Conspiring with a Rogue (14 page)

Rutherford had more of a connection to Wentworth than he let on, or he was investigating the investigator, because Rutherford was naturally suspicious. Drake closed his eyes. Wentworth was a head-pounding puzzle. This last piece―Sally, the Duchess of Primwitty―was the most baffling member of all to be connected to the man. Of course, Peter had stood with Wentworth at the Sainted Order when Drake had first met Wentworth, so they were likely friends, but such good friends that Sally would welcome Wentworth to her home at
one
in the morning?

First thing tomorrow, he would speak with Peter and perhaps Sally. Then he was going to go snooping around the Sainted Order and see if he could find out anything about this girl, Lillian. Having this mystery to concentrate on was already helping to get his mind off Whitney. He groaned as the mere thought of her conjured wicked images his mind refused to quit playing.
Damnation
. This would be the last time he indulged in these fantasies. But since he was indulging…

He closed his eyes and allowed the pictures of her undressing for him to roll through his head. Just when she was one more piece of clothing away from nakedness, he had a disturbing thought. He sat up with a start, bumping his knee against the side of the carriage. Surely Rutherford had not employed Wentworth to find Whitney and failed to mention it. Wentworth did not seem capable of finding his right hand, let alone a woman who did not want to be found.

No, even Rutherford was not that sneaky. On second thought,
Sin
was
exactly
that
sneaky.
He’d probably earned that nickname for good reason. Drake blew out a frustrated breath and rapped his cane on the carriage ceiling. “We’re making a detour.”

“Where to?”

“Take me to the Marquess of Davenport’s home.” If the man wasn’t there, Drake would wait. Rutherford had some explaining to do. Besides Rutherford, there was something else in this little puzzle that Drake felt certain he was missing. With careful deliberation, he ran through the players again. Sally, Peter, Rutherford, someone at the Sainted Order perhaps, and Wentworth. And the missing girl Lillian.

Lillian No-Name. The only Lillian he had ever known had been Whitney’s friend, Lillian Lloyd. Lillian the Loyal, he had lovingly called her when the girl had remained Whitney’s devout friend after almost all in the
ton
treated her like a leper.

There could not be a connection—could there?

Surely if Lillian Lloyd was missing he would have heard so from her father. They were in business together, but more than that, he considered Lloyd a friend. Drake shifted on the seat. The only problem with his reasoning was that lately he had been living in a self-created world of pity, in which he had neither cared nor thought of anyone but himself—just like his father always had.

Whitney’s desertion had made him act exactly like his father. What a vile thing to discover about himself.

“Damn it to hell.” If it was Lillian Lloyd missing, there would be more reason than ever for him to help Wentworth find the girl.

Last night had been hell, and the last thing Whitney needed or wanted was an argument with Sally. But one look at Sally’s stormy expression, and Whitney knew Sally was about to say her piece.

“You’re mad as a loon,” Sally rumbled the moment Caprice darted from her bedroom to

find the wig she thought Whitney should wear tonight.

“
I told you not to come.” Whitney kept her gaze firmly on her reflection in the looking glass. She refused to meet Sally’s shocked gaze. She was not
mad
as Sally had so bluntly stated. Whitney was determined to find Lillian, and if disguising herself as a member of the demimonde was the only way she could gain admittance into the Sainted Order now that Drake had bested her in cards and gotten her kicked out, then so be it. Thank God Caprice had agreed to help her. And what a stroke of luck that Caprice now hired out her girls to the Sainted Order. It would be easy for Caprice, the madam, to offer the overeager
Saints
her newest woman for paid service.

Whitney’s pleas to Caprice for help had been assisted immensely by the fact that the young madam still harbored guilt for last year’s debacle. After all, Caprice had been the one to tell Whitney she had accidentally killed her own mother, a memory long suppressed until Caprice let the secret slip.

Sally’s striding to the looking glass broke Whitney’s musings. Sally took Whitney’s hand. “I’m sorry I called you mad, and you know very well I would never stay home just because you demanded it. I had to come. Someone has to watch out for your welfare, as you obviously don’t give a fig for your reputation.”

“
My reputation?”

Sally nodded, and Whitney struggled not to laugh at the ridiculous concern. “No one will know me in this, Sally.” Whitney waved her hand down the length of her body, encased in an almost sheer emerald-green harem costume. The jeweled headpiece would fit over the red wig Caprice was fetching, and the green-and-gold brocaded scarf attached to the headpiece would cover all of her face but her eyes and lips. Black kohl lined her eyes and gave her an exotic look. And the red paint on her lips added to the effect. Dressed like this, even if she ran into Sin or Drake tonight at the Sainted Order, as long as the encounter was brief, she had every confidence they would not link the redheaded demirep dressed as a harem girl with the old
her
—plain, ordinary Whitney Rutherford.

“
You’re a fool.” Sally brushed a lock of Whitney’s hair away from her shoulders. “Sutherland loves you. He’ll know you if you get close enough to him.” Sally ran a finger down Whitney’s sleeve. “Even in this costume. He will smell your scent and see your flesh. You have failed to consider that he has memorized every detail that makes you who you are
.
” Sally’s eyes shone triumphantly.

