Passion for the Game (Georgian 2)
“What can I do?”
“Where were you two nights past when I was injured?”
He was at Emaline’s attempting to convince himself that one cunt was as good as another, but damned if he would say so. He scowled at her.
“Are your whereabouts that night well known?” she revised.
Afflicted by guilt—an emotion he so rarely felt that it took him a moment to recognize it—he said hoarsely, “No.”
“Would you say I was with you if asked?”
“Hmm…I might. With the right persuasion.”
“If you were with another woman, I’m not inclined to persuade you about anything. I shall find another alibi.”
“Are you jealous?” He smiled, warmed by the thought.
“Should I be?” Maria shook her head. “Disregard. Men do not tolerate jealous women.”
“True.” Christopher pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, then deepened it when she did not pull away. Instead, she shivered and opened wider. His tongue stroked deep, his blood simmering instantly at her response. Hurt and in pain, she still accepted his amorous attentions as if unable to resist.
He whispered against her mouth, “But this man likes the thought of a jealous Maria.”
A knock came to the door that led to the gallery, forcing them apart.
“Rest,” he said when she opened her mouth to reply. “I will make myself useful.”
Rising to his feet, Christopher moved to the door and opened it, finding a sheepish-looking Tom.
“Lord Welton is in the parlor,” Tom said. “Philip has asked for you.”
Christopher was immediately on his guard, his face impassive but his thoughts awhirl with possibilities. He nodded, then retreated back into the room and collected his coat.
“What is it?” Maria asked, dark eyes wide with concern. “Is Simon well?”
It took a moment for him to squelch his urge to retort rudely. “I will see to him, but tell me this: would you show such concern if it were I in Quinn’s place?”
“Are you jealous?”
“Should I be?”
“Yes. I hope you squirm with it.”
A bark of laughter escaped—part humor, part disgust with himself for being enamored with a beauty infamous for her history with men. When she offered up another smile, he settled into resignation and nursed a faint hope that his enchantment with her would pass.
“Give me a moment to handle an unexpected matter, my lovely savage,” he murmured, shrugging into his coat. “Then we will speak further on the terms of our association. I will check on Quinn, as well.”
She nodded and he departed through the sitting-room door, pausing a moment on the threshold to take in the destruction of the furnishings and the struggling, gagged Irishman tied to a gilded chair in the corner. Furious mumbling and violent thrashing accompanied Christopher’s appearance. Quinn rose to his feet, hunched over by the shape of his chair, and two of Christopher’s battered and rumpled men shoved him back down.
“Gentle with him, lads,” he admonished wryly, noting the half dozen men sprawled about the wreckage in varying degrees of pain. “The lady insists, though it appears her fear is groundless.”
He managed to quell his laughter until he reached the stairs. Then he gave it free rein until he reached the foyer. Thankfully, he discovered the lower floor in much better order than the upper.
Philip met him at the bottom step. “I sent the housekeeper to speak with Lord Welton in the parlor,” the young man explained, leading Christopher to his command position in the lower study. “She told him the lady is indisposed. Apparently, the news was not well received. The housekeeper asked for you.”
Christopher turned to the woman who stood tall and proud by the front window. “What can I do for you, Mrs…?”
“Fitzhugh,” she replied with a lift of her chin. Gray strands of hair curled by the heat and humidity of the kitchen surrounded a face lined with age, but handsome in its features. “’e asked me if she was ill or injured. I doona like ’im, Mr. St. John. ’e pries.”
“I see. I take it you would prefer he not learn of your lady’s condition.”
She nodded grimly, reddened hands twisting in her apron. “’er ladyship gave strict orders.”
“Send him away, then.”
“I canna do that. ’e settles the accounts.”
Christopher paused, his niggling sense of suspicion flaring into absolute certainty of something amiss. Maria should be settled in her own right, not dependent upon the largesse of her stepfather. He shot a side glance at Philip, who nodded his silent understanding. The matter would be investigated thoroughly.
“Have you any suggestions?” Christopher asked, returning his attention to Mrs. Fitzhugh and considering her carefully.
“I said you were coming to call. That you were expected and Lady Winter was indisposed.”
“Hmm…I see. So perhaps I should arrive at the scheduled time, yes?”
“You wouldna want to be late,” she agreed.
“Of course not. Step out in the foyer, Mrs. Fitzhugh, if you would please.”
The housekeeper hurried out and Christopher arched a brow at Philip. “Send for Beth. I wish to speak to her this evening.”
“I will see to it.”
Christopher left the room and traversed the short distance to the front parlor, where he entered behind Mrs. Fitzhugh as if he’d only just arrived. He feigned surprise. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
Lord Welton glanced up from the act of pouring a libation and his eyes widened. Satisfaction flared in the emerald depths but was quickly masked. “Mr. St. John.”
“A lovely afternoon to call, my lord,” Christopher said smoothly while surreptitiously examining the fine quality of the other man’s garments. Despite a mode of living reported to be excessive in all vices, the viscount looked the picture of health and vitality with his raven tresses and cunning green eyes. He bore the appearance of a man who felt so secure of his place in the world, nothing concerned him.
“Yes. I agree.” Welton’s throat worked with a large swallow, then he said, “Though I had heard that my stepdaughter is ill.”
“Oh? She was vibrant when I saw her only two nights past.” He sighed in mock disappointment. “Perhaps she will withdraw from our plans for the afternoon. I’m crushed.”
“Two nights past, you say?” Welton asked, frowning suspiciously.
“Yes. After our fortuitous introduction at a weekend gathering at Lord and Lady Harwick’s, she graciously accepted my invitation to supper.” Christopher said the last with a hint of male satisfaction in his tone.
The subtle implication was not lost on Lord Welton, who smiled smugly. “Ah well, sounds as if this rumor is as worthless as most.” He tossed back the contents of his glass and set it on the nearest side table before standing. “Please give her my regards. I’ve no wish to intrude on your appointment.”
“Good day to you, my lord,” Christopher said with a slight bow.
Welton grinned. “It already is.”
Christopher waited until the front door closed behind the departing viscount and then returned to the study. “Have him followed,” he said to Philip.
He took the stairs back up to Maria.
Robert Sheffield, Viscount Welton, descended the short steps to the street and paused a moment to look up at the home behind him.
Something was wrong.
Despite the apparent facts to the contrary—the governess’s oath that the attackers were unknown to them and St. John’s assurance that he was with Maria the night of the attack—Robert’s gut told him to be wary. Who else would want Amelia besides Maria? Who else would be so bold? He would not have believed Amelia’s claim that her assailants were unknown to her, but the governess had corroborated the tale and she had no reason to lie to the person who paid for her services.
Robert paused on the threshold of the carriage door and glanced up at his driver. “Take me to White’s.”
Vaulting into the interior, he leaned back against the squab and considered the alternatives. Maria could have sent men in her stead, freeing her to meet with St. John, but where would she gain the coin to finance such a venture?
He rubbed the space between his brows to ward off a headache. So ridiculous, really, this constant push and pull. The wench should be grateful. He’d rescued her from certain rotting in the countryside and seen her married to titled and wealthy peers. Her lavish home and envied mode of dress was due entirely to him, and yet had she ever thanked him?