CHAPTER9
Wolf wondered if the blasted missive had caused her problems.
Sending it had been selfish and careless, and Wolf had recognized it the moment the lad he had paid to deliver it to Blakewell House had gone. He had intentionally been vague and had left it unsigned, which he had convinced himself ought to be sufficient to guard her from prying eyes. But by God, if he led whomever had done her violence to strike her again, he would never forgive himself. The mere thought was enough to make his gut clench and his protective instincts rebel with the need to seek immediate, swift, and bloody vengeance.
His idiocy aside, Wolf had still been hoping to hear back from her. To receive some acknowledgment, however small, that his missive had found its way beneath her eye. That what had transpired between them that night had meant something to her, for it had bloody well meant everything to him. Aye, he wanted some inkling that although days had passed since they had parted ways, she had thought of him, at least once.
Instead, he had received nothing, save silence.
Not a missive.
Not a call.
Not a hint of the woman who had taken to haunting his every sleeping and waking hour, curse her.
“Stupid arsehole,” he muttered to himself below his breath as he passed Viscount Torrington and a handful of the lord’s familiar cronies at a hazard table.
The viscount had nearly perished in a vicious phaeton accident that had left him, if rumor was to be believed, with an impaired memory. Although aloof and icy, he had been a regular presence at The Sinner’s Palace in recent months. A nob with deep pockets and devoted resilience at the green baize was always heartily appreciated by the Suttons. Lately, the viscount had been looking rather gaunt. Wolf could only wonder at the reason.
A woman, perhaps?
Christ knew Portia was the cause of his own recent sleepless nights.
Well, her and Loge. The trip to Tierney’s lair with his brothers had proven every bit as fruitless as the missive he had sent to Portia. They had arrived at the moneylender’s establishment to find it empty. Not a soul within.
Loge was, once again, gone.
The men Jasper had been paying to watch Tierney and Loge had sworn on their mothers’ graves that Archer Tierney and Mr. Martin, as Loge was calling himself, had entered the establishment through the rear earlier that morning. No one had left. When Wolf and his brothers had forced their way inside, they had found nary a hint of anyone.
They had torn the bloody place apart, from the bowels to the rafters, and come up with nothing and no one. Not a single damned clue as to where they had gone or how they had managed to flee without any of Jasper’s men taking note. It had not been what any of them had anticipated, and the realization their brother was once again lost to them had been a staggering blow.
Not so different from Portia’s silence.
“Mr. Sutton.”
Wolf was jolted from his musings suddenly by the silent appearance of Hugh, one of The Sinner’s Palace guards, at his side. He stopped in his slow perambulation of the room, for it was damned unlike the guard to intrude when he was on the floor.
“Is something amiss, Hugh?” he asked quietly, taking care to make certain his voice did not carry.
The Sinner’s Palace rule was to keep their patrons ensconced in a world where nothing but leisure and pleasure existed. The window coverings were always closed so no one knew whether it was day or night, and there could be an entire infantry brigade formed at the front door, about to stage an assault, but everyone within would do their utmost to make certain their lofty patrons remained blissfully ignorant.
“You’ve a visitor,” Hugh said. “Petticoats.”
Petticoats.
A woman.
Portia? Wolf’s heart leapt at the possibility.
He was instantly on edge. “Where?”
“Awaiting you in the office, sir,” Hugh responded, his countenance carefully blank.
Good. Unlike his brothers, the guard knew better than to needle him about wenches.
He nodded. “Thank you, Hugh. You’ll oversee the floor for me?”
“Aye, Mr. Sutton.”
Hugh did not need to speak twice. Wolf fled the floor with such haste, he nearly tripped over his feet. He would have laughed at his own eagerness had he not waited days to hear from her, but as it was, it seemed as if a lifetime had passed since he had left her in the darkest depths of the night with the hope he would see her again soon. And if it was indeed Portia who had managed to steal away at this hour of the night and find her way to him, he was half-afraid she would bolt before he would even reach her.
His heart was thundering in his chest by the time he approached the office he had taken to sharing with his brothers. The door was closed, but he did not bother to knock or otherwise announce his presence. Instead, he threw it open and bounded over the threshold like the brash East End booby he was.
A woman was indeed within, her back to him upon his entrance, and though she was gently illuminated by the wall sconces, he knew the shape of her. His hands itched with remembrance of the way those bountiful curves had felt beneath them. She whirled about as he kicked the door closed at his back.
“Portia,” he said, striding toward her.
“Wolf,” she cried, removing a hat and veil from her head and tossing it to the carpets as she met him halfway.
She launched herself into his chest with such unprecedented enthusiasm that he staggered back a handful of steps as he caught her against him, holding her tight. She was warm and lovely, all flashing emerald eyes and sweet pink lips smiling in welcome, and she smelled like bloody paradise, like a garden bursting to life with decadent blooms.
“Where have you been, Countess?” he asked, careful to keep his tone soft.
He would not make demands of her. Her presence in his life was a privilege, and no one knew it better than Wolf. That she was even here, in his gaming hell, in his arms, was more than enough to please him. Seeing her, being with her, made him…happy.
Well, bleeding hell, there it was. This woman made him feel things he’d never felt before. Things he’d never thought to feel.
“I had to wait until I could safely see you,” she said, cupping his face as if he were a welcomed sight she could not quite believe she beheld. “I am meant to be at a ball this evening, but it was hosted by a friend of mine, and I was able to use one of her carriages to slip away.”