The other sighed. "We had better call in the reinforcements. Now, here's my advice—flirt with every single one of them, but say yes to only two dances. You'll want to leave the third one free."
"Every single one of who? And why leave the third?"
Instead of answering, Marianne stopped in front of a pair of chairs. In a graceful, sensuous movement, she seated herself in one of them and motioned for Percy to take the other. Marianne fanned herself with white feathers, an inviting smile curving her lips.
Within a minute, they were besieged by gentlemen.
Percy said yes to a cotillion and a reel.
By the time she returned from the second dance, flushed from the exertion as well as the flattering prattle of her partner, she found Marianne surrounded by an impenetrable wall of males.
"I say, Miss Fines, would you care for a turn about the room?" her partner said as the strains of a waltz began to play.
Before she could reply, a grave voice cut in.
"I believe the next dance is saved for me," Lord Charles said.
* * *
The following morning found Percy treading back and forth across the parlor. In her current state, she feared she might wear a trail through the flowers and vines of the Wilton carpet. Due to the excitement of the prior evening, she was giddy from lack of sleep to begin with. Then Charity had sent word that she meant to visit Paul this morning and would stop by afterward to report in.
Charity ought to have arrived hours ago. Percy's thoughts whirled with increasing panic.
I should never have allowed Charity to go through with it. What if something has happened to her? Should I go after her... but what if I compromise Paul's location?
The doorbell rang.
Rushing out into the foyer, Percy opened the door before Violet could reach it and yanked Charity inside. "If Lady Tottenham asks," she said to the maid, "Charity and I will be in my room."
"That one? She never asks." Violet snorted and trotted off.
Percy turned to her friend. She'd been so relieved to see Charity that she hadn't noticed the other's disheveled appearance. Now, with growing concern, she saw the wisps of ash brown hair that had escaped Charity's top-knot and the crumpled state of her friend's gown.
"Charity?" she said.
"Let's go upstairs," the other girl said in a tremulous voice. Once the door to the bedchamber was closed, Charity burst out, "Oh Percy, it washorrible."
8
Lookingout the window of his office, Gavin came to a disturbing conclusion: Persephone Fines was driving him mad. He wasn't sleeping, he barely ate—even his work was beginning to suffer. In just two days, he was to meet with the club owners. Was he strategizing on how to manage the cutthroats? Devising an alternative plan in the likely scenario that the meeting blew up in his face?
No. He wasn't. Instead, he was thinking ofher.
Like a pebble trapped in his boot, thoughts of her poked at him. Constantly. He couldn't get their kiss out of his head; apparently, she didn't have the same trouble. According to his plan—a bleeding fantasy, more like—she would have come to him by now; instead, he'd seen hide nor hair of her since Plimpton's. And the wager expired today. He wasneverindecisive, and yet here he was torn up over what to do concerning the taxing chit.
On the one hand, he wanted to track her down and demand that she agree to the bet—fat lot of goodthatwould do. He swiped irritably at the back of his neck. His wiser, rational side advised abandoning this hare-brained proposition altogether; he could find another way to hurt Morgan. Through Morgan's wife, for instance. Before meeting Percy, Gavin had considered the marchioness the best way to tear out Morgan's heart. How had he forgotten about that? How had he gotten so twisted up over Percy that he'd lost all focus?
His hands fisted. He was not a man who lost control. Least of all over a female.
So Percy hadn't come up to scratch? Fine. He had his pride; he wouldn't force her into it. He'd seduce the bloody Marchioness of Harteford instead. His gut clenched in denial. Or he'd arrange for someone else to do it. Whatever. The minute the fucking Hartefords returned from Italy he would set the new plan into play...
Hearing footsteps, Gavin felt his pulse speed up. He willed a golden head to appear... but instead Alfie marched into the office. Gavin's snarl faded when he saw the taller, ganglier boy the urchin had in tow. Dressed in the tattered uniform of the stews, the new lad had brown hair that stood in unruly tufts and ears that would do justice on an elephant. He also sported a fresh, purpling bruise upon his cheek. His left eye had swollen to the size of a walnut.
"Mr. Hunt, this 'ere is Davey." Alfie jerked a thumb at his companion. "'E's 'ad a bit o' a problem wif 'is last employment. Thought you might set 'im up like the others."
"I see." As Gavin came near, he saw the newcomer flinch. Instinct—it never left you. In a grim tone, he said, "How old are you, Davey?"
"I'll be fourteen in the spring, sir." Davey's voice was little more than a whisper. "I'm stronger than I look. I'm a 'ard worker, an' I always get the job done."
