How empty and quiet the vehicle had suddenly become, bereft of his magnificent presence. Persephone did her utmost to banish the unwanted longing echoing through her. But it was burning to life like a fire too long starved of air, and she very much feared that if she was not able to control this inconvenient attraction she had to Mr. Rafe Sutton, she would end up getting burned.
CHAPTER 5
Having been born to the rookeries had its benefits. One of them was learning how to hide in plain sight. How to blend with the shadows and await one’s prey. In his youth, Rafe had been a dab hand at pickpocketing fancy culls who wandered about like fat hens in a fox’s den. He had learned many lessons in those rough days before The Sinner’s Palace had become one of the most sought-after gaming hells in London. And one of those lessons was about to suit him well.
The best time to strike was when a man was drunk, when he had recently drained his ballocks, or when he thought he was about to accomplish both or either of those pleasantly sated states. He had already used this time-honored tenet to have a mildly violent discussion with Lord Aidan Weir concerning his sister P
en. He was about to have another with Viscount Gregson on behalf of a different woman.
It had taken him only a few days to learn the habits of his quarry. And so it was that he found himself waiting to enter an adjoining chamber at The Garden of Flora. His presence this evening was not, as it had been on previous occasions, to take pleasure. But rather, to confer pain and humiliation.
Madame Laurent had been kind enough, when he had relayed his information concerning Lord Gregson, to offer her assistance. As the owner of one of the finer, if more depraved, establishments catering to the lusty whims of London, Sophie did not tolerate any patrons with abusive tendencies.
The greatest asset of an abbess was her ladies, and if her ladies were injured or worse, it affected her purse. Sophie understood the health and well-being of the women in her employ was distinctly connected to how much coin she could collect from her patrons. If a man were to mistreat any of them, or if he were found to have passed on the Covent Garden ague, he was prohibited from returning.
If a cull is willing to force himself on an innocent governess in his family’s home, Christ knows what he is capable of, Rafe had told Sophie.
Being an intelligent and shrewd businesswoman, she had agreed, promising to send word the next time Lord Gregson arrived at The Garden of Flora. She had also agreed to set up a tableau rendering Rafe’s plan far more easily enacted. Tonight was the night.
Lord Gregson was about to have the basting of his spoiled, lordly life.
The door to the chamber opened, and a brunette named Mignonette emerged. In truth, her name was likely Mary or Sarah, or something equally plain. Sophie required all her ladies to take the names of flowers.
Mignonette was one of the most expensive ladies at The Garden of Flora for a very good reason. She stopped at nothing to please whomever was fortunate enough to enjoy her company for the evening. Strangely, however, her lush beauty, on display in a diaphanous dressing gown, did not stir him this evening.
All his thoughts were for a sunset-haired governess who had drugged him and dragged him into her bed. It made no sense, and yet, there was something about prim Miss Wren that brought out all the possessive instincts he had. Not just desire but a deeper, stronger connection. A bond he could neither explain nor define.
And that was why he found himself here, waiting to mete out justice to that slimy arsehole Lord Gregson, on her behalf. If ever he had known of a man who needed to be beaten to death with a sack of his own shite, it was he. Rafe’s blood ran hot with impotent fury as he remembered how pale and shaken Miss Wren had been in the carriage as she had confessed to what had occurred at her previous post. She had come perilously close to retching. The reminder sent a resurgence of bloodlust slamming through him.
“His lordship is awaiting his surprise,” Mignonette said softly, extending her arm to offer him a rather wicked-looking cat-o’-nine-tails.
Apparently, some patrons of The Garden of Flora enjoyed being flogged. Lord Gregson was one of them. That salient bit of information had given Rafe all the ammunition he required.
He took the whip from Mignonette, surprised by the heft of it in his hand. “Thank you, darling.”
Mignonette came nearer, bringing with her the rich scent of her perfume, which was not nearly as pleasing as the floral notes of Miss Wren’s Winter’s soap. “Of course. I had not realized how despicable Lord Gregson is. We thank you for rooting out a viper on our behalf.”
Mignonette’s accent suggested she had been raised by the quality. She spoke with an eloquence that was difficult to feign. Quite a bit like Miss Wren.
He inclined his head, his fingers tightening on the braided leather hilt of the whip. “My pleasure.”
“Perhaps I can see to your pleasure later,” she suggested, running a finger lightly down his forearm.
Still, he felt nothing. Not a hint of interest. Nor a stirring of his cock. He told himself his lack of response was because of the fury igniting his veins.
“Some other night, love,” he said softly, giving her a smile he knew the ladies always adored.
Women and dimples. He’d never understand the fascination, but he most assuredly wasn’t against exploiting it for his own benefit.
She pouted. “If you insist.”
“I’m afraid I do.” He had other matters to attend to, far more important ones.
Rafe took his leave of the lovely Mignonette and ventured into the adjoining chamber where Lord Gregson anticipated his “surprise.” Madame Laurent had a host of devices and pieces of furniture which lent themselves to the particular vices of her guests. In this instance, Lord Gregson was strapped to a narrow, padded bench, lying prone, a blindfold tied over his eyes. His wrists were bound above his head, and his ankles were held in place with buckled straps at the opposite end. The sight of his pale arse made Rafe ill. At least the bastard was facedown.
“What took you so long, Mignonette?” the viscount asked, having no notion of what he was about to endure.
But then, it was only fitting, for neither had Miss Wren. She had been innocently sleeping when this detestable scoundrel had attempted to force himself upon her. Rafe could only imagine the fear which must have gripped her. Witnessing her reaction to the memories of that night in the carriage haunted him still.