He played no roles with Anne. For the first time in his life, he simply was. The way she wanted him.
A man could grow used to that. A man might want that plainness of self every day, every moment.
As he turned onto Southampton Row, his step quick, he felt the force of his two hungers drumming through him. His hunger for power never ceased, could not be sated. It was the cold bite of steel always present.
Anne was his other hunger, yet this was a pleasurable desire. Pursuing and feeding it became its own reward.
Someone called his name. Leo intended to ignore the man, but hurried footsteps sounded behind him. “I say, Bailey!”
It was Robbins, a coal magnate with whom Leo had done business with many times before. And to great profit. With an inward sigh, Leo stopped, allowing Robbins to catch up with him.
“Afternoon,” Leo said, trying to remain civil, though he merely felt impatience to be home.
Robbins puffed, his face reddened, then grinned. “No wonder you put all the other men of commerce to shame. It seems you are always going to or from the Exchange.”
“There is no spontaneous generation for money,” answered Leo. “Someone must be there to make it.”
“Yes, however, one needs to enjoy the fruits of one’s labors.”
“So I do.” Leo thought of Anne’s joy when he gave her the maps and globes, and had never enjoyed his wealth more.
“But when? You’re coming from the Exchange now, and just last night, I saw you at Crowe’s Coffee House, in discussion with Vere and Delfort, the cotton importers.”
Leo frowned. “I was at home with my wife last night. You must be mistaken.”
Yet Robbins seemed adamant. “Think I can’t recognize the Demon of the Exchange?”
Leo grew truly irritated. He just wanted to get home to see Anne, not argue with Robbins as to where he was or was not last night. Leo knew exactly where he had been—studying maps, having supper, and then making love with his wife.
“Get yourself to Bond Street and be fitted for a pair of spectacles.” He strode away, ignoring Robbins’s stuttered shock at being dismissed so rudely.
Anticipation coursed through him as he reached home. The moment a footman opened the door, Leo asked, “Where is my wife?” Already striding up the stairs, he threw the servant his hat and overcoat.
“She’s in the downstairs parlor, sir. With a visitor.”
Leo stopped, his hand on the railing. “Who’s the visitor?”
“Lord Wansford, sir.”
His father-in-law. The first call the man had paid since Leo had wed his daughter. Frowning, Leo turned and headed back down the stairs. This was not how Leo had planned on spending the afternoon.
Yet he felt a buoyancy within him when he saw Anne in the parlor, perched there on the sofa, a dish of tea in her hand, with cool city light in her hair and along her shoulders. She set down her tea and rose to meet him, smiling.
“Here you are,” she murmured.
What was this strange sensation? This sharp tug in the center of his chest? God, was it ... did he feel ... happiness?
He reached for her, but remembered just in time that they weren’t alone. A brief kiss had to content him, and then he turned to face Lord Wansford.
The man was everything Leo’s father had not been. Round, where his father had been lean. Complacent, where his father had been determined. And at the end of his life, his father’s clothing had all been impeccable. Plain, but expertly made, and new. The embroidery on Wansford’s waistcoat blurred as its stitches came up, and the lace at his wrists bore stains of wine and tobacco. A shabby man, his father-in-law.
“An unexpected honor,” Leo said, bowing.
Wansford returned the bow. “No, you are kindness itself to receive me.”
“You can see your daughter is well cared for.”
Anne blushed, tugging on the kerchief she had tucked into the neck of her gown. Leo’s teeth had left faint red marks upon the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and her moans still resounded in his ears.
“Oh, Anne.” The baron seemed surprised to recall that his daughter was in the room. “Yes, yes, I’m glad to see you hale. Your mother sends her regards. And I see you’re looking very ... prosperous, my child.” He eyed the gold-and-emerald pendant hanging from her choker.
“I have what I need, Father.” Her eyes never left Leo’s.
The baron shifted from foot to foot. Leo waited. When someone wanted something, all one had to do was wait.
“Bailey, I wondered, that is, I was thinking, if you had a spare moment. We might have a chat.” Wansford’s gaze slid to his daughter. “Privately.”
“Anything you say to me can be said in front of Anne.”
Her father reddened. “I rather think the subject indelicate for ladies.”
Before Leo could insist on Wansford’s candor, Anne spoke. “I’m certain I can find something that needs mending or perhaps a fatuous romantic novel to read.” She glided to the door, then curtsied as she took her leave.
Leo’s humor darkened. He had nearly run through the streets of London to get home to her, but the pleasure of her company had to be delayed because of her damned father.
The baron turned to him and opened his mouth to speak.
“In my study,” Leo clipped. At least he kept good brandy there.
Wansford followed him down the corridor to the study. There, Leo poured them both drinks and settled behind his desk. He sipped at his brandy. The baron bolted down his own liquor and took a seat.
Leo felt a shifting within, his other self coming to the fore. It roused, its appetite fathomless, even here in his own home. Without Anne to tame that creature, he became ravenous, merciless.
After fidgeting with his knuckles, Wansford finally spoke. “You do very well for yourself, don’t you, Bailey?”
“We had this discussion already. When I was negotiating for the hand of your daughter.” Though negotiate was not quite the word for it, since she brought no wealth to the marriage. No material wealth. Little had he known that the true value of Anne came not from her breeding and connections, but from the woman herself.
The more Leo came to know her, the less he respected her father. What kind of man simply sold his daughter to whatever deep pocket would have her? No woman deserved that fate, especially not Anne.
Wansford looked abashed. “We never spoke of specifics.”
“I’ve no intention of giving you specifics. My coffers are my concern. No one else’s.”
“They say that you have a rare gift.”
Leo frowned. Surely Wansford wasn’t talking of Leo’s gift of prophecy. No one but the other Hellraisers knew of it.
“A gift with ... investing.” The baron spoke the word as if it held a faintly rancid taste, and for men like him, it did. Wealth came from the land. Only commoners earned their fortunes through trade.
Leo shrugged. “I know my way around Exchange Alley.”
“The Demon of the Exchange.”
“The demon who is married to your daughter.” Leo leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his desk. “There are only a finite number of hours in the day, and I make good use of them. So speak, Wansford. Tell me what you want.”
The baron eyed his glass, as though wishing it held more. Leo made no move to refill it.
“I would like to make an ... investment.”
“In trade?” Leo raised a brow.
Wansford nodded, uncomfortable. “The estate is failing. My sons stand to inherit nothing but arrears upon my death. For all that I’m not a very clever fellow, I know I ought to do better by them.”
Not a word about Anne. But then, she was now Leo’s problem.
“Now you seek to supplement your finances with a bit of plebian commerce.”