Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard (19 page)

She heard it then, a heavy bitterness lacing the words. She’d obviously disturbed some dark place in his soul.

“Oh, I see,” she said lamely.

“No, you don’t.”

She had no answer to that.

“May we return to our previous conversation?” he asked after an uncomfortable silence.

She nodded, deciding she’d done enough probing for one day.

“Good,” he said. “Then let me make plain what I think you’re worried about. You believe that your brother’s moneylender made threats against him and his loved ones. And when your brother did not make good on his debts, this nefarious character kidnapped you, hoping to hold you to ransom. Is that correct?”

Vivien stopped in the middle of the path and eyed him suspiciously.

He tapped his chest with an index finger. “Skills, remember?”

She couldn’t help peering at him anxiously. Now that he knew, would he feel obligated to share his knowledge with Sir Dominic? Even Cyrus?

Dropping her muff to the ground, she grabbed his sleeve. “You won’t tell Cyrus, will you?”

He swept up her muff, handing it back to her. “Let’s keep walking. We’re starting to attract some attention.”

She glanced around her. They were indeed encountering some curious looks from other strollers, including Mrs. Baird and her two prissy daughters, incurable gossips all. She forced a friendly smile as she took Aden’s arm and strolled past them.

“To answer your question,” he said once they were out of earshot, “no, I will not tell Lord Blake. At least not now. That would simply confuse the issue and make my job more difficult. Besides, I’m not convinced Kit’s situation is what prompted your abduction in the first place.”

Her brain stuttered. “I don’t understand,” she said slowly.

They turned into Piccadilly, skirting the edge of the park.

“Khovansky comes to mind as another candidate,” he said.

“But he’s a
prince,
” Vivien argued.

“Princes do all manner of ugly things, I assure you. And after witnessing that prime example of Khovansky’s behavior last night, I believe him capable of anything.”

Troubled, Vivien tried to sort through her jostling thoughts. “I grant you, the prince is adamant about marrying me—”

“Obsessive seems a more accurate description.”

“But I just can’t believe he’d do such a thing. It’s demented to think he would take such a risk. Can you imagine the scandal if it was discovered? I’m hardly worth the trouble.” She shook her head. “No, he’s only persisted because I hurt his pride by refusing him in the first place. I’m sure he’ll want nothing more to do with me now. Not after last night.”

“You underestimate your charms, Vivien. I suspect the prince won’t give up nearly so easily.”

She flashed him an impatient look. “I’m sure he hates me by now.”

He laughed, and his dark mood seemed to lift. “Very well. But I don’t trust the man, and I insist you keep your distance.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious. But I still think Kit’s moneylender is the likely explanation for my abduction.”

“I have my doubts, given that no ransom demand was ever made. With your permission, however, I will speak with Kit directly. It makes sense to explore every possibility.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said dubiously. “But let me explain the situation to Kit first. That way he’ll be more amenable to your questions.”

He nodded. “Fine, but the less detail you give him about my role in this affair, the better. You can simply say Sir Dominic asked me to look into it.”

“Would it help if I was with you when you questioned him? Kit might be more forthcoming,” she said, unable to repress her instincts to protect her brother.

That raised an eyebrow. “The opposite would be true, I fear. You’ll just humiliate him.”

She began to starch up, but he held up a forestalling hand.

“Vivien, you are not to worry or try to intervene in any way. Sir Dominic and I will deal with this. All we ask is that you exercise caution and not go anywhere without an appropriate escort. In fact, the best thing you can do for now is to stay safely at home as much as possible.”

She had a number of objections to that confining course of action. None, however, that she could share with him.

“I’ll do my best,” she said. “But I’ve already accepted a number of invitations. It would look odd to decline at this late date, especially after last night.”

Aden started to object, but she cut him off. “I will not spend my life in hiding. You must trust me to exercise the appropriate caution.” She mentally winced a bit at that, considering what she had planned, but with any luck he’d never know about it.

A deep frown marked his brow but he finally nodded. “Then perhaps you would be so kind as to give me a list of your invitations when we return to Blake House.”

She cut him a puzzled glance. “Why? Are you going to have someone follow me?”

“No. I’ll be escorting you to those affairs.”

Her heart gave a funny little skip. “I don’t understand.”

He glanced down at her. “Don’t you? Then let me explain. From now on, until we find the man who planned your abduction, I’ll be escorting you on every one of your social occasions. That will serve the dual purpose of allowing me to keep an eye on you and to observe those you come in contact with.”

