CHAPTER4
If any of her siblings knew what she was about, Pen had no doubt they would be furious. Livid. Utterly outraged. But what Sutton brothers and sisters did not know could never hurt them. She had been living firmly by that credo for as long as she could recall.
“You will wait for me, yes?” she asked the driver of the hack she had hired to bring her to her secret destination. “There will be a great deal more coin for you upon my return. All you need to do is wait. I shan’t be long.”
“Aye.” The fellow leered at her. “I knows what you’ll be doing within.”
She sighed. “No, you don’t. I’m paying you handsomely.”
His grin deepened. “Aye, that you be.”
Lingering and arguing her case was futile, she could already see. The man would believe what he wished, which was that she was entering the edifice before them so she could indulge in whatever Cyrenaic delights awaited her within. Eh, if it pleased him to think so, what was the harm? It was not as if she were a fine lady with a reputation to preserve. Nor was it as if she were the betrothed of a lord. Rather, she was someone Viscount Lindsey deemed worthy of bribery and cruel kisses only.
Yes, that rather still stung, his disdainful reaction to those shared moments of what had been, for her, nothing short of wondrous. Apparently, for Lord Lordly, it had all been the means to an end. She hoped he was pleased with himself. If nothing else, it had rid her of his dogged persistence and unwanted presence. Very likely, he was somewhere in Mayfair, casting a disagreeable pall upon some silly ball or musicale.
“I will return in one quarter hour,” she reminded the hackney driver.
He nodded his ascent, and she turned with a sigh to approach the small, secret entrance to The Garden of Flora. It was a door she had visited on a few occasions previously, always with Aidan. Had any of her family known she had been within the brothel…
Well, no need to fret over what they would do to Aidan now.
Because she was searching for him. She had not seen him in days, and nor had he answered any of the notes she had sent round to him. It was the first time in their acquaintance when he had ever allowed so much time to pass without contacting her in some fashion. And although she knew he was aware of how outraged she was with him for his machinations, she nevertheless had been unable to quell her steadily rising fear that something ill had befallen him.
Thus had begun a second, more thorough search of all his haunts.
Nary a hint of him in any of the taverns or hells or even his bachelor residence, those shabby rooms he kept just so that he might escape the domineering rule of his family. And good heavens, now that she had met Lord Lordly, she could scarcely blame her friend for the desire to flee.
But all that aside, there were only so many places Aidan could be, and Pen had visited them all. All of them, anyway, save this one.
She reached the door and knocked.
A moment later, the tiny slat cut into the door itself opened, revealing a pair of eyes and no more. “What is it you wish, madam?”
“I wish to speak with Lord Aidan Weir,” she said simply.
The guard did not blink. “The Garden of Flora favors anonymity, madam. Even if his lordship were within, I couldn’t tell you.”
What had she expected? A blissful welcome? That the guard spoke with the flawless elegance of the quality, however, was hardly surprising. Everything about the establishment had been carefully orchestrated to appeal to the upper echelons of society. Particularly its excesses. Voluptuaries flocked to The Garden of Flora in droves.
“If you will not tell me if he is within, then perhaps you will grant me entrance,” she tried again.
She was determined to find Aidan.
“Unaccompanied ladies are not permitted within,” the guard informed her.
She was aware of the rule, of course. On the previous occasions she had visited, she had always been with Aidan. She missed the scoundrel.
“I am a friend of Madame Laurent’s,” she said next, which was not entirely a falsehood. “Please tell her Miss Pen Sutton has come.”
Well, perhaps mostly a falsehood. She had met The Garden of Flora’s owner, a lovely and pleasant lady with a keen and cunning business acumen.
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “A moment, miss.”
The small door slid closed, and she was left to wait and wonder just how she would locate Aidan within if she were indeed granted entrance. Perhaps she had not thought her plan entirely through.
Before she had further time to contemplate the matter, the door opened fully to reveal a tall, all-too-familiar, form. He was dressed as elegantly as always. It was likely the miserable oaf never had so much as a hair out of place on his perfectly shaped head, nor a wrinkle in one of his immaculate cravats.
A scowl marred his otherwise handsome features. “Miss Sutton, what the devil are you doing here?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the air with the lash of a cracking whip.
He disapproved. But then, when had he not? From the moment he had first strode into her life, calling her a greedy fortune hunter and demanding she cry off her supposed betrothal to Aidan, Lord Lindsey had been looking down his aristocratic nose at her, finding her lacking. Judging her.
Even now, those icy-blue eyes told her everything she needed to know, burning into her with a searing intensity that stole her breath. For a heartbeat, she forgot what he had asked. She could do nothing more than stare at him stupidly, as if he were the first duke’s heir she had ever seen.
In truth, she had seen many others of his ilk. Once, she had sung for their pleasure at The Sinner’s Palace. Making them desire her had always held a surprising, almost fascinating source of power for Pen; earls and barons and marquesses wanting a lowly East End girl such as herself. But none of them could compare to the viscount. Never had she seen a man quite like this one, so impressive and foreboding without even trying.
She found her voice at last. “It is hardly any of your concern what I am doing here, my lord.”
He continued to regard her with that imperious gaze, as if he had inspected her gown and found it covered in stains or marred by a torn hem. She barely suppressed the urge to look down and make certain her dress and pelisse were tidy enough.
“Come with me,” he ordered crisply.
She eyed him warily. “I am not certain I ought to accompany you anywhere.”
Thoughts of the passionate kisses they had shared, followed by his abrupt and cruel reaction to it, filled her mind.
His lip curled. “Now, Miss Sutton.”
His determination to have her do his bidding heightened her own resolve to do the opposite. “I don’t take my orders from you, Lord Lordly.”
He moved forward, closing the distance between them, his expression grim. “You are the most infuriating female I have ever encountered.”
Surely that was a compliment, coming from him.
Pen held her ground, refusing to retreat. “You are the most stubborn, arrogant, vexing…”
Her words faltered when he reached her and bent his tall form in half. No. There was absolutely no way he was going to do it. Her certainty faltered when his shoulder met her midriff. Surely he did not intend to…
He did.
He was.
The sheer audacity! Her shock and disbelief rendered her limp as a doll, all the lessons her brothers had taught her in defending herself against scoundrels falling into the dim cracks of her mind. Her opponent had been faster, the element of surprise aiding him.
Pen was being lifted through the air, as if she weighed no more than a farthing. The viscount had thrown her over his shoulder. His arms banded about her thighs, and then, he was moving, his long-limbed strides taking her only heaven knew where. The world was upside down. She was treated to a view of the elegant, thick woolen carpets of The Garden of Flora.
“Put me down,” she commanded. “I’ve paid a hack to await me.”
“I am sure the fellow will be more than amenable to keeping your coin and moving on,” said the viscount grimly.
“My lord?” Another voice joined them, feminine and concerned. “This is most unusual, even by my standards.”
“I require a chamber if you please, Sophie,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that sent an elicit shiver through Pen even as her dudgeon over his overbearing actions remained high.
That unwanted reaction was swiftly chased by a nettlesome bolt of a different emotion. Apparently the rigidly proper viscount was familiar enough with Madame Laurent to call her by her given name.
“The rose room?” Madame asked, her unique, husky voice easily recognizable.
“Perfect,” said the viscount, his ceaseless strides suggesting he was more than familiar with the landscape he currently inhabited.
The scoundrel.