[Tiểu Thuyết] Wallflower 3: Lời Cầu Hôn Mùa Đông (Devil In Winter) | Lisa Kleypa

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Evie đứng trước mặt anh do dự, tự hỏi tại sao anh lại quá cố gắng tỏ vẻ xa cách đến vậy. Nhưng khi anh liếc nhìn dáng người trong bộ váy ngủ của nàng, anh không thể che dấu tia sáng khao khát trong đôi mắt mình. Thấy điều đó khiến nàng an lòng. “Đến với em đi,” nàng nói nhỏ.

Thay vì làm theo, Sebastian đi đến cửa sổ, xa khỏi nàng. Lặng lẽ, anh ngắm nhìn con đường bận bịu dọc ngang với những cổ xe ngựa, mặt đường cứng lát đá đầy những bước chân qua lại.

Bối rối vì thái độ của anh, Evie quan sát dáng hình thon thả của lưng anh, và bờ vai cứng rắn.

Cuối cùng Sebastian xoay lại phía nàng, gương mặt anh thận trọng hoàn toàn không có cảm xúc. “Anh đã có đủ rồi,” anh nói. “Em không an toàn ở đây—anh đã nói điều đó ngay từ lúc đầu. Và anh đã được chứng minh là đúng hơn cả một lần. Anh đã ra một quyết định không lay chuyển. Em sẽ rời khỏi đây trong ngày mai. Anh sẽ gửi em về miền quê để ở tại khu điền trang của gia tộc trong một khoảng thời gian. Cha anh muốn gặp em. Ở cạnh ông ấy cũng khá dễ chịu, và có một vài gia đình ở gần đó mà em có thể giải khuây—“

“Và anh định sẽ ở đây à?” Evie hỏi với một cái cau mày.

“Ừ. Anh sẽ điều hành câu lạc bộ, và thỉnh thoảng anh sẽ đến thăm em.”

Không thể tin được anh đang đề nghị họ sống xa cách nhau, Evie nhìn anh ngơ ngác. “Tại sao?” nàng hỏi yếu ớt.

Gương mặt anh cứng nhắc. “Anh không thể giữ em ở lại một nơi như thế này được, khi trong lòng luôn lo lắng điều gì có thể xảy đến với em.”

“Mọi chuyện cũng có thể xảy đến với người ta ở thôn quê kia mà.”

“Anh sẽ không tranh cãi với em,” Sebastian nói thô lỗ. “Em sẽ đi đến nơi nào mà anh muốn em đi, và đó là quyết định cuối cùng.”

Nàng Evie trước đây sẽ rụt lại và đau khổ, và hẳn là sẽ nghe theo không một lời phản đối. Nhưng Evie của lúc này mạnh mẽ hơn nhiều...còn chưa kể đến đang yêu say đắm. “Em không nghĩ mình có thể ở xa anh được,” nàng nói bình lặng. “Nhất là khi em lại không hiểu lí do.”

Lúc này vỏ ngoài cứng rắn của Sebastian nứt vỡ, một vầng màu đỏ đang tràn lên từ cổ áo anh. Anh cào hai bàn tay qua tóc, càng làm những lọn tóc rực rỡ rối bù thêm nữa. “Dạo gần đây anh trở nên lơ đãng đến chết tiệt đi được khiến anh không thể quyết định bất cứ chuyện gì. Anh không thể suy nghĩ sáng suốt. Có những mối tơ vò trong lòng anh, và những cơn đau nhói thường nhật trong ngực, và cứ mỗi khi anh nhìn thấy em trò chuyện với một người đàn ông, hay mỉm cười với bất cứ ai, anh nổi điên lên vì ghen tức. Anh không thể sống như thế này được. Anh—" Anh ngừng lời và nhìn nàng chằm chằm khó tin. “Quỷ tha ma bắt, Evie, có cái gì cho em vui sướng thế chứ?”

