CHAPTER10
Breaking his fast had done nothing to aid the disturbing state of Garrick’s mind. Nor had any of the subsequent meals he had taken. Apparently, what ailed him—the worm that had managed to infiltrate his brain and leave it addled—was not caused by hunger. There was no surer proof of that than the tableau in which he currently found himself. Namely, seated at a table at The Beggar’s Purse in the armpit of the East End, surrounded by Suttons, of all people.
One of whom was not at all the gentleman she pretended to be. Rather, she was a beautiful, glorious auburn-haired siren he could not seem to cease thinking about. Or touching. Or kissing. Or lusting after. Christ, he wanted her more with every passing second of each cursed hour.
Yes, this was proof. As was his trust in the very people he had been so recently persuaded were his enemy. Whilst he had once deemed them fortune-hunting villains determined to manipulate and force their way into the upper echelon of polite society, Garrick had been forced to swallow his pride and revise his hastily formed opinions. Like Pen, her siblings were brash and bold, but they seemed…genuine. Dare he say it? Trustworthy.
He shifted on the uncomfortable bench that was biting so tenaciously into his arse and sipped at his ale, which was not nearly as bitter and terrible as he had expected it to be, given the dreadful state of the establishment. They were surrounded by the lowest of the low, wenches with their breasts nearly falling from their bodices as they sat upon the laps of roués whose hands were up their skirts. Some dangerous-looking fellows who appeared as if they would as soon look at a man as stab him in the gut.
Perhaps this had been a bad idea.
“You are certain you are familiar with the owner of this…” He paused, searching for a word to describe the sticky-floored hovel in which he found himself. “This establishment, Suttons, and that he will aid us?”
“She will,” Wolf Sutton said, flashing the grin of a true rogue if Garrick had ever seen one. “She’s a widow, and the lady and I are reasonably well acquainted.”
The added qualification went a long way toward explaining the connection between the Sutton brothers and the proprietress. Reasonably well acquainted was likely the politest fashion in which Wolf Sutton had ever declared he had bedded a woman, too. Garrick could not be certain if he made the effort in deference to his sister’s presence at the table or his own.
It did not matter. What did matter was that they were going to find Aidan and bring him home.
Tonight.
And then…
And then, Garrick would have no reason to ever spend another moment in Penelope Sutton’s intoxicating presence. Which was just as well, because he needed to concern himself with courting the woman he intended to wed instead of chasing a trousers-wearing hoyden across London.
Why, then, did the realization fill his chest with a hollow sadness?
He took a lengthy draught of his ale to chase the feelings away. Followed by another.
“This should all unfold relatively smoothly,” said Hart Sutton, who was not nearly as brutish as his brother, the aptly named Wolf, was.
As far as Garrick could discern, Hart Sutton was the leader of the two, whilst Wolf Sutton was the brawn. Their roles were of little import to him as long as they helped him to secure his brother’s safety, however.
“Does the proprietress believe the criminals in question are lodging in a room here?” Garrick asked Wolf Sutton.
A small part of his mind—the cynical portion that had its origins in Veronica’s betrayal—cast up a reminder that it was possible they were all thick as thieves with the villains who had taken Aidan prisoner. Pen included.
However, another part of him refused to believe it. Rosebud trusted her, and Rosie had always been an excellent judge of character. She had hissed at Veronica on the few occasions when their paths had crossed.
“A woman has taken rooms,” Wolf answered, before sipping his own ale and scowling. “Watered-down piss. I thought Elizabeth gave a damn about the quality she serves her patrons.”
And here Garrick had deemed it not terrible. But then, he had never preferred ale. It was far too pedestrian.
“A woman,” he repeated, turning this news about in his mind to make sense of it. “Why would she suspect a lone woman?”
“Apparently, she appeared with a nob, with just enough coin for the night. Then, a different cove paid the next evening’s stay,” Wolf explained, “and the same cove paid for the next.”
Garrick found himself struck by an unexpected surge of gratitude. Regardless of their roughness about the edges, Pen and her brothers were proving damned helpful. He was not uniquely suited to the vagaries of dealing with criminals, swindlers, and East End riffraff. Navigating a drawing room, handling a phaeton, performing a country reel, offering a dowager lemonade, these were feats he could manage with ease. Rescuing his idiot brother from the maws of danger? Not so much.
“You are assuming the nob was my brother?” Garrick asked, trying to follow the logic.
In his world, a woman would never take rooms above a tavern on her own, and most definitely not with two different men. But then, The Beggar’s Purse was about as far from his world as he could manage to find himself.
“Aye, that’s the way of it,” Wolf Sutton agreed, sounding reluctantly impressed. “You aren’t as thick-witted between the ears as you look.”
Coming from most men in Garrick’s acquaintance, such words would have been cause for pistols at dawn. However, he recognized the grudging admiration in the other man’s gruff tone. It would seem the Suttons were all eccentric in their own ways. How vexing to discover he did not despise them as he ought.
He raised his ale in mock salute. “A compliment from you, no doubt, sir.”
“Forgive Wolf,” Pen said, drawing Garrick’s attention. “His tongue works faster than his mind.”
“The ladies haven’t complained yet,” Wolf said with a grin.
Garrick, who had been in the process of taking another sip of ale to calm the rampant desire that seemed to afflict him whenever Pen was near—and even when she was not, for that matter—subsequently choked on his beverage, inhaling some of it.
Hart Sutton pounded on his back with more force than necessary. Garrick hastily swallowed and attempted to regain his composure. Not an easy task when the other man was continuing his dubious ministrations. A strong arm on Hart Sutton, that was certain. Garrick rather suspected the man was attempting to get even with him for the slights he believed Garrick had paid Pen the night before.
And, well, he was not wrong. Whilst nothing untoward had occurred at his town house, if Hart and Wolf Sutton were privy to what had happened on that French sofa on the other side of town, they would not be seated with him at this table in civilized fashion. He had no doubt they would be tempted to tie weights to his ankles and toss him into the Thames. He could not fault them.
What he had done with Pen the night before was unconscionable. Not only because she was an unmarried woman, and she was wholly inappropriate for him as a match, but also because he intended to marry another. Lady Hester would never accept his suit if she knew the truth, that he had been pleasuring an East End hoyden when he was meant to have been courting her at some mind-melting musicale.
“I believe you have thumped his lordship’s back enough,” Pen said in Garrick’s defense.
Bless her, but her words only heightened his blistering inner shame. It was not merely Rosebud’s approval that had altered the light in which he viewed Miss Sutton. Rather, it was the woman herself.
“He’s still sputtering, Pen,” Hart said, continuing his blows, sounding rather pleased with himself.
And so he was, but the other man’s supposed attempts at aid were doing nothing to help the matter.
He moved his chair nearer to Pen’s, beyond her brother’s reach. “Thank you, Sutton. That is quite enough, I assure you.”
Pen’s knee bumped into Garrick’s beneath the table, and he had to suppress a groan and a corresponding surge of need. Her sweetly floral scent reached his nostrils, a welcome alternative to sour ale, smoke, and sweat that seemed to be the foremost odors in The Beggar’s Purse.
It took every bit of restraint he possessed to keep from reaching beneath the table and placing his hand on her inner thigh, caressing higher to the apex of her legs where he knew he would find her hot and silken and, if the world were fair, decadently wet.