She slowed as they approached the first row of shops. “But that will appear very odd, won’t it? How will we explain all this . . . togetherness?”

For the first time since she’d met him, he seemed a trifle embarrassed. “I will be seen to be courting you, of course. It’s the obvious conclusion.”

“Courting me?” she yelped.

“Just pretending,” he hastily added. “And hopefully for only a short time.” He reached up and tugged on his cravat, as if it was too tight around his neck. “It was my mother’s idea,” he finished in an apologetic tone.

“Oh. I see,” she said in a faint voice. She didn’t, actually. Her brain had been stunned into a daze at the idea of Aden courting her, pretend or not.

“It makes perfect sense when you think about it,” he mused. “For one thing, it should keep Khovansky at a distance, which you must admit is a definite advantage.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” she managed.

He smiled his approval. As he ushered her into Hatchard’s, he launched into a quiet recital of all the reasons why a fictional courtship would be just the thing. She listened in silent dismay, convinced that
his
plan would destroy
her
plan before she even had a chance to put it in motion.

Yanking his collar up against the needling sleet, Aden turned into Jermyn Street at a pace barely short of a run. The streets bustled with activity—mostly young bucks and other men out for a convivial evening in the clubs and gaming hells populating the area around Pall Mall.

He was headed to one of the most notorious hells, although not by choice. A note from Griffin Steele had pulled him from the peace of his apartments only minutes after he’d settled in with a brandy and book for a quiet read.

Aden had spent the day chasing dead-end leads, and that was after a frustrating interview with Kit Shaw—whom he’d finally run to ground at White’s—regarding his possible role in Vivien’s abduction. Kit had been alternately guilt-ridden and defensive, insisting he could take care of the problem on his own. Only when Aden had outlined in detail what had happened to his sister and what
could
happen in the future had Kit relented. Then, white-faced, he’d confessed everything, in more detail than Aden had wanted to hear. But at least he’d offered up the necessary information—the name of the cent per cent who had Kit in his thrall.

Aden actually knew the man, a jeweller whose shop trafficked as much in foolish young men like Kit as it did in gold. But although Ben Cribbens was an ugly customer, Aden was convinced the man’s threats were more bluster than fact. Nonetheless, he had paid him a visit, making it clear that if he made any more threats against the Blake family—veiled or otherwise—hellfire would rain down on his head. Blanching the shade of curdled milk, Cribbens had agreed to give Kit extra time to meet his obligations.

That left Aden back where he’d started, with Lord Blake as a possible conspirator in the abduction scheme along with his newest and favorite suspect, Khovansky. The prince was clearly obsessed with Vivien. Naïvely, she seemed determined to ignore that pertinent fact, but Aden could not. Starting tomorrow, his investigation into the prince’s background would begin in earnest.

But first he had another and more urgent chore to attend to—namely, pulling the blasted girl out of one of the worst gaming hells in the city. Already worn thin by the frustrations of the day, Aden’s temper had shredded when he’d read the terse note delivered by one of Griffin’s street urchins. A fast jog through the streets of Mayfair, quicker than catching a hackney, hadn’t improved his mood, especially given the sodding November rain that fell in driving gusts.

Vivien, sadly for her, would be the recipient of his temper. The woman clearly hadn’t an ounce of sense in that beautiful body. He should have known her quiet compliance this morning was a ruse. Well, he wouldn’t make that mistake twice. It was time for her to learn that although she might be able to run circles around the other people in her life, she could not do so with him. He’d pull her over his knee and paddle her little bottom to make the point clear, if he had to. Vivien obviously needed a sharp reminder that she was still in danger, and he was the man to give it to her.

He reached the deceptively genteel-looking house on Jermyn Street, with its red brick façade and imposing marble porch. Griffin’s establishment had the best whores, the finest food, and the deepest play in London. The surroundings were luxurious and the patrons hailed from amongst the wealthiest and most powerful men in the
ton,
men who came to the house to let slip the bounds of propriety.

But the real draw was Griffin, himself. Rumors had swirled about him almost from the day he appeared in London at the age of fourteen. The most persistent of those whispered rumors was that he was not simply the proprietor of wildly successful gaming houses, but was a crime lord as well.

That rumor wasn’t true, but Aden did know that Griffin ran a growing financial empire that sometimes operated within the gray areas of the law. He might not be a criminal, but his tentacles of influence snaked in multiple directions—in the dank streets and rookeries, in the wealthiest drawing rooms of the
beau monde,
and even to the highest levels of government. There were many who owed Griffin Steele favors—or money—and who feared him in equal measure. No man in his right mind ever crossed him. His enemies had a way of quietly disappearing, or coming to ruin in so absolute a way they might have preferred a bullet in the back of the head.

