Alex still had no idea who she was.
Which was mind-boggling. He prided himself on being able to ferret information out of people without them even realizing that he had done so. He was skilled in making them reveal things about themselves using a carefully honed system of assumption and insinuation, perceived expectations, and vague references that could be interpreted as intimate knowledge. He employed flattery, educated guesses, or when required, flat-out lies. And never had he failed so miserably as he had with the woman in the gold dress. Nothing had worked.
From the very start, it was clear that the woman in gold had no intention of ever taking off her mask or admitting her identity. She was skittish, but not weak. Beneath that cynical, suspicious exterior was a will of steel. That had become inherently obvious. It had also become obvious that the money she had won tonight was of immense importance. She didn’t just want it, she needed it. But for what, Alex couldn’t even begin to guess.
It certainly didn’t appear that she spent any of it on herself. She wore no necklace, no earbobs, not even a jeweled hairpin. Closer inspection of her gown revealed slight discolorations along the seams, suggesting it had been altered and not made just for her. She had also walked to his club, which meant that she likely did not have access to a carriage, nor had she chosen to spend the money on a hack. Alex was beginning to wonder if perhaps she might simply be a very accomplished actress and not a lady at all.
Yet short of ripping off her mask and hoping he recognized her, he was at a total loss. His usual tricks had failed. Perhaps the revelation that the woman with glorious curves and beautiful blue eyes possessed a mind of such brilliance had put him off his game. Which was saying something. He was used to being surrounded by very clever women.
His sister, Elise, was one of them, and a very accomplished card player on top of that. But even she could not do what this woman could. Alex very much doubted there were many souls in the entire country of England who could. And the fact that she had landed in the middle of his club was not an opportunity that could be passed up. Alex would not let her go so easily. Lady or not.
And if she were a he, and wore trousers instead of stays, would you be as zealous? a little voice taunted in his head. Is it business you want her for, or something else entirely?
Alex scowled. He had been physically attracted to this woman from the beginning, that he would admit freely. And her intelligence made her devastatingly more desirable. And then there was her incomplete declaration. I’m not a virgin. Interesting, that, because she didn’t appear to possess the practiced skill set of a woman used to handling men’s advances, be they a husband’s or a lover’s.
All these observations were things that might be used to advance his effort to uncover her identity. Calculated and filed objectively, with the subject kept at a distance, like he had done hundreds of times before.
Except he had gone and made the idiotic mistake of touching her, covering her hand with his own as he had led her through the club, and it was like lightning had sizzled through him, leaving him not a little disoriented. And then later, even when he knew it was unwise, he had given in to his baser urges and ran his fingers across the impossibly smooth, impossibly soft skin at her shoulder. Wishing he could slide that gold silk from her body and explore the rest. First with his fingers. Then with his tongue. And after that, with his—
“Mr. Lavoie? Are you all right?”
Alex jerked, realizing he was still standing in the middle of his office. And the woman in question was staring at him through her mask, apprehension touching her eyes. He shifted, pulling discreetly at the fall of his trousers to conceal his semi-aroused state. He didn’t need to embarrass himself further.
“Quite fine.” He moved to the wall nearest the bookcase, thankful to have a purpose besides fantasizing about his mystery woman. He turned and gestured for her to join him. “I’ll see you to my carriage.”
The woman eyed him. “The door is that way.” She jerked her head in the opposite direction.
Alex released a latch in the heavy wood panel of the wall. The camouflaged door swung open. “This exit is somewhat more discreet. It leads into an alley that runs between my club and the building beside it. My carriage will be waiting at the top of the passage on the street.”
“Oh.” Slowly she made her way toward him, still clutching her reticule in both hands as if she feared he would snatch it away. He held the door, allowing her to precede him into the night. Darkness and chilled spring air enveloped them as the club door swung closed. The occasional raindrop splattered down around them.
At the top of the alley, Alex could make out his driver waiting with the carriage, the horses’ breath hanging in small clouds of fog under the gaslights.
“Did you not have a shawl?” Alex asked as he watched the woman shiver. She had to be freezing with all that exposed skin at her shoulders and back.
“It was warmer when I left home,” she said stiffly.
“Here,” he said, shrugging out of his coat. “Wear this.” He draped it over her shoulders from behind before she had the chance to protest.
She stopped abruptly. “I can’t.”
