Ivory swept into the club, and immediately her cloak was whisked away by a silent footman. A second footman appeared, bearing an engraved silver tray upon which glasses of champagne bubbled in the muted light. Ivory selected a glass and took a delicate sip, the golden liquid tickling her mouth. Heavens, this was a good vintage. Alex must have some high marks in the club tonight.
She put a hand to the bodice of her gown, resisting the urge to yank it up. It had been a long time since she had worn a gown like this, and she had almost forgotten the way cool air could so thoroughly and indecently caress one’s bared shoulders and chest. The jewels at her throat were warm, though. The dark pearls had been one of the last gifts Knightley had given her, and it always gave her pleasure to wear them. She ventured farther into the interior, taking in the decadently papered walls, the heavy silk draperies, and the intricately patterned rug beneath her slippered feet. The gaming tables were full of men dressed in expensive evening wear, interspersed by aristocratic ladies in elaborate gowns.
Like her¸ every woman was masked. A ridiculous charade, because the identities of many of the aristocratic ladies were obvious even with the fine filigreed and decorated coverings. But an effective one, nonetheless, for without the pretense of anonymity, the club would not be as popular as it was. Ladies were free to flirt and indulge in all manner of things barred to them by daylight and etiquette.
“Duchess.” Alex was suddenly beside her.
“Alex.” Ivory took another sip of her champagne, the cool liquid sliding down her throat.
“I would suggest you don’t breathe too deeply in that dress. I can’t afford a riot.”
“Flattery at its finest.”
“I try.” His tone changed. “Third table from the back. He’s been playing for an hour. Not entirely sober, but not drunk as a wheelbarrow either.”
Ivory let her gaze drift over the crowd to where a potbellied, silver-haired man was clutching a sloshing drink with one hand while the other squeezed the rear of one of Alex’s serving girls.
“He gets marks for persistence,” Alex remarked mildly.
Ivory watched as the serving girl slipped deftly away from the viscount’s pudgy hands. The man tipped his chair back to watch her go and said something to his companions that resulted in a round of ribald laughter.
“Where’s Elise?” Ivory asked.
“Fleecing a duke, a viscount, and two earls.” Alex jerked his head in the opposite direction. Ivory caught a glimpse of a masked redhead in a risqué emerald gown, immersed in a game of vingt-et-un. Ivory could barely recognize Elise, even knowing who she was.
“Perhaps you should pay my sister more so she doesn’t feel the need to empty aristocratic pockets here. She’s too clever,” Alex said with fondness.
Ivory snorted. “A girl needs her amusements.”
“Is that what the good captain is to you?”
Ivory had just taken another sip of champagne and nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”
Alex slanted her a sideways glance. “The captain. Or duke. Or whatever it is that he calls himself. Is he an amusement?”
Ivory cleared her throat, having never been more grateful to have a mask covering her face than she was at this moment. She could feel her cheeks burning. “I already had this conversation with your sister. Alderidge is a client.”
“Who would have had you across that sofa—”
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” She gritted her teeth. “And why were you spying on me?”
“That’s what I do, Duchess.” He cocked his head at her. “What’s different about this man?”
Ivory fought to remain impassive. “There is nothing different about this man,” she lied. “He requires my expertise. I require his money. He is a client, and is to be treated like any other client.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Are you trying to pick a fight?”
“No.” He crossed his long arms over his chest. “But if he is to be treated like any other client, I am wondering why the Duke of Alderidge just walked into my club.”
Ivory’s head snapped around to follow Alex’s gaze, and her fingers tightened convulsively on the stem of her glass. Her mouth went dry and her heart stuttered. He was dressed entirely in black again, from the well-cut coat that showed off the bulk of his shoulders and chest, to the tips of his boots. Even his shirt and waistcoat were black, and a cravat was nowhere to be seen. The severe simplicity was a marked contrast to the colorful, foppish attire of many of the gentlemen, and to add to the effect, he’d left his hair loose, letting it brush his shoulders carelessly. Not quite correct and not quite civilized. A little unpredictable. A little untamed.
The men closest to him were watching him with wariness. The women were watching him with something else entirely.
His eyes were skimming over the crowd with deceptive laziness, and they settled on Alex before sliding to her. Only the tightening of his jaw betrayed the fact that he had recognized her. And just like that she was transported back into the heat of her drawing room, when he had kissed her witless and promised her more.
“Why is he here?” Alex asked again.
Ivory was jerked out of her trance. “Because I asked him to be here.”
