When the Duke of Knightley’s health had begun to fail in the last year of their marriage, he had secretly bought this place in Covent Square. Had the interior renovated and repaired, an oasis hidden in plain sight. He and Ivory had both known that, despite his best efforts, despite wills and paperwork and heated arguments with his children, he would not be able to protect her once he was gone. Though both had been confident that her resourcefulness and intelligence would ensure that she would be fine on her own. And she had been.
Until now.
Ivory sighed, watching disinterestedly from her window as darkness fell outside and the drunken revelry of the night built in volume. People falling into old habits under the guise of new adventures.
And Ivory would know about that.
She pulled the drapes and lit a candelabrum. The expensive beeswax candles gave off a soft glow and sent long shadows into the corners of her study. On the mantel the clock ticked the time away relentlessly, counting down the minutes until she went back to Helmsdale House and did what she’d sworn she would never do again.
She’d made a deal with the devil, but she would do it again given the chance. If only to see the relief and the love that had suffused Max’s face when Beatrice had flown into his arms. It was what she had always imagined a family to be. Devotion and forgiveness. Support and understanding. It had brought tears to her eyes.
Ivory slid down the back of the desk, the heavy walnut smooth and cool at her back, the pile of the carpet thick underneath her. She stared at the glowing coals in the hearth as she stretched her legs out in front of her and took another healthy swallow of the whiskey that was dwindling in the decanter as quickly as the heat was dwindling in the hearth.
She was lost. Everything that had been so carefully planned and patiently executed teetered on the edge of recklessness. Her entire existence—her entire way of life—had been blurred by a gasping, desperate sense of longing so painful she could barely manage her emotions anymore. Because of him. Because of what he’d shown her.
From the depths of the house, she could hear voices. Roddy’s, and another, deeper, more urgent voice. Booted feet sounded in the hall, drawing closer until they stopped at the door of her study. She didn’t move.
“Ivory? Where are you?” Max’s voice came from somewhere near the door on the other side of the desk.
Ivory closed her eyes, not sure if she had the strength to face him. She did not want to lie to him. Nor could she tell him the truth.
“I’m here,” she said with resignation, knowing he’d find her in a few seconds anyway. She closed her eyes and took another swallow of whiskey, the liquid sloshing loudly against the crystal.
“Ivory?” She heard the sound of the door closing, heard the click of the lock. And then she felt, rather than heard, Max move around the desk and come to a stop somewhere beside her. “What the hell are you doing?”
She let her head tip back carelessly against the desk and opened her eyes. Hiding from you. “I live here,” she said instead.
“Are you drunk?” His face was wreathed in shadows and his question was devoid of nuance.
“Not nearly enough,” she replied. “Roderick wasn’t supposed to have let you in.”
“I can be very persuasive.” He stood in silence for a long moment before coming to stand directly in front of her. His bulk blocked the meager heat that was emanating from the hearth, and cool air caressed her skin. “Why are you here? Hiding behind a desk?”
Ivory took another sip of whiskey. “You should go,” she said quietly.
Max shrugged out of his coat and let it fall carelessly to the floor. Then he dropped to his knees and crawled to the empty space beside her, coming to sit next to her, his back resting against the desk. He unfolded his legs, almost enough for hers to touch should she ever find the courage. Intimate but distant.
The story of her life.
His body warmth beside her had far eclipsed what the struggling hearth provided, and it ignited a wild need that a thousand bonfires couldn’t compare to. The same need she had fought against since the moment she had first laid eyes on him. She stared at the tips of his boots, gleaming dully in the firelight. She was terrified that if she turned to look at him, she would do something foolish. For this night, her emotions were being checked by only the most tenuous of holds. Tonight they writhed and seethed, looking for a crack from which to explode.
Beside her Max shifted, yanking his cravat loose with a sigh of relief. He dropped the offending linen to the side and reached for the decanter she still held. Silently she relinquished her hold and heard him breathe deeply before tipping his head back and swallowing. She would not think about his lips on the cool edge where hers had been. She would not think about the way his lips would taste now—of whiskey and desire. She would not think at all.