“You already are.” Alex pushed by her and continued up to the top of the alley, leaving her no choice but to follow.
His driver, his cap pulled low over his forehead, saw him coming and nodded in greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Lavoie.” His grey eyes flicked over Alex’s shoulder to Angelique as he reached the street. “Just the one passenger?” he asked.
“Just the one, Matthews,” Alex confirmed. Matthews had worked for Alex since he had opened this club. A veteran of the Peninsular War and a fine hand with horses and firearms, he had proven invaluable over the years. Alex doubted that there was much left that Matthews had not seen or heard, though he got paid admirably well to forget. Like the French brandy, discreet transportation was a service Alex offered. For a price, of course.
“Where to, Mr. Lavoie?” Matthews asked.
“The lady will give you her direction,” Alex said easily, hearing the woman come up behind him. It was his best chance at discovering her identity. If he knew where she lived, he could determine her name. He took a step back to face the masked woman. “See that she gets safely in her door, Matthews,” Lavoie instructed without taking his eyes off her. He couldn’t risk her telling his driver to drop her in the middle of a random street or square.
“Understood, Mr. Lavoie.”
Alex saw her brows draw together. She glanced at the carriage and the driver and then made a move to divest herself of his coat.
“Please keep it, my lady. You may leave it in the carriage or return it to me tomorrow night when you bring me my answer.”
Her lips thinned. “Mr. Lavoie, I—”
The deafening report of a pistol split the air, startling the horses. At the same time, something whined near his ear and smacked into the masonry just behind him. Alex leapt in front of the woman, pulling her down into a crouch near the front of the carriage. The sound of the shot echoed around them, bouncing off the buildings and pavement. A burst of maniacal laughter sounded then.
“Stand and deliver!” someone roared.
The horses, also veterans of the wars and used to artillery fire, did what they’d been trained to do. Which was nothing. Which gave Matthews the ability to reach down beside him and pull out his own set of pistols from beside him on the driver’s seat. Alex heard the sound of the guns being cocked.
Alex edged forward, looking past the horses for the gunman. In the gaslight, he saw the villain about fifteen paces away. There were two other men standing just behind him, and he had no idea if they were friends or foes. A gang of criminals would make this more difficult. And messy. He would be required to resort to blades after Matthews’s shot was spent. But unlike the thief, Alex’s driver would spend his shot wisely and with much better aim. And truth be told, Alex always favored blades over firearms anyway.
The gunman was standing in the middle of the street, his pistol dangling from one hand and the other clutching something else that glinted dully. And he was…laughing.
“Bloody ’ell, but I should have been a highwayman,” the stranger cackled. “I’ve always wanted to say that. Stand an’ deliver!” He lifted his other hand, and Alex realized that it was a flask he held. He tipped it back, taking a healthy swallow, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his expensive coat, staggering. He turned slightly to the two men standing behind him. “Whaddya think, chaps? How’d I do?”
Alex groaned. The man was utterly soused. He was also, given the quality of his coat and the gleam of his boots, not a ragged and desperate criminal but a gentleman with an excess of bad judgment and an idiotic sense of humor.
“Shall I shoot him, Mr. Lavoie?” Matthews inquired politely, the muzzles of his guns trained firmly on the man in the street.
“No!” It was the woman who answered, her voice raw with horror and desperation. “Don’t shoot him!” She stumbled past Alex, pulling off her mask, and came to stand directly in front of the would-be highwayman, effectively blocking any shot Matthews or he might have had. “What are you doing, Gerald?” she cried.
In a blinding flash of recognition, Alex realized instantly who the drunken fool on the street was. Gerald Archer, the young Marquess of Hutton. Alex had had the misfortune to meet him more than once since the death of his father and his ascension to the title not quite a year ago. Hutton was the perfect storm of arrogance and immaturity, and it would seem he was in fine form tonight. Alex’s eyes went to the two men who were still standing behind the marquess. He recognized these men as well. George Fitzherbert, Viscount Seaton, and Vincent Cullen, Baron Burleigh.
“I jus’ about keeled over when I saw you jus’ now, Ang. I’m saving you from whatever scoundrel you’re with,” Hutton giggled, lifting his pistol to wave it in front of the woman’s face. “’S what a good brother does, no?” He looked back to his friends for confirmation. They were raising their own flasks in a toast but Alex was too busy staring at the woman in the gold dress.
