A Rogue’s Pleasure (13 page)

“He's not…?” Anthony held his breath.

Stenton smoothed his greasy hair over his ears. “Naw, no reward for a dead man. He were out cold, so we trussed 'im up, stuffed a sack o'er him, and slung 'im in the cart. Since then I've been tempted more'n once to finish 'im off, but me employer wants 'im kept alive until the sister delivers the blunt. After that it's…” He drew a forefinger across his throat and made a low, gurgling noise.

Careful to keep his tone conversational, Anthony asked, “How much longer 'ave you to keep 'im?”

Stenton's thin lip curled. “'Til the thirtieth. I b'aint ne'er worked so 'ard in me life. Me employer gave us some powder to put in 'is food to make 'im sleep. At first it did the trick, but 'e must be gettin' used to it now because 'e's a proper handful.”

“A month is a long time to hold a man,” Anthony commiserated. “Where d'you keep 'im?”

Stenton's eyes narrowed, receding further into their cavernous sockets. “What's it to ye?”

Anthony shrugged. “Just curious is all.”

“'E's safe and snug nearby, 'ave no fear. If ye're willing to make it worth our while, there's room for one more.”

Anthony pretended to prevaricate. “All right,” he said at length.

Stenton raised his glass. “To partners.”

To my luck holding
. Anthony took a bracing swallow of his drink.

Stenton polished off the rest of his gin, and then swiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. “How much d'ye reckon Grenville's kin'll part with?”

Anthony traced the rim of his glass, recalling his latest bank draft. “Two thousand, easy.”

Stenton's eyes bulged. He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “We split it fifty-fifty.”

Anthony knew that the thief expected him to haggle. To keep up appearances, he countered, “Sixty-forty, my favor, o' course.”

Stenton didn't hesitate. “Agreed. Now tell us, what's the plan?”

“Grenville roosts at Number Twelve Berkeley Square. 'Is bedchamber's on the second floor, third one from the right.”

“How do we get in?”

Fortunately Anthony had anticipated the question. “I've a friend who works in the kitchens. I'll make sure she leaves the back door unlocked. Wait 'til the 'ouse's dark, then make your move.”

“What if he b'aint there?”

“He'll be there. War's turned 'im timid. Won't go out after dark. And I 'ave it on good
authority 'e takes a drop o' laudanum before bed.”

Stenton drained his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “When do we make our move?”

“The twenty-ninth.”

“Luke and me's got expenses. We'll need a few quid to tide us o'er.”

Luke paused from making a thorough excavation of his left nostril. “Aye, to tide us o'er.”

Counting on Stenton's greed, Anthony had come prepared. He reached into his pocket just as a drunken shout rang out.

“Look, we've got a girl 'ere, and she's a beaut!”

Anthony stared in horror across the room.

Chelsea, face flushed and shirt torn, struggled to free herself from brawny arms. Her cap lay crushed on the floor and hairpins hung loosely from the braid shimmering over her shoulder.

“Let go of me, you big oaf!”

The seaman dipped a hairy hand inside her shirt. “Not so fast, luv. First I'll see if yer other pap be as soft and sweet as this'n.”

Murderous rage thundered through Anthony. He shot to his feet, grabbed his crutch, and shoved through the jeering crowd.

“Let go of her…
now
.”

The sailor's gaze fixed on Anthony's crutch. He sneered. “And if I don't, whose goin' to make me?”

Anthony squared his shoulders. “I am, as a matter of fact.” The seaman's thick lips twisted. Shoving Chelsea to his companion, he raised his fists. “Go to, then.”

Anthony didn't hesitate. He tossed his crutch to Bess in the gathering crowd and raised his fists.

Shouts of “A ring! A ring!” went up as the spectators moved back to make room. Anthony's opponent was more than twice his size and, Anthony felt sure, would have no qualms about enlisting the aid of his mates if he began to lose. When the night was over, all he asked was to be left one good arm to apply to Chelsea's backside and a knee to throw her over.

Jack stepped between the sailor and Anthony. “If ye want the lass, ye'll 'ave to deal wi' me as well.”

The seaman's fists dropped like anchors. “Peace, friend. I didn't mean no 'arm.”

Freed, Chelsea darted to Anthony's side. He looped an arm around her and steered her toward their table.

