“That was only a figure of speech.” She patted his hand. “Now, are you hungry?” Her own stomach grumbled. “I know the cook has some lovely pheasant down in the kitchens. Tonight is Lord Manderley’s weekly appointment. You know how he likes his bacchanalian feast, and there is always plenty left over.” She caught his expression. “Everything that goes into the red room is disposed of. I’m speaking of food that is never sent up.”
He blew out a breath. “In that case, do you think there’s enough leftovers for seven?”
Pausing at the door, she frowned back over her shoulder. “How hungry are you?”
“With you, I feel like I’m always starving.” He patted her bottom. “But tonight isn’t just about my appetites. Darling, we have company.”
Chapter Thirteen
Max leaned back in his chair and rubbed his full stomach. The cook at The Black Rose was quite remarkable. He’d never tasted a juicier bird. The hollowed-out carcass on the table attested to the fact that everyone agreed.
He and his friends sat around the long, rough table in the kitchen of the club, drinking watered down wine and feasting on what hadn’t made it to the table for one of their strangest members. There were times when Max thought that Manderley truly believed he was a Greek god.
Max glanced at Colleen, seated to his right. After seeing one of Manderley’s scenes, Max had to admit the idea of Colleen hand-feeding him grapes and other succulent tidbits with one hand whilst stroking his cock with the other, wasn’t a bad one. Maybe Manderley was onto something.
The club was quiet, now closed, and workers and customers alike had gone home.
“What now?” Summerset tossed a wing, picked clean, down on his plate and wiped his fingers on a towel. He jerked a thumb at Pinkerton. “We’ve placed this man in every window of every club, coffee house, and tavern, and no one has taken a shot at him. Zed obviously doesn’t think he’s worth the time to try to kill”—Summerset ignored the American’s objection—“and we’re left feeding and housing the annoying sot. I think we need a new plan.”
Everyone but Pinkerton and Colleen muttered an agreement. It felt as though they were giving Zed more time to retrench while they passively dropped a line in the water. Max had always preferred a more active hunt. If he saw a fish he wanted, he would dart his arm in the pond and grab for it. It was time they stopped letting Zed dictate their actions.
“Any ideas?” Max asked and looked around. Montague tapped the flat end of his knife’s blade against his mouth, looking thoughtful. Rothchild stared at the ceiling. And Summerset looked more interested in cleaning the grease from his fingers.
Only Dunkeld spoke. “I think we’ve been dangling the wrong bait. Zed has shown an interest in one person, and it’s time we used her to flush out our prey.”
Everyone swiveled their heads toward Colleen. She had a bit of bread raised to her lips, and her eyes darted to the surrounding faces.
“No.” Max threw his own towel on the table. “We will not parade her about waiting for someone to put a bullet in her head. Absolutely not.”
“But that was fine for me?” Pinkerton asked, outraged.
He was ignored.
“Maximillian, we wouldn’t let that happen,” Montague said gently. The duke rested his elbows on the table. “We’d have to stay close to her, of course.”
“Too close.” Summerset kicked a jewel-encrusted boot up onto the corner of the table, and Dunkeld knocked it down. Summerset grunted. “If we did this, Sutton couldn’t come along. He’d be in her petticoats the entire time, and Zed would never try to strike.”
Heat flushed through Max’s body. He clenched his fists. “Go to hell. You’re not using my woman as bait. And if you try to do so without me there, I swear I’ll—”
Rothchild pushed him back into his seat and patted Max’s shoulder. “Everyone, calm down. No one wants to take down Zed more than me, but we won’t put Mrs. Bonner in danger if Max is against it.”
“Interesting that no one’s asked my opinion,” Colleen said, a brittle smile curving her lips.
“It’s. Not. Happening.’ Max’s glare encompassed everyone, including Colleen. She was just the sort of woman who’d put herself in danger to help others. Noble. Determined. Daft. Max needed to make his decision abundantly clear to everyone involved. “We find another way.”
Dunkeld shrugged one shoulder. “I understand,” he said in a quiet voice. “But sometimes danger can’t be escaped. She’s already a target.”
“Well, we’re not going to make her a more appealing one. And that’s final.” Colleen opened her mouth, but Max cut her a look. “Final,” he repeated.
Rising to her feet, Colleen took her plate to the sink. “Since it appears I need permission for my own actions”—she dipped into a low, insolent curtsy—“may I adjourn to the cellars for another bottle of wine, my lord? I promise to hold tight to the rail going down the steps and tread carefully. No injury to my person shall occur.”
His friends raised their eyebrows and looked to see how Max would respond. A smile ghosted across Montague’s lips, and Max frowned. He knew how the duke’s mind worked, knew how he would handle such impertinence from a lover. Max didn’t want Montague’s mind anywhere near Colleen’s bottom. Standing, he tossed his plate at the duke, who caught it to his chest, startled.
“You go ahead,” Max told Colleen. “We’ll clean up here in the while.”
“Bring two bottles,” Dunkeld hollered at her retreating back. “We need to drink twice as much of that swill to feel anything.”
She waved her fingers over her shoulder and disappeared down the narrow hall.