“Since when do you ask clients to do anything besides deposit reams of cash into your coffers?”
“Since when is it your business?”
“Do you think that’s wise? His presence, I mean?”
No, this isn’t wise at all. Because in the moment when he had walked in and captured her eyes with his, she hadn’t been able to remember why he was here. Why she was here. She hadn’t been able to remember the viscount, or the duke’s missing sister, or a wager that had the potential to bring the law down on Alderidge’s head. All she had been able to think about was how it had felt when he had kissed her and touched her and said her name and—
“For the record, Duchess, I think I might like him.” Alex had obviously given up on a response. Or, more likely, he had gotten all the response he needed.
Her cheeks flamed anew.
“But I’ll like him less if anyone dies in here tonight.” The last was said in a warning tone. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Of course I know what I’m doing.”
I have no idea what I’m doing.
* * *
Max watched Ivory walking toward him, trying to reconcile the vision in deep burgundy silk with the woman he’d left in Covent Square hiding in a shapeless grey dress. Trying also to control the instant lust that spiraled through his belly to pool uncomfortably in his loins. She was utterly breathtaking in the club’s soft light, in a way that made every other woman in the room fade to nothing. Her hair had been pulled away from her face and pinned at the back of her head, though soft curls drifted down around her face and over her shoulders. The deep color of her dress and the exotic pearls at her throat made her flawless skin glow, her generous breasts creating a deep valley of shadow where they strained against the top of her bodice. She was the embodiment of sin and every unholy thing a man would do to possess it. And right now, every man in this room was picturing her in his bed. Or across a drawing room sofa—
“Who is that?” someone whispered in awe. There were a group of young men just behind Max, and the raw, licentious interest that had hushed their conversation was almost a palpable thing.
“Does it matter who she is?” Another voice joined in, slurring in snide jest. “A woman like that—you’re not fit to kiss her feet.”
“Wouldn’t be her feet I’d be kissing,” snarked his companion. “I’d put my tongue—”
Max backed up and stepped on the toe of the nearest man. The dandy was wearing dancing pumps of all things, and a chartreuse waistcoat so bright that it likely glowed in the dark. He leaned on the heel of his boot, and the man yelped like a wounded corgi.
“I beg your pardon.” Max turned slowly.
“Bloody big oaf—” the young man started, only to have whatever he had been about to say next die in his throat.
Smart man.
The injured dandy limped off resentfully, his companions shuffling behind him, and Max watched them go for a moment before resuming his observation of Miss Moore. Ivory was almost even with him now.
Her eyes flickered to his face, though it was difficult to see her expression, hidden by her golden mask. “Your presence is a novelty here tonight, Your Grace. Remember you are being watched.”
“If I’m being watched, it is because I am next to you.” It was the truth. “You are stunning.”
“Thank you.”
He watched, fascinated, as a faint blush touched the parts of her cheeks visible below the mask.
“Stafford is at the third table,” she said as she passed him, pausing only briefly to take a sip of what looked like champagne. Her head tipped back, exposing the long column of her throat.
He looked away. He needed to focus. And not on Ivory Moore.
“Pink-striped waistcoat. Take the empty seat across from him. But give me two minutes.” And then she was gone, winding her way through the tables.
Her words had the effect of channeling his attention away from his overwhelming desire for her and on to the man who had so unwisely used his sister’s honor as a means of entertainment. His hands clenched at his sides.
He watched Ivory as she approached the table in question, running her fingers over the back of a carved chair as one might caress a lover. She said something he couldn’t hear, but every man, including the rotund viscount in the pink stripes, suddenly seemed to sit up a little straighter. She bent slightly, as if to better hear a response, and the occupants of the table were treated to a spectacular view of her décolletage. A young man jumped up and nearly fell over himself to pull out a vacant seat. She was good, Max would give her that. She had four men in her thrall, and she had made it look absolutely effortless.
Miss Moore was now sinking into the offered chair gracefully, and the young man standing just behind her let his hands linger on Ivory’s bare shoulders as she sat back in her seat. The sultry smile on her face didn’t so much as wobble. In fact, it might even have widened.
Something black ripped through Max, eclipsing everything else, and with some shock he recognized it as jealousy. For a painful moment, Max didn’t know what to do. He’d never had cause to be jealous before. Certainly not over a woman. As a seaman he’d never been under any illusion that the pleasure and the enjoyment found in bed-sport were anything other than temporary, nor did he believe they were ever exclusive. Emotion was never invested. Especially a dangerous emotion like jealousy. He had no idea what to do with this.
