Passion for the Game

Chapter 7

“We are bringing a ship into Deal tomorrow night.”

Christopher stared out his black velvet-framed study window at the street below, his fingers rubbing into the sore muscles of his neck. Hackneys rattled by in haste, as no one wished to spend more time in this area of town than was absolutely necessary. “Is everything in readiness?”

“Yes,” Philip assured behind him. “The lander has already arranged the carts and mounts, so transportation will begin posthaste.”

Christopher nodded wearily, suffering from lack of deep sleep. Driving himself to physical exhaustion would not cure the restlessness caused by his current predicament, and Maria’s place in it.

“This cargo is an impressive haul, I’ve heard,” Philip said, his tone lined with the inquisitiveness Christopher fostered.

“Yes. I’m pleased.”

Diluting of the over-proof spirits and packaging of the contraband tea would take some time, but his men worked industriously, and his goods filtered into the retail market much quicker than competing smugglers and gangs.

A knock came to the door and he called out permission to enter. The portal swung open and Sam entered, his hat pressed against his chest in a gesture Christopher had come to recognize as a nervous one. Because Sam had been one of the four men assigned to follow Maria, Christopher was immediately set on edge.

“What is it?” he asked.

Sam winced and ran a hand through his red locks. “There was a skirmish two nights ago and-”

“Was she hurt?” Every muscle tensed, his mind flooding with memories of her sweetly curved body straining beneath his. She was so tiny, so slight of frame…

“Aye. Knife wounds to the left shoulder, one clean through.”

Christopher’s voice became even more controlled, a sure sign of his growing irritation. “The entirety of your purpose was to see to her safety. Four of you, yet you all failed?”

“She was set upon! And there were more of them than there were of us!”

Christopher glanced at Philip. “Have the coach hitched.”

“She’s here,” Sam offered quickly. “In Town.”

“Say that again.” Christopher’s heart raced. “She traveled in that condition?”

Sam cringed and nodded.

A low growl rumbled up from the depths of Christopher’s chest.

“I will have your horse brought round,” Philip offered, retreating hastily.

Christopher’s gaze never left Sam’s flushed face. “You should have kept her abed and sent for me.”

“’Tis a blessing I can tell the tale!” Sam held out his hands defensively, the brim of his hat crumpled in his fist. “When we took her back to her inn, the Irishman went bloody mad.” He scratched furiously at his head and blurted, “He frightened Tim! Tim was quaking, I tell you, and Tim could look the devil in the eye and laugh.”

“Quinn was not with her when the attack occurred?”

Sam shook his head.

His hands fisting at his sides, Christopher left the room with rapid strides, forcing Sam to leap out of the way. Crossing the hall, he paused at the door to the parlor, where a dozen of his lackeys were engaged in a card game. “Come along,” he said before taking the stairs to the street level.

The men scrambled to their feet behind him.

He collected his coat and hat and swept out the main door. Within moments, he was mounted and the others were galloping around from the mews where their horses were always at the ready for whatever task he might send them on.

As they rode from St. Giles to Mayfair, beggars and prostitutes gave way to vendors and pedestrians, but all called out to him, waving hats and arms in cheerful greetings. Christopher tipped his brim as necessary, but the movement was habitual, his thoughts fully focused on Maria.

Later, once he’d assured himself that she was well, he would hear reports of the incident in minute detail from each of the four men who had been present. There would be discussion, and the point of error would be discovered. The other men would hear of it, and the failure would be used as a teaching tool. The four men would most likely never be given so important a task again.

Others in his position would take more brutal measures of discipline, but a maimed man was less efficient than a whole one. And loss of privilege would teach the same lesson. When violence was necessary, it was quite simply necessary, but he had no need of it to control those under his command.

Arriving at Lady Winter’s townhouse, he dismounted as two of his men detained the startled groomsmen. Entry to the house was gained by simply swarming in past the outraged butler, and Christopher shoved his hat and gloves at the blustering servant before taking the stairs two at a time.

Altogether the time between his learning of Maria’s injuries and his arrival at her bedroom was impressively short, but not swift enough for him. He pushed the door to her bedchamber open at the same moment Quinn entered the sitting room from his own suite.