“This is good whiskey.” His voice was roughened by the liquor.
“Life is too short for cheap whiskey.”
She heard him take another swallow while she refocused her attention from the tips of his boots to the edge of her skirt that was trapped underneath a muscular thigh. Her own thighs squeezed together to ease the ache that was building.
“Tell me what happened with King. Tell me how you got Beatrice back.”
Ivory felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rise in her throat. “I negotiated.” She pronounced the word carefully.
“That’s not good enough.”
“What does it matter?”
“Because I want to know what her release cost.”
Nothing she hadn’t traded before. And she had survived that just as she would survive this. “Two hundred pounds. What he paid for her.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all that concerns you. This was a business matter between King and Chegarre.”
“I see.” He sounded relieved, and she knew he had interpreted her words exactly as she’d intended. She’d given him something he could relate to—an agreement between two businessmen.
Casually he handed the decanter back, the heavy crystal warm in her hand. She stared down at the rim, daring herself to put her mouth where his had been. Instead she placed the whiskey on the floor beside her. “Why are you here, Max? Sitting on a floor in the middle of Covent Square?”
“I believe I asked you that first.”
“And I answered.”
“You did not. You evaded.”
Ivory bowed her head. “Don’t be difficult.”
“I’m not difficult. I’m concerned.” His hands were resting on his thighs. Relaxed. Unaffected. She thought she might scream if she didn’t come out of her skin first.
“Don’t be concerned, Max. I’m fine.”
“Now you’re being difficult. And you’re not fine. People who are fine do not hide behind desks.”
“I’m not hiding. I’m enjoying a good vintage.”
“By yourself? On the floor?”
“It’s a comfortable floor.”
“Ivory.” There was a faint question in the syllables.
She bit her lip.
“Ivory. Look at me.”
“I can’t.”
Beside her he sighed and turned his body so that he was facing her. She could feel the weight of his gaze. Her fingers curled into her skirts.
“I’m going to kiss you now.” He was so close, his eyes searching hers.
Yes. Do it and don’t stop.
He reached out and ran a finger down the side of her cheek, his thumb grazing her lower lip. Her heart was pounding, and the blood was roaring through her veins. She might have nodded. Wants and desires and dreams that she had shut away long ago were suddenly crashing through her mercilessly. She wanted to be with this man, to be by his side, not because he was paying her to do so, but because she could.
The careful barriers that she had built around herself were crumbling like a wall of sand in the face of a rising tide. Maximus Harcourt was no longer just a client, any more than he was an amusement or a distraction. There was no point in pretending anymore, and with that admission a weight seemed to slide away from her. For better or for worse, this man had become something more. “Max—”
“Shh. I’m going kiss you, Ivory. And then I’m going to make love to you.”
“But I think—”
“You think too much. Stop thinking. Just feel.”
She nodded, even as her body shuddered. Just this once she was going to let go. Choose something for herself. “Upstairs—”
“Too far away.” There was a ragged edge to his words as he pushed himself away from the desk on his knees and leaned into her. His hands came to rest on either side of her hips. “I’ve wanted to do this for too long.” His lips grazed her forehead.
The scent of him filled her nostrils. That strange male essence of heat, laced with whiskey. Her hand went to the smooth fabric of his waistcoat, as if that might keep her steady.
His lips slid to her cheek, branding her irreversibly. “I love how you feel,” he whispered.
Her other hand rose to the collar of his shirt, sliding along his neck and down his shoulder. Beneath her fingers she could feel his restraint, his muscles flexing and bunching. Max groaned softly and dipped his head to where her pulse thundered along the side of her throat. His lips were gentle and insistent all at once. The stubble from his cheek grazed the underside of her jaw, and she closed her eyes, her fingers tightening on his shoulder.
His fingers were working now at the pins on the front of her gown, and quickly the fabric fell away. He pushed the top off her shoulders, pulling it down her arms, and she wriggled free. His mouth was sliding down her collarbone now, and his hands went to her back, pulling her up and forward so that she knelt in front of him. He was tugging at the laces of her dress and her petticoats, yanking them from their neat bows, shoving everything down her body, his actions becoming more urgent.
