Too Tempting to Resist (21 page)

Shrouded in shadows, the approaching shape was naught but an indistinct blur of long legs, flapping coat, broad shoulders, tall-crowned hat…
A male.
That much was clear just before Eliza squeezed her eyes shut and offered up a silent prayer.

Keep going, keep going.

The thuds grew louder, louder, and then it seemed that the danger was about to pass. However in the next instant the steps came to an abrupt stop.

She burrowed her head deeper into the folds of the fabric.

“Lady Brentford?”

She didn’t reply.

“What in the name of Hades are you doing here?”

There was no use pretending to be a turtle. Squaring her shoulders, Eliza decided to hide her humiliation by brazening it out. “Actually, I was looking for employment, Lord Haddan. Since my art commission has fallen through, I must have some other means of making enough money to survive.”

Gryff’s mouth thinned to a hard line. “If that is meant as a jest, it’s not amusing.”

“Basic food and shelter is no laughing matter, sir,” she said quietly. “Try going without them.”

Limned in the uncertain light, his profile seemed to soften. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he cleared his throat with a tentative cough. “If you are in need of funds, Lady Brentford—”

“Payment for past services?” Her chin rose, stirring a tiny breath of air. “Thank you, but I’ll cling to what little remnant of pride I have left and refuse the offer, generous though it may be.”

“I—I did not mean…”

“To insult my integrity? Of course not. According to you, I have none.”

She made to pass him, but he moved to block her path.

“Lady Brentford, if I might have a word…”

“Oh, please, sir.” Eliza was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. All she wanted to do was escape from the suffocating shadows and all-too-familiar scent of his bay rum cologne. Choking back tears, she angled away from his big, warm body. “I don’t see that we have anything to discuss. Indeed, I think we’ve probably said too much to each other as it is. I have been to see Mr. Watkins and understand that our partnership is at an end. Let us leave it at that.”

Gryff hesitated, just enough to let her squeeze by. Quickening her steps to a near run, Eliza fled.

“
Men.
” Sara looked up from her ledger with a scowl as Gryff entered the office. “I swear, women ought to be allowed to run the world fer a change. You all don’t deserve te make the rules.”

“What new injury or insult has prompted your ire?” Removing his hat, he ran a hand through his hair and took a seat by the desk.

“Oh, don’t ask,” muttered Sara, reaching for her sherry.

He watched the candlelight spark through the tawny wine, and waited for her to go on. She was usually garrulous to a fault. But for once, silence seemed to squeeze off further comment. Sara merely sipped, a pensive frown wrinkling her brow.

Gryff crossed and recrossed his legs, then rose again and went to cabinet to pour himself a measure of her special Scottish malt. Its fire hit his belly with a welcome jolt, but the heat quickly dissipated, leaving his insides still caught in a cold clench.

The scuff of his pacing finally roused Sara from her brooding. “Any reason ye are as jumpy as a cat on a hot griddle?” she murmured.

“Don’t ask,” he muttered.

A brow flicked up, yet to his dismay she respected his request.

Damn, damn, damn.
How to broach the subject of Lady Brentford’s mysterious visit was proving devilishly difficult.
Women
, he thought, mentally echoing her earlier exasperation. Perhaps he should have sought sanctuary in a monastery rather than a brothel.

“Hmmm.” Sara finally made another sound. “I wonder…”

Gryff swung around from his study of the etching.

Her mouth pursed. “Yer rich, right?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“How rich?”

“Very.”

“Hmmm.” The pencilpoint drummed lightly against the open page of the ledger, leaving a trail of tiny smudges.

“Hell and damnation, Sara,” he growled. “If you are in need of money, just ask.”

“It’s
not
fer me,” she said somewhat defensively. “The fact is, what with the changes I’ve made in the taproom, I’m making even more blunt than the Wolfhound. However…” She shook her head. “No, no, never mind. It was just a thought, but I fear it’s not a very good one.” The last of the sherry disappeared in a quick swallow. “Not that the one I heard earlier was any better.”

He carefully set down his glass. “What was Lady Brentford doing here?”

“Oh, ye remember her?”

However fond he was of his old friend, there were times when he wanted to pick her up by her shapely shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled.

“Yes, I remember her,” Gryff replied through gritted teeth. “Now would you kindly answer my question.”

“No need to bite my head off.” Cocking her head, she fixed him with a look that seemed to strip away his expensive clothing and expose every damnable flaw to the glare of the candle flames.

“Sara,” he prodded.

“Oh, very well.” A terse laugh trailed off in a sigh. “Lady Brentford came to inquire about how much money a gel could hope to make at a place like The Wolf’s Lair.”

Gryff suddenly felt a wave of nausea churn in his gut. He had thought her sardonic answer about seeking employment had been merely a cutting quip, a sarcastic retort. Bracing a hip on the sideboard, he drew in a shallow breath. “Good God, what would make her so desperate?”

