Strangely enough, Max slept.
Perhaps it was because he had real information about Beatrice in his possession, information that would help him get her back. He didn’t know how yet, exactly, but he knew that he would. That they would. It was not a resolution, but it was somewhere to start.
Or perhaps it was the brandy. Perhaps he had lied to Ivory when he had told her that he wasn’t drunk. And if that was the case, perhaps he did have a reasonable excuse for taking her up against the bulkhead of his cabin in the way he had promised himself he wouldn’t, at least until this entire mess had been resolved.
He had wanted so much more. To take off every stitch of clothing until there was nothing left between them. Worship her with his hands and his tongue the way she deserved. Push her underneath him in his berth and tease her and taste her, until she came apart again. Feed her desire and her every want until only his name and his body filled every corner of her being.
He had not been prepared for her passion. He had not been prepared for the way she had come apart in his arms, but it had likely been the most heady, erotic experience of his life. And the thing he had found most difficult to step away from. But he also hadn’t been prepared for her confession, and it was that, more than the shattering interlude they had shared, that was stirring up unfamiliar, peculiar emotions deep within him. She had entrusted him with a gift. A piece of her past. A piece of who she was. That single gift was the most valuable thing any woman had ever given him. Ever.
There was so much about Ivory Moore that made sense now. The Duke of Knightley had been one of the most powerful men in England. And not just because of his wealth or his endless connections within government, industry, society, and the royal courts. But also because he made it his business to know people and the secrets that they carried. Max had never met the man personally, but everyone had wanted the duke’s ear and his approval. He’d had a reputation as a man who could just as easily grease the right wheel at the right time to make it turn in the direction he wished as he could simply cause it to seize indefinitely should he so choose.
He wondered about the elusive Mr. Chegarre and his firm, for which Ivory worked now. Perhaps Chegarre had been a secretary or barrister for the duke. Someone who would have been privy to the secrets and political maneuverings His Grace had made his stock in trade, and understood how to manipulate them. It would explain how Ivory had come to work for the firm, and the responsibility she had assumed on his behalf. She would have brought infinite resources of her own from her past life on the stage. Connections to people like Elise DeVries and Alexander Lavoie, for starters. People like Gil. And the Harris brothers. No wonder Mr. Chegarre had hired her.
Regardless of how she had come to work for the man, she had certainly learned the business well.
He had told her last night that he would allow her to handle King. He was smart enough to recognize that he would need to trust her, but he fully intended to go with her wherever it was she needed to go. To help her do whatever it was she needed to do.
He’d taken one of the berths in the surgery, simply because it was closest to his own, where Ivory slept, and he’d reasoned that he would hear her if she tried to leave. Though now, as he pulled his coat on, he knew she could have left with a drummer boy leading the way and he would likely not have heard her.
The sun was struggling over a low cloud bank in the east, sending feeble light through the portholes of the surgery, as he ducked out into the dimness. His cabin door was still closed, and he wondered if she was still sleeping. He stood outside the door, straining to hear any sort of noise, but the cabin was silent. A vision of her curled up in his berth left him a little breathless. A picture of her sitting in his cabin, scrubbing the sleep from her beautiful eyes, or maybe re-braiding her hair, left him aching with an unfamiliar longing that stole whatever breath remained.
He suddenly realized he had never brought a woman into his cabin before. Mainly because the berth was much too small for bed-sport. But the knowledge that Ivory was in his space, a space that had only ever been his, made him suddenly want all sorts of things that he had never thought he would want.
A woman who would miss him when he was gone. A woman who might be waiting for him, welcoming him home with a warm smile and a warm bed. A woman who fit into his space. Into his life. Permanently.
Max knocked at the door and heard a muffled response. At least she was up. He knocked again and waited a heartbeat before pushing into the cabin.
“Good morning—” He stopped abruptly.
“Good morning, indeed, Your Grace.” Alexander Lavoie was reclining in one of the chairs in his cabin, one booted foot crossed over a knee. In his hand he held a glass of the brandy that had been left on the table last night.
