Conspiring with a Rogue (6 page)

“Pray tell.”

“That explains why only Lionhurst is allowed to call you Sin. But it leaves me wondering when and how my business partner saved your life.”

“Ah.” Rutherford rose to his feet. “I’m afraid the story will have to wait for another time.” The boat bumped against the embankment, announcing their arrival at the Sainted Order. Before Drake gained his footing, Rutherford had grabbed a torch from a startled servant. Whitney’s cousin jumped over the side of the boat, his boots slapping against the mud with his hard landing.

Drake took a torch from another servant and he followed suit, his own boots sinking into the muck and slime of the Chelsea embankment. Rutherford was ten paces ahead, halfway to the torch-lit tunnels, before Drake got his left boot unstuck. Rutherford disappeared into the tunnel, his tall body casting a distorted shadow against the rocks that faced the Thames. Irritated at Rutherford’s high-handed manner, Drake strode to the cave, expecting to find the passageway empty, but Rutherford was waiting just inside.

“Listen to me.” His gaze darted back and forth before he continued. “Don’t forget what I said. If provoked, I’ve no doubt these men can be dangerous.”

“You’re just now telling me this?”

“I hadn’t thought the need would arise to tell you at all, but your erratic behavior has changed my opinion.”

“I think it’s safe to say I won’t provoke them.”

Rutherford clasped Drake’s shoulder. “You could fail to perform again.”

Drake’s face flushed at the reminder of his previous ineptitude. “I don’t plan to—”

“None of us ever do, brother,” Rutherford interrupted. “But if you fail tonight, they might decide you’re some sort of spy trying to get their secrets.” Rutherford shrugged. “The notion of a man broken by love is foreign to most of them.”

Drake laughed, but the laughter died away under Rutherford’s unblinking gaze. “Are you joking?”

Rutherford shook his head.

Unease climbed Drake’s spine. “What sort of spy?
A sex spy
? What do they think I want with their illicit secrets? To start another, better order? Perhaps sell what I know?”

Rutherford released Drake’s shoulder and lifted the torch high, illuminating the tunnel. “Who knows? They’re a jumpy lot. I’ve a suspicion they beat a man close to death who broke one of their rules. Just perform. It’ll be good for you to forget. Quite like washing her away.”

Drake knew what was good for him, what he should do, needed to do. Yet the thought of putting his past with Whitney behind him made him break out into a cold sweat. He didn’t want to wash her memory away, but he had to in order to survive.

“If you can’t perform, then pay the wench to say you did. Understand?”

Drake nodded. “Thanks for the warning. Now I have a question.”

“I doubt I have the answer.”

Drake stared hard at Rutherford. The man wanted to pick through Drake’s personal life―well, let Whitney’s cousin see how it felt. “I know why I’m here, but what or who are you trying to forget?”

Whatever friendliness had been in Rutherford’s eyes died. “If I wanted to remember, I wouldn’t be here. Do you take my meaning?”

“I take it,” Drake replied, pleased Rutherford had understood the unspoken message. “I won’t ask what keeps you up at night again if you’ll do the same for me.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“Positive.”

Rutherford shrugged. “So if I learn anything regarding Whitney…”

“I don’t want to know,” Drake lied.

They walked a few paces through the tunnel before he stopped, curiosity immobilizing him. Rakes didn’t care about past loves. Hell, rakes did not have past loves. They only loved themselves and pleasure.

He forced himself to continue walking through the tunnel, but with every step thoughts of Whitney invaded him. As he proceeded down Church Street and past the cemetery, he considered if it was likely that she was happy. He strolled through the wrought-iron entrance into the walled garden of All Saints Abbey and paused under the main door.

A marble statue of Gabriel guarded the abbey. Gabriel held a staff and his foot rested on a fallen Satan. Drake tried to really see the magnificent sculpture, but he saw Whitney’s face in his head instead. Was she married with a child on the way? The thought twisted through his gut like a well-placed dagger, ripping apart what kept him alive. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and opened them, relieved only to see the statue.