Her stays and chemise went next, tossed to the side with a growl of triumph or frustration—it was difficult to tell which. She was naked now, kneeling in a puddle of linen and wool, the cool air sending gooseflesh skittering across her skin. He knelt before her, his hands resting on her hips, his fingers tracing small circles over the bones. Slowly they skimmed up over her ribs, cupping her breasts, his thumbs grazing her nipples that had already hardened to sensitive peaks. Ivory gazed up at him, breathing hard.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, bending to kiss her again, his mouth demanding now. Ivory surrendered, her own fingers working at his clothing frantically. It wasn’t enough to have his hands on her bare skin. She wanted to feel all of him, the friction of heat and skin and sweat.
She pulled his shirt over his head and was met with his glorious chest, planes of muscle and sinew begging to be explored. Beneath the pads of her fingers was a scattering of blond hair, thickening as it narrowed into a trail that disappeared down the front of his breeches. She leaned forward, trailing kisses along the strong column of his throat, and continuing lower, sucking gently on his nipples, running her tongue over the ridges of his ribs. He groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair, urging her lower. Her hands went to the fall of his breeches and the bulge of his erection straining through the fabric.
She was wet, the intense throbbing in her belly and between her legs eroding her self-control. The need to have him filling her, pushing deeply into her, was overwhelming. It was making her clumsy as she fumbled with his buttons. “Your breeches,” she gasped, not caring how desperate she sounded. She was desperate.
Max let go of her long enough to rip at the buttons, pushing his breeches along with his boots from his legs. He came at her then, catching her behind her back and lowering her down on the rug in front of the hearth. He crouched between her legs, dipping his head, kissing her hard, a fevered clashing of teeth and tongues. One of his hands drifted past her navel, fingers gliding through the folds of her sex, hissing with pleasure at what he found.
Ivory arched off the floor, every nerve ending in her body on fire. He slid a finger deep inside her, and Ivory gasped before she caught his wrist and pulled his hand away.
“No. I want you inside me when I come,” she said. “All of you.”
Max made a tortured sound deep in his throat, lowering himself on top of her, his hands braced on her shoulders. She could feel him now, his erection pressing against her opening, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, knowing she was perilously close to falling over the edge. He pushed into her ever so slowly, his head dropping to catch one of her nipples with his mouth. His teeth grazed it, the sensation bordering on the edge of pain, intensifying every touch. A shudder ripped through her.
She rocked her hips against him, the torment nearly blinding. “Max,” she whispered.
Her plea seemed to snap whatever threads of restraint remained, and he thrust, sheathing himself deep within her. Ivory closed her eyes against the rush of ecstasy that ignited, gasping as he withdrew slightly and then surged into her again. She tightened her legs about his waist and held on to his upper arms as they bunched and flexed. Pleasure was tightening deep within her, wave after wave coiling and building with each of his thrusts. His hair brushed her cheek, and she could hear his breath laboring in her ear. He was sweating now, and she opened her eyes, turning her head just enough to lick the saltiness from his throat. He moaned loudly, his hips driving forward, and without warning everything convulsed within her, pleasure of an intensity she’d never experienced tearing through her limbs and emptying her mind of everything except the feel of him.
He stiffened, pulsing within her, every muscle in his body straining, braced against the tide of his own pleasure. After a moment he collapsed against her, rolling to the side, pulling her with him. They lay silent on the floor, catching their breath, the air cooling their damp bodies. Max reached behind him for his coat and pulled it over both of them, tucking Ivory’s head against his shoulder as he did so.
“You should stop thinking more often,” he said presently, staring up at the ceiling. His free hand was caressing the soft skin of her inner arm, his touch warm under the blanket.
Ivory smiled, not sure whether she should laugh or cry. She did neither, only turned her head to press a kiss against his chest. She just wanted to preserve this moment, fix it in her memory. Allow herself the luxury of pretending that things could be different, just for this tiny snippet of time that was still hers.
“You have to admit I’m right.” He jostled her gently.
“You’re right.” She smiled.
“Mmmm. Say that again. That I’m right.”
