Rake's Guide to Pleasure. (17 page)

His deep, desperate breaths began to slow, and this would be over soon, and Emma didn't want it to— "Get out," he gasped.

She shook her head. She wasn't ready to leave and he couldn't mean that. He couldn't. So she stood, trying not to move, trying to
stay.
But his breathing was almost normal now, and his limbs growing limp with relaxation. His eyes opened, bright blue against flushed cheeks.

The eyes narrowed. His mouth curled in a snarl. "Get the hell out of my room.
Now."

And Emma fled, slamming the door behind her.

Chapter 9

The bedcovers were a warm weight against his body, holding in heat and an unusual lethargy. Hart felt as if he'd sunk deep into the feathered mattress and he wasn't the least bit interested in climbing out. He threw an arm over his eyes to hold off the morning and floated slowly back into a heavy sleep of satisfaction.

A few minutes passed, perhaps an hour, and he blinked awake again. Before he'd even had time to stretch his limbs, memory returned and, with it, anger. His muscles froze to stone.

What the hell had he allowed to happen? What the hell had he
done!

Hart's body responded to that question by swelling with a renewed arousal that only further infuriated him. How quickly he'd been pulled back into the depths of his unnatural lusts. How easy to transform from the self-controlled duke into the debased rake. For God's sake, if she started spreading tales of his little show . . .

Hart sat up and reached over to jerk the
bellpull
, but he'd only brushed it with his fingers when his valet tapped at the door.

"Enter!" Hart shouted. His blood was rolling too quickly through his veins and pushing heat into his face. He wanted to take back the night or at least turn it into something else. Something
he
controlled, despite his challenge to Emma. Somehow this seemed so much worse than being caught ravishing a woman in the card room. To be snickered at. To be turned into a freak . . .

His head spun as Wellford brought tea and toast into the room. "I'll need hot water for washing," Hart barked.

Wellford murmured, "Immediately, sir," as he bowed back out the door. He did not say, "Of course, sir. I bring you hot water every single morning, even when you haven't debased yourself for a woman."

Hart gulped the scalding tea. As the liquid burned down his throat, his brain slowly began to right itself. He wasn't a foolish young man anymore. He may have indulged his baser needs last night, but there was no evidence, no proof in his own handwriting to titillate his peers. At worst, a story might circulate and then he'd make that woman pay.

He finished his cold toast, and Wellford returned with a steaming ewer of water. Wellford set out towels and soap next to the basin, then shaving powder and a razor. "Shall I return in a moment to shave you, sir?"

"Yes," he answered, but he was thinking of the woman across the hall, wondering if she were still abed. It didn't matter. He'd track her down and make himself clear. She had more to lose in this affair than he did. Risking exposure was one thing, and he could decide what he'd risk. But to let her have control—that had been a mistake.

A half hour later he was feeling more himself and almost entirely unashamed as he shot his crisp white cuffs and rolled the tension from his neck. "Would you send a message to Lady
Denmore's
room, Wellford? Inquire if she requires an escort to breakfast."

Wellford disappeared with his usual grace. Hart's brain began to buzz again, but this wasn't anxiety, it was anticipation.

Of seeing her again and what the day would bring. Would she be cool this morning, or still trembling with need? Would she make him laugh or yell? And tonight
 
. . . How would their game play out? Whose room would be invaded? How far would it go?

He was in control again. He could handle this situation. He could handle her.

"Sir?"

"Mm."

"It seems Lady
Denmore
has departed, sir."

"All right." She'd damn well better be in the breakfast room this morning. If he caught her in . . .

Wellford's throat had caught a particularly large and unmanageable frog.

"Yes, Wellford?"

"According to the chambermaid, Lady
Denmore
left this morning around eight. Lord
Moulter
was kind enough to lend his coach."

Hart froze in the act of tucking an extra handkerchief into his coat pocket. "Pardon?"

"I believe she has returned to London, Your Grace."

Hart's fantasy of control vanished with a little
pop
that stung more than just his pride. Oh, yes, he would make that woman pay.

Hart looked away from the distant sight of Emma's front steps and glared down at
Stimp
. "Her home was broken into almost two days ago. Why the hell didn't you send word?"

"I'm not exactly part of the household,
guv
. The housekeeper didn't tell me 'til last night. Then I had to find a man to write the note for me and a rider to carry it. I must've missed you."

"You are supposed to be
watching
the house."

"Well, it's a big house, isn't it? And a long night as well."

"Do you know who it was, this supposed thief?"

The boy broke into a smile wide enough to reveal one missing tooth. "I don't know his name, but I know where he's sleeping."

Hart's mood immediately improved and he responded with a predatory smile. "Even better. Lead the way."

"It's blocks away. Call for your damned carriage. '
At's
what it's for."

Sparing a haughty glare for the little urchin, Hart raised a hand. As the sound of horseshoes against stone drew closer,
Stimp's
eyes grew brighter. He struggled to remain expressionlessly unimpressed, but he was only a child after all. His big brown eyes glimmered with joy, and Hart had to hold back a snort. The boy fought hard for his dignity, and Hart would let him have it.