Rutherford quirked an eyebrow but said nothing. Drake was grateful and embarrassed. He offered no explanation since one was not demanded. Instead, he followed in silence as Rutherford made his way through winding hallways and into the room where Drake knew he was supposed to choose and bed another woman.

Standing in the circle of the silent Sainted Order, he wondered if he could go through with bedding another woman. He was allowing himself to be pathetic and weak. He was neither of those things. Lord Cadogan, Saint
Lucifer, beckoned him forward
to meet a man who was new to the group. Drake forced himself to relax, and then he stepped into the light of two torches.

“Mr. Sutherland, you’ve a fellow comrade tonight also wishing to join our club. This is Mr. Roger Wentworth.” Lord Cadogan gestured. The man came forward, but Drake’s attention was not on him. Drake squinted into the darkness past Mr. Wentworth. Was that— Damn it all. He
was
seeing correctly. What the hell was the supposedly happily married Duke of Primwitty doing standing in a circle of men addicted to vice?

“Sutherland, are Americans always this rude?”

Drake jerked his gaze from Primwitty to Cadogan’s smirking face. “I said, introduce yourself to Mr. Wentworth.”

Drake fixed his gaze on the shadows where Mr. Wentworth stood. “I’m Drake Sutherland.”

After a brief pause, Mr. Wentworth stepped into the light.
Jesus
. Drake would have stayed shocked if a strange desire hadn’t stirred. He flinched in disgust.

Mr. Wentworth looked like no man Drake had ever seen. Wide amber eyes framed by long, sooty lashes stared at him. High cheekbones accentuated a perfect oval face. The man reminded Drake of Whitney. This was a nightmare. He wanted to be a rake, not a depraved lunatic.

“Mr. Wentworth.” Drake tilted his head while stepping back into the circle to avoid contact with the gentleman.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Wentworth said. Something about the man’s voice sounded unnatural to Drake, but he dismissed the oddity. With the disturbing thoughts that had just filtered through his head, who was he to judge anyone?

Cadogan clapped his hands together. “Tonight I have a special treat in honor of our two new recruits. We’ll enjoy the pleasures of the night in pairs. Sutherland―” Cadogan turned, his eyes two orbs of wicked amusement. “You’ll be in the confessional and your partner is Wentworth. Monique will service both of you.”

Disgust and anger rolled through Drake. At least Wentworth didn’t appear to care for the idea either. The man’s face twisted sourly. To protest would make Drake look a fool or afraid, neither of which he could risk after his other two mishaps.

He clenched his jaw and stalked out of the room to follow Monique down the dark corridor and into the candlelit bedroom. The door clicked closed behind him, and Drake swung around to face the man and the woman. He dismissed the woman for a moment and focused on Mr. Wentworth.

“
Do not
touch me. Don’t even
think
of touching me. I want but one person’s hands on me.”

Wentworth jerked his head in agreement.

Drake pulled his shirt off, wanting to get the deed over. Despite his intentions, his gaze met Wentworth’s. The man’s eyes rounded, and a flush tinted his cheeks.
Hell
, that man did want Drake. The last string of self-control he had clung to since Whitney left snapped. He curled his hands into fists and charged Wentworth.

Drake rushed toward Whitney, his face a contorted mask of anger. For a moment, shock kept her rooted to her spot, until Monique let out a fearful cry and ran out the door. The woman’s shrieking departure pierced through the fog in Whitney’s head. Instinct and a healthy dose of fear sent her scrambling sideways just as Drake crashed past her and into the wall.

The force of his curse as his body slammed into the stone vibrated through her. Propelled by fear, shock and a keen sense that she had to defend herself as a man would, she jerked her fists up.

Drake whirled around, face flushed, nostrils flared, and started toward her.

“Please, Mr. Sutherland.” Her voice cracked on his name. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” Her fists trembled in front of her face.

