Читать книгу The Rake's Redemption - Georgina Devon - Страница 9

N early an hour later, they swept through the gate and out of Hyde Park. Emma still fumed.

‘Did you enjoy your outing?’ Charles Hawthorne asked Amy, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

The young girl sparkled in the afternoon sun. ‘Very much so.’ She laughed with enjoyment. ‘And you are such a rogue to introduce us to Harriette Wilson. Although, I must admit to being fascinated by a woman who earns her living like that.’

Emma did nothing to disguise her groan. ‘Amy, if you please, that is more than enough. Ladies do not discuss women like Miss Wilson.’

‘Oh, pooh! Ladies don’t do anything that is interesting.’

Even as she silently agreed with Amy, Emma knew she had to stop Amy’s fascination with the other woman right now. ‘You seem to be doing quite a few things that are interesting to you.’

‘Sarcasm?’ Charles Hawthorne murmured. ‘It will accomplish nothing.’

Emma gave him a bland look. Right now was not the time to let him know what she thought of his actions. She was spared any further temptation to do so with Amy present by the carriage pulling up to their house.

Charles Hawthorne hopped out and turned immediately to help Amy down. She giggled. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ Her eyes flirted as she allowed him to guide her to the front steps.

‘My pleasure.’ He put his gloved hand over hers where it rested on his forearm.

His head bent to Amy’s and he said something Emma couldn’t hear as she followed behind, having been helped down by the groom. No doubt he was flirting as outrageously with Amy as she was with him. A tiny ball of frustration and another emotion Emma didn’t want to examine formed in her chest.

She reached them just as the front door opened. ‘Amy, please give me a few moments alone with Mr Hawthorne.’

Amy looked from one to the other. ‘So you can scold him?’

Emma ignored the challenge in her sister’s voice. ‘Please honour my request.’

‘Don’t let her box your ears, Mr Hawthorne. She has a predilection for that.’ Amy tossed her head.

‘I am more than capable of taking care of myself, Miss Amy.’ He took Amy’s gloved fingers and raised them to his lips.

A flush of pleasure made the already pretty girl beautiful. ‘You always know exactly what to do.’

Emma thought she would lose control and step between the two like a knife cutting through cloying syrup. She managed not to do so by a strong effort of will.

The door closed behind Amy before Emma turned to Mr Hawthorne, who looked at her with one black brow lifted as though daring her to do her worst. It was more provocation than she could resist.

‘How dare you flirt with her in such a way, kissing her hand! It is much too sophisticated for a girl like her. Save it for a more experienced woman. Isn’t it bad enough that Amy allows you to pursue her in a most unseemly manner when all and sundry know you have no intention of offering marriage?’

His blue eyes were nearly black and impossible to read. ‘Would my pursuit be acceptable if I intended marriage?’

She blinked. His answer was totally unexpected. ‘Do you?’

He grinned. ‘No, but you seem to put such emphasis on that being the reason my interest isn’t acceptable.’

‘You are twisting my words and you know it.’ She took a breath to try and ease the beating of her heart. ‘You are the most odious man.’

‘I try.’

His sardonic words sped her pulse in spite of herself. ‘You try very hard and always succeed. How dare you introduce us to Harriette Wilson.’

‘Not that woman? You surprise me.’

Now it was her turn to flush. ‘She is a person even though men consider her something to be bandied about. I do not fault her for doing what she must to survive.’

‘Neither do I.’ He met her gaze, his serious look brooking no argument. ‘I respect her as a woman who moves in a man’s world, and does so successfully. I will not be a hypocrite and ignore her when I meet her out—no matter who is with me.’

Unwilling respect blossomed in Emma. No other man of her acquaintance would have been so bold and flouted convention to introduce the infamous courtesan. None would even acknowledge her if they were with a woman of their own class.

‘Then you did not introduce us to irritate me or disgrace Amy?’

‘Contrary to what you think, I stopped for the reason I told you.’

Emma searched his face for the truth. She could not tell what he thought, but his mouth was not curled into the sardonic smile he seemed to have perfected. An unwelcome awareness of him penetrated her anger, which was already crumbling because of his reason for introducing the courtesan.