Max suddenly became aware he was no longer alone. He tore his eyes away from Miss Moore, only to have them collide with those of Alexander Lavoie. The man was watching him watch Miss Moore, a knowing look in that hooded gaze.
“Lavoie,” Max said smoothly, all the while feeling as if he had been caught doing something improper. “Can I help you with something?”
Lavoie raised a single brow. “I simply came to welcome you to my club,” he said smoothly. “Bonne chance, and all that.”
Max made a rude noise.
“And to remind you that I am fond of my upholstery.”
“I already promised Miss Moore not to kill the viscount in your club.”
“Ah, but it wasn’t the viscount I was worried about. It was the young pup with his hands on all that bare skin I was fearing for.”
Max ground his teeth. Beside him Lavoie signaled a serving girl, and in seconds Max was sipping expensive Madeira.
“Don’t ever make the mistake of believing she can’t take care of herself,” Lavoie said in a low voice, and then he was gone.
Max took a healthy swallow of his drink, the liquor burning a trail of fire down the back of his throat. It cleared his head as well. He started forward, forcing his body to relax. He needed all his wits. And all his restraint.
“Good evening.” Max was standing next to Ivory, across from the viscount. He was careful not to look at her, and instead addressed the gentlemen. He was reasonably sure at least two of them had been at his ball last night. “Is there room for one more?”
The Viscount Stafford looked up and visibly blanched. Max resisted the urge to sneer. Or simply break his nose and shatter his teeth. Instead he kept his expression pleasant.
“Er—” Stafford was blinking rapidly.
“Of course there is, isn’t there, gentlemen?” Ivory positively purred from her seat. “I have just joined the game myself, and we have yet to begin.” She ran her fingers over the pearls at her throat, letting them drift toward her cleavage.
“Yes, yes.” The young pup who had helped Ivory into her chair was mesmerized, and Max suspected he had no idea what he was agreeing to.
“Please sit…” She gestured at the chair beside her, letting her voice trail off as if expecting an introduction.
“Duke of Alderidge,” Max obliged her, settling himself next to her at the table.
Across from him Stafford was shifting uncomfortably. He couldn’t get up to leave right now without committing the unpardonable sin of cutting his social better. No one else at the table seemed to find anything amiss, however, and the mood was one of inebriated joviality. Pleasantries and introductions were exchanged, and the cards were dealt.
“A rough homecoming for you last night, as I understand it, Your Grace,” remarked the man on the other side of Ivory. He was clearly foxed, and though his comment earned him a couple of mildly disapproving looks, everyone leaned in eagerly to hear Max’s response.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I heard that the old Earl of Debarry danced one too many reels, and his heart gave out.”
“Ah. You heard about that unfortunate occurrence.”
“Everyone heard about that,” the man said, and he was met with a round of knowing nods.
“It was quite distressing,” Max replied, putting an appropriate amount of regret into his words.
“Heard you saw the earl before he turned his toes up. That true?” asked the young man with the wandering hands, emboldened by Max’s apparent willingness to answer questions.
“I did. And I can’t help but think that, if I had ignored his protests that he was fine and summoned a physician when I first saw him, perhaps Debarry still might be alive.” He sighed heavily. “I partially blame myself for his death.”
The players at the table all scoffed in unison, save the viscount. “Can’t blame yourself, Your Grace. No one knows when your time might be up,” someone offered.
Max met the viscount’s eyes across the table. “No, you certainly don’t,” he agreed. “In fact, perhaps it’s better if you never see it coming.” He smiled.
Beads of sweat had broken out along the viscount’s hairline, and the man reached for his glass, only to find it empty.
“I did not know Lord Debarry well,” Ivory suddenly spoke up, smiling wickedly. “But I have heard from a number of ladies that he lived a very…fulfilling life.” Insinuation oozed.
This brought another round of bawdy laughter to the table.
“That’s true. And we should all be so lucky,” someone commented with the same intimation.
“Then perhaps we should take a lesson from his example,” Max suggested. “Do everything we can to enjoy life before we lie cold in the ground. Leave no pleasure untried and no unfinished business behind. Lord Stafford, don’t you agree?”
“Yes?” It came out an uneven warble.
“Tell me, Stafford, if you could choose any meal at all, knowing it was your last one on this earth, what would you choose?” Max placed a card in his hand casually.