“I’ll say it if you can do that again,” she teased, unable to help herself.
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest against her ear. “What, this?” He levered himself up and kissed her, a long, lazy exploration that left her head spinning. “Or this?” His free hand stroked her breast, caressed her hip and her belly, before parting the folds of her sex and putting a slow, steady pressure against her clitoris.
Ivory sucked in her breath at the friction. “Yes.” She couldn’t get enough of this man. She should be sated and exhausted, yet already arousal was flooding through her again, her body straining toward him, toward his touch. And he knew it.
Max ran a hand along the inside of her thigh, pushing it wider. All the humor had fled from his face, replaced by a dark desire that stormed in his eyes. He watched her, his gaze trapping her own, while his fingers delved into her heat and slickness.
“Don’t stop,” Ivory said breathlessly, feeling a heat build within her again.
“Are you giving me orders again, Miss Moore?” His voice was low and husky.
“Yes,” she gasped.
Abruptly he withdrew his fingers, and Ivory made a sound of frustration. But then he was pulling her on top of him, the coat falling to the side, her legs straddling his waist. He grasped her hips and pushed her back, and she was met with the feel of his hard cock straining against her cleft.
A fierce satisfaction intensified her arousal.
“That was quick,” she whispered, reaching down between them to grasp the steely length of him.
“You make me feel invincible,” he said hoarsely, looking up at her. She was stroking him now, sliding her hand from the base of his erection to the crown. She squeezed gently, circling him, swirling the moisture along the surface of his skin with her thumb. He heaved beneath her with a gasp of his own and caught her hand, stilling her movements.
Very deliberately he guided himself to the folds of her entrance, his eyes never leaving hers. “I want to be inside you when you come.”
Lust clenched hard within her, and she sank down on him, feeling him slide so perfectly into her, impaling herself. She rolled her hips, reveling in the feel of him filling her, his thickness pressing against her inner walls. Max groaned and bucked beneath her, his hands clutching her waist.
“Let go,” she urged, the power she held over him at this moment making her reckless. She squeezed the muscles deep within her pelvis, and he closed his eyes, fighting for control.
“You first,” he managed, digging his fingers into the muscles of her arse, lifting her slightly and then letting her drop, starting a pulsing cadence that she was helpless to stop.
She whimpered and braced her hands on his shoulders, trying to find a rhythm that would afford her some restraint, but her body had taken control, and she slid forward slightly and back and then again, riding the length of him, pleasure roaring through her veins. She closed her eyes, sparks exploding behind her eyelids as she felt her body reaching for the pinnacle.
Max thrust hard up into her, his hands grasping her waist and pinning her against him, and she exploded into spasms, her fingers clutching at his shoulders as she surrendered to pleasure. Max bucked once more, driving hard into the eddies of her orgasm, and found his own release. Ivory sank down on his chest, her face pressed into the hollow of his throat, certain she would never move again.
Eventually she turned her head, her cheek scraping against the stubble on his jaw. Never had a man so thoroughly and completely seen to her pleasure. “You were right,” she said simply.
He laughed again, and she grinned, loving that new sound. “Of course I was right.” He ran his fingers down her spine and let his hand rest on the small of her back. Neither made any attempt to cover them. “But if you want to say that again, I’m going to need a few minutes.”
“Mmmm.” With an epic effort, she lifted her head, then crossed her arms over his chest and rested her chin on her hands so she could see his face.
He reached behind him and grabbed her abandoned petticoats, then shoved them beneath his head as a pillow. He brought his fingers to her face, tracing the edge of her jaw. He searched her eyes with his own.
“Are you looking for regret?” she asked.
His other hand tightened on her back. “Maybe.”
She dipped her head, pressing a kiss to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. One day she might regret her inability to have kept this man for herself, but she would never regret the time they’d had. “You won’t find it.”
He smiled at her, and whatever breath she had regained fled. Like this, with nothing between them but the intimate smile of a lover, he was irresistible. Held safely in his arms with him smiling down on her like that—it would be so easy to fall in love.
“Next time I promise we’ll do that in a real bed. Well, that and a whole lot of other things.”