She realised he stood too close. She could see the fine lines around his eyes and the dark stubble that would soon need to be shaved. A hint of pine mingled with that of starch. His breath smelt of mint. Under it all was the richness of a man’s scent, musky and exciting. The day had turned unaccountably warm.

She stepped backwards and her half boot left the step. She tottered. His hand shot out and grabbed her arm. His fingers held her through the layers of material, seeming to sear into her flesh. A shiver coursed her spine, first like ice then like fire. The last thing she wanted was to react to him like this.

Anger at her own weakness made her voice harsh. ‘You can release me.’

His gaze hardened. ‘And let you fall off the step?’

She notched her chin up and set her back foot down onto the next level. ‘I won’t fall now.’

His hand fell away. ‘You are welcome.’

She felt a blush of embarrassment mount her cheeks. There had been no call to be rude no matter what his touch did to her. Her mama would be appalled if she had seen this. ‘Thank you.’

He stared at her, his gaze going from her eyes to her cheeks to her lips. Against her will, she felt the heat consuming her intensify. Heaven help her if he ever did anything more. She was a fool. An utter fool.

‘Good day, Miss Stockton.’

He turned on the heel of his mirror-polished Hessian and strode to the carriage, where he opened the door himself and leapt inside with the grace of a natural athlete. He did not glance back at her when the vehicle started forward. It was she who continued to stare.

The man was insufferable. He had to be for she could not allow him to be anything else. Becoming enamored of him would do her no more good than it did Amy. Less.

Charles stared straight ahead as he was conveyed to his brother’s town house to where he would return George’s carriage. His fingers still tingled from touching Emma, and the scent of sweet peas lingered in his mind. His stomach tightened. Obviously he had been too long without a woman if he was reacting to a spinster like Emma Stockton.

The drive had been as entertaining as he had expected when he chose to ignore Emma Stockton’s note ordering him to refrain from doing whatever her sister had requested. There was very little that gave him as much pleasure as provoking her. But the unsettling problem was that he responded to her physically as well as mentally.

He was jaded. Nothing more. Upon longer exposure to the woman’s tiresome meddling, she would lose her allure.

The carriage pulled up in front of George’s house and Charles shook his head to clear his thoughts. The last thing he wanted was to forget himself and mention the Misses Stockton. He and his sister, Juliet, had been down that path many a time and not to his good. Juliet was a strong woman who spoke her mind, and she didn’t like his dallying with Amy Stockton.

He exited the vehicle and went inside, nodding at the family butler. ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Good afternoon, Master Charles.’

‘Is anyone at home?’

‘Lord and Lady Hawthorne are in the salon with Master Robert. Lady and Sir Glenfinning are with them.’

Charles considered visiting his siblings, but decided against it. He would send a note of thanks to his brother instead of doing it in person. He was in no mood to watch Juliet with her new husband, a liaison he had been against. Adam Glenfinning reminded him too much of himself to make a good husband.

‘Please have my horse sent ’round.’

The butler nodded. ‘Will you be in the saloon?’

‘No, I will wait out front.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Charles watched the old retainer motion to a nearby footman, who was sent to the mews. Not many people could afford to house their horseflesh in the city. George could.

Charles quickly stepped outside. Clouds bunched up overhead and a breeze moved the tree branches. He sniffed, smelling moisture in the air. It would likely start raining before he got home.

A groom leading Charles’s horse came around the corner. Charles tossed him a coin and mounted the large bay gelding. If they hurried, they would beat the worst of the weather.

The rain started just as he turned the corner of the street where his house was situated. He settled the bay before running to the back door and into the kitchen.

The aroma of roast beef and potatoes hit him like a warm blanket. Alphonse, the French chef he employed, stood by the spit, supervising the basting of a large piece of meat. He was a tall man with a rotund middle that spoke of good eating. Grey hair stuck out from under the white hat he wore, giving him a wild look he did not deserve, and his bushy grey mustache was the envy of every young boy who worked for him.

The chef turned. ‘Monsieur.’

Charles grinned. ‘That smells like heaven, Alphonse.’

