CHAPTER1
LONDON, 1816
The lady was trouble.
Wolf Sutton knew it the moment she crossed the threshold of the office he and his brothers kept at The Sinner’s Palace.
For one thing, she was bloody well wearing white kid slippers and matching pure-as-snow gloves in the East End. A cove just had to take one glance at her to know she was expensive. She looked as if she were dressed for a ball, in a creamy, gauze gown with a blush-pink layer beneath, the entire affair adorned by satin flowers. An embroidered shawl was wrapped tightly around her shoulders as if it were armor, and she had pearls at her ears and throat. Her brown hair was swept away from her heart-shaped face, with perfect curls framing her loveliness beneath the brim of a bonnet.
For another thing, and her impractical togs aside, she was damned beautiful.
Beautiful morts were always trouble. Which was why Wolf stayed far, far away from them. Unfortunately, he could not stay far away from this one. She had invaded his territory. And for a reason, he reckoned.
Best to figure out what it was so he could send her on her merry way. It was not every day that a lone woman who wasn’t a Drury Lane vestal cozened her way into The Sinner’s Palace’s inner sanctum. Ladies of easy virtue were to be had aplenty when there was the chance of attracting a cull with a fat purse. But the woman before him, boldly facing him after having demanded an audience—much to the dismay of one of his best guards—was no harlot. He’d wager the last farthing to his name on that.
“Are you lost, my lady?” he guessed, sweeping an appreciative gaze over her, yet remaining where he was, standing behind his brother’s desk, hands clasped at his back.
How the devil had her slippers remained so pure after traversing the rotten streets outside? And what manner of lady would dare to infiltrate a well-known gaming hell? Alone?
“This is The Sinner’s Palace, is it not?” she returned.
Her voice was serene and yet bore a hint of husky depth that had as unwanted an effect on him as her appearance did. Her aristocratic accent was crisp and educated in a way his own could never hope to be, regardless of the effort at hiring tutors their elder brother had gone to for Wolf and his siblings. The tarnish of the East End would forever mar him—it would mar them all. Strange he had never given a scrope about that until this moment.
Until her.
And that didn’t sit well in Wolf Sutton’s soul. No, indeed.
Nettled, he pinned her with a glare. “Don’t know. You tell me where you think you are, madam.”
Her eyes narrowed. Not much. Just a hint.
He’d irritated her.
Bleeding excellent. Because she has more than irritated me.
“I know I am at The Sinner’s Palace, sir,” she said coolly. “I gave my coachman the direction myself. Shockingly enough, I am capable of simple geography.”
Her tone had turned tart, bearing a tone of governess-like admonishment.
It was not meant to have the effect it had on him, he was sure, and he was also damned glad for the barrier of the desk keeping her from seeing what her prim chastisement was doing to his wayward prick. Clearly, the time had come to put an end to living the life of a monk. Just not with the tempting beauty before him. She needed to be dispensed with swiftly and efficiently.
Aye, she needed to go the bloody hell back to the ballrooms and drawing rooms where she so obviously belonged.
“If you know where you’ve landed, then allow me to guess the reason for your call,” he said. “You’ve come in search of your husband.”
And what a pity that was. He knew a hint of envy for the nameless, faceless nob, to have such a lovely woman in his bed.
An elegant brow arched. “I am a widow, sir.”
It was wrong, the instant balm of relief he knew at her correction. The lady’s husband was gone to Rothisbones, after all. But not even Wolf’s conscience could seem to banish the unworthy feeling.
“A lover, then.”
“No.”
She had neither husband nor lover. The discovery should not please him nearly as much as it did.
He glowered at her, resenting the intrusion on both his solitude and his thoughts. “Forgive me, but you don’t look the sort to come looking to ply her wares.”
This time, both her eyebrows rose. “Ply her wares? Pray tell me you are not suggesting what I fear you are, sir.”
“That you’re a public ledger?” he asked, being as crude as possible just because he could not resist the urge to unsettle her as she had done to him. “Don’t know. Are you?”
He cocked his head, perusing her with a long, thorough leer. She was bleeding beautiful, this woman.
“A public ledger?” she repeated, her countenance haughty. “I am afraid I do not understand.”
She had the airs of a duchess. The urge to further vex her was strong. He had the most ridiculous thought of what it would be like to peel her free of the layers of respectability. He would begin with that shawl. Work his way to the tapes on her gown…
Stop this madness, you blockhead.