“Men,” answered Sara grimly. “Men who seek to twist her talents to their own terrible advantage, to destroy her dreams for their own bloody selfish gain, to break her spirit for their own evil amusement.”

“How so,” he asked in a tight whisper.

“Her brother—who, by the by, ought to be boiled in hot oil—has made a deal with the Devil in order to save his own worthless carcass. He owes a fortune in gaming debts to a pair of scoundrels, Brighton and Pearce. And so he is seeking to force her into helping them with some sort of havey-cavey enterprise involving art.”

Gryff straightened.

“And apparently marriage to Brighton is part of the bargain, seeing as a wife can’t give testimony against her husband.”

He sat down again with an audible thud.

“Yer looking a little queasy, milord. Would ye rather pour yerself a tipple of brandy instead of whisky? Spotted Dick just delivered a very fine vintage that he smuggled in from France.”

“What I would like,” said Gryff slowly, “is to squeeze every last drop of Brighton’s lifeblood from his body. Preferably with my bare hands.”

“A rather strong reaction.” Sara studied him through half-lowered lashes. “Given that the lady is a near-stranger.”

“Hold your teasing until later, if you please.” Gryff tapped a fist to his palm. “Tell me everything that she said.” That he had never asked her about her dreams made his gut twist in a tighter knot. “Everything.”

“Ye going te go slay her dragon?”

Gryff winced at the word “dragon.” “Let us just say that I intend to fight fire with fire.”

The candles seemed to perk up and dance a little brighter.

“Well, she said she intends to return to Leete Abbey on the morrow…”

N
o.” Eliza folded her arms across her chest. “And that is final.”

Augustina punched the dough into a ball, then started shaping it into a flattened disc. “I don’t see why not. Just because I am older than the hills doesn’t mean I can’t be moved from one spot to another without withering on the vine.”

“It’s not a question of your resilience, Gussie. I’ll not have you uprooted from friends and familiar surroundings,” she answered. “Not when I’m going to be floating like dandelion fluff on the wind, waiting to see where the fickle gusts drop me.”

“That’s all the more reason for not flying off on your own,” countered her friend.

Eliza blew out her cheeks, touched by her friend’s stalwart sense of loyalty, but determined to keep her out of harm’s way. She had said nothing about Pearce’s ugly threat, knowing that it would only spark Augustina’s feisty resolve to stand up to the bullies. By heading north, far, far away from her friend’s little thatched cottage, she hoped to draw any danger away from her. With luck, she would lose herself in the windswept hills and valleys of Lancaster. Start a new life.

Hell’s bells. I’ve made a muck of the one I have now.

“Please, I—I just want some time on my own,” she answered. “Alone, without company, to figure out what I want.”

A fine cloud of flour flew up as Augustina dusted her hands and set the shortbread in the oven to bake. A breeze from the open window filled her skirts, and with the delicate powdering of her silvery hair, she looked like a figurine from the last century. Frail, fragile. “If that is what you wish, then of course I shall say no more.” The smile belied the hurt in her eyes.

Secrets, misunderstandings, half-truths.
No wonder the only friendships that mattered had been twisted into knots.

Eliza looked away, afraid she might break down and admit that the last thing she wanted was to be alone. “Once I’m settled, you can come visit,” she said lamely, knowing it would not assuage her friend’s bruised feelings.

“Of course.” Augustina began a methodical tidying up of the kitchen. Pots banged, crocks thumped, giving voice to the discordant mood that had settled over the room. “Still, I cannot help but ask how you are going to journey north on your own. It is not proper for a lone female of gentle birth to travel by mail coach unaccompanied.”

“From now on, I do not plan to stand on ceremony. A governess or housekeeper may make a trip by herself and still be considered respectable. I consider myself to be in the same position—a female who must work for her bread.” Eliza picked up the tea tray and carried it to the pantry. “I would much prefer my freedom to living in gilded captivity.” Marriage to Brighton would keep her confined to a cage. She had seen the poor lion at the Tower menagerie. Even a lordly beast could have its spirit broken by an interminable existence spent locked behind bars.

Grumbling under her breath, Augustina set down a saucer of cream.

“But in this instance, I did decide to go out in style,” she added.

Mouse, the marmalade kitten, scampered out from behind the cupboard. Close on his tail came Elf, his claws scrabbling over the planks as he raced to catch up. Augustina had offered to care for him until she was settled.

“I will be riding in a private carriage, hired to take me as far as Birmingham.”

Her friend looked up from the twitching tails. “It is, I know, a large expense, especially when you won’t let me add to your purse. But I am relieved to hear it.”

