Passion for the Game, Page 2

  Her gaze moved to her remaining footman, ordering him silently to do something to assist her. The servant’s wide eyes were trained above her head, his throat working convulsively as he swallowed hard. Then he looked away.

  She sighed. Apparently, she would have to save herself.

  Again.

  Her next action was goaded as much by instinct as by forethought. She moved her hand, setting it over his wrist, allowing him to feel the sharp point of the blade she hid in a custom-made ring. The man froze. And then laughed. “I do so love a good surprise.”

  “I cannot say the same.”

  “Frightened?” he queried.

  “Of blood on my gown? Yes,” she retorted dryly. “It is one of my favorites.”

  “Ah, but then it would more aptly match the blood on your hands”—he paused, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear, making her shiver even as her skin flushed—“and mine.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am what you need.”

  Maria inhaled deeply, pressing her corset-flattened bosom against an unyielding forearm. Questions sifted through her mind faster than she could collect them. “I have everything I require.”

  As he released her, her captor allowed his fingers to drift across the bare flesh above her bodice. Her skin tingled, goose-flesh spreading in his wake. “If you find you are mistaken,” he rasped, “come find me.”

  He stepped back and she spun in a flurry of skirts to face him.

  She expertly hid the true depth of her surprise. The renderings in the papers did not do him justice. Pale golden hair, sun-kissed skin, and brilliant blue eyes enriched features so fine they were almost angelic. His lips, though thin, were beautifully sculpted by a master hand. The entire sum of his countenance was so stunning, it was disarming. It made one want to trust him, something the cold intentness of his gaze told her would be a mistake.

  As she studied him, Maria absently noted the undue attention they were attracting from the other patrons in the gallery, but she could not spare a quelling glance. Her attention was snared by the man who stood so arrogantly assured before her. “St. John.”

  Showing a leg in a courtly bow, he smiled, but it did not reach his eyes—glorious eyes that were made more poignant by the shadows that rimmed them. He was not a man who slept often or well. “I am flattered by your recognition.”

  “What is it that I am supposed to be lacking?”

  “Perhaps whatever it is your men search for?”

  The surprise elicited by that statement could not be hidden. “What do you know?”

  “Too much,” he said smoothly, his gaze intensely searching. Sensual lips curved and trapped her attention. “And yet, not enough. Together, perhaps, we could achieve our aims.”

  “And what is your aim?”

  How was it that he would approach her so soon after Welton? Surely it could not be a coincidence.

  “Revenge,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue so casually she wondered if he was as dead to emotion as she was. He would have to be to live the life of crime he did. No remorse, no regret, no conscience. “The agency has meddled in my life one too many times.”

  “I’ve no notion of what you are talking about.”

  “No? A pity, that.” He stepped around her, leaning close as he moved by. “I will be available, should you figure it out.”

  For a moment, she refused to turn and watch him depart. But it was only a moment, and then she studied him avidly. Starting with his height and breadth of shoulder, down his satin-clad form to his heeled shoes, she missed nothing. Dressed as he was, he could not fade into the crowd that milled in the gallery. His pale yellow coat and breeches stood apart from the darker colors of the other theater patrons. She fancied him as a god of the sun, a shining overpowering presence. His casual stride was unable to hide the danger inherent in him, a fact noted by the peers who quickly moved out of his way.

  Now she understood his appeal.

  Maria returned her attention to her footman. “Come along.”

  “My lady,” he cried plaintively, stilling her midstep. “Please forgive me.” The young man looked as if he might cast up his accounts. His dark hair fell over his brow, framing immature features. Were it not for the livery he wore, he would appear very much the boy he was.

  “For what?” Her brows arched.

  “I-I did not come to your aid.”

  Her stance softened. Reaching out, she touched his elbow, a gesture that startled him. “I am not angry with you. You were afraid, an emotion with which I sympathize.”

  “Truly?”

  She sighed and squeezed his elbow gently before releasing him. “Truly.”

  The grateful smile he gave her made her heart ache. Had she ever been so…open? She felt so disconnected from the world at times.

  Revenge. That goal was all she had. She tasted it every morning for breakfast and rinsed her mouth out with it at night. The need for retribution was the force that pumped blood through her veins and filled her lungs with air.

  And Christopher St. John could be the means by which she would acquire it.

  A few moments ago, he had been a chore to complete as quickly as possible. Now the possibilities were beyond intriguing; they were seductive. It would take careful planning on her part to utilize them and St. John effectively, but she had no doubt she could manage it.

  For the first time, in a very long time, she smiled.

  Christopher whistled as he walked away, feeling the weight of Lady Winter’s stare following after him. He had not anticipated actually speaking with her. He had merely hoped to see her up close and take note of how well she guarded herself. It was a wonderful turn of events that she had chosen that moment to leave her box. They’d not only met, but he had touched her, held her in his arms and smelled the scent of her skin.

