He’d thought himself too cynical, too jaded to feel much beyond his own mercenary desires. He was unaccustomed to feeling gratitude. Yet Anne’s offer had pierced him like a golden blade.
And she had looked so damned enticing, still rumpled from sleep, her pretty face touched by morning light. That same morning light had revealed the silken shape of her body beneath her nightgown, and he had been struck with the visceral memory of her breast in his hand, its soft, perfect weight. Desire and something else, something that might have been tenderness, flooded him, and he had acted. Kissed her.
The carriage jounced as it turned onto Fleet Street. Traffic thickened as he moved farther into the heart of the city, the core of London. Yet as the carriage was forced to slow, Leo’s pulse sped.
That kiss ... Before her fear had emerged, Anne had been so responsive, so eager. Her kiss was untried, yet what art it lacked was more than compensated by enthusiasm. He’d suspected that she contained far more passion than she even realized, and he was right. It had taken every ounce of control he possessed not to climb onto the bed, gathering her soft, willing body against him. Show her how to wind her legs around his waist as he undid the buttons on his breeches. Make her fully his. He had never hungered for innocence until that moment.
Only her sound of fright had stopped him. Barely.
He had made a vow to himself. One he would not break. He might not have married for love, like his parents, but by hell, he would not conduct his marriage as the aristos did. When he took Anne’s maidenhead, no fear would exist between them.
She deserved better than an impersonal, calculated fuck. He discovered he liked her too much to treat her like chattel. So he now rode toward Exchange Alley with a faintly aching cock and the taste of her in his mouth.
His smile mocked only himself. At last, Leo Bailey had developed ethics. And his cock hated him for it.
Traffic stalled, and Leo poked his head out the carriage window to see what caused the delay. An overturned cart blocked the street. Two men argued fiercely, their faces red, as bystanders watched. One of the men swung at the other. Within a moment, the street filled with brawling.
The carriage rocked as the horse grew agitated. From his seat, the driver called down to Leo, “Sorry, sir, but we’re jammed. Oi! Get off!” The coachman knocked down a man trying to climb up onto his perch.
Leo bit back an oath of impatience. He hadn’t time for this. Occasional scuffles in the streets were as common as rats, but this altercation went beyond the usual fracas. It seemed as though it hadn’t taken much to make the little fight explode into a much bigger brawl. Yet he needed to get to the Exchange. Business hours had already begun. Missing important deals infuriated him.
“I’ll walk the rest of the way, Dawkins.”
“Are you sure, sir? It’s—down from there, you son of a whore—a bit rough.”
Leo smiled grimly, and opened the carriage door.
Amazing what a bit of brawling could do for one’s humor. As Leo wended his way up Queen Street and then turned on to Poultry, he shook out his fist. Fortunately, he knew how to throw a punch, and the ache in his hand had already begun to subside. No one in that melee had expected a gent in a fine private coach to come out swinging. But he had, and laid out three big men for their trouble. He had cleared a path for himself.
Now he had to stop himself from whistling. He hadn’t been able to obtain physical release with his wife, but fighting in the street offered more brutal means.
He reached the entrance to Exchange Alley off Cornhill. Three men waited for him. Hellraisers. Bram made a tall, dark shape against the sunlit street, and both Edmund and John glanced around with tense, strained expressions.
“What in the name of God has you out of bed so early?” The hour had barely reached eight o’clock. “Unless you haven’t been to bed yet.”
“Bram and John roused me from mine,” Edmund muttered.
The shadows under John and Bram’s eyes confirmed that neither had gone home last night. Leo realized that, for the first time in ... as long as he could remember, he hadn’t joined in for the evening’s debauchery. He had been at home. With Anne.
And he hadn’t missed going out, not a bit.
“It’s business hours, lads,” he said. “If there’s carousing to be done, it must wait ’til later.”
Bram shook his head, and Leo saw that the drawn cast that honed his friend’s already sharp features came not from a night’s dissipated revels, but something else. Something troubling.
Nerves tightened along the back of Leo’s neck and his pleasant mood burst like a blister.
He glanced around. Men of business who knew him well were casting him and the other Hellraisers speculative glances. Leo’s presence at the ’Change was common, but his dissolute friends’ attendance was noteworthy.
“There’s a tavern in an alley off Threadneedle. The Cormorant. I’ll meet you there in a quarter of an hour.”
His friends dispersed, trailing shadows. Leo spent a few minutes chatting with acquaintances, maintaining the illusion that all was well, even as he knew otherwise. Eventually, he drifted away and toward Threadneedle Street. He hated missing any potential deals, but he had no choice. The Hellraisers would not seek him out at this hour unless the situation were dire.
Less crowded than a coffee house, the Cormorant tavern still held a few patrons. One man slept with his head on the table, beside his tankard. Another puffed on a pipe by the fire, watching smoke rings drift up to the stained ceiling. The Hellraisers occupied the settles in the corner, and they stared at their mugs with hard, wary expressions, as if anticipating an attack.
Leo sat next to John. He grunted his thanks when the tapster brought a grimy mug of ale, though he had no thirst for it.
“Whit’s been spotted,” Bram said without preamble. “Here, in London.”
Leo clenched his hands into fists. “When?”
“Don’t know. John and I only heard about it last night.”
“We ran into Chilton at the Theatre Royal,” said John. “He asked why Whit wasn’t with us, as he had seen him just that morning on Westminster Bridge, with a pretty Gypsy girl on his arm. Whit asked Chilton about us, wanted to know what we had been doing.”
“And Chilton told him,” added Bram.
Leo swore. He considered taking a drink of his ale just to steady himself, but something floated on the drink’s surface, and he pushed it away.
Damn it. Damn.
“What do you think he wants?” Edmund gnawed on his thumbnail, as he always did when anxious.
“Same as he’s always wanted—to take our gifts.” John’s fingers beat a staccato rhythm on the tabletop.
“He hasn’t the power to do so.” Yet Bram did not sound as confident as his words attested.
“Not that we know of.” Leo crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s been months since Bram saw him in Manchester. Not even Mr. Holliday has been able to keep track of him. Anything might have happened in the interval.”
“We can’t let him take our gifts. We cannot.” A note of panic threaded into Edmund’s voice. Unlike the broader-reaching gifts that John, Bram, and Leo had received, Edmund had received one, and one alone: Rosalind.
Bram scowled. “Just last night I used my gift to persuade my way into Lady Hadlow’s bed. She was always too devoted to her husband, even if he’s in India.”
“As a married man,” said Edmund, “I find your actions deplorable.”
“Because, before Rosalind, you only fucked widows and courtesans?” Bram snorted. “You forget, I once saw you sneaking off with the very married Augustine Colford.” When Edmund continued to sulk, Bram added, “For all her fidelity, Lady Hadlow did not complain when I brought her to climax four times.”