Of Ivory Moore there was no sign. Apprehension pricked.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He didn’t care if he sounded rude.
“At the moment? Enjoying a very good glass of brandy. This must be French. My compliments.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning,” Max snapped, crossing his arms and leaning against the cabin door. “Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?”
“Ah, but I’ll consider it a nightcap. My hours are somewhat different than those of an industrious fellow like yourself.”
“Where is Miss Moore?” Max was not in the mood for games.
Alex swirled the contents of his glass. “Did you know, I had the very same question barely two hours earlier when I stopped by Chegarre and Associates and was informed that Miss Moore had come here. At a positively indecent hour. I thought I might stop by on my way home.”
Max gazed at Lavoie impassively. “This is not on your way home.”
Lavoie shrugged.
“And you came here to make sure that I had not bound and gagged Miss Moore and stashed her in my holds?”
Lavoie looked up from his glass and considered Max, the men measuring each other in the silence. “I didn’t think you would have gagged her. And I didn’t think she would be in your holds.”
“Have a care, Mr. Lavoie.”
The man tilted his head and placed his glass on the table with a ghost of a smile. “She told me to ask you to be available this afternoon. At your house in St James’s.”
Anger rose in Max, both at himself for not anticipating this and at Miss Moore for knowing him too well. “Where is she?” he asked coldly.
“She might have mentioned something about an appointment. Asked to borrow my carriage. I was only too happy to comply, though it has left me here awaiting an hour when I might easily hire”—his lip curled up in distaste—“public transportation.”
“She left you here to prevent me from going after her.” Goddammit, but she had played him. She had left him here, and she had gone to see King. And he didn’t have the smallest idea how to find her. He banged the flat of his palm against the doorframe in useless frustration.
Lavoie dragged a finger around the rim of the glass. “And I can see why.”
“King has my sister. He plans on selling her like one would a pretty filly at Tattersalls.”
“I’m aware.”
“And I’m supposed to sit by and do nothing?”
“No.” Dark brows drew together. “You’re supposed to trust her.”
“It’s clear she doesn’t trust me!”
Lavoie shook his head. “It is not a matter of trust, Your Grace.”
“Then what?”
“She might have mentioned something about you being a dangerous distraction.” It was said guilelessly, but Max knew better. “Miss Moore no doubt regrets any perceived insult, but she is fully committed to her job. You should be pleased.” The last had a slight edge.
Ah yes. Miss Moore and her commitment to her job. To Mr. Chegarre and his damn firm.
“Why aren’t you with her?” Max demanded in frustration, ignoring the heat that rose within him. If he couldn’t be with her, then Alexander Lavoie should be. He didn’t have to like the man to know that he would protect Ivory if the need arose. Lavoie was both clever and dangerous. Chegarre had chosen well when he had hired this man.
“Miss Moore does not need me, nor anyone else, hovering over her shoulder.” The intimation was clear.
A thought struck Max. “Why do you work for him?” he demanded. “Why do you work for Mr. Chegarre?”
“Why do I work for Mr. Chegarre?” Lavoie repeated slowly, stalling.
A spurt of impatience fueled Max’s anger. “Miss Moore introduced you as an associate. Yet you are clearly a man of means. You own a gaming club, and a wildly successful one at that. I suspect you are in control of a fortune that exceeds mine, which is saying something. So why would you continue to work for Mr. Chegarre?”
“Ah.” Lavoie brushed an invisible piece of lint from his coat. “Let’s just say it is a matter of loyalty. I help whenever I can.”
“Why?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I like to understand why people do the things that they do. Because I like to know where people have come from, where they’d like to go, and just what they’re willing to do to get there.”
“You sound like the duchess.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” Lavoie was silent for a long minute before speaking again. “Chegarre loaned me the capital I needed to get my start. Introduced me to the right people. Helped me make connections that were vital to my success. I have long since repaid the monetary debt in full, but such kindness deserves more than prompt payment and compounded interest. Loyalty deserves loyalty.”
