Chapter Two
“For the last time, I’ve never met this Samantha before, nor am I associated with the Duke of Chatterworth!” Heathcliff Marston, Viscount Kilpatrick, was about to lose the last of his patience as he studied the men before him, drinking his brandy and lounging about in his study.
“We have reason to believe—“
“And I have appointments and other responsibilities!” he all but shouted. He took a small sip of brandy, using it as a buffer between his anger and the men provoking it.
They exchanged a glance, the kind that saidwe’re going in circles here, and then the older one rose from his chair.
Heathcliff almost wept in relief but kept his gaze hardened and trained on the interlopers.
“You’ll be in contact if you hear anything.” The man set his calling card on Heathcliff’s desk. He noted the question wasn’t exactly that; it was a demand.
Heathcliff wanted to take the card and toss it into the fire, then pour brandy over the flames just to make the point more spectacular, but working with Lucas and Ramsey had taught him to temper his, well . . . temper, and he suppressed his somewhat barbaric reactions.
Most of the time.
And this was, regrettably, one of the times he suppressed his baser reactions.
“Of course,” he lied smoothly, watching as the younger gentleman, probably in training, followed the older man to the study door.
“We can see ourselves out.”
Heathcliff withheld a grin at the sudden appearance of Wilkes, his longtime butler, at the door. “If I may, gentleman?” he offered.
Damn butler was worth his weight in brandy. French brandy.
Heathcliff gave an approving nod to Wilkes as he led the men from the study to the front door.
Good riddance. Bloody blooming hell. That was the third time in the past fortnight the investigators had come knocking at his door. The first time had caused him to miss the introduction to the governess for his newly acquired ward.
Though that particular instance wasn’t exactly a hardship. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting a sour woman who educated other high-maintenance women for a living. Regardless of how highly recommended she came, he had no desire to meet her. He simply wanted her to do her job well.
Lord willing, if she was as good as Lucas, the eighth Earl of Heightfield, his best friend and business partner had suggested, soon he’d be marrying off his bloody ward to the first man who showed the slightest bit of interest in her. Then he could be finished with the whole bloody lot of them, and go back to his bachelor ways.
Not that he had any intention of quitting his bachelor ways in the interim, but he did have to be moderately careful—wouldn’t want his reputation to sully his ward’s. Then he’d never be rid of her!
The fire crackled and sparked, bringing his attention back to the moment. He bloody had to stay in residence for at least another week to allay suspicion. Damn, Lucas owed him.
Not only was he covering for his friend’s hasty marriage, but he was also dodging the duke’s private investigators. Heathcliff couldn’t suppress a grin at the memory of the last few weeks’ events. In fact, he felt a smug satisfaction in knowing his friend’s future before his friend did. It didn’t take a scholar to know that Lucas was utterly undone by Lady Liliah Durary. Of course, his friend wasn’t willing to admit the truth till it had been almost too late. But all was right in the world now, minus the fact that the duke had never approved of Lucas’s secretive marriage to his daughter. This was truly a case of knowing the right people and having the right leverage.
There weren’t many who would risk the ire of a duke, but when you had the right dirt on the right people, the reward far outweighed the risk. And in their line of business, secrets were their currency.
And they were wealthy in that specific currency, wealthy indeed.
Heathcliff’s thoughts drifted to their business, and he set down his glass and shifted the papers across his desk till he found the one he needed. He, Ramsey Scott, the Marquess of Sterling, and Lucas Mayfield, the eighth Earl of Heightfield, operated the most secretive, selective, and seductive club in all of London. Temptations was the brilliant idea of Lucas, but as Lucas was currently on his honeymoon, the operation of the club fell to him and Ramsey. It was almost the end of the Season, and the final masquerade loomed on the horizon. It was a large, heavily attended event by most, if not all, of the exclusive members and their . . . invitees. Heathcliff smirked. Courtesans, mistresses, strumpets would be better terminology, but he wasn’t one to judge. Rather, he was only concerned with their ability to pay for membership and gamble at the tables. With whom they spent their time was none of his concern. The masquerades seemed to bring out more of the demimonde than the regular events, which seemed to spawn a heightened flair to the parties. He was certain this last event would be no different.
He made a note to check whether the Duke of Chatterworth—Lucas’s unwilling father-in-law—planned to attend. That could be problematic, but Heathcliff didn’t suspect he’d show his face in his new son-in-law’s den of iniquity, even if his son-in-law was astoundingly monklike before his marriage.
The irony was thick amongst them all.
“My lord?” Wilkes bowed as he entered the study.
Heathcliff nodded once.
“Lord Sterling is here to see you.” Wilkes waited expectantly.
Heathcliff waved his hand. “Show him in, of course.”