The viscount’s eyes were darting nervously. “Ah…”
“Good heavens, but that’s an impossible question,” Ivory giggled beside him. “There are simply too many choices.”
“What about a drink then?” Max asked. “If you were making a last toast to all you had wagered upon in life, what would you wish to be drinking?”
Stafford went grey.
“Brandy.” The pup grinned as he raised his own glass.
“A good claret,” someone else chimed in cheerfully.
“Stafford?” Max fixed him with another pleasant smile. “Pick your poison.”
“Poison?” Stafford croaked.
“Liquor,” Ivory clarified unnecessarily, rolling her eyes.
“Whiskey,” the viscount whispered.
Max raised his hand and waved a serving girl over. “A whiskey for the good viscount then, if you would be so kind. His glass is empty.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The girl gave Max a smile that promised more than a glass of liquor, should he want it. She disappeared and was back in a flash, a full glass of whiskey in her hand. She offered it to Max.
Max pointed to the viscount. “That would be his.”
She pouted but held the glass out to Stafford, who reached for it with a shaky hand. He promptly dropped it, the whiskey splattering all over the table and down the front of his clothes. The viscount shoved his chair back with a loud scrape and jumped to his feet.
“Good heavens,” he mumbled. “So very clumsy of me.”
The other players had pushed back their chairs as well, standing to rescue cards that were soaked with whiskey. The game was clearly over before it had really begun, and their expressions ranged from amused to annoyed at the disturbance.
“I must change,” the viscount was babbling, avoiding Max’s eye. “Terrible thing. I should go.”
“Let me assist you,” Max offered, also on his feet now.
“Oh no. No, no. I’m quite fine.”
“Is there a problem here?” Alex Lavoie had suddenly appeared beside the viscount.
“Not at all,” Max replied smoothly. “Just a little spilled whiskey, though it seems that the upholstery was spared the worst of it. I was just offering Lord Stafford my assistance.”
“How very kind of you,” Lavoie said with a sardonic edge.
“Come, Stafford, let’s let these gentlemen get back to their game. If you will excuse us?” Max stepped back expectantly.
The viscount glanced around, taking in all the eyes upon him, and swallowed. “Of course. My thanks, Your Grace.”
“Not at all.”
Max fell into step behind the viscount, who was suddenly less anxious to get away from the crowd. “Please, Your Grace, I must insist—”
“You don’t get to insist anything,” said Max darkly. “Keep walking. Right outside, if you would be so kind.”
Stafford shuffled forward, into the foyer of the club, but balked near the entrance, his sense of self-preservation finally surfacing. “Your Grace—”
“Good evening, gentlemen.” Ivory slid neatly in front of the two men, blocking the path to the door.
“My lady!” the viscount nearly shouted with pitiable relief, clearly believing he’d found a savior to stall the inevitable violence he knew was coming. “Thank goodness! Would you care to—”
“Lord Stafford, if you have any interest in arriving home in one piece this evening, you would be best to refrain from speaking unless the duke instructs you to do so.”
“What?” Stafford wheezed. That was clearly not what he’d been expecting. “Who are you?”
“I am the only person in this room who will make any effort to prevent His Grace from exacting his revenge for a certain ill-advised wager you made regarding his only sister.”
The viscount suddenly deflated. “You must believe me when I say I meant no harm. We were drunk and—”
“Whose idea was the wager?” Max asked evenly.
“Debarry’s! It was all his idea! He had seen Lady Beatrice at the Prevetts’ ball, and she quite caught his eye. You know how Debarry was, always charming the women—”
He stopped abruptly when he caught a glimpse of Max’s face.
“Who else is aware of your idiocy?” Ivory asked.
“No one! I swear!”
“Tell me where the earl liked to take his conquests,” Ivory asked.
“His conquests?”
“Oh, come now, Stafford, do you think me a half-wit? The seduction of the Lady Beatrice was hardly the first time you and Lord Debarry have made such a wager regarding a young debutante.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” The viscount ran a hand through his thinning hair.
“Stop wasting my time.” Her voice had an edge.
“I don’t know—”
“He’s all yours, Your Grace,” she snapped, turning to leave. “Do with him as you wish. I can’t imagine anyone will come looking.”
“Wait!” Stafford wheezed.
Ivory turned back slowly. “You have one chance to impress me with the truth, Stafford.”
