Chapter Twenty
“Keep an eye on Lord Michaels.” Andrew shut the peephole, having seen enough of the drunken nob’s belligerent swagger. “Water down his drinks, and post Tim by his room. If Lord Michaels so much as raises his voice at Lizzie, he’s out on his arse.”
The wall sconces cast shadows across Grier’s rugged countenance. “I’ll see to it.”
It was midnight, and the two of them were carrying out the nightly rounds from the hidden corridors that ran through the club. Andrew had a vantage point into every room: the club was his domain, and he didn’t take the responsibility lightly. Everyone who entered Corbett’s knew the rules. Patrons unwise enough to abuse the wenches—or trespass in other ways—would be dealt with severely. Enforcing the rules was no easy task and kept Andrew on his toes.
Usually, he liked the challenge. Tonight, however, he was tired from lack of sleep and unabated arousal. The two days since he’d issued his ultimatum to Primrose felt like millennia.
Why hadn’t she come to him? Had he overplayed his hand? Misjudged the situation?
“There’s something else, sir.”
Annoyed that he was moping like some lovelorn greenling, he said curtly, “Yes?”
Grier’s look was grim. “One of the guards you have posted at the Nursery House reported in. There was another incident.”
Andrew’s shoulders tensed. “Malcolm Todd’s men?”
“Aye, sir. They were attempting to block deliveries to the house. The grocer was scared witless by the time our boys noticed what was happening and chased off the buggers.”
Devil take Todd. Andrew’s hands fisted. “Request an audience with Bartholomew Black. We’re sorting this business out once and for all.”
Not much intimidated Grier, but at the mention of the King of the Underworld, he grimaced. “You ken what involving Black could lead to?”
“I’m not doing this dance with Todd. If he wants to challenge me, he’ll have to do it in the open and with the King as his witness,” Andrew declared. “If he still wants bloodshed, then by God I’ll give it to him.”
Grier’s chin jerked in acknowledgement. “Anything else, sir?”
“Just keep an eye on Lord Michaels and Lizzie. I’ll finish the rounds on my own.”
The factotum exited to attend to his tasks, and Andrew continued on to the upper floors. He walked soundlessly behind the walls, stopping to make quick checks on the proceedings. Sex was happening in a variety of configurations: couples, ménage à trois, a rollicking orgy in the ever popular Sultan’s Seraglio. It was business as usual, the mayhem controlled—which was more than he could say about the situation with Malcolm Todd.
If that matter wasn’t handled carefully, damage could be severe on both sides.
He returned to the first floor, a commotion in the corridor beyond catching his attention. He heard one of the footmen inquire with heavy suspicion as to a guest’s purpose.
“I assure you I was invited here by Mr. Corbett.” The feminine voice sent his heartbeat into a gallop. “I was on my way to his office and got turned about—”
Andrew pressed a switch, the panel in the wall swinging open like a door. He stepped into the hallway, noting with relief that it was empty save for the footman and Primrose, the latter once again dressed in black and heavily veiled.
“I’ll take it from here,” he told the footman. “Have refreshments sent to my quarters.” After the servant left to do his bidding, he crooked a finger at Primrose. “You—come with me.”
She followed him into the passageway, and he closed the panel behind them.
The instant they were sealed in privacy, she whipped up her veil and breathed, “Is this a secret corridor? How exciting! Does it go all around—”
He silenced her by laying a finger upon her lips. Goddamn, her mouth was plush, silky and inviting. He couldn’t resist stroking her bottom lip with his thumb and hid a smile when he heard her breath catch.
While risky, his move had paid off: she’d come to him at last.
“If you’d let me know of your plans,” he said huskily, “I would’ve prepared a proper welcome.”
“I wasn’t planning to visit,” she averred, “but I couldn’t sleep. All I could think about was that I had to see you. The next thing I knew, I was sneaking out of Polly’s house and hiring a hackney to come here.”
“You took a hackney at night—by yourself?” He frowned, some of his satisfaction fading. “That is too dangerous by far.”
“Something’s happened. You’re the only one I can talk to. It’s a matter of utmost exigency.”
Despite her flair for the dramatic, the urgency in her voice was real. Panic fleeted through her luminous eyes. His joy at her appearance was tempered with sudden foreboding.
“We’ll talk in my suite,” he said. “Follow me.”
