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nbsp; Scarlett arched a brow. The animal had darted from the bushes, teeth bared, ready to attack. “The key with all vicious dogs is not to show fear.” And to bribe them with the sweet biscuit she’d retrieved from her reticule. “And you learnt all of that since last night?”
“Well, I have not spent the morning supping ale and fondling the serving wench.”
“Then the poor girl must be sobbing into her apron. You forgot to mention the attempted poisoning, though my housekeeper will take great pleasure in telling the story. She so enjoys playing the victim.”
“Then I shall call for you fifteen minutes earlier this evening.” He pulled his watch from his pocket and inspected the time. “The hour is up.” He replaced his watch and unlocked the door. “This is the first time I have left a hired bedchamber feeling wholly unsatisfied.”
“If you plan on spending time in my company, Mr Wycliff, you should become accustomed to the sensation. I am the only woman in Christendom opposed to the prospect of warming your bed.”
“Liar,” the devil on her shoulder shouted.
Amused, Mr Wycliff placed a guiding hand at the small of her back and led her from the room. “If you knew me, Widow, you would know not to offer such a tempting challenge.”
Chapter Five
Damian tugged on the cuffs of his black evening coat and brushed imagined dust from his lapels. He stood on the stairs leading down to his father’s ballroom, surveying the lavish spectacle. The crystal chandeliers created an air of opulence. Candlelight glistened in the tall gilt mirrors. The orchestra on the balcony wore matching gold damask coats as they played their instruments with a skill worthy of royal patronage. Liveried footmen in powdered wigs wandered through the room carrying silver trays laden with flutes of champagne.
Damian’s gaze settled on his host.
The man he had spent a lifetime hating.
The Marquis of Blackbeck liked nothing more than to bathe in extravagance. Wealth oozed from every fibre of his being. Confidence sparkled as brilliantly as the huge diamond pin decorating his cravat. The marquis conducted his personal liaisons with the same nonchalant indifference he gave to his excessive expenditure.
Heads turned in Damian’s direction long before the majordomo made his announcement. Ladies gaped in shock. Some stared with lust lighting their eyes. By the time he reached the bottom step, he would have more than one invitation to join a private party in a lonely lady’s bedchamber tonight.
But he wasn’t the only newcomer being ogled.
Men in their droves—dissolute and respectable, old and young—eyed the beauty standing confidently at his side wearing a vibrant red dress.
He could hardly blame them. From the moment the Scarlet Widow slipped out of her wrapper, he had fought the urge to run his horny hands over the smooth silk hugging her curves. Delicate lace covered her shoulders. The high collar hid the bruises and scars. She did not need to display mounds of creamy white flesh, for the material clung to her body like a second skin.
The widow touched the sleeve of his coat and whispered playfully, “Something has captured the guests’ attention. I wonder what it could be.”
It wasn’t the comment that created an odd flutter of excitement in Damian’s chest. The widow spoke as if he were the only man privileged to hear her inner thoughts, and that fed his vanity.
Damian offered his arm, and the widow slipped her hand into the crook. “Shall we set the ballroom ablaze?” he said, relishing the prospect of causing his father embarrassment. “The gossips’ tongues will be so hot every word spoken will sound like a sizzle.”
The widow looked at him and arched a brow. “While I take immense pleasure in causing a scene, that’s not why we are here.”
No, he’d come to settle the debt, to prove Joshua and Jemima Steele had conspired to commit murder. Naturally, the motive was money. By his estimation, he would have their confession within the hour. Then he would set about seducing the beguiling creation at his side until she begged him to bed her, before relegating the whole event to a distant corner of his memory. Simple.
“Surely you have a plan,” she continued.
“Only the staid and sober waste time plotting and scheming. Reckless gentlemen act on impulse.”
“It was impulse that saw you left for dead in an alley.” An impatient huff left her lips though she maintained her affected smile. “I should have known you would tackle my problem with nothing but devilish joviality. No doubt you brought me here tonight for your own devious ends.”
It annoyed him that she was right.
Damian steered her through the throng, who parted as if he were Moses waving a staff of divinity. Parched, he snatched a flute of champagne, swallowed the contents and returned it to the tray before grabbing two more.
“Reckless gentlemen rely on their talents to achieve success,” he said, offering the widow a glass. And some rogues were like cats. No matter how far they fell, they landed on their feet.
She wrapped her gloved fingers around the stem. When she brought the vessel to her lips, he noticed the slight tremble that spoke of suppressed anxiety. The mere glimpse of the vulnerable actress raised his pulse a notch.
“When your only talent amounts to whoring, Mr Wycliff, I must say I am intrigued to hear more.”