“Không có gì ạ,” nàng nói, vội dấu nụ cười mỉm bất chợt vào những khóe môi. “Chỉ là...nghe cứ như anh đang gắng nói với em rằng anh yêu em vậy.”

Lời nàng dường như khiến Sebastian sửng sốt. “Không,” anh nhấn mạnh, sắc da càng đỏ hơn. “Anh không có. Anh không thể. Đó không phải điều anh đang nói. Anh chỉ cần tìm được một cách để--“ Anh im lặng và hít vào đột ngột khi nàng đi đến với anh. “Evie, không.” Anh run rẩy khi nàng với tay lên ôm lấy gương mặt anh, những ngón tay nàng thật dịu dàng. “Không phải như em nghĩ đâu,” anh do dự. Nàng nghe thấy dấu vết sợ hãi trong giọng anh. Nỗi sợ hãi của một đứa trẻ khi tất cả những người phụ nữ nó yêu quý biến mất khỏi cuộc đời nó, bị cuốn đi bởi một dịch sốt tàn nhẫn. Nàng không biết làm thế nào để trấn an anh, hay làm thế nào để an ủi đứa trẻ trong anh. Nhón chân, nàng tìm kiếm môi anh bằng môi nàng. Hai bàn tay anh chạm đến khuỷu tay nàng, như thể để đẩy nàng ra, nhưng anh dường như không thể khiến bản thân mình làm điều đó. Hơi thở anh nóng và vội vã khi anh ngoảnh mặt đi. Không nản lòng, nàng hôn lên má, lên cằm, lên cổ anh. Một tiếng lầm rầm nguyền rủa bật ra. “Quỷ tha ma bắt em đi,” anh nói tuyệt vọng, “Anh phải đưa em đi khỏi đây.”

“Không phải anh đang cố gắng bảo vệ em. Mà anh đang cố bảo vệ chính mình.” Nàng ôm sát anh thật chặt. “Nhưng anh có thể buột bản thân phải chấp nhận mạo hiểm để yêu một ai đó, phải không anh?”

“Không,” anh thì thào.

“Có. Anh phải làm thế.” Evie nhắm mắt và tựa mặt nàng vào mặt anh. “Bởi vì em yêu anh, Sebastian...và em cần tình yêu của anh đáp lại. Và không phải chỉ là tình yêu n-nửa vời.”

Nàng nghe hơi thở anh rít qua những kẻ răng. Hai bàn tay anh tìm đến bờ vai nàng, rồi anh giật chúng lại. “Em phải để anh đặt ra giới hạn cho mình, nếu không—“

Evie với đến miệng anh và hôn anh chầm chậm, say đắm, cho đến khi anh đầu hàng với một tiếng rên rỉ, vòng tay anh siết chặt quanh nàng. Anh tuyệt vọng đáp lại nụ hôn nàng, cho đến khi mọi phần trong cơ thể nàng bị nhóm lên trong ngọn lửa dịu dàng. Anh dứt môi khỏi nàng, thở gấp gấp. “Nửa vời. Chúa ơi. Anh yêu em quá nhiều anh đang chết chìm trong tình yêu. Anh không có khả năng tự vệ. Anh không còn biết mình là ai nữa. Tất cả những gì mà anh biết là nếu anh đầu hàng nó hoàn toàn—“ Anh cố gắng kiềm chế hơi thở hỗn loạn của mình. “Em quá quan trọng đối với anh,” anh nói rời rạc.

Evie xoa bàn tay nàng lên khuôn ngực cứng rắn của anh trong một cử chỉ vỗ về. Nàng hiểu sự tuyệt vọng của anh, những cảm xúc quá xa lạ và mạnh mẽ chúng gần như chôn vùi anh. Nó nhắc nàng về điều gì đó mà Annabelle đã tâm sự với nàng, rằng khi mới kết hôn, ngài Hunt đã hoàn toàn bị áp đảo bởi những cảm xúc mãnh liệt anh dành cho cô, và phải cần có thời gian để anh hòa hợp với tình cảm ấy. “Sebastian,” Evie đánh bạo nói, “anh biết không, nó sẽ không cứ mãi như thế này đâu. Nó...nó sẽ trở nên tự nhiên hơn, dễ chịu hơn, sau một khoảng thời gian.”

