Sally MacKenzie Bundle (169 page)

“Runyon,” Dunlap said cautiously, “what brings you to the Rutting Stallion so early? The girls won’t be ready to entertain for a few hours.”

Runyon let the curtain fall. “I’m not here for the girls, Dunlap. I’m here to see you. I have a little job that needs your special skills.”

“Oh?” The room was too damn dark. Dunlap wanted to see Runyon’s every move. He walked to the near window and pulled the drapes wide. The chances that a denizen of this neighborhood would be up so early were minimal, and most would know that there’d be nothing interesting to gain from peeping into this room’s windows.

“I have a girl I need you to seduce as publicly as possible.”

“A girl? Why don’t you do it yourself? I’d say you were quite capable.”

“Capable? Oh, yes. More than capable. But there are”—Runyon paused and smiled slightly—“complications.”

“Complications?” Dunlap felt the pit of his stomach drop, though he kept his face expressionless. He’d had years of dealing with scum. A man didn’t build a small empire in the flesh trade if he didn’t know how to hold his cards close to his chest. “What kind of complications?”

“Nothing you need be concerned about.”

Those were the worst kind. “What’s the girl’s name?”

“Sarah Hamilton. She’s an American, like yourself.”

“So? And why exactly does she need seducing?”

Runyon examined the nails on his right hand. “My cousin James has a slight interest in her. I wish to scotch it before it becomes a problem.”

“Your cousin James, as in the Duke of Alvord?”

“Yes.”

Shit, Dunlap thought, this was bad. Not only was Alvord physically imposing, he had vast financial and political power. He had friends, even some who lived on the shadowy side of London. Dunlap did not want to make an enemy of the Duke of Alvord. He had not lived to the ripe old age of thirty-five by antagonizing powerful men. If Alvord cared about this girl, he would make inquires. Dunlap kept his business interests as discreet as he could, but he was no damn magician.

Well, he hoped the duke’s interest in this girl was indeed slight, because he couldn’t flat refuse Runyon. Runyon knew too much about that unfortunate mistake in Paris with the Earl of Lugington’s son.

“How am I supposed to meet this American?”

“Come to the Easthaven ball tonight.”

Dunlap snorted. “The Earl of Easthaven’s a regular at one of my houses, true, but I’m not on his guest list, I assure you.”

Runyon shrugged. “I didn’t think you were. I’ll get you an invitation—and an introduction to Miss Hamilton. Just be sure you show up.”

“And if I’m successful and Miss Hamilton is ruined in grand style? Do you really think Alvord will die of a broken heart?”

Runyon smiled, a chilling pull of lips and teeth. “Death comes to all men.”

“Sometimes with help,” Dunlap said, hoping Runyon didn’t expect him to do that chore, too.

Runyon’s grin widened. “Sometimes with help,” he agreed.

“I shall have to make you known to Miss Hamilton, Mr. Dunlap. She’s from the colonies, too.”

“That would be delightful.” Dunlap smiled faintly at his dancing partner, Lady Charlotte Wickford. Runyon had introduced him to this pocket harpy the moment he’d crossed Easthaven’s threshold. She had looked him over carefully. He was used to women assessing him, but usually they were looking for their own use. Not Lady Charlotte. Her eyes were as cold as Runyon’s. He would bet a night’s profits that she also wanted to separate Miss Hamilton from the duke.

It was a huge joke that he was here waltzing with the
ton.
Most of the men in the room had visited at least one of his whorehouses. Some were avid patrons. Yet not one of them knew who he was. He knew them, however. He chose his madams carefully. They were shrewd businesswomen and excellent spies. Knowledge was power, and Dunlap loved power, even more than money and certainly more than sex.

The music drew to a close and Lady Charlotte dragged him off the dance floor. She had spotted her quarry. They were bearing down on a tall, thin, redheaded girl, half hidden by a small forest of potted palms. Dunlap sighed. He’d known this chore would not be enjoyable. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d humped an unappealing female. For a few years while he was growing his fortune, he’d had a side business servicing wealthy, bored wives. He’d screwed everything from young matrons, barely wed, to wrinkled matriarchs. He would get this job done, too.

Sarah hovered by a small patch of palms, waiting for young Mr. Belham to bring her a glass of lemonade. The ballroom at the Earl of Easthaven’s house was hot and crowded. She had again danced every dance, but instead of feeling exhilarated, she felt sweaty and out of sorts.