He shoved her down onto the bench between him and Jack. “If we get out of this alive, I'm going to throttle you.”

From across the table, Stenton's brooding gaze rested on the front of Chelsea's torn shirt. “A bit flat upstairs, but a pretty piece all the same. Lemme guess, your doxy?”

Chelsea's mouth fell open but, catching Anthony's glare, she clamped it closed. Turning back to Stenton, Anthony nodded.

Stenton's slow smile raised the hairs on the back of Anthony's neck. “Fact is, in these parts we believe in sharin'. Sort o' like a fambly, right, Luke?” Stenton jabbed the brawny man in the ribs.

Snorting, Luke repeated, “Aye, like fambly.”

“An' like a fambly, we shares all the little necessities o' life. Everything a body needs—food, drink…wenches.” Stenton's grin widened, baring long, yellowed canines. “Take me
meaning?”

Fear trickled through Anthony. He remembered the Spanish peasant girl he'd found after Barrosa, huddled in a ditch, clothing torn, eyes…
blank
. Part of the English victory celebration, she'd been passed from one drunken soldier to the next until she'd finally fainted.

He swallowed. “Aye, that I do.” He slipped a hand inside his breast pocket and pulled out his knife, yet another item he'd purchased for the occasion.

Chelsea gasped. Two stragglers congregating nearby scrambled away, but Stenton didn't budge.

Hoping he'd not have to produce the pistol in his pocket, Anthony clenched the knife hilt. Lowering his voice to a hiss, he said, “Now take my meaning—anyone who lays a hand on the girl answers to me and—” he plunged the point into the table, “—
this
.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Chelsea flinch. Jack tucked an arm about her.

Stenton faced him over the quivering blade. “I wouldn't 'ave pegged you as the type to fling your life away for a wench.” He turned to Luke and snickered. “Faith, it must be luv.”

That last remark acted on Anthony like a bullet striking bone. Beneath the table his free hand fisted, and he itched to plant it in Stenton's leering face. And Chelsea? He'd never gone to such lengths for a woman, let alone a woman he hadn't bedded. He didn't know what he wanted most, to pulverize Stenton or to carry Chelsea upstairs to Bess's bed.

But, before he did either, he had to save her. He forced his features into a bland mask. “I admit I've grown fond o' the trollop, despite 'er snorin' and fartin'.”

Jack chuckled, and Chelsea's cheeks flamed.

Stenton studied her. “Talented, is she?”

Anthony feigned a yawn. “Oh, she's not wi'out a trick or two, I'll give 'er that, but she'd be poor sport for a lusty bloke like yourself. Besides, soon you'll be able to hire all the whores in Covent Garden, if you've a mind.” He looked between the two henchmen, then at Chelsea, who was gnawing on her bottom lip. “Are you and your mate prepared to walk away from the chance o' a lifetime fer one
flat-chested
girl?”

“'Tis a lot o' blunt.” Stenton's gaze sharpened. “On the other hand, like they says, a bird in the hand's worth two in the bush.”

“That reminds me…” Anthony reached inside his coat pocket for the worn leather purse. He tossed it to Stenton, who caught it. Coins jingled.

Stenton weighed the purse in his palm. Loosening the string, he fished out a sovereign and bit down on the edge. Satisfied that the coin was solid gold, he stuffed the purse in his pocket.

“Very well. The blunt goes wi' me, and the slut wi' you.” He wagged a finger at Chelsea.

“But, if she darkens the door o' the Rutting Bull again, she's fair game. Agreed?”

Concealing his relief, Anthony stood. “Agreed.”

Chelsea rose from the bench. Stenton's gaze slid over her. “Tall for a woman,” he muttered. “A bloke I know is always babblin' about a tall, ginger-pated wench.”

Anthony felt himself grow cold inside, but he mustered a cheeky grin. “I feel sorry for him, then. This one's more trouble than she's worth.”

He grabbed Chelsea and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of meal. There was a whoosh as the breath rushed from her lungs.

“Come along, Ginger,” he said in a carrying voice. “'Tis a sound beatin' for you and then onto your back.”

Ignoring her shrieks, he bore her toward the door to wild shouts of approval and a bevy of bawdy advice.

“'Ave at 'er, Toeless!” The seaman, apparently bearing no lasting ill will, lifted his tankard in a salute.