The Frenchman nodded his head regally, knowing the compliment was only his due.

A small black-and-white whirlwind sped across the slate floor, coming to a sliding halt at Charles’s feet. Bright brown eyes and a black button nose peered out from a mop of hair while a long pink tongue lolled nearly to the ground. Soft barking sounds told Charles he was loved.

Squatting down, Charles ruffled the dog’s long ears. ‘How have you been, Adam?’ The mutt of disreputable breeding looked up at him. ‘Very well, I take it.’ Charles glanced at Alphonse. ‘Has Adam been impertinent?’ Charles knew the answer.

‘But of course. He demands the best slices.’

‘Just like his namesake,’ Charles muttered, thinking of his sister Juliet’s new husband.

He loved this dog that had been a stray, even though he had named him after his unwelcome brother-in-law, who was also of dubious lineage. It had been one of his more subtle rebukes to his sister during her affair with Adam Glenfinning. As usual, it had done no good. Juliet had gone her own way.

For a moment the picture of Emma Stockton as she had looked on her porch not more than an hour ago flooded his mind. Her hair had spiralled from beneath the brim of her unfashionable straw hat. Her grey eyes had been challenging yet vulnerable, a trait he was beginning to find caught him off guard more than he cared. Even the freckles marching across her short nose in no pattern or order drew his admiration.

He shook his head to get rid of the portrait. He was not the sort of man to dwell overly long on a woman, particularly one who fit none of his criteria for beauty. She was too thin and too tall, along with everything else about her that irritated him.

‘Woof!’ Adam’s wet tongue on Charles’s hand came immediately after the demand for attention.

Charles stood. ‘You are a demanding scoundrel.’ The dog seemed to smile as though he knew there was no rebuke. ‘I am going to my office. Alphonse, please bring me something to eat.’

‘Yes, monsieur.’ There was a pause. ‘And what about that canine monster you spoil so shamelessly?’

‘He will need sustenance as well.’

‘Humph!’

Charles smiled as he left the kitchen. Alphonse might fuss and complain, but more than once Charles had caught the Frenchman accidentally dropping a piece of meat on the floor.

Adam trotted close at Charles’s heels, his sniffing getting louder as they neared the office. The room was near the kitchen so the tantalising smells made Charles realise he was as hungry as Adam. They would eat while he balanced his books, a duty that had started as tedious and which he now found satisfying.

It was nearly midnight that evening when Charles looked around and realised he had made a mistake. He had allowed his cronies to talk him into coming to Crockford’s gambling hell.

It was his first time in such an establishment in nearly three years.

Candles were everywhere, lighting a scene of licentious pleasure. Men lounged in chairs, bottles of liqueur beside them. A few demireps clung to the arms of their protectors. Several green-baize-covered tables were crowded by gamblers.

A man sat at a faro table with a visor over his eyes and his coat turned inside out, hoping for luck—or, perhaps, having luck. Charles knew all too well what the man was feeling: the thrill of waiting for that winning hand; the need to play again and again no matter what happened. It was like taking another sip of alcohol. The need intensified rather than diminished.

The urge to join a table was nearly overwhelming. All his hard-earned abstinence seemed like nothing. He should never have come.

His hands broke out in a sweat. Moisture beaded his brow.

He needed to leave.

He managed to smile at the man nearest him. ‘I have decided this place is a bore,’ Charles drawled, glad the need didn’t show in his voice. He sounded as bored as he claimed to be.

The other man raised one brown eyebrow. ‘As you wish, Charles. I will stay awhile. Crockford’s is known for its high stakes and I feel lucky.’

Charles smiled again. ‘Luck is a fickle lady.’

The man shrugged. ‘As is any woman.’

‘So be it.’

Charles took one last look around the crowded room, knowing as he did so that he tempted himself. But he also knew he was strong enough to resist. He had learned the hard way what ruin this vice could bring.

He turned away and sauntered toward the door. Several men watched him, a knowing look in their gazes. His downfall was not ton gossip, but nor was it secret. He nodded to acquaintances, determined that no one would know how hard this was for him.