Ivory felt her heart splinter. She wanted so many more next times than he would be able to give her. But she shoved that thought away, unwilling to let go of the fantasy just yet.
“How did you get this scar?” she asked, her fingers tracing the ridge of white that ran along the edge of his hairline. It sounded so normal, this question. A question a lover would ask.
Max gazed down at her. “I didn’t secure a swivel gun properly. And it swiveled directly into my head.”
Ivory stared at him.
“What?” Max laughed. “You wanted me to tell you I narrowly missed death at the end of a Barbary corsair’s saber? While I had a beautiful young woman in my arms, winging her across the decks to safety?”
She made a face. “Well, I could do without the beautiful-young-woman-in-your-arms part, but yes.”
Max chuckled, a sound deep in his chest that rumbled against her ear. “I am sorry to disappoint then.”
“You really got hit in the head by a gun?”
“It was my second week as a midshipman. We had just put into port. Knocked me clean out, or at least that was what I was told later. Split my skull wide open. Spent the next two days lying in a darkened surgery with a vicious headache and casting up my accounts.”
“On second thought, let’s go back to you winging across the decks with a beautiful woman in your arms. Was she very heavy?”
“It is a preferable story to one that has me covered in my own blood and vomit.”
Ivory touched the jagged scar again. It had clearly not been stitched with any expertise. “Did you not have a surgeon?”
“Aye, but he was somewhere in port. Now he would have had a woman in his arms at the time. Perhaps two.” He sighed. “The cook sutured the gash.”
“And was the cook drunk?”
“Usually.”
“Good Lord.”
“You’re starting to injure my ego. First you call me a disheveled pirate and now this. Are you suggesting that my good looks are irrevocably damaged?”
“I’m suggesting it was likely a small miracle you didn’t die of infection.”
“I suspect there were liberal amounts of rum involved,” Max said dryly. “There usually were with the cook.”
“Why did you tell me the truth?”
Against her she felt Max still. “What do you mean?”
“Most men would never have admitted their error.”
“What have I told you about lumping me in with most men?” he said, his lips curling. “Besides, what does telling you a lie get me?”
“My regard?”
“Oh, I have your regard.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Ivory smacked him with her hand. “Everyone lies,” she said after a moment. “At the very least by omission.” As she had.
“Perhaps.”
Ivory leaned forward, pressing a light kiss to the hollow of his throat. She drew back to find him gazing at her.
“I’ve never met anyone like you, Ivory. Ever.”
“I’m sure you say that to all the girls,” she said, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel.
“No.” He wasn’t laughing. “I want you.” He caught her chin and forced her eyes back to his.
“You currently have me. Sprawled on top of you. Naked at that.”
“That’s not what I mean. And you know it.”
Yes, she knew it. “Don’t do this, Max.”
“Ivory—”
“Why can’t you just enjoy this? Why does it need to be more?” She couldn’t let herself build expectations.
“Because it already is more.”
Ivory pushed herself up off of him, feeling the loss of his touch acutely.
He sat up. “You’re not something to be just enjoyed.”
She bent and retrieved her chemise and her stays, redressing with jerky movements.
“You’re a brilliant woman. Clever. Courageous. Resourceful. Beautiful. Kind.” He paused. “Stubborn and hardheaded, but then, no one is perfect.” He said the last to tease her, but it only made her heart hurt.
Ivory faltered before pulling her dress over her head. She didn’t bother with the petticoats still behind Max and scrounged for the pins that had fallen to the rug. She jabbed them into her bodice, securing her dress.
He stood and caught her arms. “Ivory.”
She stopped, but couldn’t bring herself to pull away. “And what will you do with me once you have me?” Ivory asked.
“What?”
“You want me. How? As a wife? As a lover? As a friend?”
His jaw was clenched, confusion clouding his eyes.
“Where would you keep me? On your ship? In your town house? Or perhaps on one of your country estates?”
And that was the crux of it all. What she had built here in Covent Square represented her freedom. Represented her independence. She’d become her own woman, relying on herself, providing for herself, at the mercy of no man. Knightley had shown her the path. Ivory had never looked back.