But once a man stepped foot into Griffin’s gaming hell, he felt his pulse race with excitement. Something forbidden and dangerous scented the air, like the perfume of the most expensive of courtesans, enhancing the thrill of pitting one’s luck against the house.

Griffin was also Aden’s cousin—another bastard with royal blood simmering in his veins.

He knocked on the door of Cormorant House and was received by a burly footman dressed in elaborate livery highly suggestive of the costumes worn by staff in service to the Prince Regent. Griffin did have a nicely twisted sense of humor, which Aden could certainly appreciate.

“Good evening, Captain.” The footman took his greatcoat and hat. “Mr. Steele is waiting for you in his office.”

Aden nodded, repressing the impulse to storm up to the gaming rooms to find Vivien and haul her out of the house. But Griffin surely had eyes on her, so she would be safe for now. Given that Griffin was in his office rather than up in the gaming rooms where he would normally be at this time of night, it meant there was something he needed to tell Aden in private.

He strode down the passage to the back off the house. Griffin’s office was located in an annex behind the reception rooms, tucked between the main house and the pantry, kitchen, and mews. From there, he kept an all-seeing eye on the large establishment and everything in it, much like the mythical creature for which he was named.

Although not spacious, Griffin’s office was richly ornamented, almost extravagantly so. The walls, covered in striped paper in rich shades of red, shimmered under the light of several branches of candles as well as gold-plated wall sconces. A highly polished cabinet, lavishly covered in gilt, stood against the wall, and two beautifully fashioned Hepplewhite-style chairs sat before the fireplace grate. Griffin had a passion for Hepplewhite furniture, a rather odd interest for a man of his ilk.

The master of Cormorant House sat behind a massive desk in the center of the room, his dark head bent over a pile of ledgers. He looked up when Aden shut the door and laid aside his pen.

“Ah, Cousin. How delightful to see you.” Griffin had a cultured voice, but it also carried a hint of something ragged and rough, as if the smooth cadences of his aristocratic background had been dragged through the broken, garbage-strewn alleys of Covent Garden.

A fairly accurate description of the man’s history, all told.

“Must you call me that?” Aden took a seat in front of the desk.

Griffin’s dark eyes gleamed with malicious amusement. “You’re the only member of the family who will acknowledge me. How can I resist?”

“Try,” he responded in a dry voice. Aden, of course, shared some of that same problem, but that was the price paid by the bastard son of a prince.

“Speaking of our fathers—”

“Which we weren’t,” Aden said.

“Have you encountered yours, lately?” Griffin asked, ignoring Aden’s interjection. “I’ve been wondering if you’d managed to overcome any of your antipathy for him.”

Aden stared at him, refusing to dignify the absurd question with an answer.

Griffin gave a casual shrug. “Ah, well. One can hardly blame you. After all, Prinny has to be the most disgusting excuse for a prince one could imagine.”

“Except for your esteemed parent.”

Griffin’s father was Ernest Augustus, the notorious Duke of Cumberland and one of the younger brothers of the Prince Regent. In public, Cumberland’s conduct was entirely reticent compared to his brothers, but accusations of murder and even incest, although never proven, were whispered against him, and his cold temperament and sharp tongue earned him more than a few enemies.

But Griffin’s hatred for his father stemmed from the fact that he’d ruined Chloe Steele, Griffin’s mother. An innocent girl of fourteen, Chloe had fallen prey to a young Prince Ernest’s seduction, which had left her pregnant, her reputation destroyed. Chloe had been sent away shortly after Griffin’s birth, and she’d completely disappeared a few years later, seemingly abandoning her son. When Griffin had run away after the death of Bartholomew Steele, his great-uncle and the man who’d raised him, he’d first come to London, looking for his mother. But he’d never found her, and Aden suspected the loss still affected him. No matter what trials Aden had suffered as a result of his parentage, they’d been nothing compared to Griffin’s many tribulations.

