hit. No hesitation, do you hear me?"

Percy's grip tightened on the wooden bat as she nodded. Leaving the lamp behind, she opened the door and entered stealthily. Mama's sitting room lay in perfect stillness. A faint light came from the connecting bedchamber. Percy navigated her way around the furniture with the ease of a girl who'd spent countless hours playing in the room.

With Lisbett close behind her, she peered around the corner into the other room. Her heart thumped in her ears.
Oh, bloody hell—the blasted burglar.
Moonlight from the parted curtains outlined the dark shape of the villain looming over her mother's dresser. His back was turned to her as he rummaged through her parent's belongings. He held up a brooch, turning it this way and that; Percy recognized the cameo Papa had given Mama for her birthday years ago.

Anger surged through Percy's veins.

Not in my house, you blighter.

She dashed forward. Before the thief could turn around, she swung the bat. It connected with a satisfying whack against his shoulders, knocking him face-first into the mirror above the dresser. Over the roar of blood in her ears, Percy heard the offender curse.

"What the devil—"

Before he could utter another word, Percy hit him again.

"That's the way," Lisbett shouted. The housekeeper delivered a good solid blow of her own. "That'll teach you to trespass upon a decent home."

The thief spun around, arms raised to protect his face, and gasped, "
Ouch.
Devil take it, stop! 'Tis me, Paul."

Percy halted, the bat raised mid-swing. "Paul?"

"Yes, you bloodthirsty fiends. Oh, hell, I think you broke my nose."

A moment later, a match rasped; Lisbett held up a candle, revealing Paul's sulky features. The bridge of his nose sported a large cut, and blood was leaking from one nostril onto his cravat. One eye was beginning to swell as big as an egg.

"Oh, dear." Percy bit her lip. "What in heaven's name are you doing here?"

"Before we get into explanations, would you mind fetching me a handkerchief? I'm bleeding all over the Aubusson." With a groan, her brother stumbled into the sitting room and collapsed onto the settee. He clutched his head. "Christ Almighty, the world is spinning. You may have done irreparable damage."

Crouching down next to him, Percy dabbed his nose with a piece of linen. "I am ever so sorry. How was I to know it was you?"

"I think your head must have suffered some knocks before tonight, young man." This came from Lisbett, who'd finished lighting the lamps. With her hands planted on her narrow hips, she looked down at Paul. "That can be the only explanation for your behavior. Why are you skulking in your mother's room in the middle of the night?"

Percy saw guilt flash in those eyes so like her own. And she knew.

How much did you lose this time?
Helpless frustration and worry warped her insides. As she looked closely at him, she could see his bloodshot eyes, the haggard lines beneath the fresh injuries. She smelled the telltale odor upon his breath, and her throat clenched.

Oh, Paul, when will this end?  

"I wasn't skulking." She wasn't fooled by her sibling's nonchalant tone. The more important the topic, the more blasé he became. "Thought the household was asleep, so I didn't bother announcing my visit. As it happens, Mama had promised to have a pocket watch of mine fixed." Paul sat up, straightening his jacket in a righteous motion. "I was looking for it when the two of you came charging in like an army of Hussars."