“
Do be quiet,” Whitney ground out, snatching one of Caprice’s perfume bottles off the vanity. “We’ve sat six inches apart, and he hasn’t recognized me yet.” She didn’t want to think about Drake at all. It hurt too much. She lifted the bottle to her nose. What was that smell? Roses? She had to be sure. “Smell this.” She shoved the bottle under Sally’s nose. “What do you think this is?”

“
Roses.”

“
Perfect!” Whitney doused it over her body and her hair.

“
That’s too much. You smell like a walking rose bush.”

“
Drake is horribly sensitive to roses. If he gets within a foot of me, he’ll start to sneeze and his eyes will water. He’ll not want to come anywhere near me tonight once he gets a whiff of my scent.”

“
Oh, that
is
brilliant. Your devious mind is scary. Almost more clever than mine.” Sally leveled Whitney with a questioning look. “Are you really set on impersonating a demimondaine?”

“
You know I am. I owe Lillian.” After all, Lillian would already be married to Lord Stanton if it wasn’t for the scandal that had fallen on Whitney’s head, when the
ton
found out that when she was a child she had accidentally pushed her mother to her death. “Stanton broke off their engagement and said Lillian’s reputation was questionable because of her association with me. Because she stood by me and refused to disown me as a friend and label me mad. Did you know that?”

Sally’s jaw was set in a hard line. “I knew. I had hoped the gossip would never reach your ears. Did Lillian tell you herself?”

Instead of answering aloud, Whitney shook her head. A bothersome knot of sadness had lodged itself in her throat, and she was afraid if she spoke her voice would break and give away her emotions.

“
No? I see that she did not. Hmm. Let me guess. Was it perhaps Lady Trinity who delivered the most unhappy news, while fanning her double chin and wizened face and declaring how awful it was that the girl had thrown away her future for you?”

Whitney cleared her throat. “How did you know?”

“
Because she is the very same paragon of virtue who was the first to call at my parlor the morning after my betrothal to Peter was announced. The old dear wanted to make sure I knew all about his scandalous history. I assured her I did and sent her on her way. She pretends to be as sweet as Madeira, but she is more like bitters, if you ask me.”

The Longcase clock against the wall chimed six times, startling Whitney. “Only a couple more hours.” Tonight she would enter the Sainted Order as the newest addition to the women they paid for sexual services. The thought was terrifying.

Sally frowned. “Men and their sexual toys. They are the woefully weaker sex. You don’t see women running around creating sex clubs and paying men to act as toys.
We
don’t need to pay for such things.”

Tonight Drake would play with one of those toys as part of his final induction. Whitney’s stomach twisted into knots of jealousy. “What should I call myself?”

“
Jezebel?” Sally offered with a smirk.

“
You’re too amusing. I refuse to call myself Jezebel.”

“
I think it’s perfect,” Caprice said, breezing into the room with a flaming red wig clutched in her hand. She came up behind Whitney and tapped her head. “Bend, please.”

Whitney obeyed without question. Caprice had risen in one year from almost homeless to the most sought-after demirep in the business to the youngest madam any rake in London could ever recall. This was if the gossip she had overheard her cousin Marcus relaying to some male friends was to be believed. Based on Caprice’s luxurious surroundings and the number of diamonds glittering on her fingers, neck and ears, Whitney decided to believe the gossip and take Caprice’s educated advice.

“
Jezebel?” Whitney repeated with a frown. She caught Caprice’s gaze. “Do you truly think so?”

Caprice tugged on the wig, causing Whitney’s head to jerk left and then right. “Lift up.”

Whitney raised her chin so she had a clear view of herself in the mirror. Her breath caught in her throat. She looked wanton, wicked and ready for all sorts of immoral behavior. She looked nothing like herself. “
You
are a genius.”

“
And you, my lady, are Jezebel.”

Whitney nodded, but her mind was no longer on herself. Would Drake be attracted to her when he saw her? She hoped so and prayed not. One thing she knew about Drake—he was a man who took what he wanted, and if he wanted Jezebel, she was not sure she could stop him.

Nothing ever went as planned when Drake planned to be bad. Tonight was no ex
ception. Two hours before the hallowed black iron gates of the Sainted Order were unlocked at the stroke
of midnight by Lord Cadogan’s servant, the place should have been deserted. That was what Drake had counted on, and that was his first mistake. He had learned as a child who’d had to scrape and beg for every meal never to count on anything, especially people doing what they were supposed to do. So the fact that he’d forgotten that important lesson tonight disturbed him.

If he’d remembered that lesson, perhaps he would have foreseen problems and expected to be forced to crouch in the dirt, wedged between a moldy barrel and wet rocks. With that brilliant insight at his disposal, he would have at least worn different trousers.
Looser ones
. Ones that did not hug his bollocks so tight he might very well be a eunuch before the night was over. Lord Cadogan and his cronies had better move on soon or Drake was going to expire from pain or, eventually, consumption brought on by being cold. The dampness in the underground cave made his shirt stick to his skin and did nothing to ward off the chill the constant breeze blowing through the room caused him.