"In," he ordered as the wheels slowed to a halt. The boy jumped in, agile as a cat. "Push up that little hatch there and tell the driver where to go."

Stimp
needed no further prompting. He took over directing the carriage, opened all the windows and settled into the cushions, lap blanket pulled high against the breeze he'd created.

He shouted instructions several times. The carriage turned left and right and right again, then seemed to go through the same motions once more. Hart was certain the journey was rather longer than strictly required.

"What do you know?" he asked
Stimp
.

"Whoever he is, he's a stranger 'round here. A big fellow. Closemouthed but not good at keeping hid."

"The same man who paid you for information last month?"

"The same. And he come back last night too, dumb as you please. I chased him off and followed him. Wasn't sure you'd want the constables involved."

Hart shrugged, unsure himself.

"He went straight to a tavern, drunk himself into a mean stupor, and he's been snoring it off at this lodging '
ouse
ever since."

Hart tugged his watch free. "It's three in the afternoon."

"He drank 'til seven this morning." He was impressed with the lad's fortitude. "You must be tired,
Stimp
."

The little shoulders shrugged, though his eyes shown with pleasure again. "Spying
ain't
exactly hauling coal." The boy's eyebrow rose in a startlingly accurate impression of Hart's favorite expression. "It's practically gentlemen's work, isn't it,
guv
?"

Hart found himself holding back another smile. No wonder the street rat reminded him of Lady
Denmore
. Insolent to the core. "I'm not entirely sure I trust you,
Stimp
."

The boy's laughter rang like a bell as they finally jerked to a stop.

When Hart stepped down, he found himself at the doorway of a rambling three-story structure that seemed to stretch on for the entire block.
Stimp
darted past him and through the propped-open door. Sparks began to race over Hart's skin as he followed through narrow halls. The air was just as cold as it had been outside, but it was thicker here, tainted with bodies and old, bad cooking. He took care not to brush against the mottled gray walls.

What the hell did this man living in cold and filth have to do with Emma? His anger was sharpened and magnified by his doubts about her. This man was no ordinary thief. There was something else going on, something to do with gambling, he didn't doubt. Idiot woman.

He ran up the stairs after
Stimp
, around a corner and into an even darker hallway.
Stimp
slid to a stop in front of a battered brown door. Hart waited for the boy's nod before he smashed the door open with the flat of his hand.

Two men looked up from sleeping pads and caught sight of Hart's face. They'd scrambled up and out the door within three heartbeats, abandoning the third man curled into the corner.

Hart picked his way through a maze of stained, rumpled blankets and nudged the man with his boot.

"That's '
im
,"
Stimp
offered as Hart nudged again, much harder this time. The man stirred and gin fumes wafted up like pungent smoke.

"Christ."

"If he's from the country, he's likely not used to that brew."

Grimacing at the idea, Hart leaned down and grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt. Whatever stained it was dry at least. A good shake roused the drunk bastard, but his eyelids fluttered closed as soon as Hart stopped shaking. "Wake up, you thieving wretch."

"
Ernnh
," was the only reply.

"Damn it." He yanked the man to his feet, rather unsuccessfully. "Either stand or I'll drag you down the stairs." He had to get the man out into the fresh air. Hell, he had to get himself out into the fresh air, the combination of gin and stale sweat and God knew what else was making his eyes water.

He dragged the man across the room and down the hall, thankful when he woke enough to slide his feet beneath him to bear some of the weight.

"Stairs," Hart warned before he pulled him,
thunking
, down the steps.

The loud groan of protest was easily ignored, but the big hands that came up to clutch Hart's wrists were more intrusive. Not only were they sticky, they were strong as hell. He tossed the man out the front door and wiped his arm against his jacket.

By the time he made it into the open air that smelled of coal smoke instead of gin and onions,
Stimp
was standing guard, arms crossed and eyes glaring at passersby.

Hart paused to consider how best to wake the drunkard. A bucket of cold, foul water over the head? A boot to the ribs? The appeal of giving the man a good thrashing proved tempting, but Hart reconsidered even as he drew his foot back. The man knew Emma somehow from somewhere. He might not reveal their secrets, but she would.

"Help me get him into the carriage."

Stimp's
eyebrows neared his hairline. "He's likely to cast up his accounts all over your finery if you bounce him around in there."

"We'll put him on the floor and pray for the best."

Stimp
shrugged his opinion and helped wrestle the man's large body through the narrow opening. They had him halfway in when the driver jumped down and offered his shoulder as effective leverage.

The driver dusted off his shoulder. "Perhaps you'd prefer to ride above, Your Grace."

"Perhaps I would.
Stimp
?" But
Stimp
declined, unwilling to give up what might be his last carriage ride.

They were back at Emma's street and pulling into the alley within minutes, the driver having taken a more direct route.
Stimp
jumped from the coach with a pointed frown.