Despite his ire, Max felt something relax within him. He might not know this man well, but he knew many like him. He put his life in their hands every day on the Odyssey. “Thank you. For your honesty.”
“You’re welcome.” Lavoie steepled his fingers. “Have you taken her to your bed? The duchess, that is?”
Max stared at the man, uncertain if he had heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“While we’re being honest with each other, it seems like a reasonable question.”
“How is that reasonable?” Max was getting over his shock.
“Have you?” Alex repeated his question.
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Max narrowed his eyes.
“I did. She wouldn’t tell me.”
“And neither will I.”
Lavoie flattened his lips. “I can see why she likes you.”
“Why? Because I refuse to sit like an old harpy, gossiping and using her personal life as fodder for a few minutes of entertainment? I think she has rather endured enough of that in her life, don’t you?” Max was angry.
Lavoie’s eyes sharpened. “You know who she is.”
“Of course I know who she is.”
“You recognized her.”
“No, I didn’t recognize her. Until I walked in on her untying a dead earl from my sister’s bed, I had never seen her before in my life.”
“Then how did you know who she was?”
“She told me.”
Lavoie’s brows shot to his hairline. “She told you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
Max crossed his arms. “When she wanted to.”
Lavoie was studying him in the manner of a boy who had just turned over a rock and discovered a leprechaun.
“Is there something amiss, Mr. Lavoie?” Max inquired.
“No.” Lavoie looked contemplative.
“Is there anything else you’d like to say about Miss Moore?”
“No.”
“Then get off my ship.”
Lavoie stood. “May I inquire as to your plans this morning, Your Grace?”
“No, you may not.”
Lavoie sat back down with a sigh.
Max closed his eyes, searching for patience. “For the love of everything that is holy, I will not do anything to interfere with her appointment this morning. I don’t even know where she’s gone.”
“Good to hear.” Alex drained the last of his brandy from his glass. “I’d have hated to have bound and gagged you and stashed you in your holds.”
Max ignored the jibe. “Will she be safe?”
The glass froze halfway back to the table.
“Will Miss Moore be safe? From this King? Will he hurt her?”
Lavoie placed the glass back on the table. “You care about her.”
“Of course I care.” I think I’m half in love with her. That unsolicited thought stopped him cold. That was ridiculous. He admired her, certainly. And there was no denying the overwhelming desire he felt every time she was near. But those things weren’t love.
Horrified, he retreated. “That is to say, I care very much about the woman who has taken it upon herself to negotiate for my sister’s release.”
“Ah.” That single response told Max that Lavoie’s sharp eyes had missed nothing. “What did I tell you about underestimating Miss Moore’s ability to take care of herself?” Alex asked. “She doesn’t need you.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
Lavoie stood and leaned over the table. “My job this morning is not to make you feel better, Your Grace. It’s to make sure you don’t get in her way.”
* * *
The day had started out dark and grey, and it hadn’t improved as the morning had crept on. Clouds hung low, threatening snow or rain or something in between, and the wind had picked up, rattling the carriage windows as they traveled north to the outskirts of London.
It had been almost a year since Ivory had last turned down the long drive to Helmsdale House. Underneath the carriage wheels, gravel crunched as they rolled past lines of silent trees, their spindly fingers reaching up to the winter sky. Ivory shifted in the carriage, peering out the window, and tried to concentrate on the meeting ahead. And not the meeting that had undoubtedly gone on this morning aboard the Odyssey.
Max would have been furious to find her gone. It would be a cold day in hell before Maximus Harcourt simply waited while she negotiated with King for Beatrice’s release. Of that there was no doubt. Whatever trust he had gifted her with last night had undoubtedly been retracted with her deception, and that knowledge created a hollow ache deep within her. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and this was not about her and her feelings. It never had been. The future of an eighteen-year-old girl hung in the balance, and Ivory could not fail. If Beatrice wanted to go home with any of that future intact, Ivory would need to keep her wits about her and her feelings out of it.