He led the way toward his private rooms, which were cloistered at the back of the building. The air grew sultrier as they walked, her clean feminine scent pervading his nostrils. The sounds of the club’s activities hummed through the walls: rowdy conversation, scattered laughter… and the guttural resonance of sex.
He’d long grown immune to the noises, but Primrose’s presence was like a lightning rod, amplifying his sensual awareness. The acoustics in the passageway seemed intensified, moans and groans surrounding him. Her perfume twined with memories of her taste, the sweet flavors of her mouth and pussy.
Just like that, he was stiff as a poker. He was not the only one affected; he noticed Primrose’s high color and rapid respiration. She was also casting curious glances at the wooden slats placed at eye-level along the wall.
“What are those for?” she whispered.
“They’re viewing holes. So I can stay apprised of all that goes on in my club.” He said it matter-of-factly, wondering how she would react.
“Oh.” Her golden lashes fluttered. “Does that mean you can see… um… your patrons?”
He nodded, noting with more than a little interest that the idea of voyeurism didn’t elicit any sign of disgust from her. Rather, her eyes widened, her blush so vivid that he could see it in the dim flicker. When her tongue darted out to wet her lips, he had to bite back a groan.
Sex being his trade, he knew arousal when he saw it. Despite her innocence, Primrose was a hot-blooded thing. The notion of exploring what fanned the flames of her desire tightened his trousers to an excruciating degree.
He had the unholy urge to take her then and there. Up against the wall in this dark corridor, showing her what her lovely body was made to do. He wanted to bury his erection in her tight cunny until she screamed with pleasure—until they both came together.
Instead, he escorted her on. By the time they reached his suite, he was as randy as a sailor on shore leave, his hand shaking a little as he activated the release mechanism. The panel swung open, and he led Primrose into his private domain.
She looked as if she belonged there, her cameo-worthy profile perfectly set off by the blue-grey motif of the décor. Her slippered feet padded softly over the floral border of the Axminster carpet, woven in shades of azure, burgundy, and cream. Removing her gloves, she ran her fingertips along the back of the velvet settee and then his favorite studded leather wingchair, gazing around the room in surprise.
“Oh, but this is lovely,” she breathed.
He smiled at her reverent tone. “Not what you expected of a pimp?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Her brows knitted. “Based on your style, I always assumed you had exquisite taste. I just didn’t expect such lavish private quarters at your place of business.”
“I have other houses,” he said gruffly, “but I work a lot and keep late hours. Sometimes it’s easier to sleep here.”
The reality was he spent more time here than at any of his residences. The club was a demanding mistress—and it wasn’t as if he had a wife or family to return to at the end of the day. While it hadn’t bothered him before that he had only work in his life, now he had to push aside an uncomfortable pang.
A knock heralded the arrival of the refreshment. Dismissing the footman, Andrew rolled in the cart himself. It contained a cold collation and selection of pastries artfully arranged on tiered plates.
Primrose removed her bonnet, peering at the cart’s offerings. “That looks fit for a king.”
“A prince, actually. My pastry chef once worked in an Austrian royal household.” He lifted the silver tongs. “What would you like?”
“Oh, nothing for me, thank you.”
He caught the wistful way she eyed the desserts. Especially the slice of chocolate sponge layered with apricot jam and glazed with dark chocolate icing.
“Not even Chef Franz’s special torte?” he said. “Some of the club members swear they come for it as much as for… the other entertainments.”
He didn’t know why he bothered with the euphemism. She knew the nature of his business. Her lack of aversion to being in a pimp’s company was a constant source of surprise for him.
“I’m sure it is delicious,” she said with a sigh, “but I cannot afford the indulgence.”
He frowned. “You’re as slender as a reed.”
“Because I watch what I eat. At any rate, my dietary habits are inconsequential when disaster,”—her dramatic pause did not bode well—“has struck once again.”
He set down the tongs. “Will I need whiskey for this?”
When her blonde curls bobbed vigorously, he went to pour drinks. He settled next to her on the sofa, his whiskey in one hand and a ratafia for her in the other. She took the glass from him, her gaze narrowing.
“Would you prefer something other than ratafia?” He’d assumed she would want the sweet peach-flavored liqueur, which was generally favored by ladies.
“Ratafia is fine, but as I recall you don’t stock it in your office.” Her mouth had a sulky curve. “Why do you have it here in your private suite?”