“By God!” the Irishman roared. “Step one foot in there and I shall kill you with my bare hands.”

Christopher waved his hand carelessly at the men who followed at his heels. “Take care of that,” he drawled, shutting out the scuffle that ensued with a firm click of the latch.

Breathing deeply, he pulled the scent of Maria deep into his nostrils and thumbed the lock, surprised to find himself somewhat hesitant to turn about and face her. The thought of her wounded did odd things to his equanimity.

“Be grateful I am too weary to give you your due, Mr. St. John.”

He smiled at the breathy sound of her voice. It was weak, yes, but it challenged him just the same. Turning, he found her lost in her large bed, her olive skin pale and her brows furrowed with pain. Dressed in a thin cotton night rail with lace at the throat and wrists, the infamous Lady Winter looked as innocent as a schoolgirl.

His gut clenched.

“Christopher,” he corrected hoarsely, the betraying rasp forcing him to clear his throat. Shrugging out of his coat, he took a moment to collect himself.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she whispered, watching him.

“Thank you.” He draped the garment over the back of a slipper chair and moved to her side, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Her head turned to keep their gazes locked together. “You do not look well.”

“Oh?” Both brows rose. “I think I look better than you.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “Nonsense. You are pretty, but I am far prettier.”

He smiled and caught up her tiny hand within his own. “I will not argue with that.”

A loud crash in the next room followed by a curse made her wince. “I hope you have enough men out there. Simon is in a mood, and I have seen him dispatch a small army by himself.”

“Forget about him,” he said curtly. “I am here. Think about me.”

Her eyes slid closed, revealing delicate lids darkened by tiny purple veins. “I have done nothing else for a few days now.”

He was startled by the statement, and confused as to whether he could believe it or not. Which led him to wonder about how he would feel if it were true. He frowned down at her. “You have been thinking of me?”

Without thought, he lifted his hand and brushed loose tendrils of her unbound hair behind her ears. His fingertips returned to her cheek, caressing feather light over the satin-smooth skin. The tenderness he felt took him aback. It made him wish to stand up and back out of the room, return to his home, where everything was familiar and ran like clockwork.

“Did I say that aloud?” she murmured, slightly slurred of speech. “How silly of me. Pay me no mind. It is the laudanum, I’m sure.”

The withdrawal of her admission pulled him forward, urging him to lean closer. He paused with his lips a breath away from hers, the scent of her skin so strong it made his loins tighten.

“Do it,” she breathed, goading him even in her vulnerable state.

The way she pushed him made him smile, and his smile set off hers. Satisfaction flared that he could lift the weight of pain that shrouded her.

“I am waiting for you,” he murmured.

There was a slight, telltale moment of hesitation. Then Maria’s head moved slightly, closing the tiny distance between them until her lips pressed gently to his. The soft, innocent kiss arrested him, froze him in place, his heart lurching from its normal steady beat into a breakneck race.

Unable to resist, he licked along the seam of her mouth, collecting the flavor of opium, brandy, and pure delicious Maria. She gasped, opening the sweet depths to his tentative thrust, her hand clutching at his. When the tip of her tongue ventured in return, Christopher groaned.

Even helpless, she undid him.

Then her free hand moved between his legs, slender fingers stroking the rigid length of his cock. He jerked back violently from the caress, a curse gritted out between clenched teeth.

She cried out softly in pain as the force of his movement rocked her.

“Maria. Forgive me.” Contrite, he lifted her hand to his lips. “Why touch me in that manner when you haven’t the wherewithal to follow through?”

It took her a moment to reply, her eyes squeezed shut as she appeared to recover from the hurt he’d unwittingly caused. “You did not say you thought of me during our separation. I wished to know.”

Some object made of glass broke in the room next door, and then something heavy thumped against the wall. Quinn yelled and someone retorted.

Christopher growled low. “My siege today is insufficient proof of my desire to be with you?”

Her lids lifted, revealing fathomless dark eyes that seemed so desolate to him, far beyond what he would expect from a battle wound. The hopelessness he saw was soul deep and bleak.

“Sieges are a way to defeat an enemy,” she said simply. “Though your haste is flattering.”

“And the kiss?” he asked. “What was that?”