She had barely spoken to James since she’d left him in his study the night of Lizzie’s come-out. That was just as well, she reminded herself frequently, but she still felt a distinct hollowness in her middle. She saw him just a few yards away and faded farther into the palms. Mr. Belham might have difficulty locating her, but she’d rather risk that than James snubbing her.

“Think Alvord will offer for the American?”

Sarah froze, then turned her head slowly. A palm frond brushed along her cheek. Her retreat into the greenery had brought her within a foot of a small group of society bucks. If she moved away now, they might well notice her. She would prefer to avoid that embarrassment.

“That’s what the odds favor at White’s.” The man snickered. “Hard to see why the Monk would want to bed that skinny mare.”

The other men laughed. “Certainly ain’t much to pillow the ride.”

“Must like ’em that way. The Wickford chit doesn’t have much meat on her bones, either.”

“Come on, Nigel! The American has to be warmer than the Marble Queen.”

“Hear she ain’t warm in the pockets, though. Hasn’t got a feather to fly with.”

“Alvord’s got enough of the ready—don’t need a wife to add to his coffers. They’re already overflowing.”

“True.” The first man dropped his voice. “Maybe she’s got other, less obvious charms. Suppose she’s learned some bed games from those Red Indians? Savages, don’t you know. Still part animal, some say.”

There was complete silence for a moment. Sarah feared her concealing palms would combust from the heat of her cheeks.

“Do you suppose he’ll share? Once he gets his heir, of course,” one man whispered.

“Don’t know. I’d get in line for her—especially after the Monk teaches her all the tricks he likes. Man must have tried almost everything.”

“Heard he had three whores at once—and they weren’t skinny bitches, either.”

“Three? How was there room in the bed?”

“The whores were the Monk’s bed.”

“Ah, the Monk’s hard cot.”

“Ain’t the cot that was hard.”

“Miss Hamilton.”

Sarah jumped. She turned quickly to find Lady Charlotte Wickford looking at her through the palm fronds.

“Uh, hello, Lady Charlotte.” Sarah stepped out of the greenery. She was still distracted by the conversation she had just overhead. She hadn’t understood everything the men had said, but she’d understood enough.

Lady Charlotte twitched her lips in what passed for her smile. “How fortunate that I saw you hiding in the foliage, Miss Hamilton. Let me introduce Mr. William Dunlap to you. He is a fellow countryman.”

“Oh.” Sarah looked at the tall man standing next to Lady Charlotte. He was the most beautiful male she had ever seen. He had thick chestnut hair, dark brown eyes, and finely sculptured features. A small scar by the right corner of his mouth and the slightest bump in his otherwise classically straight nose kept his face from being perfect.

“How do you do?”

He took her hand and lifted her fingers to his lips. “Very well, now. It is so pleasant to meet another American. Would you care to dance, Miss Hamilton?”

Sarah felt unaccountably flustered. There was something almost predatorily male about this man.

“Well, I am waiting for Mr. Belham.”

“Here’s your lemonade, Miss Hamilton.”

Mr. Belham had returned. He was not the most handsome of London bucks in the best of circumstances, but compared to Mr. Dunlap, he was actually grotesque. He looked as though he had been pulled into this world by his nose, with his forehead and chin left to catch up. They had not yet done so. Sarah suspected he was buzzing around her in the hopes of meeting James.

“Mr. Belham,” Lady Charlotte said, “how nice to see you. I’ll take that lemonade, if you don’t mind. Miss Hamilton was just going to dance with Mr. Dunlap.”

Mr. Belham’s eyes widened and his small chin flapped harmlessly under his prominent nose. The orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz.

“You go ahead, Miss Hamilton. Mr. Belham and I will have a comfortable coze, won’t we, sir?”

Apparently the thought of a comfortable anything with Lady Charlotte Wickford struck poor Mr. Belham dumb. Still, he managed to nod.

Sarah looked back doubtfully as Mr. Dunlap led her onto the dance floor.

“I suspect Lady Charlotte, like many of her friends, doesn’t realize that there is a difference between Boston and Baltimore. So, where are you really from, Miss Hamilton?”

Sarah laughed. “Philadelphia. And yourself?”

“New York, but I have been to Philadelphia.”