“He never meant any harm, you see?” The viscount was tripping over his words. “He’d take them to an inn sometimes, outside the town limits and in disguise, so that they wouldn’t be recognized. He said the thrill of slipping a chaperone and a clandestine meeting was always more of an aphrodisiac than anything that could be bought. But he treated them like princesses. The lonely ones, looking for adventure. Wallflowers or diamonds, it mattered not. He said all women were beautiful and should be worshipped as they were meant to be.”
“And would he take them to his home?”
“Never his home.” He licked his lips. “But sometimes the homes of the ladies themselves. The danger of discovery was all part of the grand adventure, he said.”
Max thought he might be ill. “And my sister was one of his grand adventures?”
“No! Lady Beatrice was different— Oh God. You killed him, didn’t you?”
Max sneered. “Of course I didn’t kill him. If I had killed him, no one would ever have found the body.” He was starting to sound like Miss Moore. “And I certainly wouldn’t have done it in my house. I would have chosen a much better location. The back of a gentleman’s club just like this one, for instance.”
Stafford whimpered and wiped his hand over his perspiring forehead.
“How was she different?” Ivory asked.
“I beg your pardon?” The viscount licked his lips.
“You just said Lady Beatrice was different. How?”
“Debarry fell in love with her!” Stafford rasped. “He wanted to marry her. Ask her yourself! She’ll tell you he proposed. More than once. She’ll also tell you she refused him.”
“That is absurd.” Max was trying to make sense of this, but his emotions were churning wildly through him. Horror. Disappointment. Guilt. Anger. It was making it hard to think with any clarity.
“Who else knew about Lord Debarry and Lady Beatrice?” Ivory asked evenly.
Stafford’s eyes were wide. “No one. Just me, but I never told anyone. I swear.”
“Mmmm.” She was tapping a finger on the waist of her gown.
Rage was rising like a fast, hard tide within Max, drowning his guilt and disappointment. He reminded himself that he couldn’t afford a scene. After everything, he couldn’t afford people asking questions about why the Duke of Alderidge had beaten Stafford to a bloody pulp in the foyer of a gentleman’s club.
“Have you ever seen a shark feeding, Stafford?” Max asked.
The man’s breathing was labored as he shook his head.
“They follow my ships from time to time, and it amuses my crew to throw spoiled meat into the water for them. Fascinating creatures, sharks, the way they tear things into tiny little pieces. An entire side of beef the size of a man can just vanish without a trace in less than a minute.” He paused. “I’d hate to hear even a breath of rumor that calls Lady Beatrice’s honor and reputation into question. Do we understand each other?”
The viscount looked like he might have an apoplexy.
Ivory stepped forward slightly. “Excuse the duke, Stafford. His Grace is, after all, a man used to the unforgiving hardships of the sea and given to barbaric tendencies from time to time.” She looked over at Max briefly. “But in the case of his sister, he is not without just cause, wouldn’t you agree?”
The man’s glistening head bobbed frantically. “Yes, yes. Just so.”
“That’s good to hear. Rumors can be quite ruinous, indeed. Like one that might bring attention to the large sums of money you’ve fleeced from various peers in the last decade by selling them fictitious stock in a certain import business. I understand that debtors’ prison is a miserable place to live out your remaining years.”
Whatever color had been left in the man’s face drained, and the viscount staggered slightly.
Ivory had lost Max somewhere in the last bit of the conversation, though he didn’t really care. He was holding on to the last remaining shreds of his restraint with desperation. His hands were balled into fists, and he was a little worried that they might be shaking. “Get out of my sight, Stafford.”
The viscount stumbled away from the door, back into the safety of the club, crashing past a group of gentlemen on their way in.
“Sharks, Your Grace?” Ivory murmured. “Really?”
Suddenly Max couldn’t get out of the club fast enough. He needed to get away from the press of people and the overpowering scent of perfumed, perspiring bodies. He could feel his restraint slipping like water running through his fingers, and he needed some space to collect himself. He needed the icy air to cool the frustration and the fury that had risen. He needed…out. Before he went after the viscount and did something he would regret later. “I need to leave.”
“Then let’s go.” He could hear the concern in Ivory’s voice.
“I say, Your Grace!” The familiar voice erupted from the group of men who had just come in and were dispensing with their coats and hats. “Hullooo!”
Max swore. “I can’t do this right now.” He also couldn’t get past the group blocking the entrance.
Ivory’s hand was on his arm. “Come with me—”
“Your Grace! How fortuitous to see you again, and so soon!” Barlow was suddenly in front of him, clapping him on the shoulder with enthusiasm.