“You tell me.”

He stared at her, his chest lifting and falling. Frustrated with his lack of control, Christopher pushed to his feet and began to pace, something he never did.

“Would you like some water?” he asked a moment later.

“No. Go away.”

He paused midstride. “Beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” Turning her head, Maria rested her cheek against her pillow. “Go. Away.”

Giving in to his desire to depart, Christopher moved toward his coat. He did not need this aggravation, and he was not the type of man to woo women. They either wanted him or they didn’t.

“I am not sure how I feel about your men following me,” she murmured.

His hand stilled atop his garment. “Grateful?” he suggested.

She waved him away.

The dismissive gesture rankled. Here he’d waited impatiently for her to return and then, because he did not give her the platitudes she desired, she sent him away.

“I thought of you,” he grumbled.

Her eyes did not open, but one dark brow rose. Only Maria could make that tiny movement convey icy disdain.

Because he felt as if he’d revealed something he should not have, he said, “I was hoping we would stay a day or two in bed when you returned; however, I had envisioned the time spent more strenuously than merely lying about as you are doing.”

Her returning smile was knowing, as if she collected his need to reduce his statement to physical hunger and nothing more. “How often?”

“The sex? As often as I recovered.”

She laughed softly. “How often did you think of me?”

He growled. “Too often.”

“Was I unclothed?”

“Most of the time.”

“Ah, well.”

“How often was I unclothed?” he asked hoarsely, thoughts of her possible musings renewing his hunger.

“All of the time. It seems I am more lecherous than you.”

“I think it’s far more likely that you and I are evenly matched.”

Opening one eye, Maria glanced at him. “Hmm…”

Leaving his coat, he returned to her. “Who is this governess whom you seek at such cost?” He resumed both his seat on her velvet-draped bed and his possession of her hand. It was then he noted how short her nails were, nails that had once been long enough to do damage to his back. His thumb rubbed over the tips.

“She is not the one I want.”

“Oh?” Christopher lifted his gaze to search her pale features. Even with her unhealthy pallor, he found her beautiful. Certainly he knew many lovely women, but there were none he could imagine who had the strength to bear the pain Maria had to be in. “Who, then?”

“Did you not question your men?”

“There was no time.”

“Now I am truly flattered,” she drawled, smiling in a way that hit him with the force of a blow. Had he ever seen her smile before today? He could not recall.

“I am questioning you instead.”

“You look dashing in that shade of brown.” Once again she touched his thigh, caressing his breeches. The muscle tensed beneath her fingertips. “You dress beautifully.”

“I look better naked,” he said.

“I wish I could say the same. Sadly, I bear a few holes.”

“Maria.” He spoke low and earnestly, his grip on her hand tightening. “Allow me to assist you in your endeavors.”

She gave him her full attention. “Why?”

Because I must betray you. Because I need to redeem myself in some way before I do. “Because I can help you.”

“Why do you want to help me, Christopher? What do you gain?”

“Must I benefit in some way?”

“I think you must,” she said, wincing as her bedroom door rocked in its hinges.

“Maria!” Simon shouted through the door, followed immediately by a grunt and a thud.

Christopher had to admit, he was impressed at the other man’s ability to persevere.

“They won’t harm him, will they?” she asked with a worried frown. “A little rough play is one thing, but I will not tolerate anything beyond that.”

Her concern for the other man was an irritant.

“All I ask of you,” he said tightly, “is what I asked before-I want you available for my use. No haring off. I want you when I want you, not a sennight later and too ill to take me.”

“Perhaps I prefer to decline and manage my own affairs.”

He snorted. “Perhaps I might have believed you if you had not admitted to thinking of me.”

“I am no man’s mistress.”

“I offer the same level of convenience to you. I will come when you call for me. Does that put the arrangement in a more agreeable light?”

Maria’s fingers stroked across his palm. It was an innocent caress, one given almost without thought. Her gaze was distant, her mind occupied elsewhere, her lower lip worried between her teeth. He lifted his free hand and stroked his thumb across the plump curve.

“When we first met in the theater, you mentioned an agency,” she reminded, her breath hot against his skin.

