Her Wanton Wager (2 page)

Percy's mind reeled. Though a gentleman gaming away his fortune was commonplace, she could not believe her own flesh and blood would do such a thing. "You risked all that Papa worked for on a game of cards? Have you gone mad?" she cried. "How could you be so dashed reckless?"

Dark emotion flickered in Paul's eyes, the muscles of his neck cording with tension. He downed the contents of his glass and poured another shot. Before Percy had time to regret her accusatory tone, he retaliated with his trademark wit.

"Strange that you of all people should ask that question, sis. As I recollect, I am not the only Fines with a propensity for wild behavior." He paused, letting the barb strike home. "Considering your own less than sterling record, I'd venture to say recklessness runs in the blood."

Percy flushed; she couldn't deny that she'd had a few escapades in the past. In the middling class circle of her youth, her behavior had been described as "lively" and "spirited". Thanks to her family's friendship with the new Marquess and Marchioness of Harteford, however, she now frequented the higher echelons of society, and the
ton
was proving less accepting of unorthodox conduct.

Thinking of her dismal first Season, she winced. Her tendencies to speak her mind and act on impulse had planted her in the field of wallflowers at every fashionable ball. Only the Hartefords' patronage had saved her from complete social failure. This Season, however, she was determined to redeem herself and prove her worth. Papa's dying wish had been for her to make a brilliant match, and she intended to fulfill both his dream—and her own.

For as luck would have it, she'd found her heart's desire at long last. Charles Effington Mansfield, Viscount Portland, was handsome, titled, and a
poet
: ergo, perfect in every respect. Even Mama approved of him (and she and her mother rarely agreed upon anything). To win his affections, Percy had vowed to reform her hoydenish ways. No more getting into scrapes. No more silly notions of writing a novel. No more unconventional
anything
… today's activities being a minor exception.

"That was the old me," she informed her brother, "and I've turned over a new leaf. I'm a paragon of virtue these days."

"Is that what you call it?" One golden brow lifted. "Correct me if I'm mistaken, but aren't you the chit who nearly burned down old Southbridge's Finishing School?"

Percy's cheeks flamed. "That was ages ago and
not
my fault. Mrs. Southbridge put me in charge of decorations and told me to do as I wished. I thought fireworks would give the graduation ceremony a bit of dash."

"As in guests dashing for their lives," her sibling said with a snicker.

Drawing a deep breath, she told herself not to get drawn into one of her brother's infamous bantering matches. "This is not about my behavior, Paul, so stick to the matter at hand," she said. "I still do not understand how you could have risked the company."  

"How? Why, with a flick of the wrist," he drawled. "When one stops to think, 'tis ironic, really. Papa retained this cesspit of a building to remind us of his origins and how far he'd come up in the world. How many times did we hear,
Hard work, children, that's the key to success?
"

She frowned. "You ought to show respect for Papa and all he accomplished. I see no irony in his dedication and fortitude."

"I'm getting to that. Our father devoted his life to amassing a shipping empire to the detriment of everything else … including us."

Bittersweet longing bubbled in Percy's breast, the same feeling she'd had as a girl waiting for Papa to come home. She'd had a habit of posting herself at the front window, her latest story clutched in hand. By night's end, the unread pages would invariably end up crumpled. Mama would scold Percy for getting ink on herself and send her upstairs to wash up for bed.

Percy pushed aside the memories. "Papa did everything
for
us, don't you see? He had to make sacrifices in order to give our family a future."  

"Which I managed to squander. In mere minutes." Her brother tipped his head to one side. "So it begs the question: in the end, what is more powerful, perseverance ... or prodigality?"

"What is the matter with you?" she said in bewildered tones. "Losing your inheritance is no laughing matter. We must think of a solution immediately. Have you written to Nicholas—"

"No, and I won't have you doing so either." Despite the fact that his eyes were bloodshot, Paul managed a steely look. "I want your word, Percy. You're not to tell a soul about my losses. The last thing I want you to do is interrupt Nicholas on the first vacation he's ever taken, and if Mama were to learn of this ..." His mouth flattened. "She'd expire on the spot."

