Passion for the Game

“You exaggerate,” she admonished, recol ecting when she first saw him in an all eyway, standing alone against a dozen opponents. He held his own with a ferocity that frightened and aroused her. She almost continued on, her aim that dark night to follow a lead on Amelia that seemed more promising than most. But her conscience would not all ow her to ignore the imbalanced battle.



Brandishing sword and pistol, and flanked by several men, she managed to be sufficiently intimidating and the attackers had been frightened away.



Left weakened and bloody, Simon had stil chastised her roundly. He did not need rescuing, he said.



Then he col apsed at her feet.



Her original intent had been merely to clean him up and ease her conscience. Then he had emerged from a bath, a virile and breathtaking creature.



And she had kept him.



Simon stepped back, his mouth curving in a wry smile as if he knew her thoughts. “I would face a dozen men again, hundreds, if it led me back to your bed.”



Maria shook her head. “You are incorrigible, and overly randy.”



“It is impossible to be too randy,” he said with laughter in his voice, leading her toward the door with his hand at the small of her back. “You will not distract me from ushering you into bed. You need rest and sweet dreams.”



“Ah, have you learned nothing about me?” she queried as they stepped out to the hal way and took the stairs. “I prefer not to dream. It makes waking so depressing.”



“One day all will be Well,” he promised in a low, assured tone. “I promise you.”



She yawned and then gasped as she was swung up into powerful arms. Within moments she was tucked into bed with a quick good-night kiss pressed to her forehead. As Simon retired, the soft click of the adjoining door made relaxation possible.



But it was a different set of blue eyes that followed her into sleep.



“Good evening, sir.”



Christopher nodded at his butler. From his drawing room on the left, raucous laughter spil ed out of the open double doors to fil the entryway where he stood.



“Send Philip to me directly,” he ordered softly, handing over his hat and gloves.



“Yes, sir.”



Crossing to the stairs, he passed the boisterous group of his men and their companions. They call ed out to him, and he paused a moment on the threshold, his gaze moving over the assembled crowd he considered his family. They were celebrating his release—the luck of the devil, they said —but work awaited him. There was much he needed to ascertain and accomplish if he wished to ensure his present state of freedom.



“Enjoy yourselves,” he urged before taking the stairs with shouted protests fol owing him to the second floor.



He reached his rooms and, with the help of his valet began to undress. He was shrugging free of his waistcoat when the young man he had requested rapped lightly on the door and then entered at his behest.



“What have you learned?” Christopher asked without preliminaries.



“About as much as one could expect to learn in the space of a day.” Philip tugged at his cravat and started pacing, his pale green coat and breeches a stark contrast to the stamped leather that lined the wal s.



“How many times must I warn you about your fidgeting?” Christopher admonished. “It betrays a weakness that begs to be exploited.”



“My apologies.” The youth adjusted his spectacles and coughed.



“No need to apologize. Simply correct it. Stand straight, no slouching, and look me in the eye like an equal.”



“But I am not your equal!” Philip protested, pausing midstride, looking for a moment very much like the five-year-old child who had appeared on Christopher’s doorstep orphaned, beaten, and destitute.



“No, you are not,” Christopher agreed, moving as required to facilitate his disrobing, “but you must attempt to face me as one. Respect is earned here and in the world at large. No one will give it to you simply because you are pleasant and thorough. In fact, many an idiot has obtained success merely by acting as if it were his right.”



“Yes, sir.” Philip squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.



Christopher smiled. The boy would become a man yet. One who could stand firmly on his own two feet and survive the worst life could throw at him.



“Excel ent. Now speak.”



“Lady Winter is six and twenty, twice widowed, with neither husband surviving more than two years in her bed.”



Shaking his head, Christopher said, “Can you begin with something I do not know and then continue in that vein?”



Philip flushed.



“Do not become flustered. Simply remember that time is valuable and you want others to consider yours to be of some worth. You should always lead off with the kernel of information most likely to pique interest. Then proceed from there.”



Taking a deep breath, Philip blurted, “She has a resident paramour.”