“The agency.” Christopher fought the urge to tell her to keep her silence, to tell him nothing that he could use against her.

“Is that the true purpose behind this offer?” Her head tilted to the side as she studied him. “Because you have need to use me in some way beyond warming your bed?”

“Partly.” His thumb left her lip to brush along the curve of her cheekbone. “I do want you, Maria. I do want to help you.”

Her eyes closed again on a sigh. “I am weary, Christopher. It was a hard journey in this condition. Later, I will consider your proposal.”

“Why did you risk returning?” He sensed there was more than weariness involved. She seemed disheartened and deeply melancholy.

Her eyes blinked open and the way she clutched at his hand conveyed urgency. “Welton is not aware of my…interests or travels. If you truly wish to help me, I have a task for you.”

“What can I do?”

“Where were you two nights past when I was injured?”

He was at Emaline’s attempting to convince himself that one cunt was as good as another, but damned if he would say so. He scowled at her.

“Are your whereabouts that night well known?” she revised.

Afflicted by guilt-an emotion he so rarely felt that it took him a moment to recognize it-he said hoarsely, “No.”

“Would you say I was with you if asked?”

“Hmm…I might. With the right persuasion.”

“If you were with another woman, I’m not inclined to persuade you about anything. I shall find another alibi.”

“Are you jealous?” He smiled, warmed by the thought.

“Should I be?” Maria shook her head. “Disregard. Men do not tolerate jealous women.”

“True.” Christopher pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, then deepened it when she did not pull away. Instead, she shivered and opened wider. His tongue stroked deep, his blood simmering instantly at her response. Hurt and in pain, she still accepted his amorous attentions as if unable to resist.

He whispered against her mouth, “But this man likes the thought of a jealous Maria.”

A knock came to the door that led to the gallery, forcing them apart.

“Rest,” he said when she opened her mouth to reply. “I will make myself useful.”

Rising to his feet, Christopher moved to the door and opened it, finding a sheepish-looking Tom.

“Lord Welton is in the parlor,” Tom said. “Philip has asked for you.”

Christopher was immediately on his guard, his face impassive but his thoughts awhirl with possibilities. He nodded, then retreated back into the room and collected his coat.

“What is it?” Maria asked, dark eyes wide with concern. “Is Simon well?”

It took a moment for him to squelch his urge to retort rudely. “I will see to him, but tell me this: would you show such concern if it were I in Quinn’s place?”

“Are you jealous?”

“Should I be?”

“Yes. I hope you squirm with it.”

A bark of laughter escaped-part humor, part disgust with himself for being enamored with a beauty infamous for her history with men. When she offered up another smile, he settled into resignation and nursed a faint hope that his enchantment with her would pass.

“Give me a moment to handle an unexpected matter, my lovely savage,” he murmured, shrugging into his coat. “Then we will speak further on the terms of our association. I will check on Quinn, as well.”

She nodded and he departed through the sitting-room door, pausing a moment on the threshold to take in the destruction of the furnishings and the struggling, gagged Irishman tied to a gilded chair in the corner. Furious mumbling and violent thrashing accompanied Christopher’s appearance. Quinn rose to his feet, hunched over by the shape of his chair, and two of Christopher’s battered and rumpled men shoved him back down.

“Gentle with him, lads,” he admonished wryly, noting the half dozen men sprawled about the wreckage in varying degrees of pain. “The lady insists, though it appears her fear is groundless.”

He managed to quell his laughter until he reached the stairs. Then he gave it free rein until he reached the foyer. Thankfully, he discovered the lower floor in much better order than the upper.

Philip met him at the bottom step. “I sent the housekeeper to speak with Lord Welton in the parlor,” the young man explained, leading Christopher to his command position in the lower study. “She told him the lady is indisposed. Apparently, the news was not well received. The housekeeper asked for you.”

Christopher turned to the woman who stood tall and proud by the front window. “What can I do for you, Mrs…?”

“Fitzhugh,” she replied with a lift of her chin. Gray strands of hair curled by the heat and humidity of the kitchen surrounded a face lined with age, but handsome in its features. “’e asked me if she was ill or injured. I doona like ’im, Mr. St. John. ’e pries.”

“I see. I take it you would prefer he not learn of your lady’s condition.”