Percy chewed on her lower lip. Nicholas Morgan, also known as the Marquess of Harteford, was the co-owner of Fines & Company Shipping. He was practically an older brother to Paul and Percy, and after Papa's death, he'd become the unofficial head of the family. Recently, Nicholas had taken his wife Helena and their twins abroad for a vacation, and he'd invited Mama to join them. To Percy's surprise, her mother, who'd never set foot outside of London, had agreed to go. Now Mama and the Hartefords were God-knows-where on the Continent; it might take weeks for a post to reach them.

"Your word," her brother repeated. "You're not to betray my secrets, Percy."

Not wishing to alienate her brother, she gave a reluctant nod. "What about summoning the magistrate ... or Nick's acquaintance at The Thames River Police. Mr. Kent, wasn't it?"

"What can they do? I gave Hunt my promissory note; he has the right to call it in. Alerting the authorities will only draw attention and lead Hunt straight to me."

"Perhaps Mr. Hunt can be persuaded to relinquish your debt. If you were too in your cups to know what you were doing—"

Her brother gave a harsh laugh. "That's what the hells count on, sis. Pleading with Hunt? Useless as trying to draw blood from a stone. Believe me, I've seen him put babes to work at his club. Children slaving away to pay off their parents' debts, no doubt." 

"Why, that is
despicable
." Her outrage found a target. What kind of man was this Gavin Hunt? How could he take such advantage of innocents? "He sounds like an utter villain!"

"He is a cold-hearted bastard," Paul agreed. "Unfortunately, he's also a man of his word. 'Tis practically gospel that Hunt always follows through and collects on his debts."

She frowned as her brother poured himself another drink. His fourth, by her accounting. "Don't you think you've had enough? 'Tis the middle of the afternoon, for heaven's sake."

"Then it appears I am behind schedule. I make it a habit to be thoroughly foxed by lunch." He gave the gin bottle a shake. "In point of fact, this rot-gut usually
is
my lunch."

How could he make light of matters at a time like this? In desperation, she reached over and placed a hand on his arm. "You need a clear head, Paul! How will we come up with a plan to deal with the situation otherwise?"

"Clarity is overrated." Plucking off her hand, he drained his glass. "Besides, I already have a plan. You're looking at it."

Her brow furrowed. "At what, exactly?"

"This." He gestured grandly to the room. "My secret
rendezvous
. I am in hiding, don't you know. So long as Hunt cannot locate me, he cannot get my deed to the shares."

Percy rolled her eyes. "
That
is your plan? You'll have to face the problem eventually. How long can you possibly hide?"

"For as long as it takes. I'm rather good at it." He leaned back in his chair and nearly fell off it. "Told the cronies I was off on The Tour, so I shan't be missed for months."

"Dash it all, Paul—"

"Manners, manners, Percy. Don't argue with your elders. 'Tishn't ... 'tisn't seemly," he said. "What would your Lord Perfect say?"

She scowled at Paul's derisive nickname for Lord Charles. For some reason, her brother found it amusing to poke fun at the viscount. "I've told you before—don't call him that. And we've only chatted a handful of times, so he isn't mine."

Not yet
, she added silently.

As if reading her thoughts, her brother gave her a snide look. "Oh, you'll have him. Madcap, ain't you, but pretty as could stare ... not to mention stubborn as a bull. A merchant's daughter who'll bring a title up to scratch." A bitter note entered his voice. "Papa would be so proud of his li'l poppet."

"Never mind that. We must discuss next steps—"

But her brother had risen from the table, knocking the now empty gin bottle onto its side, where it rolled hollowly back and forth. He stumbled over to the pallet and collapsed upon the straw. Percy followed and, kneeling, looked down at her sibling with a mixture of aggravation and concern. She smoothed back a blond forelock.

"Least one of us will make him proud." He rolled onto his side, away from her. But not before she caught the wet shimmer upon his lashes. "Leave me be, Percy. 'Tis done.
I'm
done."

Her heart ached at the naked misery of his tone. Paul had profligate tendencies, true, but she knew him to be a gentleman of character. A noble brother who'd protected her time and again. They'd already lost Papa; she would not lose another member of her family.  