Max jerked violently away from the touch, but the man seemed oblivious. “Please excuse me. I was just on my way out,” he said through clenched teeth.
“No! You can’t leave! I must insist you join me!” Barlow refused to move. Instead he dropped his voice conspiratorially and winked at Max. “Now, I don’t mean to brag, but I am quite accomplished when it comes to whist. I believe you and I would make splendid partners, Your Grace. I fancy we could do quite well together here tonight, if you know what I mean.” He raised his hand to slap Max on the shoulder again. Every muscle in Max’s body tensed, and for a horrifying moment he wasn’t at all sure he wouldn’t simply level Barlow where he stood, if only to escape.
He took a step toward the man, and suddenly Ivory was in front of him, her body pressed against his length, her arms wrapped around his neck, and her face barely an inch from his. She kissed him then, a hot, open-mouthed kiss that wiped his mind of everything except the feel of her lips and her fingers curling into his hair. His own hands came up, one to her waist and one to cradle the back of her head as she sucked at his bottom lip, her teeth grazing his flesh. His body reacted with staggering speed, the blood roaring in his ears and straight to his groin. He covered her mouth more fully with his, seizing control and exploring the depths of the kiss with his tongue. She opened beneath the onslaught instantly, and a growl rose from his throat as she took everything he was giving and demanded more. The world around him dropped away, simply ceased to exist, until Ivory tipped her head, breaking the contact. She turned within his embrace to face Barlow.
“Find another partner,” she purred in a throaty voice that would make a saint sin. “His Grace already has one tonight. If you know what I mean.” She winked at the man from behind her mask.
The earl had reddened. “Er, I—”
Ivory slipped from Max’s grasp, catching his fingers with hers. The crowd at the entrance had since dispersed, and Ivory tugged him in that direction.
He made his way out into the night behind her, welcoming the blast of cold air. She released his hand once they were clear of the door and stopped, turning to face him.
“Feel better?” she asked.
Feel better? No, he didn’t feel better. He felt completely out of control. His thoughts and wits had scattered like grapeshot, and his body was on fire. “Why did you do that?”
She was standing there in the darkness, barely a foot from him, looking up at him through the ridiculous mask. “You looked a little cornered in there. I was afraid you were going to do something you’d regret.”
He had done something he regretted. He had kissed Ivory Moore again, and now the beast he’d thought he had caged was starting to claw its way out. It was demanding release. It was demanding that he finish what she had just started.
Loose tendrils of hair rested against her cheek and her neck, and the burgundy silk hugged every curve and hollow of her body. Those beautiful dark eyes of hers shone behind the mask, full of calm intelligence. He needed her. He wanted her. Wanted to give her everything, every pleasure that she could imagine and then those that she couldn’t. He would have her speechless, he would have her begging, he would have her saying—
“Perhaps we should continue this conversation elsewhere.”
Max stepped away from Ivory, trying desperately to disperse the fog of lust that was addling his mind. What the hell was he doing? He was acting like a randy sailor on his first shore leave, and in another minute he would have had her up against the wall of a gaming club like a twopenny whore.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped.
“Please don’t be,” she responded. “I’m afraid I started that. In hindsight I might have been better to choose a different method of distraction.” She sounded distant. Cool.
A different method of distraction? That’s what she called what had just transpired between them? He needed to pull himself together and focus on what was important.
“How did you get here tonight?” she was inquiring of him, as if she had just encountered him on the street by happenstance. “Do you have a horse? Or a carriage?”
“I hired a hackney.” He finally managed a sentence. Why were they speaking of such tedious matters? When everything seemed to have come apart, and all control seemed to have been lost? When he barely recognized himself?
“Ah. As did I. Perhaps—”
“Your Grace?” The voice came from somewhere beyond Ivory.
“Yes?” Max stepped to the side to find a young boy wrapped in a faded coat hopping from foot to foot on the pavement, a little out of breath. He seemed strangely familiar.
“I got a message fer ye, milord.” He thrust out a folded paper with Max’s name written across the front and the back sealed with a blob of rusty-red wax.
Max snatched at it, recognizing Bea’s handwriting instantly. “How did you know I was here?” he asked, turning the paper over in his hands as though the exterior might provide some sort of clue to its contents.
“The man in front of your house said ye weren’t home. Said ye’d come here. An’ I can’t collect my shillin’ unless I put the message right into yer hand. Nothin’ in it for me tonight if I have to take it back to Gil.” The boy held out his own hand. “The man also said there’d be an extra shillin’ fer me if I brought this to ye here.”
