The Passionate One (29 page)

Ash peered woozily
up at his sire as if he could not quite remember the name that went with the
face. He pushed himself up a ways in the chair, grimacing, and looked around
the room. “Ain’t this the privy?”

“What?” Carr
thundered.

Ash let an
expression of confusion become dawning comprehension and finally drunken
hilarity.

“Damme, sir,” he
sobbed through his laughter, “I
am
sorry. Bit foxed, you know. Had to
leave the fellows midgame. Methinks I thought this chair was the privy! Sat on
a few in London, don’t you know.” He leaned over and examined the baroque
carved legs of the chair. “I swear I’ve never seen a more likely candidate.”

Carr’s face turned
ruddy with rage. “You swine! I had that chair shipped here from a Moroccan
seraglio! If you’ve soiled it I’ll—”

He grabbed Ash’s
arm, hauling him to his feet. Ash made himself hang loose in his father’s
vicious grip. He grinned foolishly. “Nah. Think I fell asleep first.”

With a sound of
disgust Carr shoved Ash away. Ash fell back heavily in the chair. The suspicion
evaporated from Carr’s face, leaving it blank as a reptile’s.

And why should he
be suspicious? Ash asked himself. He’d spent nearly two weeks convincing Carr
he’d plumbed new depths of depravity—would take any bet, do anything to earn
the sum needed for Raine’s release. A glimpse in any mirror revealed a gray
complexion and eyes red-rimmed with lack of sleep. Where other men scented
their bodies with perfumes and powders, Ash anointed himself with stale beer
and sweat.

“You’re filthy with
drink again, Merrick,” Carr said. “Though I appreciate your efforts. I’ve
acquired quite a tidy sum betting on just how many bottles you’ll upend before
passing out each evening.”

“Care to split the
winnings?” Ash asked cheekily. “No? Didn’t think so.” He fidgeted in his seat.
“For a chair that ain’t a privy chair, this is deuced uncomfortable.”

“It’s invaluable.”

“Doubt that,” Ash
replied flatly. “I’d wager you can set a very exact price on it.” He wrapped
his arm over the back of the chair and hung his weight from it. “New, isn’t it?
Lots of new geegaws in the family manse—not our family manse, I realize, but
who’s to know?”

“I’m remodeling,”
Carr said coolly. “You never did understand what I was trying to do here. How
could you?”

He wandered behind
Ash’s seat, his fingers caressing the back of the chair. “I need beauty like
you need drink, Merrick. Life is a simple process of animal adaptation but Art
is a controlled mutation that only a connoisseur is qualified to direct...”

Ash had heard the
speech before. Once launched into his discourse, little would stem Carr’s flow
of words. Ash kept his gaze fixed on Carr’s face but allowed his thoughts to
uncoil along their own path.

He’d had little
time to rifle through Carr’s desk. He’d scanned through his ledger discovering
in the neatly penned columns two things: First, the refurbishment of Wanton’s
Blush was costing Carr far more money than he owned. Second, a large sum of
unidentified origins was deposited quarterly in Carr’s accounts.

As for the letters,
Carr’s communiqués had proven uninteresting if often sordid. Pleas for
extension on debts outnumbered anglings for invitations to Wanton’s Blush.
Interspersed amongst these were detailed plans for plaster ceilings and marble
friezes; bids and specifications from architects, artisans, and garden
designers; payment demands from marble cutters and weavers.

Only one note had
caught Ash’s attention, a terse missive from one of his father’s many
victim-cum-debtors, none other than Lord Tunbridge. Of the pierced hand. After
begging for a few more months in which to make good his debt, Tunbridge had
closed his note: “I shall do all that I can to convince His Majesty that you
are indeed reformed. This may take time and whilst I am engaged on your behalf,
I adjure you to be in all matters circumspect.”

Unfortunately,
before Ash had had time to look for other letters carrying Tunbridge’s seal,
he’d heard Carr.

“—Donne might take
her off my hands.”