“Alas, you are more well traveled than I. I had never left my city until I boarded the ship for Liverpool.”

Mr. Dunlap was an accomplished dancer and an entertaining conversationalist. Sarah enjoyed their set. She hadn’t realized how homesick she was for the familiar tones of an American accent. It was a relief to discuss politics with someone who, like she, did not believe in monarchy or primogeniture. Still, there was something about Mr. Dunlap that made her uneasy. He was pleasant, educated, and witty, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that his performance was a well-polished act, that his handsome face and cultivated manner were a facade behind which something very different lurked.

She laughed, shaking off her fantasies. If it was a façade, it was a very striking one. Other women were eyeing him and sending Sarah nasty looks. She might as well enjoy their envy until the music stopped.

James was staring, too. She caught his gaze as Mr. Dunlap expertly swung her through a graceful turn. Was he jealous? Good. He had been ignoring her so assiduously, she had wondered if she had turned invisible. She was tired of being the little American charity case.

When the music ended, James appeared by her side.

“Hello, Sarah. Introduce me to your partner?”

There wasn’t much else she could do. “James, this is Mr. William Dunlap of New York. Mr. Dunlap, his grace, the Duke of Alvord.”

James nodded curtly. “Dunlap. If you’ll excuse us, I believe this is my dance?”

Sarah believed nothing of the kind, but she wasn’t going to wrestle with James. His gloved hand had already imprisoned hers. She smiled brightly.

“Thank you for a very pleasant dance, Mr. Dunlap. I hope we will see each other again.”

Shit. Dunlap watched Alvord dance with Sarah Hamilton. He hadn’t needed an introduction; he knew the duke by sight. Alvord had never visited one of his establishments, but a savvy businessman always knew where the deepest pockets lay.

He also knew where the deepest pitfalls lay, and he was teetering on the edge of one now. He’d known Runyon was lying when he’d said Alvord had a “slight” interest in the Hamilton girl. Slight! Alvord’s breeches were bulging with his interest. Dunlap would have been a corpse rotting in a New York alley long ago if he had not learned to tell when a man had staked a sexual claim to a woman. Separating Miss Hamilton from the duke was going to be a very dangerous undertaking indeed.

James breathed in Sarah’s sweet scent and his body grew even harder. His gloved hands touched only her gloved hand and the small of her back, but he remembered the soft, heavy warmth of her body in his lap and the gentle curve of her breast in his hand. He remembered the feel of her throat under his lips, the fiery silkiness of her hair brushing his face.

He needed to taste her. She had been so cold to him since Lizzie’s come-out. It had been hell. And then to see that Dunlap fellow with his hands on her. God, he couldn’t think of the man without an overwhelming urge to rearrange his pretty face.

He had Sarah through the doors and down the steps into a darkened section of the garden before he consciously made the decision to leave the ballroom.

She wasn’t struggling. That was a good sign.

He waltzed them in slow circles to the faint strains of music floating from the open windows. The dense foliage managed to muffle the din of the city and shelter them from the worst of the soot and stench. He could almost imagine he was back at Alvord.

Sarah shivered and he urged her closer to his warmth. Warmth? He was more than warm at the moment—and his temperature was definitely rising. His legs tangled in her skirts as his lips found her temple.

“I’ve missed you, sweetheart.” His voice was slightly husky to his own ears.

“Hmm?”

He looked down. Her eyes were closed, her lips curved in a slight smile.

Should he talk to her about that blasted nickname? He didn’t understand why it upset her. Why would she care that he had never slept with a woman? Given her reaction when she’d found him in bed with her at the Green Man, she was not partial to rakes. He’d certainly never been called a lecher before—nor been beaten by a naked woman with a pillow. He grinned. Now
that
was an experience he wouldn’t mind repeating, with a more satisfying ending. If Sarah wanted him to have some experience, he’d be more than willing to get it with her. Beginning now perhaps.

He had better things to do with his mouth than talk.

Sarah was happy. She was exactly where she wanted to be—in James’s arms. Here in the darkened garden, away from the
ton’s
prying eyes, she could pretend she was in Philadelphia and James was a nice, solid American.

The air was slightly chill. She shivered, and James’s broad hand on her waist urged her closer. She went willingly. She felt sheltered by his large, firm body. Safe. Cherished.