Oh yes, he was on a roll.
Several of the players near him muttered drunken curses at his good fortune and drifted away to card tables. Flush with success, he tucked his winnings into his pocket, then turned and peered into the swirls of smoky haze enveloping the gaming hell, seeking his cousin.
He finally spotted him in one of the alcoves, a doxy on his lap, her skirts already pushed up around her thighs.
“We need to leave,” he said, coming up behind Standish’s chair.
His cousin froze. “Now?” he cried incredulously
A malicious smile crossed Hammerton’s face. “Yes, now. Button your breeches and come with me”
The doxie shifted slightly, then slipped from Standish’s lap. “P’rhaps some other time,” she said with a saucy grin.
“Couldn’t this have waited for a few more minutes?” whined his cousin as he took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his brow.
“Trust me, Arthur, you’ll forget all about the damnable tart when you hear what I have to tell you.”
Taking his cousin by the arm, Hammerton turned for the exit. Of all the gaming hells in London’s stews, this was one of the most disreputable dens of iniquity. There was little chance of being recognized by anyone from Polite Society. Nonetheless, Hammerton took care to keep his head down as he hurried Standish out the door and into the waiting carriage.
“I was looking forward to a night of pleasure,” complained Standish as he flung himself back against the squabs. “Couldn’t we have talked in there?”
Hammerton rapped on the trap and the carriage moved off.
“Your wits need to be sharp as a razor for the coming day,” he replied. “A most fortuitous thing has happened …”
He quickly recounted what had taken place earlier in the evening “It couldn’t be more perfect! I am now her protector. She trusts me implicitly.”
Standish’s jaw dropped in astonishment.
Hammerton responded with a smug laugh. “You wanted the matter resolved quickly? I assure you, by tomorrow night, she and her damnable brother will be a problem for us no longer. The plan couldn’t be simpler …”
He leaned forward and the two of them conversed in low tones for the rest of the ride back to Hammerton’s townhouse.
Seventeen
Alex tried to muster some enthusiasm as she paced around the perimeter of the library. But her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep, and her fingers felt clumsy, so she knew that any attempt at painting would only end in a result even more depressing than inactivity.
However, after another circle of the room, she forced herself to halt.
Brooding was a waste of time—one ought to at least try to accomplish something useful.
Looking around, Alex decided to busy herself with straightening up the library. The table was in a state of cheerful chaos, with papers and books lying helter-pelter across its length. Heaving a sigh, she moved to one end and began methodically sorting the jumble into neat piles.
However, when she came across her father’s letter buried under several oversized botanical books, she paused, studying its meaningless letters and strange symbols with a rising sense of frustration.Damnation.Alex told herself it was merely gibberish. And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow their current troubles were linked in some way with her father’s odd penchant for secrecy.
Damn, damn, damn.
She tucked it inside one of the botanical books and turned her attention to reorganizing her portfolio of finished watercolors.
After arranging the paintings for her proposed book according to genus and species, Alex made herself look at the hibiscus she had done for Branford. It was, she admitted. one of her strongest works, the form and color infused with a vitality that nearly made the petals and leaves sprout up off the paper.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she quickly blotted them away with her sleeve. Perhaps Branford would still like to have it, even though he had not fulfilled his end of the bargain …That was, of course, assuming his admiration had been unfeigned, not merely part of his game of seduction.
However, he was welcome to it—Alex knew that she would never be able to look at it without hearing his deep baritone voice murmuring its praises, or seeing in her mind’s eye the warmth of his sapphire eyes as he glanced from her easel to her face.
Hell’s bells,it was his eyes that haunted her.The way they had looked at her in the candlelight as he had settled on his bed … the depth of emotion they had revealed as he leaned back from their kiss, as if allowing her to see into the vulnerable, unsure self that he kept submerged deep within.
Everything between them—from the heated discussions to the laughter to the gentle touch of his fingers as he dressed her wound—had seemed very real. And yet, she had heard him speak the single, stark word spoken that consigned all of it to being no more than illusion.