He grabbed hold of her lapels, reared his fist back, and she squeezed her eyes shut for the blow. When no hit came, she cracked one eye open to find Drake gaping at her. He exhaled a long, shaky breath and lowered his fist. “
You’re terrified
?”

She nodded vigorously and opened her other eye.

“Of me?”

“Do you see another?” Good Lord, men could be buffle-headed.

He smirked at her. “I suppose I don’t. Lucky for you, there’s no way I can bring myself to hit a man so obviously unprepared to defend himself, even if you were looking at me queerly.”

“You’re sure?” She left her fists in front of her just in case she set him off again.

“I’m positive,” he replied, a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest. An amused smile curved the right side of his mouth, and her heart jerked.

She had thought never to see him again, but here he stood, shirtless, in a secret sex club. Her gaze followed the light dusting of hair, which trailed down his well-muscled chest, narrowed to a V and disappeared into his trousers. Her most heated dreams had not done him justice. A burst of surprising anger to find him here, of all places, vibrated through her, but she squelched the emotion. She had no right to be angry. Besides, it was hard to be irritated with him when he was half-dressed and smiling at her, even if the funny half smile really was not for her and the removal of his shirt had been a prelude before bedding a prostitute. Fresh regret for the loss of their life together tore through her.

Her arms ached, and judging by the amusement in his gaze, he obviously was over his irrational anger. Whitney lowered her fists to her side and cleared her throat to pitch her voice low. “For someone who did not like
my
expressions, you certainly are staring at me.”

“That’s because I’m trying to decide whether to help you.”

“And?” She breathed in his masculine scent, the need to touch him a physical ache.

“I’ve always been a sucker for the needy.”

Hearing him echo how she felt about herself reminded her exactly why they had fallen in love. They were alike in many ways. Thank God, her abandoning him had not made him cold and bitter. He held his fist in front of her face and wiggled his thumb. “Keep it outside, not in. This is a proper fist.” He moved his fist back and forth. “What you created would hurt
you
and no one else.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, staring up at him and fighting the urge to press her lips against his. She remembered exactly just how well he kissed.

A scowl replaced his amused smile. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” She forced herself to step away from him, though she wanted to move closer and inhale more of his earthy scent. This was going swimmingly. Five minutes alone with him, and she could not think past how much she wanted him to kiss her or how she would dearly love to run her hands through his thick hair and breathe the familiar scent of leather and whiskey, that always lingered on him.

“Don’t stare at me like I’m a fine whiskey you want to drink.”

Her faced heated immediately. “I didn’t—I mean…I wasn’t.”

Drake shook his head. “You were. You just gave me the same glance that made me charge you a moment ago.”

Whitney glared at him. “Do you always try to hit people based on a mere look? If so, I’d say you’ve a problem with your temper.”

“I may have a problem with my temper, but if you
fancy me, it’s
you
who has a problem. Do you desire me, or is your face just funny looking?”

Her breath caught as she gazed at him. With his anger surfacing again, his eyes smoldered and the muscles in his chest jumped. She wanted him so badly her insides ached. Forcing herself to ignore the sudden tightening in her belly, she swallowed. “I don’t desire you, Mr. Sutherland. I may not be the manliest of men, but I can assure you, I prefer women.” Her voice caught on the word
women
but Drake didn’t seem to notice or he chose to ignore it.

“Good. Then I apologize for my earlier behavior. I’m usually more pleasant, but I’m out of sorts.”

The odd catch in his voice caught her attention. She studied him—unusually long hair, a wrinkled coat, dark blue smudges resting under his eyes. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. “Are you unwell?”

“Unwell?” He shrugged. “I suppose you could say that.” He ran a hand through his hair in an agitated motion. “It’s a woman.”

“Isn’t it always?” Whitney replied, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel into her voice. Her heart beat heavily, her stomach twisted into tight knots. She wasn’t sure what would be worse—if he looked this way because of her or if he looked this way because of another woman.