She nodded grimly, reddened hands twisting in her apron. “’er ladyship gave strict orders.”

“Send him away, then.”

“I canna do that. ’e settles the accounts.”

Christopher paused, his niggling sense of suspicion flaring into absolute certainty of something amiss. Maria should be settled in her own right, not dependent upon the largesse of her stepfather. He shot a side glance at Philip, who nodded his silent understanding. The matter would be investigated thoroughly.

“Have you any suggestions?” Christopher asked, returning his attention to Mrs. Fitzhugh and considering her carefully.

“I said you were coming to call. That you were expected and Lady Winter was indisposed.”

“Hmm…I see. So perhaps I should arrive at the scheduled time, yes?”

“You wouldna want to be late,” she agreed.

“Of course not. Step out in the foyer, Mrs. Fitzhugh, if you would please.”

The housekeeper hurried out and Christopher arched a brow at Philip. “Send for Beth. I wish to speak to her this evening.”

“I will see to it.”

Christopher left the room and traversed the short distance to the front parlor, where he entered behind Mrs. Fitzhugh as if he’d only just arrived. He feigned surprise. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

Lord Welton glanced up from the act of pouring a libation and his eyes widened. Satisfaction flared in the emerald depths but was quickly masked. “Mr. St. John.”

“A lovely afternoon to call, my lord,” Christopher said smoothly while surreptitiously examining the fine quality of the other man’s garments. Despite a mode of living reported to be excessive in all vices, the viscount looked the picture of health and vitality with his raven tresses and cunning green eyes. He bore the appearance of a man who felt so secure of his place in the world, nothing concerned him.

“Yes. I agree.” Welton’s throat worked with a large swallow, then he said, “Though I had heard that my stepdaughter is ill.”

“Oh? She was vibrant when I saw her only two nights past.” He sighed in mock disappointment. “Perhaps she will withdraw from our plans for the afternoon. I’m crushed.”

“Two nights past, you say?” Welton asked, frowning suspiciously.

“Yes. After our fortuitous introduction at a weekend gathering at Lord and Lady Harwick’s, she graciously accepted my invitation to supper.” Christopher said the last with a hint of male satisfaction in his tone.

The subtle implication was not lost on Lord Welton, who smiled smugly. “Ah well, sounds as if this rumor is as worthless as most.” He tossed back the contents of his glass and set it on the nearest side table before standing. “Please give her my regards. I’ve no wish to intrude on your appointment.”

“Good day to you, my lord,” Christopher said with a slight bow.

Welton grinned. “It already is.”

Christopher waited until the front door closed behind the departing viscount and then returned to the study. “Have him followed,” he said to Philip.

He took the stairs back up to Maria.

Robert Sheffield, Viscount Welton, descended the short steps to the street and paused a moment to look up at the home behind him.

Something was wrong.

Despite the apparent facts to the contrary-the governess’s oath that the attackers were unknown to them and St. John’s assurance that he was with Maria the night of the attack-Robert’s gut told him to be wary. Who else would want Amelia besides Maria? Who else would be so bold? He would not have believed Amelia’s claim that her assailants were unknown to her, but the governess had corroborated the tale and she had no reason to lie to the person who paid for her services.

Robert paused on the threshold of the carriage door and glanced up at his driver. “Take me to White’s.”

Vaulting into the interior, he leaned back against the squab and considered the alternatives. Maria could have sent men in her stead, freeing her to meet with St. John, but where would she gain the coin to finance such a venture?

He rubbed the space between his brows to ward off a headache. So ridiculous, really, this constant push and pull. The wench should be grateful. He’d rescued her from certain rotting in the countryside and seen her married to titled and wealthy peers. Her lavish home and envied mode of dress was due entirely to him, and yet had she ever thanked him?

No. Therefore, he would keep her in mind as the prime suspect, but he was no fool. He also had to consider the possibility that someone else had a grievance with him, someone who knew his fortunes rested with Amelia. He hated to expend funds that could be used for his pleasure on a fruitless search, but what choice did he have?

Robert sighed, realizing that he would need more money if he wished to maintain his present style of living. Which meant he needed to search for a generous admirer for Maria.