Charlotte was well into a quadrille when she spotted John stalking across the room toward the exit. Something was wrong. His expression was grim and his hands were fisted by his side.
“Lady Charlotte?”
She returned her attention to her dance partner, but as they turned, her gaze once more sought John. He acknowledged no one as he passed them, causing eyebrows to rise in his wake.
She dipped beneath the arms of another couple, almost stumbling over their feet due to her lack of attention.
“Is something the matter?” her partner asked, displeased and following the direction of her gaze with an annoyed look.
“My lord, forgive me,” she said with an apologetic wince. “I must go.” It was inexcusable to leave one’s partner in the middle of the dance floor. This would be gossip on everyone’s lips all evening and a Wildeforde did not court gossip. But John was clearly upset, and supporting him was a higher priority than perfect behavior.
She hurried after him, weaving in and out around the guests. She ignored the footman in the hallway who offered to fetch her coat and gloves and dashed out into the night. The coolness of the night air was a welcome change from the stuffy heat of the ballroom. John was retreating down the drive.
“John!” she called as she ran across the gravel. “John!”
He turned around. She could barely see him in the dark, but at least he was waiting for her.
“What is it?” she asked as she reached him, out of breath.
“I can’t do this,” he said.
“Can’t do what?”
He tugged at the ends of his hair, ruining his perfectly smoothed coiffure. “I can’t be this person who you need. I do not belong here, Charlotte. I am not one of you.”
It didn’t make any sense. He’d been having a good time, hadn’t he? He’d been deep in conversation with Hen and Josie as they danced. Half the party was quite taken with him. “But you were doing so well. You were fitting in perfectly.”
“I was not. I danced because you wanted me to dance, and I made inane conversation because to not do so would be rude. But I don’t fit in here.”
She didn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. For goodness’ sake, he’d spent the past few days reassuring her that he would be happy living this life. “What happened? Something must have set off this…realization of yours given you were perfectly fine two hours ago.”
John took off his glasses and rubbed his hands over his face. “I ran into Dickey Trembly, Lord Rhinehurst. The encounter was…unpleasant. It was an hour of snide comments and outright mockery.”
Drat. “Dickey is unpleasant. He’s a small-minded, cruel, and petty little man. Even his title isn’t enough to see him invited into many homes. I’d pay no attention to what he says.”
John shook his head, stepping backward to put more distance between him and Charlotte. “Dickey only says out loud what other people are thinking. That I’m a stuttering idiot who’s a poor replacement for my perfect brother.” His voice cracked at the mention of Walter.
Charlotte shook her head, taking a step toward him to put a hand on his arm. It killed her to see him in so much anguish. “No, that’s not true. Most people are kind and generous and they care not for any trivial hiccups you make speaking. I doubt people even notice.”
Once again, he moved away from her touch. “You do not know what you’re talking about.” It was the first time she had ever heard him yell, and she could feel the blood drain from her face. “You are a young, naïve little girl who has experienced nothing of the world. You do not know what evil humans are truly capable of.”
It was her turn to step back as his words barreled into her. So he truly did think that she was some unworldly, unintelligent creature who knew nothing. It had been what she’d feared, but over the past week she’d put that fear aside.
She couldn’t help the tears that sprang to her eyes or the way her lip quivered, or how a giant pit formed in her gut. “I may not have your experience in the world,” she managed to say despite the tightening of her throat. “But to suggest that I don’t understand people when I fill my life with them is supremely arrogant. I may be younger than you. I may not have traveled or started a business, but at least I don’t hide away. I fill my week with more people than you speak to in a year, so your implication that I know nothing of mankind is ludicrous. I know more than you ever will, and as somebody who truly understands people, I can tell you that your presumptions are false. Your conclusions are wrong. It is you who knows nothing, Lord Harrow.”
His expression flattened. It was as though he put up shutters to keep the storm of her words out. He took another two steps backward and bowed. “Very well then, my lady. I bid you good night.”
Charlotte stared at his retreating back, hurt morphing into frustration. How could he walk away from her in the middle of an argument? How could retreating resolve anything? Her brothers certainly had their flaws, but at least they always stayed to fight with her.