  He was no longer dreading boredom in the bedroom, not after feeling the point of that hidden blade. But beyond that, he found that more than his carnal interest was piqued. She was younger than he had assumed, her skin beneath powder and patch unblemished by lines and her lovely dark eyes displaying traces of both wariness and curiosity. Lady Winter was not yet completely jaded. How was that possible, when she was widely considered to have killed at least two men?

  He intended to find out. The agency wanted her more than they wanted him. That alone intrigued him no small amount.

  As he exited the theater, Christopher noted the black lacquered carriage that bore the Winter crest. He paused beside it. Making a barely discernable gesture, he listened for the answering birdcall that told him his order was seen by at least one of his men stationed around the area. The coach would be followed until he said otherwise. Wherever the fair lady went, he wanted to know about it.

  “I shall be at the Harwick house party this weekend,” he told the driver, who stared back at him with wide eyes and rigid body. “Make certain her ladyship knows this.”

  As the man nodded violently, Christopher smiled with deep-rooted satisfaction.

  For the first time in a very long time, he had something to look forward to.

  Chapter 2

  “There is the possibility that she was sold into slavery.”

  Maria paused her pacing before the fire to stare hard at her investigator and former paramour. Simon Quinn wore only a multicolored silk robe, his tanned throat and chest visible in the parted opening. His eyes, a startling blue, stood out in stark contrast to his dark skin and black hair. Irish coloring. The complete opposite of the golden St. John, and younger by several years, but extremely handsome in his own right.

  Aside from his innate sexuality, Simon appeared innocuous enough. Only the intense way he studied his surroundings hinted at a livelihood fraught with danger. In the course of their association, he had broken nearly every law there was.

  So had she.

  “Odd you would say that tonight,” she murmured. “Welton said the same to me earlier.”

  “That certainly does not bode well, then,
does it?” he asked in his smooth-as-satin voice.

  “I can do nothing with conjecture, Simon. Find me the proof of it. Then we can kill Welton and give chase.”

  Behind her, the fire in the grate quickly heated her dressing gown and then the backs of her legs to an uncomfortable degree, but inside she was icy with terror. The thoughts that filled her mind made her ill. How would she ever find Amelia if her sister was in the world at large?

  Simon’s brows rose. “Taking the search beyond the shores of England would greatly diminish the chances of a successful outcome.”

  Raising the cordial in her hand to her lips, Maria drained the contents to bolster her spirits and set the small glass on the mantel. Her gaze moved across the room, once again finding comfort in the stained wood paneling and dark green drapes. It was an extremely masculine study, an effect that served two purposes. One, it established a somber mood that discouraged meaningless discourse. Two, it gave her a sense of control she needed desperately. Often she felt like a puppet on Welton’s strings, but here she was in command.

  She shrugged and resumed her pacing, her black dressing gown swirling around her ankles. “You act as if I have something else to live for.”

  “Surely there is some goal you wish to accomplish.” He rose to his feet, towering over her as most everyone did. “Something more pleasant than death.”

  “I cannot think of the future beyond finding Amelia.”

  “You could. It will not make you weak to wish for better things.”

  The glance she shot him was narrowed and cool enough to discourage most. Simon, however, simply laughed. He had once shared her bed, and with it, the inevitable domestic discord that came with the role of resident lover.

  Maria sighed, her gaze moving to the portrait of her first husband that hung on the wall from a length of thick ribbon. The swirls of paint created an image of a portly man with ruddy cheeks and bright green eyes.

  “I miss Dayton,” she confessed, her restless stride slowing, “and the support he provided.”

  The Earl of Dayton had saved her from total ruin. Seeing through Welton’s exterior, the kind widower had rescued her, paying a high price to take a girl young enough to be his granddaughter as his second wife. Under his tutelage she learned everything she needed to know to survive. Weaponry and the consummate use of it were only two of the many lessons learned.

  “We will see to it that he is avenged,” Simon murmured. “I promise you that.”

  Rolling her shoulders in a vain attempt to alleviate the tension there, Maria moved to the desk and sank wearily into the seat. “What about St. John? Can he be of any use to me?”

  “Of course. With what the man knows, he could be of use to anyone. But there must be something to be gained for him. He is not a man known for his charitable tendencies.”

  She curled her fingers around the carved ends of the chair. “It would not be sex. A man who looks like he does would have women aplenty.”

  “Very true. He is a man known for living to excess.”

  Moving to the sideboard, Simon poured his own libation and rested a lean hip against the edge. While he managed the appearance of nonchalance, he never lowered his guard for a moment. She knew this and appreciated it.

  “I can only assume it is the death of your husbands and their relation to the agency that has sparked his interest.”

  She nodded, expecting as much. The only motivation she could find for St. John’s approach was his desire to use her as Welton did—for a distasteful task where feminine wiles were required. But surely he had women closer to him who could do the job with similar efficiency? “How was he caught? After all these years, I cannot help but wonder what error he made.”

  “From what I can discern, he made none. An informant was found who was willing to speak out against him.”