“Không, sẽ không như thế.”

Anh nghe thật tha thiết, thật chắc chắn, nàng phải dấu một nụ cười bên vai anh. “Em yêu anh,” nàng nói lần nữa, và cảm thấy một đợt rùng mình khao khát lướt qua anh. “Anh có thể đ-đẩy em đi, nhưng anh không thể ngăn em trở lại bên anh. Em muốn cùng anh trải qua từng ngày. Em muốn ngắm anh cạo râu mỗi sáng. Em muốn uống rượu sâm banh và khiêu vũ với anh. Em muốn mạng những chỗ rách trên vớ anh. Em muốn ngủ cùng giường anh mỗi tối, và sinh con cho anh.” Nàng ngừng lời. “Chẳng lẽ anh nghĩ em không sợ hãi sao? Có lẽ một ngày nào đó anh sẽ thức dậy và nói rằng anh đã chán em rồi. Có lẽ tất cả những gì anh chấp nhận vào lúc này sẽ khiến anh quá bực bội không thể chịu được—tật lắp bắp của em, những vết tàn nhang—“

“Đừng có ngu ngốc,” Sebastian thô bạo ngắt lời nàng. “Tật nói lắp của em sẽ không bao giờ khiến anh phiền lòng. Và anh yêu những đốt tàn nhang của em. Anh yêu—“ Giọng anh vỡ òa. Anh siết chặt nàng. “Khỉ thật,” anh lầm bầm. Và rồi, sau một khắc, anh nói với sự dữ dội cay đắng, “Anh ước gì mình là ai đó khác.”

“Tại sao?” nàng hỏi, lời nàng nghẹn nghẹt bên vai anh.

“Tại sao à? Quá khứ của anh là một vũng lầy*, Evie.” (*nguyên bản ‘cesspole’: hố phân, trong quá trình dịch M có chỉnh lại một tí*)

“Điều đó đâu phải là chuyện gì mới ạ.”

“Anh không bao giờ có thể chuộc lỗi cho những gì anh đã làm. Lạy Chúa, anh ước mình được làm lại từ đầu! Anh sẽ nỗ lực để làm một người tốt hơn xứng đáng với em. Anh sẽ--“

“Anh không phải trở thành ai đó khác con người anh bây giờ đâu.” Ngẩng đầu, Evie nhìn anh qua làn nước mắt tỏa sáng long lanh. “Chẳng phải đó là điều anh đã nói với em mới đây sao? Nếu anh có thể yêu em vô điều kiện, Sebastian, vậy em có thể yêu anh như thế được không? Em biết anh là ai mà. Em nghĩ hai chúng ta biết nhau còn nhiều hơn những gì chúng ta biết về bản thân mình. Anh dám đẩy em đi sao, k-kẻ nhát gan. Còn ai sẽ yêu những vết tàn nhang của em đây? Còn ai sẽ bận lòng khi chân em bị lạnh? Còn ai sẽ cưỡng đoạt em trong phòng bida nữa?”