As Alex’s loaned carriage neared the house, it came to a massive gate flanked on either side by imposing stone gatehouses, built within the last decade. A tall wrought-iron fence fell away from either side of the gatehouses, and Ivory knew that the fence went all the way around the house. Ivy had begun to wrap itself around each pointed bar, but the effect was still ominous. As if they were entering an enclosed prison. King did not suffer trespassers kindly.
Two men stepped into the path of the carriage, and Ivory could hear them exchanging words with the driver. Abruptly the door to the carriage was yanked open, and one of the guards stuck his head in.
“State your business.” There were no words of welcome.
“Miss Moore to see King,” she said smoothly. “He is expecting me.”
The guard leered at her. “I just bet he is.”
Ivory stared at him, expressionless. She couldn’t even begin to count the number of men just like this one whom she had dealt with. They were all the same, the world over. “He’s expecting me,” she repeated. “And I’d hate to have to explain why I was late.”
The guard faltered slightly under her continuous gaze. “I’ll open the gate.”
“That would be wise.” Her tone was icy.
“He is a very busy man today,” the guard said rudely, as though unable to leave her with the last word, and slammed the carriage door.
“I just bet he is,” muttered Ivory as the gates swung open, and the carriage rolled toward the house.
* * *
King reminded Ivory of the early portraits she had seen of Henry VIII.
He was fair, with reddish-gold hair and pale-blue eyes set into a face that was unyielding and poised. He was clothed in subdued colors, though he made up for the understated dress with a cravat pin that boasted a ruby the size of a sparrow’s egg. Gold and gems glinted from fingers that were curled around the top of an ebony walking stick. He was a physically beautiful man, yet Ivory knew that under those layers a dangerous darkness dwelt.
“Good morning, Duchess!” he exclaimed, striding into the study, his eyes appraising her from head to toe. “It has been much too long since this house has been graced by your stunning presence. Still as beautiful as ever.”
“Thank you.” She had dressed carefully, her gown elaborate and flattering. Exactly what King would wish to see. Ivory offered him her hand, as he expected, and he took it, squeezing it slightly and pressing his lips to the backs of her knuckles.
“You look well, King,” she said demurely.
“I am well, indeed,” King replied, waving Ivory to a low chair that faced a massive mahogany desk.
She lowered herself into the seat, forced to look up at King as he perched himself on a heavy leather chair behind the desk. Which, she knew, was not an accident.
“You’ve decorated since I was last here,” she said silkily, glancing around the spacious study. One entire wall was covered from the floor to the high ceiling with books, the higher titles accessible by a sliding ladder built expressly for that purpose. The ceiling was plaster, carved cherubs and creatures vying for space along the edges. The walls were covered in sumptuously patterned wallpaper and were hung with an array of framed paintings depicting scenes of battle or voluptuous women reclining in opulence. Crystal abounded on every lighting fixture, and the furniture was heavily gilded. It was a room meant to impress.
Ivory just felt stifled. “Good heavens.” She rose, unable to sit, and wandered over to a canvas mounted on the wall near the desk. “Is that a Rubens?” The painting depicted a woman standing over a supine man, shoving his head back and slicing through his neck with a wickedly curved sword. Angels hovered above the pair in silent observation.
King made a delighted noise. “Judith Beheading Holofernes. Is it not the most divine thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Quite.” Despite the grisly scene, the detail was exquisite. “I thought this was lost.”
“Nothing is lost when one knows where to look.” King rubbed his hands together. “I couldn’t bear to part with this one.” He gave Ivory a smile that sent an unpleasant chill crawling down her spine. “Look at her expression, Duchess. She knows exactly what she is doing. Breathtaking, isn’t it? She reminds me a little of you.”
Ivory mustered a smile as if this pleased her immeasurably.
“I can’t tell you how much I esteem a woman who appreciates rare talent such as is captured on this canvas. Rubens was a master at his craft.” He leaned back in his chair. “Just as you were. Did you know I was sixteen when I first saw you on a stage, Duchess? I’ve always thought it an endless shame I have not seen you there since.”
