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Guy’svague restlessness had intensified into a desperate inability to sit still by the time he arrived at Swann’s to meet his old schoolfriend Leo Halton, now the Duke of Dammerton.
He had little wish to revisit the upscale St. James gaming house. Swann’s had been his primary haunt in his youth, but by default, not choice: It was one of the few London establishments that had merited his father’s approval, which made it one of the few that would let Guy in.
The gaming house appeared to be prospering, though it had changed little in the past eight years: the same soft-spoken doorman murmuring the same bland greeting, the same elegant rooms hung with gold-colored satin and furnished with comfortable chairs. In the hushed intensity of the gaming room, where a faro bank was in full swing, Guy’s arrival turned heads, but he swung directly into the livelier adjoining saloon.
Dammerton was already there in one of his colorfully embroidered waistcoats, sprawled in an oversized armchair and nursing a snifter of brandy. Guy envied the duke’s apparent ease; days after that encounter with Arabella, he still felt as rumpled as his bed after a particularly poor night’s sleep.
Guy dropped into the chair beside Dammerton and was served within a minute. Still the best service and refreshments, hence Father’s approval. Guy had not minded Swann’s particularly; what he minded was the humiliation of being turned away from most London establishments like a blacklisted scoundrel, because everyone was too scared to disobey his father. Friends had suggested Guy offer bribes or attempt a disguise, but he refused to deploy such tricks.
“Well, Hardbury? How was my information?” Dammerton asked lazily, looking half asleep. Guy wasn’t fooled; lions usually looked half asleep too. “Did it lead you to Sir Walter?”
“Almost. I missed him by an hour and have no idea which road he took. He could be anywhere in England by now.” Guy stretched out his horse-weary legs and groaned. “The man’s like a bloody rabbit in a warren, diving down one hole and popping up somewhere else.”
“How does he even know to hop away? Surely your solicitors didn’t tell him of your investigations.”
“It was me,” Guy confessed. “I told him.”
Dammerton chuckled. “Ah, Guy the Impulsive. You never were any good at diplomacy.”
Guy had also confessed this to his solicitor, whose mouth had tightened before he said, “No doubt the right thing to do, my lord.”
Ah, what blather. No one dared tell a marquess he had erred. Once upon a time, Guy would have taken those words at face value, assured that he was right. Such were the benefits of maturity: All his life he had been a fool, but now he had the dubious wisdom of knowing it.
As proven by that whole debacle with Arabella.
What the devil had he been thinking? Well, he hadn’t been thinking, had he? Every step had seemed like a grand idea at the time; stars above, the lies he had told himself! She had stated directly what she wanted, then made a supremely inept attempt at getting it. How easy it would have been for him to kick her out! But no— He had to be an arrogant, deluded fool and turn it into a game, a game in which he was hopelessly outmatched.
Bloody hell. Guy was hardly a rake, but neither was he an innocent. Yet look at him: seduced like a naive virgin. Seducedbya naive virgin.
Virgin, at least; Arabella was about as naive as Mephistopheles.
“Ah,” Dammerton said, his tone suddenly alert. He gestured with his glass as if toasting someone across the room. Before Guy even turned, he knew what he would see: a fair-haired woman in a gown as blue as sapphires, disappearing through the French doors. A scandal sheet had mentioned that Clare Ivory always wore jewel colors; it was her signature, much as her fellow courtesan Harriette Wilson was known for wearing only white.
He twisted back. “Seriously, Dammerton? You knew she’d be here?”
“She never comes here. That’s why I suggested this place.”
Guy sat back, but a moment later, he was cursing and standing and striding toward the terrace, his friend’s chuckle floating in his wake.
Out on the balcony, Clare was in conversation with a man and woman. All three fell silent as he joined them, but he had eyes only for Clare. Ah, that angel’s face of hers, that had so tormented his youthful body and heart.
“Leave us,” Guy said to the couple.
“We are in the midst of a negotiation, my lord,” Clare said. “Perhaps—”
“Leave us.”
The two left.
Clare slapped her fan into one bejeweled hand. “I am a businesswoman and I will make a substantial commission from facilitating their contract. If you wanted to talk to me, you should have made an appointment.”
He lounged back against the balustrade. “I thought we had an appointment the other night, but instead I found myself entertaining Arabella Larke.”
Entertaining? That was one word for it. Days later, he could not dispel the image of her gripping the table, face turned up as if pleading with the heavens. In that moment, compassion had conquered him, so he was ready to do anything to protect her—until she revealed it was a manipulative, cold-blooded scheme.
Honor be damned. He owed her nothing. But the very idea that Arabella Larke, of all people, had slipped under his skin!