Chầm chậm, sự chống đối trong anh liệm tắt. Nàng cảm nhận được sự thay đổi trong cơ thể anh, sự căng thẳng trong anh thả lỏng, đôi vai anh cong lại quanh nàng như thể anh có thể đem nàng vào trong anh. Thì thầm tên nàng, anh nâng bàn tay nàng lên mặt anh và nồng nhiệt cọ má vào lòng bàn tay nàng, môi anh lướt trên chiếc nhẫn cưới ấm áp trên tay nàng. “Tình yêu anh trao em,” anh thì thầm...và rồi nàng biết là nàng đã thắng. Người đàn ông đầy thiếu sót, lạ thường, đầy đam mê này là của nàng, trái tim anh đã trao trọn vẹn cho nàng gìn giữ. Đó là một niềm tin mà nàng sẽ không bao giờ quay lưng lại. Lòng đầy khuây khỏa và yêu thương, Evie níu chặt lấy anh trong khi một giọt lệ lăn xuống từ khóe mắt nàng. Sebastian gạt nó đi bằng những ngón tay anh, ngắm nhìn khuôn mặt nàng đang ngẩng lên. Và điều nàng thấy trong ánh mắt lấp lánh của anh lấy đi hơi thở nàng.

“Chà,” Sebastian nói run rẩy, “có lẽ em đã đúng về căn phòng bida.”

Và nàng mỉm cười khi anh nâng nàng trong vòng tay và bế bổng nàng đến giường ngủ.

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Chương kết

Trời đã gần cuối đông. Vì khoảng thời gian để tang của Evie trùng với thời gian sinh nở của Annabelle nên hai người họ đã trải qua rất nhiều thời gian ở bên nhau. Họ đều không thể tham gia những cuộc hội họp như vũ hội hay những dạ tiệc sang trọng, nhưng điều đó đều hợp với ý muốn của họ, vì trời đã trở lạnh như dao cắt kể từ đêm Giáng sinh, và mùa xuân dường như đang miễn cưỡng không muốn ghé thăm. Thay vì lang thang quanh thành phố, họ ngồi túm tụm bên cạnh nhau tại lò sưởi nơi căn phòng khách sạn sang trọng của nhà Hunt, hoặc thường xuyên hơn, họ quây quần với Lillian và Daisy trong một căn phòng khách riêng ấm cúng tại khu Marsden Terrace của dòng tộc Westcliff. Họ đọc, trò chuyện, và làm đồ thủ công trong khi không ngừng chia sẻ những tách trà.

Một buổi chiều nọ, Lillian ngồi sau một cái bàn viết trong một góc phòng, chăm chỉ ngồi viết một lá thư cho một người chị dâu của cô, trong khi Daisy ngồi tựa vào một ghế nệm dài với một cuốn tiểu thuyết, dáng người mảnh khảnh của cô bọc trong một tấm chăn nhỏ bằng lụa tơ tằm. Annabelle ngồi trên ghế nơi lò sưởi bập bùng, một bàn tay cô đặt trên đường cong căng tròn của bụng, trong khi Evie ngồi tại ghế đẩu trước mặt cô, xoa bàn chân đau nhức cho cô. Vừa nhăn mặt vừa thở dài, Annabelle thì thầm, “Ôi, cảm giác thật tuyệt. Chẳng có ai báo trước cho chị thời kỳ thai nghén lại khiến cho chân người ta đau nhức đến vậy. Dù lẽ ra chị đã phải biết trước mới phải, với tất cả trọng lượng quá tải mà chân chị phải chịu. Cám ơn em nhé, Evie. Em là người bạn đáng mến nhất trên đời.”

Giọng nói châm biếm của Lillian vang lên từ góc phòng. “Chị ấy đã nói với mình những lời y chang, Evie, vào lần vừa rồi mình bóp chân cho chị ấy. Lòng thành của chị ấy chỉ trụ được đến lần xoa bóp tiếp theo thôi. Thừa nhận đi, chị Annabelle—chị là một người nhẹ dạ.”

Annabelle cười toe uể oải. “Cứ chờ cho đến lúc em có thai mà xem, em thân mến. Em sẽ đi van nài được xoa chân từ bất cứ ai tình nguyện phục vụ thôi.”

Lillian mở miệng để đáp lời, dường như nghĩ kĩ hơn về điều đó, và rồi uống một ngụm rượu vang từ một ly thủy tinh trên bàn.