Ivory shrugged slightly. “The woman you saw on that stage is dead, King. She no longer exists. I’ve moved on. And I enjoy what I do now.”
King’s lips twitched. “Because you are good at it.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You should be. Speaking of which, tell me, did everything work out with that diamond necklace?”
“It did.” Ivory returned her attention to the painting. “My client was most relieved to have recovered it.”
“He might consider more carefully around whose neck he places it again, yes?”
“Something like that.”
“Like I said, nothing is lost when one knows where to look.” King paused. “But you have not come here seeking diamonds this time, have you?”
Ivory finally turned from the painting, relying now on years of honed acting experience. “No. Not diamonds.”
“Then what?”
“A girl.”
King tipped his head, his face unreadable. “A girl?”
“Mmmm. One hears things.”
“And just what do you think you’ve heard, Duchess?”
“I’ve heard that you recently acquired a lot for your auction tonight of the blond variety. Approximately eighteen, naïve, probably more trouble than she’ll be worth in the end.”
“But very, very beautiful. There are a lot of men who will pay for that.”
Ivory shrugged. “The world is full of beautiful women. I must confess I am surprised that you chose to buy such…” She paused, as if searching for the right word. “Risk. I thought horses were bad enough.”
“I admit, the offer did take me by surprise. I had to think on it. But with great risk comes great reward, no?” he said. “And this man who sold her is a desperate one. His father frittered away most of their fortune, and he has decimated what was left. Now he supports himself by bringing me all sorts of treasures from what’s left of his estate. Some I buy. Some I do not. But his latest offering was intriguing. He didn’t know what to do with her.” He smirked. “I, on the other hand, had some ideas.”
“What sort of man does not know what to do with a woman?” Ivory scoffed, concealing a very careful fishing expedition.
“One who is cowardly. And not very clever. Did you miss the part about the lost fortune?”
Ivory slanted him a sidelong glance. “You do know who she is, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“And you bought her anyway?”
King frowned slightly. “What’s not to like? She’s beautiful, docile—”
“Docile?” Ivory sniffed. “Not the word I might have used for her.”
“Who wants her?” King was drumming his fingers on the desk now, the pace matching the gallop of Ivory’s heart.
“A client.”
King made a sound of displeasure. “Don’t be obtuse, Duchess. It is not attractive.”
Ivory sighed, signaling her remorse. “Very well. I represent her family.”
“Her brother. The duke.” King leaned forward just a little too eagerly.
Ivory didn’t answer and strolled along the wall, stopping at a painting from which two curvaceous naked women stared coyly at her as they frolicked in a fountain. “Not her brother, really. Her aunt.”
King sat back in his chair. “I would have thought the duke would be anxious to prevent his sister from ruin.”
Ivory snorted loudly. “From ruin? Surely you jest.”
King’s fingers froze, the drumming ceasing abruptly.
Ivory gazed at him. “Jesus, King. You thought she was a virgin? This was what you thought to auction? You were going to sell her virginity to the highest bidder?” She suppressed an inward shudder.
His lips thinned unpleasantly.
Ivory shook her head. “Do you know why her aunt hired me in the first place? It was because the Earl of Debarry expired in the young lady’s bed from debauched exertions of the likes I will not detail. Let me just say that she was a little too much for an old man to handle.”
A faint, mottled red was creeping up King’s neck. “I heard Debarry died at a ball from an apoplexy.”
Ivory smiled and returned to the painting of Judith. “Of course you did.”
King was frowning. “That was your work.”
“Of course it was.” Ivory took a deep breath, choosing her words with care. “Look, the duke is an arrogant ass. He has about as much interest in his sister as he does in me. He chooses to spend all of his time in India, as opposed to London, with his family. You tell me how much a promiscuous sister is worth to a man like that.” She shrugged carelessly. “The duke would have her back if only to ensure that there is no further stain on the family name. She was ruined long before she was sold to you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then ask her yourself. Ask her what color the ribbons were that she used to tie the earl to her bed.”