Too busy staring at Angelique Archer.
For she could be no other. He’d never actually met the Marquess of Hutton’s sister, though the surfeit of rumors and the sheer number of conversations that had ebbed and flowed around the topic of Lady Angelique in his club in years prior made him feel like he’d known her forever. Or at least, the contradictory character of Lady Angelique that had been crafted by the wagging tongues of the ton.
As the only daughter of the old Marquess of Hutton, she had been rumored to have a staggering dowry attached to her, a sum that put her in the class of some of the American heiresses newly arrived to England’s shores. Which, combined with her family’s lofty title, should have put her at the top of London’s most eligible bachelorette list. Yet in the single season in which she had participated, no man had offered for her. Or at least, no man had offered for her publicly. Alex had heard all sorts of speculation about the reasons behind her failure to find a suitable husband. Or even an unsuitable husband, for that matter.
She was frigid. She had once been someone’s mistress. She was a half-wit. She had terrible bluestocking tendencies. She was barren. She had an illicit love-child. The only thing that the gossipmongers had agreed on was that she was strange, cold, detached, and utterly unsociable. She had been unanimously dubbed the Marble Maiden.
Alexander had listened, as he always did, but paid little heed to such stories, for without confirmation, such absurdities held scant value to him. And then the ton had moved on to a more interesting object of interest and Angelique Archer had been forgotten. She had also vanished from society, Alex knew, long before the death of her father had made her younger brother the new marquess.
So why had she suddenly appeared in the middle of the most notorious gaming hell in London now? Good Lord, but this woman became more fascinating by the minute.
“How much have you had to drink tonight?” Lady Angelique snapped, knocking her brother’s pistol aside where it still wavered in front of her nose. It fell to the street with a clatter.
In the gaslight, Seaton snickered. “Better answer her, Hutton,” he jeered. Women found the viscount attractive, Alex knew, but a clever haircut and fancy clothes could not overcome his callous pomposity.
Angelique looked up, as if realizing her brother was not alone for the first time, and recoiled like she’d been struck. Her face drained of color. “I should have known you’d be here, Seaton,” she said.
“Did you really? Because I certainly never expected to find you in a dark alley outside a gaming hell in the wee hours of the morning.” His eyes slid down the front of her dress and lodged exactly where Alex expected them to. “My, but that’s quite the gown. Almost didn’t recognize you.” Seaton didn’t appear nearly as drunk as his friend.
The young marquess swayed before turning to scowl at his friend. “Tha’s my sister, Seaton,” he slurred. He drew himself as straight as he was able. “An’ for the record, I don’ think I’ve had enough t’drink a’tall.”
“I believe the young lord should be taken home before he kills someone.” Alex strode forward into the light, his patience with Hutton’s childish behavior and the entire episode at an end.
“I don’t need your help, Mr. Lavoie.” Lady Angelique seemed to have found her voice again, though it sounded a little ragged.
“I’m aware. That doesn’t mean you aren’t getting it.” He brushed by her. “Your brother nearly shot me, and came very close to shooting you. I take exception to such reckless idiocy.”
“You!” Hutton pointed his flask at Alex and grabbed Angelique by the arm. “You need t’ stay away from my sister. You an’ your wicked innen…intentions—”
“You don’t need to get involved. This is a family matter, Mr. Lavoie.” Lady Angelique managed to pull herself free of Hutton’s grip.
“Not when it occurs on the street outside my club,” Alex disagreed. “Then it becomes very much my business. And very much my problem. Though I’ve been told I’m quite good at problem solving.”
“Perhaps we should just go?” The suggestion came from the slighter man, Burleigh, who was starting to look nervous. The man was almost a thinner, weedier version of Hutton, with the same blond hair and narrow jaw, but he lacked the air of self-importance that Hutton wielded like a battering ram. “We don’t want any trouble,” he added, pulling anxiously at a gaudy cravat pin at his throat.
Perhaps one of these fools had some common sense after all. “Sounds like good advice to me,” Alex said.
“I’m not leavin’!” Hutton slurred. “I—I—I’m callin’ you out!”
“Please don’t.” Alex turned so he was addressing Burleigh and Seaton. “I think, gentlemen, that it would be wise to take your friend home before he does something we’ll all regret. That coat he is wearing looks new. And expensive. I’d hate to ruin it. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of superfine? And it’ll be worth far less second-hand if it has holes made from bullets or blades. Or both.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere till you take your slimy hands off my sister,” Hutton all but shouted. “Seaton and Burleigh, you’ll be my seconds.”