“Well…” Christopher stil ed, awash in visions of a softer Lady Winter, a woman flushed and sated from passionate play. It was his valet’s sharp tug to his waistband that pulled him out of his surprise. Freeing the placket of his breeches, he cleared his throat and said, “That’s more like it.”



“Oh, good! I was unable to gather much aside from his Irish descent, but I can tel you he has been a member of her household since Lord Winter passed on two years ago.”



Two years.



“Also, I find something curious about her relations with her stepfather, Lord Welton.”



“Curious?” Christopher asked.



“Yes, the servant I spoke with mentioned his frequent visits. I find that odd.”



“Perhaps because your relations with your stepfather were less than satisfactory?”



“Perhaps.”



Christopher thrust his arms through the robe his valet held out for him. “Thompson, bring Beth and Angelica to me.”



The valet bowed slightly before doing as he was bid, and Christopher left the dressing room for the sitting area. “What do we know of her finances?” he tossed over his shoulder.



“Not enough at the moment,” Philip answered, fol owing, “but that will be rectified in the morning. She appears flush, so I am curious as to why she feels the need to acquire money in such a gruesome manner.”



“And you reached the conclusion of her guilt with sufficient evidence?”



“Ah…no.”



“I can do nothing with conjecture, Philip. Find proof.”



“Yes, sir.”



Two years. Which proved she was capable of some feeling. A woman did not share the delights of her body with a man for that length of time without caring at least some small measure. “Tel me about Welton.”



“He is a profligate who spends the majority of his waking moments pursing gaming tables and whores.”



“Haunts?”



“White’s and Bernadette’s.”



“Preferences?”



“Hazard and blondes.”



“Wel done.” Christopher smiled. “I am pleased with what you accomplished in only a few hours.”



“Your life depends upon it,” Philip said simply. “Were I you, I would have sent someone with more expertise.”



“You were ready.”



“That is debatable, but in any case, I’m grateful.”



Moving to the row of decanters on the nearby walnut table, Christopher waved off the statement before pouring a glass of water. “What use would I have for you if you remain green?”



“Yes, exploitation was your only aim,” Philip said dryly as he leaned against the mantel. “The Lord forbid that my well -being should be the result of a momentary bout of generosity. A recurring bout, I should mention, as all of us under this roof seem to have stumbled upon it at some point.”



Christopher snorted and drained his glass. “Please refrain from casting kind aspersions upon my character. It’s quite rude to malign me so.”



Philip had the temerity to rol his eyes. “Your fearsome reputation has been hard earned and proven many times. Taking in the world’s strays will not raise sunken ships from the ocean’s depths, replace stolen cargos, or revitalize those foolish enough to have crossed you. You’ve no cause to worry. My undying gratitude shan’t diminish your infamy.”



“Cheeky bastard.”



The young man smiled and then the moment was broken by a soft knock at the door.



“Come in,” Christopher call ed out, bowing his head slightly in greeting as a statuesque blonde and petite but voluptuous brunette joined them. “Ah, lovely. I have need of both of you.”



“We missed you,” Beth said with a seductive flip of her loose blond hair. Angelica simply winked. She was the quieter of the two, unless she was fucking. Then she cursed like the crudest of his sailors.



“Pardon me,” Philip interjected, frowning. “How did you know Welton would not have a preference for red-haired wenches?”



“How do you know they are not here for me?” Christopher countered.



“Because I am here and you are focused. You never mix business with pleasure.”



“Perhaps pleasure is the business, young Philip.”



Philip’s gray eyes narrowed behind his spectacles, a physical sign of his mental exertions. It was that tendency to reason out everything that had first captured Christopher’s attention. A bright mind was not to be wasted.



Setting aside his glass, Christopher then sank into the nearest wingback chair. “Ladies, I have a request of both of you.”



“Whatever you need,” Angelica purred, “you know we will provide.”



“Thank you,” he said graciously, having known they would agree to whatever he required. Loyalty worked both ways in his household. He would fight to the death for any one of the persons under his care, and they offered the same courtesy to him in return.



“The modiste will come by tomorrow and measure you both for new garments.” The rapacious gleam in their eyes made him smile. “Beth, you are about to become Lord Welton’s most intimate confidante.”