King was staring at Ivory coldly. He reached behind him and yanked on a gold-tasseled bellpull. Within a minute a hulking brute of a giant appeared in the doorway.
“Bring me the girl,” King demanded, and the giant disappeared.
Ivory could feel a bead of cold sweat slide down her back. Beatrice was here. She was so close. Feigning casualness, she wandered to the next canvas on the wall. A Roman general in full armor was in the process of slaying a writhing, scaly beast. His face, like the face of the woman in the first painting, held only cruel determination.
“I must assume that the man who sold her to you was not entirely forthcoming.” Ivory was fishing again.
“I will reserve judgment on that,” King snapped.
“If you want my opinion, King, in the future, stick to what you know. Paintings. Sculpture. Things that don’t dally in the beds of earls.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Duchess.”
“I’m only trying to help. You know I have your best interests at heart.”
“You have my best interests at heart when it suits you,” he replied with biting sarcasm.
“Touché.”
“I had something very special arranged for this girl tonight,” King mused darkly. “I don’t want to—”
The doorway was suddenly filled with a man, pushing a girl in front of him. She was tall and slender and possessed the same grey eyes as her brother, only hers were red-rimmed and full of fear. She was dressed in an ornate white gown adorned with silver embroidery. Her blond tresses had been pulled off her face but left to stream down her back, and a wreath of tiny white flowers had been woven into the crown of her hair.
“Good Lord, King. You went all out, didn’t you? All she’s missing is a pair of wings.”
“Bring her here,” King demanded.
The guard moved, prodding Beatrice forward. She came to a halt in front of the huge desk, looking like an errant schoolgirl about to get reprimanded. The guard left the room, and Ivory moved to the side of the desk, standing slightly behind King, so that she could face the girl.
She willed Beatrice to look at her, but she was staring at the floor.
“I have been informed that you are not as advertised,” King started.
Beatrice didn’t respond.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” King snapped, and Beatrice’s head finally came up.
“Tell me that you’re a virgin.”
Beatrice paled.
“Answer me!”
Moisture filmed her eyes.
“Bloody hell, King, stop yelling at her.” Ivory made a noise of disgust. “You’re terrifying her and hurting my ears. Whoever it was who sold her to you should have disclosed that information, not her.” She softened her voice. “But it’s a yes-or-no answer, dear. Just tell the man and save us all a great deal of time.”
A single tear slid down Beatrice’s cheek as she slowly shook her head.
Ivory leaned closer to King. “Did you know that Debarry wanted to marry her?”
Beatrice’s eyes snapped to Ivory’s. Finally.
“But I can’t imagine that will add much value. Too bad the earl isn’t still alive. He would have beggared himself to get her back.” Behind King, Ivory put her finger to her lips, praying the girl had some sense. “Certainly more than her brother is willing to do.”
Beatrice dropped her gaze back to the rug at her feet.
Ivory let out a careful breath.
King had his hands clenched on the desk.
“What do you want for her, King?” Ivory asked in a bored tone. “And be reasonable. She’s a ruined sister of an absentee aristocrat. She’s a nobody.”
King abruptly stood, swinging around to face Ivory. “You have no idea how much this displeases me,” he said, and the icy calm with which he said it was ominous. “I had plans for her. Plans I made known to interested parties. Now there are expectations that I cannot meet, and that is never good for business. It’s too late to replace her with something of equal quality.” He stared hard at her. “You’ve ruined things for me tonight, Duchess.”
Ivory felt cold, even though she was sweating under her gown. To show weakness or fear now would be dangerous. “In all fairness, I didn’t ruin anything. You ruined whatever plans you had when you purchased ruined merchandise.” She paused. “In fact, I might have just saved you from some embarrassment. For you do not sell forgeries.”
“Perhaps.” King pushed past her and stopped in front of the Rubens painting. He studied the bloody scene for a long minute. Somewhere a clock ticked the time into the silence. Beatrice sniffled loudly. Ivory held her breath.
Suddenly King turned from the painting, and whatever anger he had shown was gone, replaced with cunning calculation.
“She’s yours, Duchess, if you want her.”