Ash’s head snapped
up before he could control the movement. His father’s gaze was waiting. Carr smiled
obliquely.

Ash swiped up the
bottle of wine and took a long draught to mask his reaction. “Take who? Fia?”

He knew Carr was
not speaking of Fia but of Rhiannon. She plagued his dreams and subverted his
reason. Even whilst sunk in the deepest of carouses, he found himself reliving
the moment when Carr had told her that Ash had been paid to bring her to
Wanton’s Blush. He saw again the frail promise of her trust shatter and become
bitter cynicism; and when he was not drunk, he could not escape the contempt in
her voice, telling him he was filthy and feral.

But most haunting
of all was that moment on the cliffs when pitiful gratitude for his mother’s
torn tartan had overcome her natural, her so well-justified, revulsion and
she’d whispered thank you and touched his arm. He still felt that touch as
distinctly as if his flesh had been branded.

Like a fever that
would not break, she lived in him, destroying his resolve and making mock of
his intentions. He should be focused on winning enough money to ransom his
brother. But he was in here, looking for clues as to why Carr had sent him to
fetch her.

“Not Fia. My new
ward.”

“Donne has offered
for Rhiannon Russell?” Ash mumbled, holding his wine bottle up and eyeing the
three fingers of liquor disconsolately.

“Not yet,” Carr
answered. “But he dogs the girl’s footsteps, or so I’m told. Weren’t you?”

No, he wasn’t and
he should have been told. He’d paid well for information about Rhiannon Russell
and he’d received detailed reports for his coin: what hour she woke, what gown
she wore, what book she read. But not that Donne courted her. Ash shrugged
noncommittally.

“Why do you want to
get rid of Rhiannon Russell?” Ash asked as if just struck by the thought. “You
just gave me a fat purse for bringing her here. Don’t make sense.”

“One can’t be too
forward-looking,” Carr pronounced silkily. “I’m simply ascertaining my
options.”

“You’ve never so
much as written the first word in a letter without already having planned the
last line,” Ash said. “So what I’m asking myself, is what you planned when you
sent me for Rhiannon Russell?”

Carr’s gaze met
his. “Busy thinking, Merrick? Why is that?”

But Ash had found a
dint in Carr’s skin. He knew Carr’s tactics; he would not be diverted by his
questions. “What do you want with Rhiannon Russell?” He pressed the slight
advantage.

Carr casually took
a seat, settling and smoothing the satin cloth of his breeches before
answering. “I really didn’t know where she was until now,” he explained in
bored tones. “A man mentioned her name and said she lived in his village. I
recognized it and asked him about her. It became clear she was the girl my
valet had turned away from my London town house years ago.”

Ash laughed
nastily. “Don’t try to tell me your conscience had been pricking you over her loss.”

“Of course not,”
Carr said with a flash of annoyance. “I was
told
she was comely. I
knew
she was the last of a once wealthy family. I
assumed
that as such she
would be heir to whatever trinkets and coin they had managed to hold. I gambled
’twas so.”

“So simple?” Ash
took another swig of wine. “Fascinating. Pray continue.”

“The rest is, in
hindsight, sloppy. But in my own defense remember I felt compelled by some
urgency. Hoping to prevent some provincial boy from securing her inheritance by
marrying the chit, I sent you for her. And, Merrick”—he looked up from the
rings bedecking his pale hands—“had circumstances been different and Miss
Russell an heiress, in fact, I would have been extremely upset had you returned
with the news that she’d wed.”

But Ash was more
interested in how much Carr had divulged. Too much. Carr never explained
anything to anyone. How much was lies and how much simple misdirection?

“Alas,” said Carr,
“the girl doesn’t own a thing. She’s utterly a pauper. As I’m sure you know.”

“Yes.” Ash wiped
the wine from his mouth with his sleeve. “Who did you say told you she was in
Fair Badden?”

“I didn’t. But
since you ask, it was some blond Goliath named Watt. He came here with his
fellow rurals in order to taste society.” Carr smiled serenely. “They were
quite surprised at the cost.”