Max suddenly placed the youth as one of the messengers he’d seen at Gil’s. “What man?”
“Mine.” Ivory had moved beside him. “I still have your house under surveillance.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the messenger. “Pay the boy, Your Grace. He’s earned it.”
“Duchess?” The boy’s voice rose. “Oi, I didn’t recognize you! Thought you were a ladybird. One o’ the expensive ones.” The boy suddenly slapped a hand over his mouth. “Er, that is—”
“That is quite all right,” Ivory said with a wry note. “That was the idea.”
“Right.” He seemed to accept this without question and shifted impatiently as Max searched for the requisite coins.
“You in a rush?” Ivory asked.
“Aye. King’s having an auction. Lots o’ invitations to deliver. If I can get back faster, I might get another delivery tonight.”
“Mmmm. When is the auction?” Ivory asked with what sounded like curiosity tempered with distaste.
The boy shrugged. “Dunno. Soon.”
“Who is King?” Max asked. Not that it mattered. Not unless he could help him find his sister.
“A…businessman,” Ivory said. “Specializes in the sale of rare and sought-after objects.”
“She means pinched stuff,” the boy clarified helpfully. “Gil says he’s got some bloke with a boatload of fancy stuff this time. Old stuff dug out of some cave in a desert or something.”
This time it was Max who shifted impatiently. He was uninterested in any of this. He found two shillings and held them out.
“For your trouble,” Max said shortly. He would give the boy any amount of money if he would simply be on his way.
“Thank ye.” The coins vanished with astonishing speed, and without another word the messenger was running back down the street.
Max snapped the seal, brittle in the chilled air, and pulled the paper open.
“Dearest Alderidge,” Max read. “I am deeply sorry for the troubles I have caused, and I never intended any of this to happen. I will be leaving London for a while. Please respect my wishes and do not look for me. I am safe, and I will write you when I am able. —B.”
Max passed the letter to Ivory with unfeeling hands. She took the paper with great care and tipped it to the light from the club’s window.
“This is Beatrice’s handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“She called you Alderidge again. Not Max. Does that sound like the sister you know?”
“I think it’s pretty clear I don’t know my sister at all. She was having an affair, for God’s sake,” Max said dully, reality finally settling in like a lead weight. “She and the Earl of Debarry were—”
“In love.”
That was kind.
Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve been saying that since the very beginning. I’ve just refused to listen.”
“I am not always right.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Fine. I’m always right. And it’s about time you admitted it.”
Despite himself, Max felt his mouth twitch. He knew what she was trying to do.
“Cheer up, Your Grace. Your sister, if the viscount is to be believed, and I am rather inclined to do so, turned down a marriage proposal from an earl.”
“She also tied him to her bed.”
“Perhaps he was her grand adventure,” Ivory said quietly.
Max should have been horrified. Instead he just felt…sad. “What kind of man asks a woman to marry him without seeking out consent from her guardian first?” Max asked, recognizing the absurdity of his question. Propriety and etiquette had died long before the earl wrapped in red ribbons did.
“A man in love?”
Again, she was being kind.
“I should have taken her to India with me when she asked.”
“You still can. She’s not dead. But she is going to need your understanding. Just because she turned down Debarry’s marriage proposal does not mean she didn’t care for him. Wherever she is hiding right now, she is likely grieving as much as she is terrified about the scandal she may have left behind. She’ll want to come home, but she shouldn’t be scared of you too.”
“Why would she be scared of me?”
“You just threatened Stafford with sharks, Your Grace.”
“And you threatened him with—”
“Exposure. He’s no better than a common thief.”
Max stared at Ivory, thinking of the ledger she had held in her hands. A less messy way to deal with Stafford, she had said. “How did you know—”
“I get paid to know these things, Your Grace.” She rubbed her hands on her arms and shivered. “But see? I am always right.”
Max ignored her attempt at levity. “Did you not wear a cloak?”
“I did. It’s still inside.”
“I’ll fetch it for you—”
“I think it’s best if we remain out here.”
If you remain out here, she meant. Away from Stafford. Max heard it beneath her smooth suggestion.
“I will get my cloak from Alex later.”
Max yanked off his evening coat. “Wear my coat.”
“You must stop making a habit of dressing me.”
Ironic. He had been fantasizing about undressing her since he’d met her.
He swung the coat over her shoulders, trying not to touch her bare skin. “No argument?” he asked.