Không hề nhìn lên khỏi cuốn tiểu thuyết của mình, Daisy nói, “Ôi, cứ đi mà nói với họ đi.”

Cả Annabelle và Evie cùng quay sang nhìn Lillian trân trân. “Nói chuyện gì cơ?” họ nối đuôi nhau. Lillian trả lời với một cái nhún vai nhanh và ngại ngùng, rồi phóng một nụ cười toe toét bẽn lẽn qua vai.

“Đến giữa hè, Westcliff cuối cùng cũng sẽ có người thừa tự.”

“Trừ khi đó là một bé gái,” Daisy nói thêm. “Chúng mừng cậu,” Evie thốt lên, ngay lập tức rời bỏ Annabelle. Nàng hứng khởi đến ôm Lillian. “Đúng là một tin tuyệt vời!” “Westcliff chẳng còn là mình nữa vì quá vui sướng, dù anh ấy có gắng không để lộ điều đó,” Lillian nói, ôm lại nàng. “Mình chắc giờ này anh ấy đang nói lại với St. Vincent và ngài Hunt đấy. Dường như anh ấy tin rằng đó hoàn toàn là thành quả của mình anh ấy.”
                                                     

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“À thì, ngài ấy cũng góp phần thiết yếu mà, chẳng phải sao?” Annabelle hài hước chỉ ra.

“Vâng,” Lillian trả lời, “nhưng phần chính của nhiệm vụ này rõ ràng là của em.” Annabelle cười toe với Lillian từ đầu kia căn phòng. “Em sẽ làm rất tốt thôi, em thân mến. Tha thứ cho chị vì đã không nhảy cẫng lên băng qua phòng; chỉ cần biết là chị thật sự đang vui mừng tột độ. Chị hy vọng là con chị và con của em sẽ hoàn toàn trái ngược nhau để chúng ta có thể sắp xếp một lễ cưới cho chúng.” Giọng cô trở nên kêu ca và dỗ dành. "Evie...quay lại đi chứ. Em không thể bỏ chị lại với chỉ một bàn chân được xoa.”

Vừa lắc đầu vừa mỉm cười, Evie quay lại chỗ ghế đẩu cạnh lò sưởi. Nàng nhìn sang Daisy, nhận thấy ánh mắt trầm ngâm trìu mến của cô hướng về người chị của mình. Nhận thấy vẻ bâng khuâng của cô gái, Evie nói khi nàng ngồi lại chỗ mình bên bàn chân Annabelle, “Giữa cuộc trò chuyện về các ông chồng và những em bé này thì chúng ta không thể quên tìm một quý ông cho Daisy.”

Cô gái với mái tóc đen gửi cho nàng một nụ cười rộng yêu mến. “Chị mới đáng yêu làm sao, Evie. Và em không phiền phải chờ đến lượt mình đâu. Rốt cuộc thì ai đó phải là hoa-bên-lề cuối cùng chứ. Nhưng em đang bắt đầu tự hỏi liệu em có bao giờ tìm thấy một người phù hợp để kết hôn không nữa.”

“Tất nhiên em sẽ tìm được,” Annabelle nói đầy lý lẽ. “Chị không thấy trước bất cứ khó khăn nào hết, Daisy à. Tất cả chúng ta đều đã mở rộng tầm quen biết hơn một chút rồi, và chúng ta sẽ làm bất cứ điều gì cần thiết để tìm cho em người chồng hoàn hảo.”

“Chỉ cần nhớ kĩ là em không muốn kết hôn với một người như Ngài Westcliff,” Daisy nói. “Quá chuyên quyền. Và không phải một người như Ngài St. Vincent luôn. Quá khó đoán.”

“Thế còn một người như ngài Hunt thì sao?” Annabelle hỏi.

Daisy kiên quyết lắc đầu. “Quá cao.”

“Em đang trở nên hơi khó chìu đấy nhỉ?” Annabelle dịu dàng chỉ ra, đôi mắt cô sáng lấp lánh.