Eliza allowed a ghost of a grin. “Don’t worry about the money. I decided to give myself a goodbye present, courtesy of Harry. He left that showy chestnut hunter in the stables, the one that Squire Twining has been coveting for last month. So I sold it at a very fair price. Both of us are extremely happy.” A pause. “I can’t say the same for Harry when he finds out.”

A hoot of laughter greeted the news. “What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,” said Augustina. “For once, let him stew in his own juices.”

Meow.
The two cats batted at the empty saucer, sending it skidding across the floor.

“Yes, a celebration is definitely in order!” exclaimed Augustina. After righting the dish and refilling the cream she took down her flask of medicinal whisky and poured them both a thimbleful.

The clink of glasses dispelled the unsettled air. Like a summer squall, the tension seemed to blow itself out, leaving a clean rain-washing freshness to the kitchen.

“Oh, Gussie.” As the spirits hit her belly with a jolt of warmth, Eliza put her arms around her friend and hugged her close. “Nothing would give me greater joy than to have you come live with me in the Lake country. But let us not rush things. We must see what happens with Harry, and then…then we can make a better decision.”

Augustina sniffed and wiped a tear from her pale cheek. “Even as a child you were always so solidly sensible. I sometimes wondered who was teaching whom.”

“Obviously there were some lessons I didn’t absorb very well,” said Eliza, blinking a pearl of moisture from her lashes. “I would hardly call my dealings with men very sensible.”

“Haddan is a fool for not giving you a chance to explain,” said Augustina. “A handsome, charming fellow, but a fool nonetheless.”

And he likely thinks me a scheming, conniving wagtail, thought Eliza, but saying so aloud would only set off more sparks. Best to let the embers burn down into ashes.

“It was never more than a passing fancy, Gussie. For both of us.”

Augustina carefully shifted the jar of cut flowers sitting on the windowsill, her hands lingering on the yellow petals.

Damn, why did daffodils have to mean unrequited love?

“You still don’t lie very well,” said her friend with a wry smile.

“Don’t burn the shortbread,” warned Eliza. “
That
would definitely break my heart.”

Thank God that laughter was a balm for the spirits. The hot pan was pulled from the oven and they sat at the little table to break off buttery morsels of the still-steaming pastry like naughty children, burning their tongues in the process.

“Mmmm, when do you plan on leaving?” asked Augustina, fanning her lips.

“The day after tomorrow. I have a few things to pack at the Abbey. But now that I have made up my mind, I wish to go quickly, before Harry and Brighton can make any trouble.”

“Ha. Just let them try, my dear.” A martial tattoo drummed on the scarred oak. “Just let them try.”

“I do hope your friends have left one of those sinfully expensive Indian cheroots for me.”

Gryff looked around to see Cameron’s dark silhouette framed in the doorway of the study. “Help yourself,” he replied, setting the carved sandalwood box on the tea table.

“Are we celebrating something?” Shaking the mizzle from his overcoat, Cameron eyed the three hulking figures lounging by the hearth, each of whom was enjoying a large tumbler of expensive brandy to go along with the slim sticks of rare tobacco. Plumes of scented smoke skirled around the carved marble, muffling the rough rasp of laughter.

“The purchase of a painting.” Gryff pointed to a large watercolor propped up against the wall. “In a manner of speaking.”

Cameron limped over for a look.

“What happened to your leg?” asked Gryff.

“I fell.” His friend plucked at his cuff, revealing a heavily bandaged hand. “Out of a third story window.”

The light from the glass-globed sconce showed a shade of bruising running along the left side of his jaw.

“How clumsy of you.” Gryff’s frown deepened as his gaze moved up to the thin cut on Cameron’s brow. “That looks like it was made by a knife. Did a piece of steel do the shoving?”

His friend merely shrugged, and turned to study the painting.

“It appears that I need not have rushed back to Town,” he murmured after spending several moments examining Eliza’s copy of the Maria Sibylla Merian watercolor. A slanted look cut to the ex-pugilists. “Hell, I do hope you weren’t too heavy-handed with The Badger. He and I do a fair amount of business together and he won’t thank me if you created any sort of trouble at his establishment.”

“There was no trouble at all.” Gryff allowed the corners of his mouth to curl up as he raised his voice. “No trouble at all, was there, Georgie?”

“Nay, milord. The Badger was happy te part with the doodle. Ye see, he hadn’t yet paid the cove who brought it in, so when he learned that the item was stolen from its rightful owner, he was shocked—shocked!”

His friends guffawed into their drinks.

“And was happy te hear we wuz gonna return it.”

“Naturally, I had my friends here give him a token of my appreciation,” added Gryff. “For doing the right thing.”

Georgie’s slabbed face split into a wide grin.

“Good God, your hidden talents appear to include a knack for vice,” said Cameron admiringly. “Perhaps we should go into partnership.”

“I’m flattered, but after I finish with this business tonight, I’ve little interest in any future gropings along the underbelly of London.”