  “A bona fide informant?” she asked softly, her mind’s eye remembering the brief moments she’d spent with the criminal. He was supremely confident as only a man with no fears could be. He was also a man one would be foolish to cross. “Or simply one who bent to coercion?”

  “Most likely the latter. I shall look into it.”

  “Yes, do.” Maria fingered the corner of a piece of parchment on her desk. Her gaze rested on the sparkling amber liquid in Simon’s hand and then moved higher, noting his broad shoulders and powerful arms.

  “I wish I were of more help to you.” The sincerity in his voice could not be mistaken.

  “Do you know of a woman we could trust to align herself with Welton?”

  He paused with his snifter lifted halfway to his mouth, a slow smile transforming his features. “By God, you are a wonder. Dayton taught you well.”

  “One can hope, yes? Welton has a preference for blondes.”

  If only her mother had known that.

  “I shall find a suitable female posthaste.”

  Maria leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

  “Mhuirnín?”

  “Yes?” She heard his glass settle on the surface of the sideboard and then the steady sound of Simon’s confident stride. It made her sigh, flooding her with a sense of comfort she struggled to deny herself.

  “Time for bed.” His large hand covered hers where it curved around the chair arm, and the rich scent of his skin filled her nostrils. Sandalwood. Pure Simon.

  “There is too much to be considered,” she protested, her eyes opening just enough to look up at him.

  “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.” He tugged her up and when she stumbled, he caught her close, embracing her in warmth. “You know I will not be swayed until you do as I say.”

  Her body attempted to melt against his, and Maria squeezed her eyes shut to fight off the urge.

  She could not help but remember the feel of him moving over and inside her, an association she had put an end to over a year ago. When his touch had come to mean more to her than mere physical comfort, Maria had concluded the affair. She could not afford to become complacent or feel contentment. Still, Simon remained in her household. She refused to love him, but she could not send him away either. She adored him and appreciated his friendship and his knowledge of the underbelly of society.

  “I know your rules.” His hands cradled her spine.

  He did not like them, she knew. His carnal interest had not waned. She felt it even now, pressing hard against her stomach. A younger man’s appetite.

  “If I were a better woman, I would make you go.”

  Simon sighed into her hair and pulled her closer. “Have you learned nothing about me in the years we have been together? You could not make me leave. I owe you my life.”

  “You exaggerate,” she admonished, recollecting when she first saw him in an alleyway, standing alone against a dozen opponents. He held his own with a ferocity that frightened and aroused her. She almost continued on, her aim that dark night to follow a lead on Amelia that seemed more promising than most. But her conscience would not allow her to ignore the imbalanced battle.

  Brandishing sword and pistol, and flanked by several men, she managed to be sufficiently intimidating and the attackers had been frightened away. Left weakened and bloody, Simon had still chastised her roundly. He did not need rescuing, he said.

  Then he collapsed at her feet.

  Her original intent had been merely to clean him up and ease her conscience. Then he had emerged from a bath, a virile and breathtaking creature. And she had kept him.

  Simon stepped back, his mouth curving in a wry smile as if he knew her thoughts. “I would face a dozen men again, hundreds, if it led me back to your bed.”

  Maria shook her head. “You are incorrigible, and overly randy.”

  “It is impossible to be too randy,” he said with laughter in his voice, leading her toward the door with his hand at the small of her back. “You will not distract me from ushering you into bed. You need rest and sweet dreams.”

  “Ah, have you learned nothing about me?” she queried as they stepped out to
the hallway and took the stairs. “I prefer not to dream. It makes waking so depressing.”

  “One day all will be well,” he promised in a low, assured tone. “I promise you.”

  She yawned and then gasped as she was swung up into powerful arms. Within moments she was tucked into bed with a quick good-night kiss pressed to her forehead. As Simon retired, the soft click of the adjoining door made relaxation possible.

  But it was a different set of blue eyes that followed her into sleep.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  Christopher nodded at his butler. From his drawing room on the left, raucous laughter spilled out of the open double doors to fill the entryway where he stood.

  “Send Philip to me directly,” he ordered softly, handing over his hat and gloves.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Crossing to the stairs, he passed the boisterous group of his men and their companions. They called out to him, and he paused a moment on the threshold, his gaze moving over the assembled crowd he considered his family. They were celebrating his release—the luck of the devil, they said—but work awaited him. There was much he needed to ascertain and accomplish if he wished to ensure his present state of freedom.

  “Enjoy yourselves,” he urged before taking the stairs with shouted protests following him to the second floor.

  He reached his rooms and, with the help of his valet began to undress. He was shrugging free of his waistcoat when the young man he had requested rapped lightly on the door and then entered at his behest.

  “What have you learned?” Christopher asked without preliminaries.

  “About as much as one could expect to learn in the space of a day.” Philip tugged at his cravat and started pacing, his pale green coat and breeches a stark contrast to the stamped leather that lined the walls.

  “How many times must I warn you about your fidgeting?” Christopher admonished. “It betrays a weakness that begs to be exploited.”

  “My apologies.” The youth adjusted his spectacles and coughed.