Lady Hester was no different. She would never question him, raise her voice, or offer opposition. This, Garrick knew. She would never dare to give him a poke in the jaw, as Miss Sutton had done. She would not look upon him with fury or kiss him with passion. Her mouth would not make him desperate to claim it. And he would never be filled with the fiery, all-consuming need to have her in his bed.
But that was the natural, proper order of life in the ton. Marriages were made for practical reasons. Money, éclat, expectations of one’s parents, unions between families, property, society.
“Of course, my lord.” Mother smiled. “I shall see you later, before you retire to your club, shan’t I?”
He often remained at these events for hours, with the sole purpose of keeping Mother content. There were ordinarily any number of acquaintances with whom he might fight his ennui. The right word here, the proper connection there, and a man’s power and influence could steadily grow. Garrick’s certainly had. However, he found his patience and his desire to observe the social whirl steadily waning this evening.
Quite unusually so.
“I shall try,” he told Mother rather than promising.
It was the best he could offer.
This evening’s entertainments left him feeling strangely bereft and hollow and…itchy. Was it the absence of his brother or the unexpected effects of Miss Sutton in his life which had caused the sea change? Garrick could not say for certain.
All he knew was that something had to be done.
And with bloody haste.
He could not find Aidan soon enough. For finding him meant removing Miss Sutton from his own life.
Forever.
* * *
There were only somany blasted places Lord Aidan Weir could hide.
But Pen was reasonably certain she had already searched them all.
Still, he could not have simply vanished from London. He would not have left, not without leaving some word for her. The more days that passed without him patronizing The Sinner’s Palace or at least sending her a note, the more worried she became.
Where could he have gone?
Pen was determined to find out.
Which was why she had bound her breasts and was dressed in the trousers and coat she had donned whenever she and Aidan attended bare-knuckle boxing matches together. It was also why she had greased the palm of a lad at the trade entrance of the club on St. James’s Street that Aidan favored.
The Duke’s Bastard was where nobs gathered to drink and eat and gamble when they had no wish to sully themselves with the riffraff of the East End. Duncan Kirkwood, the owner of the club, was the illegitimate son of a duke and had built an empire for himself that had not gone unnoticed by Pen’s oldest brother Jasper. After the building they had intended to use as The Sinner’s Palace II had been burned down, Jasper had suggested they set their caps at the West End instead. And so they had.
We could bring a rival to The Duke’s Bastard, Jasper had said.
But as Pen slipped through its hallowed halls, she knew they would have quite a bit of work ahead of them to provide a proper rival. The Duke’s Bastard had become one of the most exclusive clubs for the quality, and she understood the reason why. Rich, sleek woods enhanced the paneled walls, which were adorned by paintings and gilt-and-mirrored wall sconces. It appeared as if Mr. Kirkwood had spared no expense.
The Duke’s Bastard was decidedly not the sort of establishment where a Sutton would be welcomed at the door—everything about it, from the murals gracing the walls as she reached the public halls, to the rich carpets, suggested it had been created for the quality alone. Most particularly, a female Sutton would never be invited within. Hence the necessity for discretion. And since she was a Sutton, such an objective had only been achieved by bribery and dressing as a cove.
She knew nary a hint of guilt as she found her way through the maze of halls, ducking shadows and footsteps at every turn. Raised masculine voices around a corner had her slipping into an alcove and holding her breath until the men inevitably traveled in the opposite direction. Having reached her majority living within a gaming hell, Pen had no trouble finding her way. One could locate the kitchen by its scent—rich foods being expertly crafted by Kirkwood’s famous French chef, no doubt—and the rumble of more voices told her where the gaming rooms could be found.
At last, Pen stood in one of the main public halls, and judging from the gentlemen moving about at the opposite end, it was likely the hall where the necessary house was located. East End or West End, some things never changed. The more a man drank, the more he had to piss.
How convenient. Finding an area where gentlemen were coming and going would prove an excellent foil for her ruse. Pen hastened her strides lest the lad she had paid decided his loyalty was to his employer instead. She was moving so quickly, determined to find her way into the game rooms and discover whether or not Aidan was within, that she did not see the man exiting a door until he was before her, and she had plowed directly into his broad chest.
The chest was familiar.
“You again.”
So, too, the deep, disapproving growl.
Biting her lip, Pen glanced up into the handsome face of the man who had so swiftly become her archenemy. Her heart dropped to the soles of the boots Aidan had given her to wear on their clandestine outings.
Lord Lordly. Blast the man. Why was he always everywhere she was? Pen had a moment to decide how she would allow this scene to play out.
Lowering her head and using the brim of her hat to shield her face, she cleared her throat and endeavored to speak in her most manly voice. “Forgive me,” she said, stepping to her left and attempting to skirt around him.
Perhaps he would think he had mistaken her for someone else. Her voice sounded quite masculine when she made a concerted effort to render it low and rough. Did it not?
A finger caught in the collar of her coat, staying her forward motion.
Perhaps not.
“What the devil do you think you are doing?” he demanded, apparently not fooled at all.
Would the blasted cove never cease plaguing her?
“Seeking distraction,” she ground out, “just as all my fellow gentlemen in attendance this evening are.”
Somehow, perpetuating her lie seemed important, if for no other reason than to nettle the man at her back. Surrendering would be akin to admitting defeat, and she would not leave The Duke’s Bastard until she could be certain Aidan was not within its walls.
“Making more trouble for me,” countered the viscount, “that is what you are truly doing. Come with me, Miss Sutton.”
Her name was a hushed hiss, letting her know that he saw through her disguise and that he did not wish to draw attention to them. She watched with frustration and disappointment as a gentleman who appeared on the cusp of maudlin drunk swayed as he made his way back to the main gaming rooms down the hall.