Stephen cleared his throat. He liked to take a moment to compose himself whenever he was about to deliver an ultimatum. It added a certain gravitas to the occasion.
“The usual. You promise to stay away from high society and, of course, Lady Linton. You make good on that promise, and we don’t have any problems. If, however, you decide to try to outwit me, not only will you be ruined, but I will come for you.”
He took a step forward and towered over Lionel Hosey. “I normally add a dark threat in here about your body never being found, but I think that between the two of us, we can take that as implied. What else was there? Oh, yes. If I see you within ten feet of a cribbage table ever again, you won’t have any fingers left to draw pretty pictures of naked ladies. Am I clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I would hate to have to pay a visit to your employer or the authorities. You made several amateur mistakes with the blackmail note. I have more than enough evidence to see you hang.”
The fear which shone in Lionel Hosey’s eyes was real. The message had been well and truly received.
Stephen, however, was not yet done. “Lady Dyson, could you please give Mister Hosey and I a brief moment alone?”
Bridget glared at him but headed for the door. “I shall wait outside,” she said.
Once Bridget was out of sight, Stephen stretched out his arm. Placing one of his large hands around Hosey’s throat, he lifted him so that his toes were barely touching the floor. At the same time, firm pressure was applied. A minute or so later, the man’s face had turned an unpleasant shade of purple.
“I hope for your sake you take heed of my words because if I ever have to come here again, I won’t be so magnanimous. And I won’t ask Lady Dyson to keep her pistol in its holster.”
He set the blackmailer back on his feet and headed for the door. Lionel Hosey’s pitiful, hacking cough followed Stephen and Bridget down the stairs.
Out in Bond Street once more, Stephen stopped under a streetlamp and checked his pocket watch. It was late—too late to go knocking on Harry and Alice’s door to collect Toby. He made a mental note to do something nice for Alice in recognition of all her support. With a baby coming soon, he doubted he would be able to keep abusing her good nature forever.
I need to find a nanny. And a house. I can’t raise him at the coaching offices.
Not only were the accommodations at Gracechurch Street rudimentary, but it also left Toby exposed to the illicit world of the rogues of the road. He was not going to raise his younger brother to be a career criminal. Toby would be educated to become a gentleman and, in time, take his place in London society.
There is enough money in the Moore family estate to provide for him.
Thoughts of his responsibilities as a guardian would have to wait until morning. It was nearing one o’clock in the morning, and Stephen wanted a drink and for him and Bridget to talk.
“Had you planned some more of this evening or was waving a pistol about in Mister Hosey’s face the extent of it?” He was still angry with Bridget over her reckless behavior. Stephen wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into her. But when he caught a glimpse of her face in the pale light, he changed his mind.
Her expression spoke of a different need—of finally sating the hunger which burned between them.
“I had hoped that you might want to share this evening’s victory with me. To celebrate. I am no longer your client, so our other agreement could be . . .”
For the first time in a little while, Bridget seemed unsure of herself. Almost shy. The gun-wielding matron was now replaced by a young woman wishing to be reassured that he still wanted to share her bed.
“Let us get a hack and head to Berkley Square,” he said.
Reaching her home, Bridget slipped a key in the front door. There were no servants to be seen about the foyer. The message was clear—she had made certain that they were not going to be disturbed.
She held out her hand. “Come upstairs.”
When they got to the top of the first landing, instead of going the usual left, Bridget turned right.
Hopefully, her bedroom is this way.
Stephen’s cock gave a twitch. It was anticipating a spot of action—something it hadn’t seen in a long while.
Down, boy. Wooing first.
With the coaching business, numerous trips with Gus to France, and having to deal with his father’s legacy, Stephen simply had not had the time to go chasing the wicked women of theton. Tonight, hopefully, his dry spell was about to come to an end.
Bridget stopped at an open doorway and ushered him in. To his disappointment, the room on the other side was not a bedroom.
Blast. I thought we were going to indulge. Perhaps I misread the signals.