There could be no future for her and Max. They were too much the same. Too unfettered by the constraints of a world that would see them tied by tradition and expectation. Neither one could ever truly possess the other. At least for any length of time.
“You are unlike any man I have ever met, also,” Ivory said gently. “You are strong and compassionate and honorable. Stubborn and hardheaded at times, but then, no one is perfect.”
A shadow of a smile touched his lips. She went up on her toes and kissed him softly. “What exists between us is…” She trailed off, trying to find the proper word. “Magical. Real. It doesn’t need to have a label.” And it doesn’t need to have walls and bars.
He blew out a heavy breath. “I can’t let you go.”
“I’m right here.” For a little while longer.
* * *
Max had retrieved and donned his clothing, chilled in the cooling air. His entire body felt wrung out after being with Ivory, shaken to the bone with the intensity of the longing that had gripped him as he held her in his arms. And now, as he watched her dress, he could feel her retreating from him again, and he despised his inability to stop it.
“I’m going to need to hire you again.” He said the only thing he could think of that might bring her back to him. That might halt this inexorable retreat she was now in.
“For what?”
“The Earl of Barlow,” he said. It was becoming easier to say that name without blackness crowding the edges of his vision.
“Ah. Is there a body you need me to deal with?”
“No, there is not a body. Yet. I’ve learned a few things from you.”
“Like what?” She sounded surprised.
“Like patience.”
“Then you are going to hire me to do what?”
To stay with me.
“I haven’t decided what I will do with Barlow. I’m going to take some time to think about it.”
She folded her arms across her body. “Murder is messy.”
“So you’ve said.” This was ridiculous. Barlow’s fate was not Ivory’s responsibility.
“You’d be best to keep Beatrice out of sight until you’ve decided on a course of action.”
“Agreed.”
From the mantel a clock chimed. Ivory looked up, as if suddenly remembering where she was. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“What?” Max could feel his forehead furrow in confusion.
“I have another appointment.”
“At this time of night?”
“I usually work at night.” Her answer was expressionless.
“Let me take you to wherever you need to go.”
“No need. My client is sending a carriage.”
“Ivory, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She was already moving toward the door. Dammit, why did she always do this?
“Please let me come with you. I can help.”
“This is a matter that doesn’t concern you,” she said as if she hadn’t even heard him. “I’m quite fine on my own.”
Of course she was. Until very recently, Ivory Moore hadn’t even known he existed. She did not need him. She didn’t need anyone.
And that wasn’t good enough for him.
He moved then, a few quick strides that caught her at the door, and suddenly his hands were cradling her head and he was kissing her with a desperation that he felt in his bones. Her hands went to his chest, curling into his shirt, and he felt her respond.
The kiss ended as abruptly as it had started, and he pressed his forehead to hers, breathing harshly. “I’ll wait for you,” he whispered.
He felt her hands tighten in the fabric against his chest. “Please don’t.” She raised her head, kissing him with such a poignant gentleness, it left him shaken.
Ivory pulled away from him, her eyes filled with an incomprehensible sadness. “Goodbye,” she said for the second time that day, and slipped from the room.
* * *
Max didn’t leave the offices of Chegarre and Associates immediately. He remained in the study, the old house creaking around him, the muffled sounds of revelry outside penetrating the covered window. He pulled the curtain back just slightly and watched as Ivory, wrapped warmly in her cloak, climbed into a carriage that was waiting for her in the crowded square. It was an expensive carriage, painted black and trimmed with fine lines of red. A pair of perfectly matched greys shifted and tossed their heads, as if in a hurry to leave the disorder of the square behind. There was no indication to whom the carriage belonged, other than someone quite wealthy.
Another peer with a problem he needed help sweeping under the proverbial Aubusson.
The carriage door snapped shut, and the equipage lurched forward. People scattered out of the way of the horses, and within minutes the carriage had been swallowed by the crowds, disappearing from sight altogether at the corner. He sighed, letting the curtain drop. He fully intended to wait, regardless of her ridiculous orders. It didn’t matter how long it took, he would be waiting here when she came back home. He’d been telling her the truth when he told her he’d learned how to be patient.
