Yet another one of the horrific situations Scarlett had faced these last three years flashed into her mind. Releasing a weary sigh, she leant back against the opposite wall for support, ready to relay the story.
“One night while travelling home in Steele’s coach, he stopped the vehicle in Whitechapel and threw me out. As I was intent on behaving like a disobedient trollop, he left me to spend the evening with my own kind.”
Wycliff ground his teeth. “I hope every harlot in hell is dancing on his charred remains.”
“The dark streets of Whitechapel are hardly safe for a man, let alone a woman with rubies dangling from her throat and earlobes.” Bawdy banter did not hurt. But drunken men—deranged and desperate men—sought to play out their lewd fantasies. “It just so happened that Alcock was using the alley where three men knocked me to the ground and tried to steal my clothes and jewels.”
And steal something more precious besides.
Wycliff reached across and captured her hand. The gentle squeeze of reassurance acted like a healing balm to the painful memory.
“I assume your coachwoman offered stern words of caution,” he said with a knowing smirk.
“Of course, after she broke their noses and left them with purple plums for eyes. She took me back to her lodging-house, fed me broth, and I spent the night there.”
“Did it remind you of your time as a struggling actress?”
Scarlett couldn’t help but smile. “No, it reminded me of the time spent with you.”
The hot, sensual look in his eyes was similar to the one she had seen moments before in the alley. “Despite my injury, I remember the time with great fondness.”
“You look as if you might suddenly kiss me again, Mr Wycliff.” A woman could live in hope.
“Perhaps I might, Widow.”
The anticipation of feeling his mouth on hers burned in her chest. Every sign of lust, every snippet of affection, drew her deeper under his spell. Having him was no longer an option. She would take him into her body, savour every delicious moment, devour every inch of the man who loved her in her dreams.
A tiny gasp left her lips as he straightened. Every fibre of her being tingled while awaiting his touch. But then a gruff cough brought an end to her fantasy, and she cast a sidelong glance to see Dermot Flannery’s large frame filling the corridor.
Dermot ran his hand over his bald pate, drew it down the length of his long ginger beard. He stomped towards them, and Scarlett held her breath.
“It isn’t gentlemanly to keep a lady lingering in a cold corridor.” Dermot stared down his bulbous nose.
Was it cold? She hadn’t noticed.
“Few people would call me a gentleman,” Wycliff replied. “Though when it comes to Lady Steele, you should know I would lay down my life to protect her.”
Scarlett blinked. No doubt Wycliff exaggerated for effect. A man would have to care a great deal to make such a sacrifice. Then again, Damian Wycliff never said anything he did not mean.
“Glad to hear it,” Dermot said. His sly smile faded, replaced with a stone-like seriousness meant to threaten and intimidate. “Because if you hurt my Scarlett, I’ll take a knife and fork to your fancy ballocks and serve them for supper.”
Chapter Thirteen
A deathly silence hung in the air. The disturbing sound sought every crack and crevice in the dingy basement room Dermot Flannery used to conduct his business.
As the man stared at Damian Wycliff across the battered oak desk, every long, stretched-out second felt like an hour. The ticking of the mantel clock was akin to a death knell. And while it was Scarlett who paid Dermot’s wages, the man’s need to play parent in her father’s absence left her sitting in the seat next to Mr Wycliff feeling just as anxious. That said, the gentleman at her side did not look the least bit intimidated.
Dermot scanned the ledger laid open on the desk. From the faded ink on the pages, the records were not recent. “In all the time you played at these tables, you’ve never lost,” Dermot said in his faint Irish twang. “Nor have you borrowed from the house.”
Wycliff shrugged. “Let’s just say some people find it hard to read my expressions. Let’s say that having wisely invested in my future, I do not need to borrow from a gaming hell, my father or the bank.”
Scarlett didn’t find it hard to read him. He wanted to murder the world, ravish her. Damian Wycliff held himself up in an impenetrable fortress and yet somehow she had found the key to the gate. She had seen the look of longing flash in his eyes. She was aware of his growing need to touch her—light strokes on her arm, snatched opportunities to sit close, a tender kiss stolen in a dark alley.
“I can read you.” Dermot relaxed back in the chair and drew his hand down the length of his beard. “I can read every unspoken word.”
Wycliff snorted. “Then I am thankful I never played you at piquet.”
“You’d have lost, so you would,” Dermot countered.