When he reached the private entrance, he entered, passing by the guards and slipping into the hidden quarters of The Sinner’s Palace. He and most, but not all, of his family—thanks to the marriages of his sister Caro and brother Jasper, their ranks had dwindled—dwelled within. Rafe removed his hat and coat, performing the same routine he had thousands of times before, wondering why today should feel differently.
It should not, he decided.
It did not.
He would forget all about Miss Wren and her sunset hair and warm brown eyes and that plump little mouth that begged to be kissed and the promise of lush breasts he had spied beneath her unappealing gown the evening before… Damn it, there he went again. Yes, the governess was undeniably what any man in the East End with a set of eyes would deem a dimber mort. In other words, a pretty wench. But he had seen—and tumbled—many pretty wenches. There was nothing different about this one. Well, nothing save the mystery of what had happened between them.
You have already done enough damage, she had said. Which rather begged the question. What damage? He knew he would never have forced a woman, regardless of how inebriated he was. But he had been naked. In her bed. Had he taken her virginity then? Was that the damage she spoke of?
Hell, he most certainly hoped not. Deflowering his brother’s new governess was the work of a scoundrel.
On a sigh, he rounded a corner and collided with a chap wearing a hat pressed low over his brow. The unexpected jolt sent a spear of pain through his skull, reminding him that he had an aching garret. Curse it all, why did his head hurt so much? Rafe raked his fingers through his hair and discovered a knot on his scalp that was the source of the pain.
Surely Miss Wren had not bludgeoned him.
Had she?
“Oh dear,” said the fellow into whom he had plowed, his voice familiar. “Forgive me.”
Not just familiar, that voice, but feminine as well. Belatedly, it occurred to Rafe that the fellow was not a man at all. Rather, he was a she. And either he was well and truly addled in the upper story, or his sister Pen was wearing trousers and dressed as a cull.
“Pen?” he bit out.
“Damn,” she muttered.
/> His younger sisters Pen and Lily had always been headstrong, but there was no denying that ever since Jasper had left the hell in favor of living in the West End like a bloody gentleman, they had been running even wilder. He supposed that in the absence of their family leader, he needed to step in. The realization was a novel one; he did best when he was free to be the ne’er-do-well of the family.
But since Jasper had started a family of his own, that left his siblings decidedly adrift. Which meant Rafe, the only brother currently standing in the hall, witnessing Pen’s frolics, had to take action.
He pinned her with his most disapproving glare. “Penelope Sutton, what in the devil’s arsehole are you doing running about the halls dressed as a cove?”
She blinked, then smiled with far more cheer than the situation merited. “I wasn’t running, brother.”
“Splitting hairs.” He crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to allow the smile threatening to creep over his lips to do so. It wouldn’t do for the minx to think he found her antics humorous. “You know damned well what I meant.”
She sniffed. “If you must know, I was on my way to meet the gin merchant.”
He raised a brow. “In such a fashion?”
“My gowns are in need of laundering.”
He knew a lie when he heard one, damn it. “You’ve nary a single one that’s clean?”
“Not one.” She kept smiling, but she was shifting from foot to foot, as if she could scarcely wait to be free of his presence and questions.
Aye, he knew the signs. Hell, he was cut from the same cloth, and he had spent many a morning after a night of debauchery either avoiding or lying to Jasper about what he had done and where he had been. Which begged a question.
Why would she be dressed as a man at this hour of the morning?
“The gin merchant ain’t coming today,” he said, remembering that fact a bit belatedly, for their brother Hart often dealt with the merchants and their accounts. “Thursdays are the day when he shows his ugly face.”
It was true—the gin merchant was an ugly, unscrupulous scoundrel. But by all that was holy and good, his jackey was fine.
“That is puzzling.” Her smile slipped a bit. “Perhaps Hart had his days confused when he asked me to take his place.”
Hart was sharper than a murderer’s blade when it came to such matters.
“Or maybe you are lying,” Rafe countered smoothly. “Where have you been, Pen? I don’t want to tell Jasper about this adventure of yours, but I will if I ’ave to.”