He moved to the desk and retrieved the bottle of whiskey that was still on the floor, as if seeking proof that the time he had spent with Ivory had not been a figment of his imagination. As if to ascertain that the pleasure and the happiness they had shared had been real. He picked up his coat next, tossing it over the back of a chair. Her abandoned petticoats were still in a crumpled ball near the side of the desk, and he reached for them, the fabric sliding through his fingers.
She was impossible. And difficult. And infuriating. He’d been telling her the truth when he said he’d never known a woman like her. Yet for all her courage, she was like a skittish, feral creature, shying away when someone got too close. Holding herself distant when pressed too hard.
He was folding the petticoats when he became aware of a movement in the doorway. He didn’t even have time to react before he found himself shoved up against the bookcase, rough hands fisting into the front of his shirt.
“Where is she?” a furious voice demanded.
Max stiffened. “Mr. Lavoie,” he said, holding on to his temper by the barest of threads. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Where is she?” Lavoie demanded again, his eyes dropping to the ball of linen Max still held in his hands. “Is she here?”
Max shoved Lavoie back with an effort, startled at the man’s strength. “I must assume you’re looking for Miss Moore.”
“And I must assume you know where she is, given that you’re holding her undergarments in your hands.” His voice was cold and furious, but the underlying edge of urgency in his words had Max’s gut dropping. “Is she here?”
“No,” Max said slowly. “She just left. There was a carriage waiting for her.”
“And you just let her go?” Lavoie snarled, his hands clenched. “You bastard.”
Max felt anger rise, and he embraced it because it was better than the fear that was circling. “I am not her keeper. I do not control where she goes or what she does.”
Lavoie swore. “She didn’t tell you.”
“Didn’t tell me what?”
Lavoie glanced down at the petticoats still in Max’s grasp and rubbed his hands over his face. “Of course she wouldn’t tell you. Foolish, foolish woman. Jesus.” He backed up a step, as if not trusting himself near Max. “Was it a black carriage that picked her up? Red trim?”
Max frowned. “Yes. But how did you know—”
“Because tonight, at my club, I heard rumors that Ivory Bellafiore was back in London. That she would be giving a very…private performance this evening at a house on the outskirts of London for one very lucky man.”
Max felt his heart stutter even as his blood ran cold.
“How is Lady Beatrice faring, now that she is safely at home?” Lavoie asked, accusation rife in each syllable.
Surely Lavoie wasn’t suggesting that—
“That was King’s carriage that came to fetch her, Your Grace. To take her back to Helmsdale House. You tell me why.”
Max was shaking his head in denial. “She told me she negotiated my sister’s release.”
Lavoie’s eyes slitted into angry shards. “She certainly negotiated, didn’t she? She traded herself for your sister.”
“She wouldn’t have done that. She’d never even met my sister before. Beatrice means nothing to her.”
“For a smart man, you are quite stupid,” Lavoie snapped. “It wasn’t your sister she did it for.”
Max backed up a step, feeling the bookcase bang painfully into his shoulders. He’d been so happy to have Beatrice home that he hadn’t insisted on knowing the truth behind Ivory’s vague words. And later, on the study floor, he’d let her evade his questions, because he’d been too busy kissing her.
She’d traded herself for Beatrice’s release. And she had done it for him. Why? Because she felt for him what he felt for her? An insane euphoria warred with guilt and fury and fear.
He would get her back. No matter the cost.
His first thought was to recall his crew and force his way into Helmsdale. But his men were scattered across London and it would take much too long. He needed to think of something else.
“Tell me how to get into this auction.”
Alex shook his head. “I think you’ve done quite enough.”
“I am uninterested in your opinions, Lavoie.” Max leaned forward. “How do I get in?”
Alex crossed his arms unhappily. “You don’t. King employs a veritable army to patrol both the perimeter of the property and the house. He’s a paranoid bastard. You need an invitation to get in. There is no other way.”
“Do you have one?”
“Do you think I’d still be standing here if I did?” Lavoie snapped.
Max reached for his coat and yanked it over his shoulders. “So that was a no.”