“John!” He stopped, but it took longer than she’d like for him to turn to face her. “We had a plan. Are we still going there?”
Argument or not, they had a job to do tonight.
* * *
Whist had lost its luster after the game with Lord Berridge. Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to get excited and that feeling seemed to permeate through the room. After much discussion, the house agreed to move the whist tables together to form one large one. There was a game that had recently arrived in London from Mississippi. Poker was played individually—John could not help her with it. Win or lose, it would be on her.
The dealer walked the table through the rules, answering questions and providing tips for wagering. Others stood back, watching, waiting for their chance to try this new game for themselves.
John sat across the table from her. He’d been rather silent on the carriage ride over, handing Charlotte the spare dress from his satchel and keeping his eyes averted until it was time to do up the buttons that held it together.
She’d tried to start a conversation a few times, but clearly the events at tonight’s ball—the dratted Dickey Rhinehurst—had put John in a mood that was not easily broken. Men.
She and John would have a conversation about how they should fight. Walking away from her in the middle of one was not an option she would tolerate. But that conversation was for another day, when the pressure of bankruptcy and Edward’s imminent wrath at their engagement was no longer weighing on them.
The practice round was almost over. They were about to dive into the game in earnest. John’s face was as grim as she’d seen it. Charlotte put a hand to her mouth, her thumbnail pressing against her lips. Are you well?
John blinked twice. Yes.
Everyone took back their chips, stacked them neatly, and prepared to play. The novelty of the game lent a fresh air to the atmosphere. While there were a handful of serious players, the majority were showing each other their hands, asking for advice, and laughing even as they lost.
To almost all who surrounded her, poker was fun. She struggled to find the same levity. She wanted this charade to be over. She wanted William safe and home. She wanted John to be relieved of this burden that weighed so heavily on him.
They had planned to take things slowly, to let the wins trickle in over time and in low numbers until they’d built up to what they needed while remaining more or less unnoticed. But that strategy was going to take weeks.
She was done with this. She didn’t want to wait weeks. Tonight, she would take more risks for better rewards.
She didn’t count on it all going wrong.
One lost hand quickly turned into another, and then another. It was as though all the things that she had learned about the people she was playing with no longer applied in this new game.
All the tells that she’d noted each night—the way Patrick rubbed his nose when he was about to lose, the way Fitzroy’s eyes widened when he was dealt a decent set of cards, the silly little whistle Brockford made when he was about to take a game-ending trick—these things that had been true for the past week were suddenly not true.
John kept indicating that it was time to leave. His expression was grim, and he kept shaking his head at the end of every round when it was time to join again or get out.
But she didn’t want to get out. If she left the game now, it would be at a loss and she couldn’t accept that, not with so much on the line. It would come good; she knew it. So, despite John’s disapproval, she tossed chips into the pot and gestured for another hand.
The cards were very, very bad. She would either need to fold immediately or bluff like her life depended on it. Or William’s.
Lord Brockford sensed her bluff. Called it. Her pile of chips shrank again.
Desperation gripped her. And anger. What a hellish, hellish night. Everything was slipping away from her: William’s freedom, John’s freedom, the chance of the two of them building a life together. She wasn’t proud of what she was about to do. It wasn’t the behavior of a Wildeforde. It wasn’t who she was, but neither was she the type to go down without a fight.
Her next hand was strong—two aces and a jack was a hand she could work with. She increased her bet, and then while everyone’s eyes were on the player next to her, she used her fingernail to create a single tiny nick in the top left corner of both ace cards and another nick on the top right for the jack.
Will had shown her a series of ways to cheat at cards. She’d demanded he reveal his secrets after he’d thrashed her repeatedly. It would take time to mark enough of the cards to be useful, so Charlotte became more conservative, playing with smaller amounts that could help keep her in the game longer. Then, once she had a fair sense of who had what hand, she could bet big when she knew she could triumph.
Nothing was going to get in the way of her winning.
* * *
Damn the woman. It had taken John the better part of a half hour to realize what Charlotte was up to. The marks she was making were subtle. But subtle or not, a skillful player was going to pick them up. The only reason it had slipped the notice of the men at the table was because they were so enthralled with this new game that they weren’t taking it seriously. But these were some of the most experienced card sharks in London, and she was playing as though she were in a Mayfair parlor with debutantes and grande dames.
