Christopher shrugged. “What can ye do? We both signed a binding contract. If ye have an issue with it, mayhap ye should take it up with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. She made the rules, not I.” He pushed past the seething man. “If ye’ll excuse me. I’ve somewhere I need to be.”
He left the hell, and once on the street, he leaned against the wall, breathing in some air to calm his nerves. He was a fool to leave Whitney.
Never again, he vowed. And this time he meant it. He had no reason to even attempt another gamble. He had all the money he needed. A beautiful wife at home. And once they returned to Scotland, he would pay back Alexander any coin that he had lost in his reacquisition of the Campbell sheep. He’d learn the family business and make an honest man out of himself for once.
Glancing at his watch, he grimaced. He needed to hurry home and hopefully he would arrive before Whitney awoke. Cursing at himself for the stupid decision he’d made, he pushed off the wall and rounded the corner—only to be met with Jensen and two men.
“You should have left when you had the chance,” Jensen chided and the two men advanced on Christopher.
A fist shot out and connected with his jaw in a meaty smack. He briefly saw stars, but he swung back, feeling the connection of his own fist against one of the men’s noses. The sickening crack rent through the air. But it only seemed to anger the man further.
With two against one, Christopher didn’t have a chance. He defended himself as best as he could, but kenning it was a losing battle, he opted to protect himself from the barrage of blows that wouldn’t stop. He dropped to the ground and a kick to his gut had him grunting in pain. He tried to curl into a fetal position to protect himself further, but not before another booted kick landed in his ribs, and he felt several crack on impact.
Breathing hurt. His vision was blurred. He could hear Jensen laughing nearby. The bastard.
He’d kill him was the last thought he had before a beefy fist came smashing down on his face, knocking him into oblivion.
Chapter Twenty
Whitney paced thefloor for Christopher to return. It had been hours since she’d woken up only to find herself alone.
After dressing in a day dress she’d packed in the travel bag she’d brought from home, she made her way downstairs, only to be told that he had left to run an errand but would be back shortly.
That was five hours ago. Night was descending and there was no word from her husband.
Had she been too forward? Scared him away? Maybe he had run to Mrs. Dove-Lyon to see how he could get out of the marriage.
Betrayal burned within her. Had she once again fallen for the words she wanted to hear? Words that held no meaning and were only used to get to an end?
“You are a fool Whitney Watkins,” she spat out in the empty room, not using Campbell, even though that was her surname now.
She thought Christopher was different. He seemed so sincere. She understood she hadn’t known him long. Obviously not long enough to judge his true character, but she really thought he was different from Harold. Perhaps all men were that way.
No. She refused to believe it. She’d seen the way her father treated her mother. Everything he did was to make mama happy. He wouldn’t intentionally hurt her.
Should she return home? She brought her fingertips to her mouth, nibbling on her nails, trying to figure out the steps she should take.
Where could he have gone? The only place she could think of was the Lyon’s Den. Had he really gone there to terminate his contract?
She would never know unless she went there herself to find out. Grabbing a cloak, she wrapped it around her shoulders and made her way out into the hall.
A servant appeared, and she felt bad because she couldn’t remember the man’s name, but she asked for a carriage to be brought around.
“Are you sure, my lady? Surely, Lord Campbell will return soon.”
She jutted out her chin. “It has been long enough. I will locate him myself.”
In less than an hour, she was begging for entry into the gambling den, but the bouncers at the door would not let her pass. Not without an invitation they kept saying.
“I was here last week. Please. I just need to speak with Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” she begged. “It’s about my husband.” The words were bitter on her tongue as she said them. But one of the men left and she hoped it was to find the old woman.
“Wait here,” the other man ordered, and pointed to a bench outside the door.
With a huff, she crossed her arms and sat down.
“Miss Watkins, or should I say, Lady Campbell now,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon called to her about fifteen minutes later.
Whitney had been waiting for so long, she didn’t think the woman would come out.