“Always wanted to play bitch and 'ound wi' a redhead.”

“Ne'er bedded a Long Meg, meself. Get a leg o'er for me too, lad.”

It was working. They were halfway to the door. Playing to the crowd, Anthony squeezed Chelsea's buttocks. Another round of cheers went up and a pathway to the exit cleared.

She responded with a kick and a string of colorful curses. “Why you friggin', bloody…”

He shifted her to his other shoulder. “Hem, your vocabulary is definitely…
comprehensive
. Shall I consider that last remark a request?”

In answer, she pummeled his back. Weathering the blows, Anthony reached the door and stepped outside, Jack bringing up the rear.

Chelsea yelled, “Jack, make him set me down.”

Jack cast an apologetic look at his mistress's upturned head. “If I was ye, Miss Chelsea, I'd be glad 'is 'ands was full.”

Out of earshot from the tavern, he set Chelsea none too gently on her feet. Glaring, she grasped the lamppost to steady herself.

Face flushed and her braid unraveling, she jammed a finger in the vicinity of his chest. “Was that…that humiliating display
really
necessary?”

Now that she was safe, Anthony's fear exploded into full-blown rage. He couldn't recall when he'd been this angry at a woman. Never, he decided.

“You dare to question
my
actions. Why, that's rich.” He took a menacing step toward her until her back was pressed against the post, and she had no choice but to withdraw her wagging finger. “Idiot! Willful, impertinent baggage.”

The lamp's mellow glow pooled over her, illuminating the stark fear in her wide eyes. The sight kindled in him a dark, savage pleasure.

She licked her bottom lip. “Anthony, I didn't mean to cause trouble. I just—”

He sunk cruel fingers into her shoulders and shook her. “Trouble was the day you were born, lady.” Several ragged, wraithlike shapes floated by in the fog, but Anthony ignored their stares. He shook her again. Hard. “What the hell were you thinking to follow us here?”

Gasping, she sputtered, “I d-didn't th-think—”

“You've got that much right. Can it be that you're too pea-witted to realize what nearly happened back there?”

“I only w-wanted to help—”

“Help me to my grave, more than likely. Didn't I tell you to stay put, that it would be
dangerous
for you to come?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts.” He steeled himself to ignore her trembling lower lip and his need, which was rapidly rising. “I've a mind to teach you a lesson you're not likely to forget.”

“That's enough.” Jack laid a restraining hand on Anthony's arm. “She was ever an easy bruiser.”

But the storm was over. All Anthony really wanted was to take her in his arms—gently this time—until her trembling ceased. Until
his
trembling ceased.

He'd stopped shaking her, but her teeth still chattered. From fear, he realized. Fear of
him.

Sickened, he released her. She flung herself at Jack, burying her head against his chest. Anthony would have given the world to change places with the giant.

Chest heaving, Anthony turned away. His trembling hands, no longer instruments of threat, hung at his sides. “If I leave bruises, 'tis no more than she deserves and a great deal less than Stenton would have done.”

“Oh, I b'aint such a bad sort.” Stenton stepped out of the shadows and into the yellow circle of lamplight. The hazy glow glinted on smooth metal.

Anthony glanced over his shoulder and saw Jack shove Chelsea behind him. Satisfied, he turned back to Stenton. “Don't tell me you missed us already?”

Smiling, Stenton handed Anthony the knife. “Ye forgot this.”

Anthony's fingers curved about the handle. “'Twas meant for you to keep. A gift.”
A reminder.

Stenton's gold tooth was the only visible feature of his shadowed face. “Thank ye, but I've no shortage o' me own.” Scraping the side of his boot against a sharp-edged cobble, he added, “Yer a man o' secrets, b'aint ye, Toeless?”

Sweat gathering between his shoulder blades, Anthony fingered the knife. A sword would serve him far better but no doubt he could hold Stenton off long enough for Jack to get Chelsea safely away. “All men have secrets.”

“Secrets is all well and good…to a point.” Stenton's smile broadened. “Then they can get downright…
dangerous
.”

Anthony returned the smile. “Is that a threat?”

The henchman shrugged. “A friendly warning, is all. The last bloke who played me false wound up in the Thames as fish food. I'd 'ate for that t'appen to you. Bess'd ne'er forgive me.”