Chapter Two
The last personBlade wanted to see was Devereaux Winter.
Then again, mayhap the luscious, cat-smuggling Lady Felicity was the last person Blade wanted to see. Small creatures, particularly innocent ones who looked up at him with trusting, hazel eyes, made him want to punch something. And that went for both the lady and the ridiculously named kitten. Their gazes were irritatingly similar.
“I trust you are not going to cause any trouble for either my family or my guests,” Winter was saying now in warning tones.
“Thought it was my family, too,” he could not resist pointing out, before taking a sip of his drink only to realize it was negus.
Blade spit the offensive stuff back into his cup. Where was some sturdy gin or smuggled Scots whisky when one needed it?
Winter looked distinctly unimpressed. “You do not care for negus?”
“No man with ballocks does,” Blade informed his half brother, not giving a damn that he was being rude.
He did not bloody well want to be here, and he did not bloody well like Devereaux Winter. His half sisters were tolerable. The red-haired one, Christabella, was a duchess with a propensity for saying ridiculous things. He liked her well enough. The rest… Well, Blade was still deciding what he thought of them.
Each sister was married to a lord, with the exception of the youngest, Bea, who was married to Winter’s business partner. Merrick Hart was a fine enough fellow; Blade reckoned all the lords had fire pokers up their arses. One of them, the Earl of Something—Blade couldn’t recall the name and the man hadn’t stepped foot inside their establishments, so he may as well not exist—was frowning at him now as if Blade had just produced an East End rat from his pocket.
“I can assure you that I have ballocks, and can nonetheless enjoy the stuff,” Winter was saying.
“Married life making you soft,” Blade muttered, setting the cup down upon a nearby table. “Haven’t you whisky?”
“Of course I have whisky.”
Thank Christ. How the hell would he have lasted for a fortnight in the monkery without getting proper spoony drunk?
“I’ll have some of that instead, if you please, brother.” He cast an insincere smile in Devereaux Winter’s direction, knowing it would nettle.
Not caring.
“Before you have a drop, you will promise me you shall not cause so much as a crumb of a crumb’s worth of trouble,” Winter countered.
“Hmm.” Blade pretended to ponder those words. “What about a crumb of acrumbof a crumb?”
“No trouble,” Winter growled.
“Pardon me, but you do not look like the sort of gentleman who is adept at keeping himself from any sort of trouble at all,” said Earl of Something.
Adept.Fancy cove’s word. Blade thought he knew what it meant.
“I ain’t a gentleman,” he said unapologetically, plucking his favorite knife from within his coat and lightly stroking his thumb over the blade.
It was a gesture not intended to intimidate. Rather, Blade’s knives calmed him. It was an old habit, born from his days on the street before Devil and Dom found him. Best to walk about the rookeries with one’s hand on a weapon, especially for lads who had been built like a bean as he had once been. Those lads were easily overpowered. Fortunately, time and effort had strengthened him. He no longer required the knives unless he had a job to carry out. And even then, a pistol was a far preferable weapon.
Not that he expected to have need of any sorts of weapons at this tedious affair.
He was trapped here. Nowhere to escape to. Nothing but snow, aristocrats, family members he was only beginning to tolerate, and a virgin with a goddamn cat.
He suppressed a shudder.
“You shall be a gentleman for the duration of the house party,” Winter told him. “That was understood, along with all your invitations.”
“You invited us because your wife wanted it, and she keeps your ballocks in her reticule,” Blade taunted.
Everyone knew Devereaux Winter was hopelessly besotted with his wife. If Lady Emilia asked him to jump into the Thames in the heart of winter, the poor sot would take a dive. And likely drown, more fool he.
Winter’s nostrils flared. “You will speak respectfully. Lady Emilia is my wife, and she has the heart of an angel.”
