CHAPTER7
Hart took another deep gulp from the bottle in his hand, relishing the burn down his throat. He’d had just enough that the poor attempt at stitches Wolf had inflicted upon his side no longer pained him. When the excitement of battle thrumming through his veins had worn off, he’d had to acknowledge that his wound had begun to hurt like the bloody devil and that it was too deep to heal without being sewn together. He had decamped from his room, finding his brother, who served as nurse these days now that their sister Caro had married and no longer lived at The Sinner’s Palace.
Fortunately, the blade that had struck Hart had not appeared to do damage to anything vital. He was still standing.
Sitting, rather.
Aye, at the moment, he was decidedly sitting in the office usually commanded by Jasper, who had returned home to his wife after they had made certain there would be no more surprise attacks this evening.
The day hadn’t gone according to plan. That much was certain. But they’d successfully fought off the Bradleys, and their enemies had limped back to their own gaming hell in far worse condition than the Suttons. The troubling matter of who had actually been the one to kill Abe Bradley would wait for another day. For now, all they knew was that Abe had taken a nasty knock to the head. But whether it was the cudgel to the idea pot or the dagger in his chest that had sent Abe to Rothisbones for good, no one could say. All they did know was that there had been an S tooled into the hilt of the knife.
And as Old Man Bradley had claimed S stands for Suttons and snakes.
Either way, Abe had been let into the grand secret. The Bradley lads were desperate to spill Sutton blood to avenge their fallen brother. The battle that had raged in the streets was about to turn into a true war. And Hart had yet to lure the Earl of Haldringham to The Sinner’s Palace according to plan.
“You’re sucking that bottle like it’s a strumpet’s bubby,” Wolf said, interrupting his musings. “Leave some for me. Jasper will have our bleeding hides if we drink more than one bottle between the two of us.”
“Look at the pair of us, drinking like two old toss pots,” Hart said wryly.
He was unabashedly consuming as much gin as possible. Trying to drown the worry and the sorrows, it was true. To say nothing of the pain. He had needed more than a few drops of jackey to dull the sting of his side, and everything else, too.
“Speak for yourself. I haven’t even had a damned tipple yet,” Wolf growled. “But then, I suppose you need it more than I. You look like a corpse that’s been dug up by the bum bailiffs, brother.”
“Mayhap not better than a dead body that’s been brought up by the body snatchers,” he conceded wryly, “but I’ll wager I look a sight better than poor Abe Bradley did.”
Wolf snorted. “Even corpses look better than Abe Bradley.”
“Abe Bradley is a bleeding corpse,” Hart said, wincing as he recalled the gory scene where Abe had met his brutal end.
“True enough.” Wolf plucked the bottle from Hart’s fingers and took a healthy swig himself. “Although, corpses looked better than Abe Bradley when he was still alive, too.”
“Floating hell, you’re cold.” Hart shook his head and leaned forward, grimacing in pain this time as the wound in his side pulled at the fresh stitches.
“Not as cold as Abe Bradley.” Wolf grinned and wiped the gin off his lips with the back of his hand.
His brother’s retort shocked a chuckle from Hart, despite his best intentions. “Ain’t going to be respectful to the dead, eh?”
“He beat his wife bloody. I’ll not respect a coward who uses his fists on a woman.” Wolf snagged the bottle, pulling it across the desk toward himself again. “If anyone deserved to die of a sound drubbing in the streets, it was Abe Bradley, even if the doing causes us trouble.”
Only Wolf would refer to a war in the streets featuring knife-wielding Bedlamites intent on assassination as trouble.
“Trouble was the rats,” he grumbled. “Murder is worse than bleeding rodents running about.”
Wolf shrugged, then took another long swig from the bottle. “My only regret is that you took a Bradley blade to the side in the mayhem. My stitches ain’t straight or tidy like Caro’s, just to warn you. The scar is going to be jagged and ugly as your old dial plate.”
“Here now.” He scowled at his brother, reclaiming the gin. “My face ain’t nearly as hideous as yours.”
The truth of it was, the Suttons had been born to nothing on the wrong side of London, but their worthless sire had at least passed on decent looks. Wolf was the brawny brute of the family, but that did not mean the ladies loved him any less. He always had the petticoats chasing him everywhere he bleeding went. Hart, on the other hand, for all that he had a prettier face, had to do the chasing himself. He had never minded. Petticoat chasing was a sport that led to a pleasant enough reward.
Too damned bad the only petticoats Hart wished to chase were currently of the variety he should never think of, let alone touch. And she was awaiting him in his chamber.
He took another draught, not even bothering to savor the drops of jackey. The goal was simple: continue pouring gin down his throat until he stumbled back to his room and fell asleep. In slumber, he could not be tempted to bed the angel awaiting him in his chamber. In slumber, he could not know how luscious her curves were, or how perfectly they molded to his hands. He couldn’t want to drive his tongue and then his cock inside her until they were both delirious.
“What are you going to do with the lady?” Wolf asked suddenly, as if Hart had spoken his thoughts aloud.
“The plan hasn’t changed,” he said, taking note the bottle of gin was a fair bit lower than it had been when he had first come upon it. “I’ll be using her however I must.”
Wolf secured the bottle for himself again. “She ain’t a bad mort. Face of an angel.”
Something unpleasant snaked through Hart.
His hand, previously resting in a relaxed state on the polished top of the desk, curled into a fist. “She’s mine.”
He did not mean it with as much force as his words possessed, but they emerged that way anyhow, with a hard edge of warning. The notion of his brother winning over Lady Emma filled him with bitterness.
Wolf raised a brow. “Never said I planned to take her from you, brother.”