“You know my mother does not approve of duels,” Burleigh said. “She would not like it if I got involved in one.”
Seaton sneered openly at that. “Then perhaps, Burleigh, you should run along home like a good little boy and let the men handle this.”
“No one’s runnin’ anywhere!” Hutton declared. “We’ll settle this like gen’lemen!”
“Think carefully, my lord, before you agree to your young friend’s demand,” Alex said quietly. “For I am not a gentleman. And bodies bloat terribly at this time of year after a day or two in the Thames.”
Burleigh made a sound of distress and cleared his throat. “He means nothing by it, of course. He’s off his head with drink.” He jostled Seaton. “Don’t you agree?”
Seaton’s face was set in hard, unpleasant lines. He took another swig from his flask. “Maybe.”
“Let’s just go and forget this misunderstanding ever happened.” Burleigh was looking between the three men.
Seaton slid his flask inside his coat and stepped in front of Alex, so close that Alex’s eyes nearly watered at the potency of his alcohol-laced breath. “You don’t scare me,” he sneered.
“Mmmm.” Alex was unmoved.
“Not only am I the heir to a dukedom, I’m a regular at Jackson’s, you know,” Seaton continued, his chest inflating with every word even as he curled his hands into fists. “I’ve brought greater men than you to their knees. And I’ll take great pleasure in— eeerp.”
Alex had drawn his knife, the one his brother had given him on his twelfth birthday and one of the things that was always concealed on his person. Currently, the point of the wide blade was jammed into the soft tissue of Seaton’s lower belly, the fabric of the man’s trousers slowly giving way beneath the tip, stitch by stitch. He knew very well his actions were concealed from Lady Angelique.
“I believe, my lord, you were about to say that you’ll take great pleasure in seeing your friend home.” Alex twisted the knife slightly. “The rules here are not nearly as civilized as the rules you’re accustomed to on Bond Street.”
Seaton’s face had paled but now it flushed a dark red.
“Go now, my lord, before another errant shot causes me to startle and slip. I’ll see to his lordship.”
Hutton yelled something unintelligible and stumbled toward them, but Burleigh managed to catch the sleeve of his coat. The marquess lost his balance and landed on his backside on the pavement. His flask dinged loudly as it bounced, and a stream of expletives followed as Hutton rolled over and crawled forward on all fours in an attempt to retrieve it.
Seaton stepped back, yanking on the lapels of his coat as if he was trying to straighten his damaged pride. “Hutton is all yours,” he spat, and Alex wasn’t entirely sure if he was speaking to Lady Angelique or himself.
Seaton was stalking away and Burleigh was trying to help the marquess off his knees, but Hutton only swatted at his hands. “Don’ need yer help,” he grunted. He finally closed filthy fingers around his flask.
Burleigh looked up in helplessness.
“Go.” It was Angelique who spoke, and she sounded subdued. “I’ll see to my brother.”
“But my lady—”
“Go,” she repeated.
Burleigh’s eyes slid to Alex’s, as if seeking confirmation. Or permission. Alex could feel his lip curl. Unobtrusively, he slid his knife back into the sheath inside his coat and shrugged. “You heard the lady.”
Burleigh glanced at Hutton, who was now trying to get to his feet. He looked like he wanted to say something but then simply sighed heavily and turned, his slender form melting into the darkness beyond the pool of gaslight.
The marquess had finally gained his feet once again and stood swaying, disheveled and filthy. “I’m callin’ you out, you—you…” He gave up on the last part of his sentence.
He looked behind him again for support, a faint flicker of confusion crossing his face as if he was surprised to find himself alone.
“You’re not calling anyone out,” Alex told him. “You’re going home. There you will sober up. Find a pot of coffee. And perhaps some decency and respect. And when you’ve done all that, you may offer your apologies to your sister.”
“What did y’ say?” Hutton lurched toward Alex angrily.
Angelique made a sound of distress. “Gerald—”
“Sure you don’t want me to shoot him, Mr. Lavoie?” Matthews inquired from his perch. “He’s bleatin’ awful loud.”
“Children often do.” Alex sighed.