But every time he indicated they should take their winnings and go, she stubbornly refused to meet his gaze. To keep the attention off of her, John used his memory to win more games than he’d like, casting aside his strategy of remaining beneath notice.
“I say,” Lord Hailson said as John raked in another round of winnings. “You’re having the Devil’s own luck.”
John shrugged. “Less luck and more six weeks of nonstop playing on the sea crossing back home.”
Hailson grunted. “Don’t take us down too hard, chap. We’re all only just getting the hang of this.”
“Except Mrs. Brown. She’s won almost as much as you have.”
Charlotte ducked her head and fluttered her eyelashes. “I must have been a very good girl at some point for fortune to favor me so tonight.” She leaned forward, elbow on the table, hand cupping her chin, breasts threatening to spill from her neckline.
The men’s attention was suddenly focused elsewhere, their eyes practically glazing over, and that damning thread of conversation was effectively snipped.
“Perhaps it’s time to call it a night then, Mrs. Brown,” John said. “Luck is a fickle mistress. I’d hate for her to turn on you.”
Charlotte pouted and John couldn’t tell how much of it was an act. He smiled tightly, not allowing a measure of his annoyance to show. She’d amassed a small fortune—more than they’d won all other nights combined, as had he. They needed to leave before any of the other players questioned his skills and her luck.
“One more hand,” she implored.
“You’ve more courage than I have,” John responded. “I shan’t tempt fate any longer.” He downed the rest of his drink and gave his chips to a nearby footman. “Good night, my lords. Mrs. Brown.” He bowed. His heart rate quickened as he walked away from the table, trusting that she would follow whether or not she wanted to. Surely she would.
He had an ill feeling in his gut. Charlotte had been reckless. Her cheating had been subtle and her outrageous flirting had blinded the other players to it. But Charlotte had forgotten that there were more people in the gaming hell than just the players she sat with.
Other than the dealer, who had given no signal that aught was amiss, at least ten employees had their eyes roving across the room. It was their job to know everything that was going on. Charlotte may have fooled the players of the game, but she may not have fooled all those who ran it.
Which was why he was loath to leave her alone, even for a few minutes. Instead of walking farther up the street and waiting for her there, John stayed outside the building, leaning against the wall by the window where he could see what was happening inside.
Clearly unhappy, Charlotte finished her glass of brandy and left it on the edge of the table. She exchanged her chips for cash, flicking through the stack and then tucking it into her reticule, leaving aside a handful of notes, which she distributed among the serving girls as she left. Charlotte’s generous tipping was one reason she was so well attended to by the staff.
The majordomo helped her with her coat, and she walked out of the building without incident. As she stepped into a pool of lamplight and raised her hand to hail a nearing hackney, John released the breath that had gone stale as he’d watched her leave.
She didn’t notice him until he was climbing into the hack beside her. She gasped, hand to her throat, and exhaled heavily when she realized it was him, giving him a gentle thwack on the arm. “John, you terrified me.”
The soft laugh she gave as she took off her mask loosened all the buckles that had tightened within him the moment he’d first seen her marking the cards. She was safe. He took her face in both hands and kissed her fiercely. “You terrified me,” he said as the carriage jolted into motion. “What were you thinking?”
A crease formed between Charlotte’s brows. “I was thinking that I didn’t want to be doing this every night for the next month. I was thinking that we both have problems we need resolved immediately. And it worked.”
She reached into her reticule and pulled out a fistful of money and then another fistful. “John, it’s done. It’s over. Between the money we have in your safe, this money here, and my dowry, we have enough to repay all of your debts, and William’s. It’s over.” She sagged against the wall of the carriage, a relieved smile on her face.
John looked at the wads of notes in her hands. It was their freedom, of sorts. Not the freedom he’d gone into the scheme fighting for. He wouldn’t be returning to America. Instead, he had a different freedom. His estates would soon be set to rights, he would employ trustworthy stewards to execute the bulk of the management so that he could focus his efforts on his work with the firm, and he would wake up every day next to the woman of his dreams.