He must be nicked in the nob because he found her feminine possessiveness absurdly endearing. He chucked her beneath the chin. “Because I like to keep a well-stocked bar, silly chit. Now what is this matter of life and death you wished to speak about?”
She stopped pouting. Drew in a breath. “Daltry’s will was read yesterday.”
“Indeed.” Andrew took a swallow of whiskey, wondering how on earth she managed to make mourning look so damned sensual. The way the black crepe clung to her nubile curves ought to be a sin. “Did he leave you anything of interest?”
“I suppose. If you would call one hundred thousand pounds interesting.”
He coughed. “Pardon?”
“You heard me. What in heaven’s name am I supposed to do?” she cried.
He could think of a lot one could do with that astronomical sum. He also understood the tangled workings of her mind. “You feel guilty taking the money,” he guessed.
“I don’t want it,” she said, setting down the glass with a fierce clink, “not a single penny! But I can’t refuse it either—not without stirring up suspicion as to why. And I refuse to give up respectability now that it’s finally within my reach.”
“That is a dilemma.” His mouth twitched; he couldn’t help it.
Truly, the chit was her own worst enemy.
“You’re amused?”
“You must admit the irony of the situation. First, you wanted to establish the legitimacy of your marriage. Now you’re wanting to dissolve it. But only a part of it.” He lifted his shoulders. “As the adage goes, my dear, you cannot have your cake and eat it too.”
“Well, you’re no help.” She scowled at him. “I don’t know why I came to you.”
“Don’t you? We’ll get to that in a moment,” he murmured. “Now you want my advice on your quandary?”
Her nod was so grudging that he almost smiled.
“Take the money,” he said.
“I can’t possibly take Daltry’s money—”
“Why not? He left it to you, didn’t he?”
She nodded, again reluctantly. “Apparently, he met with his solicitor before we eloped and specified that, in the event of his passing, his personal property was to go to me… and any children we might have.”
“He left nothing to his family members?”
“They’re in line to inherit after me. They won’t see a cent until I remarry or die, whichever comes first. It’s the ultimate snub,” she said glumly. “On our wedding night, he called them hypocrites because they scorned the origins of his wealth at the same time asking for handouts. The notion of them begging for money from me—a trollopy bastard, as he put it—must have amused him to no end.”
“Your former husband was an ass,” Andrew stated. “But whatever his motivations, he wanted you to have the money. Ergo, you’ve done nothing wrong.”
“But I… I wasn’t a real wife to him.” Her fingers wove tightly in her lap.
“It’s not your fault that he couldn’t perform. Or that he cocked up his toes on your wedding night. The moment that marriage certificate was signed, the money was yours.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Life doesn’t always give us what we want, sweetheart.”
“How can you be so blasé about the whole thing?”
“There are worse things than being handed a king’s ransom. Your husband was using you to get at his relations: why should you feel responsible for that?” he said bluntly. “If you don’t want the money for yourself, then use it to do good for others.”
“Charitable work isn’t my strength.” Her expression turned dubious. “My sister Polly works with foundlings, but I never got the hang of it. Children are sticky, and I’m squeamish. I did try to volunteer my efforts at a madhouse once. I was scheduled to give a vocal performance—to cheer up the residents—and my singing was going over well, I thought… until a lunatic attacked me and held me at knifepoint.” She wrinkled her nose. “After that, I gave up on altruistic endeavors.”
He stared at her, torn between wrath over the danger she’d experienced… and the desire to laugh aloud at her harebrained account. Only Primrose could turn a charitable undertaking into a drama worthy of Drury Lane. He didn’t know why he found that quality of hers endearing—and vastly entertaining—but, dammit, he did.
“You don’t have to do charity work,” he said. “Just donate funds to the cause in question.”
“That is true—and a brilliant idea, actually. If I’m good at anything, it’s spending money.” Brightening, she touched his sleeve. “Thank you. I knew coming to you was the right thing to do.”
“You’re welcome. But you didn’t come here to get advice about Daltry’s money.”
A pulse fluttered above the black lace at her throat. “Of course I did.”
He captured her chin between finger and thumb. “Don’t lie to me or yourself.”
“Why else would I come?” She wetted her lips, her wide gaze fooling him not one bit.
“For this.” He drew her close and sealed his mouth over hers.