Watt
?
Ash remembered St. John saying he’d met Carr but no one had ever
mentioned Watt being here. Certainly not Watt. Why the oversight?

“My turn,” Carr
said. “I find your interest in this girl inexplicable.”

Ash was ready. “Not
so inexplicable,” he said. “I need money. I thought she had some. Put some
effort into makin’ meself pleasant, you know. Hate to see it go to waste.”

“You
did
seduce her.”

Ash waved his hand.
“No. Though she might well think she’s been seduced. You know how these
sheltered little virgins are. You fumble ’neath their skirts a minute and they
think they’ve been done.”

“Indeed. Well, if
Thomas Donne is overcome with patriotic fervor and decides to offer for the
wench, I’m sure he’ll appreciate your restraint.” Carr’s gaze lay carefully on
Ash’s face.

Donne’s hand moving
over Rhiannon’s silken flesh. Her mouth opening beneath his. Her long, smooth
thighs wrapped tight—

“That would be
bloody convenient, wouldn’t it?” Somehow Ash managed to smile disinterestedly.

“How long is it
you’re planning on staying at Wanton’s Blush, Merrick?”

A vise tightened
about Ash’s throat. Carr
couldn’t
send him away. He shrugged. “Don’t
know. Why? You can’t spare the room?”

“The room yes but
you’ve been winning more than losing and at
my
guests expense.”

Ash snorted.
“Didn’t mean to encroach on your feeding grounds.”

“But you have,”
Carr said. “I’m afraid I don’t see any real advantage in having you here after
all.”

“I don’t have
anywhere to go,” Ash said sullenly.

“If you’d like to
remain here you’d best make yourself not only useful but lucrative,” Carr said.
“To me.”

For a second, Ash
held his father’s gaze, clear gem-like blue eyes meeting cool, unfathomable
dark ones. The orders were clear.

“Oh, I think I
might be able to amuse you—
and
enrich you.” With that Ash let his head
fall back against the chair and his eyes drift shut.

“Make sure you do,”
Carr said.

Ash did not
respond, playing the sulky mute. Five minutes passed before he heard Carr’s
footsteps retreating across the room. The door opened and shut.

He opened his eyes
and pushed himself wearily to his feet. His head felt thick, his tongue dry,
and his belly rebelled against too many days with too much wine and too little
food. The sticky sheen of sleeplessness coated his skin, and he stank. He was
burning himself out.

He should walk
away. But he wouldn’t. God help him, he couldn’t leave her here. And the great
jest of it was that staying would earn him nothing. Not even her smile. To her
he was less than human. A rutting, sotted animal. Carr would never allow him to
stay at Wanton’s Blush if he weren’t thus. As long as Ash appeared bestial and
seemingly drunk, he was tolerated. Carr would never feel safe otherwise.

He longed to tell
Rhiannon this but he dared not. She was too ingenuous, too candid. She didn’t
yet understand the layers upon layers of deception that were part of life at
Wanton’s Blush. Besides, she would never believe him. Carr was handsome,
charming, and attentive.

Ash... Ash was the
monster.

It was the price he
paid to stay here with her. And as long as he did not have to witness her
abhorrence, it was a price he was willing to pay. With that comfortless
thought, Ash staggered to the door leading to the foyer and wrenched it open,
blinking like some subterranean creature into the brilliant sunlight. He
stretched out his hand, groping for the support of the wall.

It was then he saw
her. The sunlight affixed itself to her smooth skin, shimmered in her hair,
molded a warm shadow beneath the fullness of her lip, and picked out with
exquisite detail the contents of her expression. Disgust. Pity. Revulsion.

It was too much.

“You,” he rasped
out. “Get out of here. Now!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Up with you, you
great stanking hound!”

Ash rolled over on
the mattress, groped for some missile to hurl, and finding none, snarled, “Get
out, Gunna! Your tender ministrations are not needed!”

The door slammed
shut. Ash winced at the reverberating echo in his head. Good. He only wanted to
be left alone. He’d stood just about all he was willing to stand—