A flurry of activity caught his eye just as he neared the exit. Some of the richest men in England circled a table more crowded than the others.

Charles knew someone was betting heavily and either winning or losing. He could not resist even though he knew that going over exposed him more than he should to the urge to gamble. Better not to even go near.

But go he did.

Faro. Sinclair Manchester was the bank and Richard Green was the lamb.

Memories flooded back. Five years ago he could have been Green.

Charles kept his face void of the anger and pain building in him. How dare Manchester fleece such a young boy?

Manchester was a tall, thin, effete man who dressed impeccably and seemed to mince when he walked. His silver-tipped ebony cane, which leaned against the wall behind him, was an affectation as effective as the quizzing glass hanging from his waistcoat. His sandy brown hair was cut in a perfect Brutus, the wisps dressed to frame his narrow and angular face. He was a dandy.

Charles considered himself a Corinthian. The two of them could not be a greater contrast. Particularly in the present situation. He turned to Green.

The boy’s blue eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. His blond hair was cut short like Charles’s, and his lapels were reasonable. He could turn his head. Perspiration dotted his brow. His smile was forced.

‘Charles,’ Manchester’s light tenor voice said, ‘come to pay us a visit? Join in. I am very lucky at the moment.’

Charles flicked him a glance. ‘Perhaps, later, Manchester.’ He turned to the young man. ‘Good evening, Green. I see you play deep.’ Charles watched the young man, wondering how he was going to get him out of this and deciding the sooner the better.

‘Y-yes.’ His stiff smile widened into a rictus.

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t.’ Charles turned back to Manchester. ‘If you will excuse us, Green and I have things to discuss.’

‘Really, Hawthorne, don’t be a wet blanket.’ Manchester raked in the chips piled before him.

‘Ah, but I must,’ Charles drawled, placing his hand on Green’s shoulder and squeezing as he shifted the boy away from the table.

‘Ah, ex-excuse me.’ Richard Green went where Charles steered him, but said over his shoulder, ‘I will make my vouchers good tomorrow, Manchester.’

A twinge of pain caught Charles unawares. Seeing this youth, not yet a man and no longer a boy, in such a pass brought back unpleasant memories of where his reckless disregard for money had eventually landed him. Gambling deeply was only for those who had been left a fortune, not a younger son. The discomfort was enough to make him thrust Green roughly toward the door so the boy stumbled before gaining his footing.

‘Keep moving,’ Charles said through clenched teeth. ‘You are not staying here.’

Green’s eyes widened until they seemed to be two blue china saucers. ‘But, the night has just started.’

‘Be quiet.’ Charles scowled at the young man. ‘You are foolish beyond bearing.’

‘I-I s-say, you c-can’t order me about.’

Charles’s brows rose. ‘Can’t I? I am doing so and you will thank me for it.’

The boy’s red face blanched. ‘You are Charles Hawthorne?’

‘Yes, and you are on your way out.’

He realised Green had been so deep in the fever some people experienced while gambling that the boy hadn’t heard Manchester’s greeting. The realisation increased Charles’s anger. He propelled the youth toward the front door and through to the street.

‘I hope your carriage or horse is nearby because you are leaving.’

‘I—’

‘Yes?’ Charles held him. ‘You what?’

‘You go too far. You have no right to do this.’

The young man’s words finally penetrated the red haze that seemed to surround Charles. He unclenched his fingers that gripped the boy’s arm like a vise and let his hand fall away. Seeing this child in straits he had been in and paid dearly for had made him forget the circumstances. All he could do was throw the fool out.

‘You are going home, Green. You play deeper than your pockets. This is a gambling den, not a shearing house.’

The youth drew himself up straight, coming just short of Charles’s six-foot height. ‘I will do as I please.’

‘Not if I have any say.’ His flat voice brooked no argument. ‘And a word of warning. You may think you are immune to the repercussions of your behaviour, but you are not. No one is.’

Seeing a hackney coach coming around the corner, Charles motioned for it to stop. The driver pulled up and Charles yanked open the door and pushed Green inside.

‘Go home.’

He slammed the door shut and turned away, ignoring the boy’s sputtering anger. If only someone had done as much for him.