“To hell with my commission.” Rowarth scooped her up in his arms and strode to the door. His expression was set and hard. “To hell with Sampson. To hell with Hawkesbury. I should have told him to go hang from the start. You and I are going home, Eve. We have matters to discuss.”
Outside in the hall it seemed that all hell had broken loose as well. The ice sculpture of Poseidon, partially melted and drooping now, had been toppled onto the floor and was spreading water all around. A very pretty young girl of about eighteen in a peacock-blue mask was struggling in the arms of one of Warren Sampson’s guests, who, inebriated and lecherous, was trying to kiss her.
“Don’t you know who I am?” the maiden shrieked, pushing him hard. “Unhand me at once, you dolt!”
The man reeled backward and in the same moment Nat Waterhouse erupted across the hall, caught him by the cravat and hit him across the room in much the same way that Rowarth had despatched Tom Fortune. Waterhouse turned on the girl.
“Lizzie,” he said, in tones that made a chill trickle down Eve’s spine, “what the devil are you doing here?”
Despite the mask, Eve had recognized the girl now as Lady Elizabeth Scarlet, half sister of Sir Montague Fortune and of Tom, the very man who had just tried to seduce her in the library. It was evident from Lady Elizabeth’s very expensive but demure debutante’s raiment and the look of the startled virgin on her face that she could not quite hide, that for all her bravado she was in completely the wrong place.
“I heard there was a party,” Lady Elizabeth proclaimed, “and I wanted to see for myself.” She sounded ever so slightly drunk.
Her gaze swung around the hall, taking in the seminude women, the couples in various states of debauchery and the overendowed ice sculpture, and Eve saw her gulp. She had heard that Lady Elizabeth was wild but the poor girl had, Eve was sure, overstepped the mark this time.
“I’m taking you home,” Nat Waterhouse said to her, still sounding furious.
Across the hallway a couple of drunken young bucks had decided that if there was going to be a mill then they would join in. Half-dressed women ran shrieking for cover as they ploughed enthusiastically into the fight. Before long the servants had joined in and the entire room was a heaving mass of men planting random punches. Miles Vickery was doubled up with laughter.
“A marvelous end to Mr. Sampson’s entertainment and to our endeavor,” he said cheerfully. “Rowarth—would you like to be the one to explain this to Lord Hawkesbury?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“WE NEED TO talk,” Rowarth said. He and Eve were alone in the carriage, having delivered Lady Elizabeth Scarlet secretly and safely back to Fortune Hall and received her incoherent and tearful thanks. Waterhouse and Vickery had bidden them good night and retired to their lodgings at the Morris Clown Inn, mocking Rowarth for the fact that he was so rich that he was staying at the Granby Hotel while their miserable pittance of an income from the Home Secretary condemned them to less salubrious surroundings.
“I don’t want to go to the Granby,” Eve said. “I have had a sufficiently disreputable evening as it is without creeping into a gentleman’s hotel room. That would finish my reputation for good.”
Rowarth took her hand. “Then where shall we go?” he asked. His gaze compelled her and a curl of apprehension tightened in her stomach. She knew that there could be no avoiding a final confrontation now. She had felt it from the moment Rowarth had scooped her up into his arms in Sampson’s library.
“There is no one at the shop,” she said reluctantly. “Joan has rooms at her sister’s house in the village.”
She saw the flare of satisfaction in Rowarth’s eyes and something else, heated and intense. “Just to talk, Rowarth,” she reminded him, though her pulse fluttered.
“Absolutely,” Rowarth said smoothly.
The tiny room above the shop seemed even tinier with Rowarth in it, his presence dominating the space. Eve stirred the embers of the fire to a bright burning glow and lit a candle that she could ill afford. The soft light gave the room an illusory warmth but she felt cold and on edge inside.
“Would you care for a brandy?” she asked. Her cupboard was scarcely creaking under the weight of wine or spirits but she felt that even if Rowarth refused, she needed a drink for Dutch courage.
He laughed. “You still have a taste for brandy?”
The memories flooded back into Eve’s mind. When they had been together Rowarth had teased her once about the unladylike pleasure she took in drinking brandy and she had explained that she liked it because it was expensive, a gentleman’s drink, unlike the rough gin that was sold on the streets. Rowarth had gone out and bought her a case of the best brandy the very next day and she had told him that it was not his gift that mattered the most to her, although it touched her, it was his generosity in wanting to make her happy.
“I do not need a drink,” Rowarth said.
“I do,” Eve said feelingly. She poured for herself, then found that she could not touch the spirit anyway.
“Eve…” Rowarth came to sit next to her on the sofa. “I am sorry,” he said. “What I made you do tonight was unconscionable.”
“You did not make me do anything in the end,” Eve said. “I had already decided that you and Lord Hawkesbury could go to hell in a handcart before I touched Warren Sampson. And I was well able to deal with Mr. Fortune.”
“He looked very fetching wearing those lilies,” Rowarth said, smiling. The smile faded. “But you know what I mean. I was utterly in the wrong to coerce you so. It was unforgivable.”
The breath caught in Eve’s throat. She looked at him. He was watching the embers of the fire and his gaze was somber.
“I regret it more than I can tell you,” he said. “There are no excuses, but I want to explain. I want you to understand.” Then, as she inclined her head he continued: “To my eternal shame, I was so angry with you, Eve, angry and bitter. I should have told Hawkesbury what to do with his commission but when I heard that he had found you all I could think of was to see you again so that I could prove to myself that you no longer had any power over me.” He looked up, took her hand, his grip painfully tight. “I think that I feared becoming like my father,” he said softly. “His divorce case was so scandalous and sordid. It broke him. I was only ten years old but I saw the change in him. And then he died when I was barely eighteen and I knew my mother’s betrayal had killed him in the end.” He intertwined his fingers with hers, looking down at their linked hands. “I was furious that I had almost made the same mistake myself.”
He shifted, his fingers tightening painfully on hers. “Hawkesbury was able to use me because of that fear and resentment,” he said, “and in return I used you.”