Not that they’d ever compared notes. Although Griffin had eventually adopted a cavalier attitude toward the circumstances of his birth, anyone who knew him well had learned to avoid the subject, or risk Griffin’s wrath. What details Aden had acquired about his cousin’s life had come from Dominic, who’d known Chloe as a child. It had been Dominic who’d finally tracked Griffin down in a London gaming hell, where he’d found employment running errands. And it had been Dominic who, years later, had introduced Aden to his cousin. As cousins they were not particularly close, but occasionally they came into each other’s way. Griffin had access to information that Aden often found useful. And, for some strange reason, Griffin seemed to derive enjoyment from acknowledging his familial relationship with Aden.

Griffin let out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose one could quibble, but at least your father isn’t a murderer.”

“That we know of, anyway.”

“Well, your dear pater
is
certainly guilty of murdering the canons of good taste,” Griffin said in a contemplative tone. “He deserves the hangman’s noose for that, if nothing else.”

Aden laughed, and Griffin cracked a smile, his dark mood seeming to lift.

“Now that we’ve caught up on family,” Aden said, “perhaps we can get to the matter at hand.”

Griffin rose and strolled to the cabinet. As usual, he was dressed simply but expensively in black. Only the white linen of his shirt relieved his dark garb. With the thin scar that cut from his left temple down below his cheekbone and his black hair pulled back in an old-fashioned queue, he looked like a buccaneer. A refined one, but a buccaneer all the same.

He extracted a bottle from the cabinet and poured out two brandies, handing one to Aden.

“Your little problem,” Griffin said, leaning against his desk, “is currently upstairs with her idiotic brother in one of the card rooms.” He held up a hand. “And, yes, she is well guarded. My factotum is up there along with two of my men. No one will harm her.”

“How bad is it? Tell me they just didn’t waltz into the place, the Lady Vivien Shaw and her brother, the Honorable Kit Shaw.”
Christ.
Did she have any idea what she was doing to her reputation?

“She’s in disguise,” Griffin said, trying to hold back a grin.

Aden frowned. “As what?”

“I believe she’s attempting to portray herself as a mysterious widow. She’s swathed in enough veils and drapery to decorate half of Carlton House. It’s a miracle she can even see what she’s doing.”

“Her disguise obviously didn’t fool you,” Aden pointed out.

“No, but I believe it’s managed to trick everyone else, which should surprise me but doesn’t. Most of the men who grace my establishment are fools, of course, all too ready to be parted from their ill-gotten gains.”

“And what’s the brother’s role in this little charade?”

“He is attempting to portray himself as her cicisbeo. Failing miserably, I might add.”

Aden hauled himself to his feet. “Which room?”

“The Green Room.”

Aden cursed. The Green Room was infamous throughout the
ton.
Only the most hardened gamblers and degenerate rakes crossed its threshold. The stakes were astronomical, with entire fortunes won and lost in one night.

“A question, Cousin,” Griffin said as he followed him to the door. “What is she doing here? Even for an accomplished gamester like Lady Vivien, this is rather reckless.”

“She’s attempting to tow Kit and her mother out of debt,” he answered from between clenched teeth. It made perfect sense, now that he thought about it. For a lunatic, anyway, which he was beginning to think she might be.

Griffin nodded. “One has to admire her courage, if nothing else.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Bloody well, at last report,” his cousin replied, cracking a smile. “She’s holding her own against Barrymore and Castle, which is really quite extraordinary.”

Aden spun on his heel and hurried toward the stairs, his cousin’s mocking laugh echoing behind him.

Leave it to Vivien to sit down at a table with the most unrepentant rakes in the city. When he got her away from that table, she’d find herself in an even more difficult situation—explaining her actions to him.

 

 

For her first experience of a gaming hell, Vivien had been pleasantly surprised. The appointments were elegant, the rooms decorated with tasteful luxury, running heavily to the classical style with touches of French extravagance. The champagne was delicious and well chilled—she managed to sneak in a few sips under her veils—and she had no doubt the food laid on in the supper room would be fresh and well prepared. She’d been too anxious to eat earlier in the day, preoccupied with planning tonight’s expedition with Kit, and she allowed herself a tiny sigh at the thought of having to forgo Griffin Steele’s lovely food. But she couldn’t manage to eat behind all these veils. Her stomach might grumble at her, but it was imperative she keep her identity unknown.

She and Kit had argued long and hard over her plan, and he’d only agreed to her scheme when she told him she planned to go in disguise. After they considered and discarded a number of possibilities, the idea of a veiled widow had seemed most likely to fit their needs. Kit had also been insistent they play at the gaming hell where they stood the least chance of running into someone who knew Vivien well. She might be swathed in two layers of black veils and careful to keep her voice to a low murmur, but her disguise wouldn’t fool a friend or close acquaintance.