“I’m getting smarter.” She looked up at him, her eyes soft. “Are you all right, Your Grace?”
“Of course I am,” he lied.
“You should probably return home.”
He didn’t want to return home. He wanted to pretend none of this had happened and that his only responsibility right now was the thorough seduction of Ivory Moore. But he couldn’t do that. Not yet. “I know. I need to tell my aunt the truth, even if it’s the last thing she wants to hear from me.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Yes.
“No. I’m not twelve years old, Miss Moore. I don’t need you to hold my hand through what is bound to be an unpleasant conversation.” It probably sounded rude, he knew, but it was better than what he wanted to say. It was better than begging her to stay with him, not just for a conversation, but for an evening. A night. A week. As long as it took to get her out of his system.
“That wasn’t what I was suggesting, Your Grace.”
Max looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“Will you be at your town house tomorrow then?” she asked, and her voice was full of quiet understanding.
“No. I’ll need to go back to the docks. To my ship.” He would sort out what he could with Helen tomorrow morning. Then he would sort out what needed to be done with the part of his life that he had neglected while he dealt with viscounts and scandals and runaway sisters and tales of star-crossed lovers.
And then he would sort out what needed to be done about Miss Moore.
* * *
Alderidge hired a hackney and gave the driver Ivory’s address, climbing in behind her and taking the seat opposite her. He stared out the window, unmoving. Neither spoke. There was nothing to say, at least nothing Ivory wanted to pursue. Though it would seem the mystery had been solved, Beatrice was still gone. The earl was still dead.
And she’d kissed Maximus Harcourt again.
Ivory squirmed and pulled the mask from her face. Her stays were suddenly suffocating, and the dampness between her legs was becoming an all-consuming distraction. She’d acted on instinct in the club, seeing a man teetering at the edge of his endurance, looking for any excuse to vent his frustration. He would have taken that annoying little man’s head clean off if she hadn’t intervened.
And a real sacrifice it was for you, a voice in the back of her head mocked. And now, in the dark of a rather shabby hackney, her actions mortified her. She had been reckless and utterly unprofessional. She’d let her own needs eclipse everything that she knew to be right. And smart. And safe.
Again.
Covent Square was a teeming mess of action at this hour—the theater had concluded its evening performance and many of the attendees were now on the hunt for further entertainments. The taverns were positively bursting at the seams, and there was heavy traffic in and out of the many brothels. Someone, somewhere, was playing a horn, though the bleating, screeching noise could barely be heard above the raucous laughter and shouts. Carriages and horses jockeyed for position on the streets, and no one even noticed their arrival.
“Let me see you in.” It was the first thing he’d said since they’d left the club.
“No. After everything, you don’t want to have to explain what you were doing at Chegarre and Associates should someone recognize you.” She was shrugging out of his coat.
“I’ll have my secretary settle with you as soon as possible for your services.”
Ivory bit her lip. It was bizarre, this ending of their partnership. This official removal of an excuse to see him. To be near him, to work with him. “We could continue to look for Lady Beatrice—”
“No. She has made it abundantly clear that she does not want me searching for her. She likely believes I’ll pack her off to a convent in Wales at my first opportunity. Me chasing after her will only drive her further away. If I have learned anything, it is that Beatrice is no longer a child, and I cannot continue treating her like one. I refused to let my title dictate the way I lived my life. Why should it dictate hers?” He sighed. “It is up to Beatrice to choose a life for herself from here. I—well, you have made sure she still has choices. But this has to be her choice, and I must respect it.”
Ivory nodded, though she wasn’t happy that she had not been able to see Beatrice home safely. It chafed, that failure. “It would seem then that our business is concluded.”
The duke caught her hand in his under the coat she still held. She could feel the ridges and calluses of his skin tighten against her own. “Do you remember what I promised you, Miss Moore?” His voice was low and fierce.
When this is over, when my sister is safely at home, I am going to kiss you again.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then our business is not concluded. Not even remotely.” He traced the edge of her jaw with his free hand. “But I will not do what I wish in the back of a hackney. Nor will I do it when there are still matters I must attend to.”
Ivory shivered beneath his touch.
“When we…conclude our business, Ivory Moore, it will be without distraction. It will be without constraints and rules. I will not be a client. I will not be the man with the missing sister. I will not be a duke, or even a captain. I will simply be…something else.”
Ivory stopped breathing.
“Will you give me time?”
She rather thought she would give this man anything should he only ask, and that admission was terrifying. “Yes.”