Ivory felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. “How much?”
“Two hundred pounds. It’s what I paid for her.”
Ivory’s mind was racing. There was no way that King would simply give her what she wanted this easily. There was a catch somewhere.
“Two hundred pounds?” She made sure her voice held nothing but cool skepticism.
“Yes. And your attendance at tonight’s auction.”
“Why?”
“Because it pleases me to have you attend my little soiree.”
Why? she wanted to demand. She held her tongue, knowing she would receive her answer only when King was ready to give it.
“There is nothing little about anything you do, King,” she said instead, keeping her voice low and faintly amused.
The man smiled. “Indeed there isn’t.”
Ivory didn’t like this one bit. Every instinct she had was screaming a warning. For the life of her, Ivory couldn’t even begin to guess what King was plotting, but it was there, hanging over her like a giant guillotine blade, waiting for someone to release it when it was least expected.
“I have a reputation of being a man who can provide the…impossible.” King waved a hand airily at the walls of his study. “Lost paintings and the like. And you too have a reputation for providing your clients the impossible. Lost debutantes and the like.” Brows rose over pale eyes. “I think, Duchess, that this is a superb opportunity for us to help each other. A…trade, perhaps, to make sure we each get what we want.” He paused. “Because there is something far more extraordinary that I could offer in her place. You were right—this girl here is a nobody.” He smiled then. “But Ivory Bellafiore is not.”
Understanding descended, landing like a leaden weight in her gut and forcing the breath from her lungs. King would exact his price tonight, and he would do it by catching her up in the gilded cage she had fled. The cage she had promised herself she would never return to.
“I don’t think I like your suggestion.” She kept her voice firm with a monumental effort.
King’s face hardened. “Then leave the girl. Go back to your duke and tell him you were unable to retrieve his sister. Though my clients will not be pleased, someone will buy her, regardless of her flaws. At the very least, I’ll get back what I paid for her, which, incidentally, wasn’t that much. But it’s up to you. You can take her home now, or leave her here.”
Ivory looked at Beatrice, who was watching her again, terror and misery stamped clearly across her pretty features. She felt the weight of that grey gaze, so much like Max’s that it was a little like looking into his own. She thought of him, and how much he loved his sister. Of how much he had trusted Ivory to do this. To get her back. She thought of the single stupid mistake that an eighteen-year-old girl had made to set off a chain reaction of events that was about to cost her everything. She thought about what might happen if Beatrice was sold to one of King’s clients.
Beatrice Harcourt might not be a virgin, but she was innocent in the ways of men.
Ivory Bellafiore was not.
A calm descended then, a perfect clarity that made her next words easy to say. “Very well,” Ivory answered finally.
The man smiled and clasped his hands together. “Splendid! I’m so glad to hear it.”
Ivory stared impassively at him, feeling as if she were watching this scene play out from somewhere far away. “One night. Those are my terms.”
“You aren’t in much of a position to demand terms, Duchess.”
“Perhaps not, but Ivory Bellafiore is.”
King chuckled. “God, Duchess, but you have nerve. I admire that.”
“Then we are in agreement?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m taking her back to her family now.” She moved to where Beatrice stood.
“Of course, of course. I’m sure they will be thrilled to have their wayward lamb back in the fold.” King joined her. “An earl,” he murmured. “Who would have thought? Just as well I didn’t know sooner or I might have sampled the wares myself.”
Beatrice was cringing, and Ivory grasped her arm and pulled the girl behind her. “Don’t be crude, King. It’s not attractive.”
The man laughed, a dry, empty sound. “Ah, Duchess. You are going to be magnificent tonight. And please don’t worry about what to wear, I’ll have a little something here for you to slip on when you arrive. Now, I will send a carriage for you at eight o’clock sharp. I do so hope to find you waiting. It would be a shame if your little lamb or someone in her family should find herself the victim of a terrible accident.”
Ivory did not think for one second that the man was making an empty threat. “It would,” she agreed.
King tsked. “London has become such a dangerous place these days.”