Cameron struck a lucifer and lit up a cheroot. “You have another stop to make?”

“Yes. A rendezvous with Brighton and his cousin at The Black Duck, which I’m told is one of their favorite haunts.”

The mention of the seedy gaming hell in Seven Dials caused one dark brow to arch up. “It doesn’t look as if you need any extra help, but as the encounter promises to be interesting, I might come along to observe.”

“We’ll be meeting up with an additional party near the gaming hell,” said Gryff. “The magistrate.”

A lazy exhale blew out a perfect smoke ring. Cameron watched it slowly dissolve before saying, “On second thought, it might not be wise for me to show my face.”

“You should be safe enough. The local authority is Mr. Bolt, who handled the investigation into the Wolfhound’s recent troubles,” replied Gryff. They both had met the man when their friend Connor had been under suspicion of a crime. “And Bolt has decided that his initial impression was wrong and that your features—along with the jewels dripping from your earlobe—are, in fact,
not
familiar.”

“How did you manage that?”

“A generous donation to his wife’s charity fund for orphans,” answered Gryff. “I am always eager to support a worthy cause.”

Cameron stifled a smile. “You continue to surprise me.”

“I’m planning on giving the baronet and his cursed cousin an even bigger shock to their sensibilities.” He signaled to the three men by the hearth. “Ready, lads?”

Glasses clinked down on stone as hobnailed boots shifted over the Aubusson carpet. “Aye, milord,” said Georgie, tossing the butt of his tobacco into the fire. “Let’s go crack some heads.”

“We’ll use force only if necessary,” Gryff reminded them, though an evil grin shaded his words. “Of course, if they try to slip away from the authorities, it’s our duty to see that they don’t escape justice.”

“Oh, this should be jolly entertaining,” said Cameron. “Lead the way.”

“Right on time, Lord Haddan.” Bolt snapped his pocketwatch shut and surveyed the shadowed silhouettes behind Gryff. “And I see you have brought along your own reinforcements.”

“Just in case you could use some extra force. I should like to ensure that these vipers don’t slither away.”

“Yes, so you said.” Bolt lifted a brow. “Any particular reason?”

“My duty as a responsible citizen,” replied Gryff without batting an eye. “Once the crime came to my knowledge, honor compelled me to do something about it.”

“Very commendable,” said the magistrate dryly. His gaze lingered for a moment on Cameron’s features before moving on to the trio of ex-pugilists. “And I take it these are other concerned citizens.”

“But of course.”

A low whistle summoned a quartet of equally beefy men from the shadows behind Bolt. “Follow me, milord.”

The magistrate cut between two crumbling brick warehouses and led the way down a narrow alleyway. “Brady and Miller, you two go around and guard the back exits. The rest of you, come along.”

A thick cloud of smoke hung heavy beneath the blackened beams of the low-ceilinged room, muffling the sounds of men at play. Dice rattled, losers groaned and sloshed their sorrows with flagons of ale.

Gryff squinted through the haze. “There.” He pointed to an alcove, where a half-dozen gamesters were gathered around a table playing
vingt-et-un
.

The room turned unnaturally still, the grunts and groans quieting as Bolt pushed through the tangle of chairs.

Brighton looked up at the group’s approach, his red-rimmed eyes dilating in dawning alarm as the
tromp
of boots came closer and closer.

“Sorry, this table is full. Find yourself some other amusement,” said Pearce, trying to muster a show of bravado.

Much to Gryff’s satisfaction, his bluster rang hollow.

“Sir Brighton. Mr. Pearce.” Bolt’s voice was a good deal firmer.

The two men scraped back their chairs.

“What do you want?” demanded Brighton.

“You are under arrest.”

The other players at the table quickly dropped their cards and slunk away into the shadows.

The baronet paled. “On what charge?”

“Theft, selling forgeries, blackmail, assault.” Bolt dropped a sheet of paper on the table. “The rest of the charges are written there. You may read them at your leisure in Newgate Prison.”

“Th-that’s absurd! The charges are false,” exclaimed Brighton. “You cannot prove a thing. Show me one witness who will corroborate such a pack of filthy lies!”

Gryff stepped forward. “Me, for one. And there are others who will back up my testimony.” He added his own packet to Bolt’s paper. “The proprietor of your flash house has made a full confession, along with a detailed list of all the rigs you are running. They are, I might add, quite numerous.” He gave an inward smile as the baronet’s face crumpled in fear. The papers were blank, a mere bluff. “In addition, these gentlemen here…” He gestured at Georgie and his two companions. “Will confirm everything.”

“How…Who…”

As his cousin stammered, Pearce edged back and then suddenly ducked through a narrow doorway. Gryff signaled to Georgie’s two companions. “Go fetch Mr. Pearce and inform him that it would be extremely rude to keep the gaoler waiting.”