“What d’you call me?” Hutton demanded. He dropped his flask again and drew up his fists. “You’ll answer f’that. C’mon, chaps, let’s take him!” he called, seemingly forgetting he was alone.
“Gerald, stop this,” Angelique ordered. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“Mr. Lavoie?” Matthews prompted, adjusting his weapons hopefully.
“Don’t shoot him,” Alex told his driver with another sigh.
Hutton wobbled forward and swung at Alex’s head. Alex ducked.
“Coward!” Hutton bellowed, taking another wild jab in Alex’s direction.
Alex neatly sidestepped. “You have my apologies in advance, my lady,” he said, dodging as Hutton threw another punch that connected with nothing and sent the man pitching forward.
“For what?” she asked as her brother righted himself and prepared for another assault.
“For this.” Alex’s punch caught Hutton squarely in the temple, sending jarring shocks through his hand and up into his arm. The marquess went down like a sack of stones. Alex winced and flexed his hand. Hell. He’d need to find some ice for his knuckles before dawn.
“Did you kill him?” Angelique asked in a small voice, staring down at the unmoving pile that was her brother.
“Of course I didn’t kill him,” Alex replied, catching her stricken look. “I only kill peers of the realm on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Really, you’re quite fortunate all around that it’s a Saturday.”
She blinked at him before flushing, her high color obvious under the gaslights. Which was better than the pale, stark pallor that had been there before.
“Should have shot the pup, title or no,” Matthews opined from his perch, sounding disgruntled. “Just a flesh wound, mind you. Give him something more permanent than a headache to remind himself to mind his manners the next time he gets into his father’s liquor cabinet.”
“Perhaps next time,” Alex muttered.
Beside him, Angelique was still standing, staring down at her brother. The drunken marquess was now snoring loudly, his flask lying on the ground next to him, leaking liquor into the shoulder of his coat. The man’s face already bore evidence of too much drink over a prolonged period—a flaccid puffiness of his jowls and around his eyes, punctuated by a reddened nose. If the man didn’t kill himself with liquor, then the whores and the narcotics or whatever else that often went with the drink would finish him off. Alex had seen it too many times.
He grimaced slightly but concealed the better part of his disgust. “Again, my apologies for such measures,” he said, watching Lady Angelique carefully while he waited for his driver.
It was the first time he’d had the chance to really study her without her mask. The light from the street revealed high cheekbones that cast deeply shadowed contours along her jaw. Wide blue eyes ringed with dark lashes were framed by a straight nose and arched brows. A beautiful constellation of freckles was scattered over the bridge of her nose and cheeks, hidden until now.
She would never be called pretty—her features were too strong, her bone structure too austere for such an insubstantial phrase. Alex cast about for a better word that also accommodated her quiet reserve and extraordinary intelligence. Striking would suit. Arresting was better.
“It is I who must apologize on behalf of my brother, Mr. Lavoie.” Lady Angelique’s generous mouth was drawn into a tight, unhappy line. “He is not usually so—”
“Your brother’s behavior was no one’s fault but his own, as was the behavior of his acquaintances,” Alex said. “And like them, he is the only one who can answer for it.”
“But still—”
“But nothing. Your brother is a marquess. He has responsibilities, both to himself and to his family. I believe you have younger siblings as well?” Alex vaguely recalled that there was a set of twins somewhere in the family.
“Yes,” Angelique said quietly. “Gregory and Phillip. They’re twelve. Attending Harrow.”
“Ah. A good thing they are away, then.”
“Yes.” She sounded subdued. “A good thing.”
“Is there somewhere you would like to take your brother?” Alex rather thought a week locked in a potting shed or perhaps a prison hulk would be beneficial to the marquess. If they were in York, the small colony where Alexander had grown up, he would have happily dumped him in the middle of the Canadian wilderness and left the sot to find his own way back.
“Home.” Now she just sounded infinitely sad. “I’ll take him home. Get him cleaned up.”
Alex felt a stab of pity for this woman, though he was careful not to show it. He was quite sure the last thing she would want was pity. One could not choose one’s family, and it couldn’t be easy dealing with such an imbecile of a brother. A brother she still obviously cared for, whatever his failings.
The Marquess of Hutton had no idea just how lucky he was.
“Come, Matthews,” Alex said briskly as his driver joined them. “Let’s get his lordship into the carriage so that we can see him home in one piece.”