“Yes, that was a no. I don’t have one.” Alex paused. “Where are you going?”
“To find someone who does.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Good,” Max said, already halfway out the study door. “You can drive.”
* * *
The Lion’s Paw was packed at this time of night. The air was stifling with the heat from so many bodies crowded into a small space. Added to the heat was the heavy scent of wet wool, ale, and grease. A steady din made hearing difficult.
Max plowed through the press, his eyes searching the faces. He caught a glimpse of a familiar one, its owner laden with a heavy tray stacked with tankards of ale. In a smooth movement, he stepped into her path and lifted the tray from her arms.
“Where’s Gil?” he shouted.
The pretty redheaded serving girl scowled. “I’m working,” she complained, reaching for the tray.
“Where’s Gil? Tell me and I’ll get out of your way.”
She rolled her eyes. “In the back. Where else?” She retrieved her tray and plunged back into the crowd.
Max edged toward the back of the tavern and pushed through the door of the back room, only to be greeted with the barrel of a pistol.
“Gentlemen knock first,” Gil admonished. The barrel of the pistol didn’t waver.
“I am not a gentleman. And you can put that gun away. You’re too busy tonight to clean up a body.”
“You’re starting to sound like the duchess, Captain Harcourt.”
“I’ve been told.”
The gun dropped slowly. “What do you want?”
“An invitation to King’s auction.”
A shapely eyebrow arched. “And what on God’s green earth would make you think that I have one?”
“Because not all of those invitations were delivered. And if one of your messages cannot be delivered into the hands of the recipient, it comes back here.”
“And how do you know this?”
“I pay attention.”
“Hmph.” Gil looked at him. “And even if I had one of these invitations to give you, why would I?”
“Name your price.”
A second brow rose. “I think I’ve heard that from you before.”
Max stared at her, waiting.
The woman pursed her lips, smoothing back a stray lock of deep-red hair, considering. “A share in your ship and its cargoes. The rising demand for cotton intrigues me.”
Max felt his jaw slacken slightly. Of all the things he’d thought that this woman might demand, that had not been one. He cleared his throat. “Done.”
Her mouth made a perfect O. “Done? Just like that? Bloody hell, but I should have asked for the entire ship.”
“But you didn’t.” Though he would have given it to her if it had meant getting to Ivory. “We can work out the specifics of our new partnership a little later. You have my word. But right now I need an invitation.”
“In a bit of a hurry, Captain? Afraid a pretty piece of canvas is going to get snatched up before you can get there?” she mocked.
Max felt every muscle in his body tighten. He had considered making a plea to this woman on Ivory’s behalf, but he didn’t know her well enough to be certain that she would be sympathetic, and Alex hadn’t been sure either. Better Gil be left with the knowledge that he was a selfish bastard than that Ivory had sold herself. “Something like that.”
Gil’s lips twisted, but she drifted over to a small table in the corner. From the edge she plucked a square of folded paper sealed with a blood-red wax impression. “It’s your lucky day, Captain,” she said with a sardonic twist to her mouth. “This was returned by my boys.” She glanced down at the name. “Viscount Rollins will not be needing this tonight, nor any other night. It would seem he snapped his neck after his horse went one way over a hedge and he went the other yesterday afternoon.”
“Tragic,” Max muttered, taking the proffered invitation. He broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper, revealing a heavy engraved card on the inside. It looked like an invitation to a coronation rather than an auction.
Gil had returned to the table and now came back with a domino mask that would cover the entirety of a man’s face. Empty eyes stared up at him. “The invitations are delivered with one of these.”
“That is positively ghastly.” Max took it from her hands.
“King’s bidders are all equal. Those masks strip everyone of identity, allowing only money to reign supreme. And when you’re buying things you’re not supposed to have, I suppose anonymity is helpful.”
Max supposed that made sense in a strange, twisted way. “Is King aware of the viscount’s recent demise?”
“I don’t see how he would be. The invitation was returned to me, not him.” Her forehead creased. “How did you know that there were invitations returned?”
“I guessed.” Max shoved the invitation deep in his coat pocket, his hand already on the door. “I’ve learned from the best.”