Softly, she said, "Remember the time we went boating in Hyde Park?" When she received no reply, she went on. "I insisted I could paddle as well as you."

A pause.

"Only eight years old and already a hellion. Told you to be careful but you wouldn't listen," he mumbled.

Her lips curved. "I never did. So when I tumbled over ..."

"Tried to grab you ... fell in as well ..."

"We both received a soaking before you got us to shore. Then you shouldered the blame, though it got you the tongue lashing of your life and your allowance revoked for months." Her chest tightened. "My big brother. You've always looked after me, haven't you?"

A faint snore came in response. Seeing his closed eyes and the even rhythm of his breathing, she pulled the greatcoat over his sleeping form.

We Fineses never give up—especially not on each other.

"Now it's my turn," she whispered, "and I won't let you down."

TWO

The light of morning filtered through the office windows. Despite being occupied at his desk, Gavin Hunt noted the way the rays radiated across the sitting area, gleaming off the mahogany furniture and gilt accents. He liked light. Craved it, for all the years he'd gone without. Even with his current success, he still conducted most of his business in the dark. Above the marble fireplace, the gold ormulu clock chimed the hour as eleven, the pleasant sound obscured by the chamber's other occupant, who was bent over the short end of his desk.

"That's it, Hunt, plow me 'arder." Panting, Evangeline Harper looked back at him over her bare shoulder. Brassy curls framed her sharp, feline face, and she tugged suggestively at the rope that bound her wrists at the small of her back. "You know I like it rough. I want to feel ev'ry monstrous inch o' your prick."

"Then take more of it," he said and obliged her with a deep thrust.

Her spine arched in ecstasy, the hills of her buttocks jiggling as he pounded into her. At one time, these games they played had excited him; at the present moment, however, he almost wished she hadn't shown up unannounced and randy for a tumble. Though his body was going through the motions, his mind resisted participating. It had been doing that a lot lately; 'twas as if he'd lost interest in all his vices. God help him, even fucking had become routine.

Evangeline moaned, pushing back against him. On the blotter beside her writhing form, his lucky dice rattled in their cup. Two sixes, face up.

Gripping her hips, he pumped harder. Mayhap he'd just been working too hard. As owner of The Underworld, the most notorious gaming hell in Covent Garden, he existed in a savage, cutthroat world. Two months prior, a fellow proprietor had wound up dangling from a tree. The cove's tongue had been cut out, his hands and feet missing. No culprit had been found, but everyone in the stews knew one of the rival houses had done the deed. Besides The Underworld, there were four other prominent establishments. All of them were run by men powerful and ruthless enough to kill.

After the last customer had left this morning, Gavin had planned on meeting with Hugh Stewart, his mentor and trusted overseer of the club. They had much to discuss due to a recent attack on patrons of The Underworld. But then Evangeline had shown up, flashing a big smile and equally sizeable tits. Gavin had thought a fast, hard plowing might do him good before settling down to business as usual.

"Don't stop, I'm close, I'm going to spend so 'ard—" she wailed.

The dice continued to jump in rhythm to their coupling. Moaning, Evangeline gyrated her cunt against the wooden edge as he fucked her. If her hands were free, he was certain she'd be frigging herself with abandon. She was as efficient about her pleasure as he was about his. Her eyes were closed, her thoughts concealed. For the two of them, sex was always this way: an activity done together yet separately. Like him, Evangeline had come from the rookery, and they shared a survivor's philosophy.

Be in control. See to your own interests. Reward loyalty … and punish betrayal.

At the thought of betrayal, a muscle ticked in his jaw. The small movement caused a twinge along the right side of his face. The scar that ran from cheek to chin was the memento of a man who'd survived hell—and who now ruled it. The popularity of his establishment had brought him wealth and connections; he now possessed the power to pursue the one goal that had sustained him through his darkest hours.

He'd lived for the promise of vengeance, and it would soon be his.

That got his juices up. Holding her steady, he shoved his cock harder, deeper, each thrust an assertion of dominance. Control.
All those who owe me will pay.
Scarlet dimmed his vision.

"Mary's tits, I'm comin' ..." she cried.