It wasn’t what he’d originally planned, but his original plans seemed cold and lifeless now. Charlotte had changed everything.
She was looking at him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her hands curled tightly around the money as she waited for a response.
“It’s over.” He leaned across the seat, one hand grazing over the jeweled pins in her hair as he pressed his lips against hers, the other hand wrapping around her waist. Even through the layers of petticoats, dress, and coat, he could feel the spark that existed between them. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he whispered. “Dickey has always known what levers to push to get a reaction from me.”
Charlotte shifted until she was sitting on his lap, her coat open, her breasts pressed against his jacket, her fingers in his hair. “I’m sorry I scared you,” she said kissing his cheek, his jaw, his lips. “Let’s forget about it.”
The scent of her overwhelmed him. As her arse moved against his cock, he considered taking her then and there. “Charlotte, you are exquisite.” He nuzzled her neck, licking and nipping at her soft skin until her moan threatened to undo him. She arched her back and his attention turned to her breasts, barely contained by the low neckline of her dress. He brought a hand up to massage them, kneading them firmly, a thrill going through him at the way she gasped.
He nudged at the lace of her neckline and when her breast sprang free, he took it in his mouth, sucking at it, grazing her nipple with his teeth, feeling his cock throb in response. He reached between them, unbuttoning his breeches.
“John.” Her fingers pulled hard at his hair, the pain adding to the intensity of his feelings.
The carriage jolted to a halt. Charlotte’s eyes, still dazed, slowly focused, and a crease formed between her brows. “Surely we aren’t home already?”
It took a moment for her words to sink through the fog of desire. Then all breath left him. His stomach pulled itself into tight knots. Instinct told him what this was—what was about to happen. He put a finger to his lips.
Charlotte’s confused expression didn’t alter, but she seemed to understand that something was amiss as she shifted off of his lap and quickly rearranged her clothing, pulling her neckline back to where it should be.
He leaned across her to the window on the carriage wall opposite the door and pulled aside the curtain just far enough to see that they were nowhere near Mayfair. By the look of the surrounding buildings, the lack of streetlamps, and the unpaved road, they were in a seedier part of the city.
John’s mind ran through every scenario he could think of, searching for a way to keep Charlotte from harm, but without knowing how many men were currently circling the carriage, there was no guarantee that it was possible.
He buttoned the fall of his breeches. “Stay in the corner,” he whispered.
She nodded, her face pale. As she shifted to the backward-facing bench, she too drew back the curtain. What she saw made her gasp, her eyes going wide and her fingers flying to her mouth.
He rested a hand on her knee and squeezed it, trying to give her confidence that he didn’t feel, and then he faced the door, putting himself between Charlotte and the men outside.
The door opened, as he knew it would. Brunel’s giant right-hand man filled the doorframe as he put a hand on either side and leaned toward them. “Let’s have a wee chat about tonight’s events, shall we?” he asked.
John heard Charlotte’s breath whoosh out as she realized that her actions at the tables had not gone unnoticed as she had thought. She put a hand on his shoulder and tried to move around him, but he refused to budge.
“John had nothing to do with it,” she said.
“Hush, love.” He would not have her make herself any more a target than she already was.
“But—” She tried to push around him, but he flung out an arm so that she could not pass. He turned, locking eyes with her. “Wait inside. Do not say a word. There’s nothing you can do.”
Her face turned grey as she heard the truth in his words.
John edged toward the carriage door, knowing full well what was about to happen. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had been beaten. He had survived it before; he would survive this one, so long as the attack was only on him. He didn’t know that he’d survive it if they went for Charlotte also.
The brute decided John wasn’t moving fast enough and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him out of the carriage. He had a wicked gleam in his eyes, as if it was nights like this that he lived for. John looked past him and locked eyes with a younger lad, who looked as though he might be sick at any moment. He clearly didn’t have the stomach for this. Maybe he could keep Charlotte from harm.
“Don’t let her leave the carriage,” he muttered to the boy. “Please. Do what you must to me, but please spare her.”
The lad didn’t acknowledge John at all, but he took a spot in front of the carriage door.
Then the beating began.