“Không hề! Những yêu cầu của em là rất hợp lý ấy chứ. Em muốn một người đàn ông tử tế thích những buổi tản bộ đường dài, và yêu thích sách, và được yêu mến bởi trẻ em và cả những chú cún—“

“Và bởi tất cả những hình thái cao cấp của thủy sinh và thực vật nữa chứ,” Lillian nói khô khan. “Nói xem nào, chúng ta phải tìm con người mẫu mực này ở đâu bây giờ?”

“Không phải ở những vũ hội mà em đã tham dự,” câu trả lời của Daisy rầu rĩ. “Em không nghĩ chuyện có thể tệ hơn, nhưng những người được tuyển lựa năm nay còn tệ hơn cả năm ngoái. Em đang bắt đầu tin là bất cứ người đàn ông nào xứng đáng để em kết hôn sẽ không thể được tìm thấy ở những sự kiện như thế này.”

“Chị nghĩ là em đúng,” Lillian nói. “Có quá nhiều cạnh tranh ở những sự kiện đó—và nơi khai thác tốt nhất đã thưa thớt rồi. Đã đến lúc đi săn ở một đồng cỏ khác.”

“Trong văn phòng câu lạc bộ có những tài liệu về tất cả các thành viên,” Evie tự nguyện. “Khoảng hai ngàn năm trăm quý ông có điều kiện. Tất nhiên, phần lớn trong số họ đã kết hôn—nhưng chị tin chắc là chị có thể tìm thấy nhiều hơn một cái tên của các quý ông thích hợp.”

“Ngài St. Vincent sẽ cho phép chị xem những thông tin tuyệt mật thế à?” Daisy hỏi nghi ngờ.

Lillian phản bác lại bằng một giọng pha trò, “Ngài ấy đã bao giờ từ chối cô ấy bất cứ điều gì chưa?”

Evie, gần đây đã cam chịu những lời trêu chọc không ngớt từ các bạn nàng về sự sùng bái rành rành của Sebastian, mỉm cười và nhìn xuống chiếc nhẫn cưới trên tay nàng khi nó sáng nhoáng lên trong ánh lửa. “Hiếm lắm,” nàng thừa nhận.

Câu nói khiến Lillian bật cười trêu chọc. “Thật đấy, phải có ai đó nói với St. Vincent anh ta là một hình mẫu sống rập khuôn đi thôi. Anh ta đã trở thành hiện thân của tất cả những gì họ nói về những kẻ trác táng tu tâm dưỡng tính.”

Annabelle dựa lưng vào ghế và hỏi Evie, “Ngài ấy đã tu tâm dưỡng tính chưa, em thân mến?”

Nghĩ về người chồng dịu dàng, tinh quái đầy thương yêu đang chờ nàng dưới lầu, nụ cười của Evie nở rộng toe toét. “Chỉ vừa đủ thôi ạ,” nàng nhẹ nhàng trả lời, và sẽ không nói gì thêm nữa.

HẾT

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nhonmoon gửi lúc 24-12-2011 14:41
miình đã đợi đọc hết tác phẩm mới bình luận
cám ơn bạn rất nhiều vì đã post ,  ...

thanks bạn đã com :). mình thấy "Devil in winter" rất hay nên muốn chia sẻ với mọi người, rất mừng vì có những bạn đã đọc và cũng có cùng suy nghĩ như thế :)

mình đã đọc cả 4 quyển Wallflower nhưng thích "Devil in winter"  nhất & cũng thấy nhiều bạn bên e-thuvien khen là hay nhất trong 4 quyển :)
mình cũng như bạn, thấy rất phục khả năng diễn đạt của người dịch ;) ,
truyện có những cảnh hot nhưng diễn đạt khéo léo, ko bị phô :) , khả năng chuyển ngữ và vốn từ phải nói là mình ngả mũ kính chào ^^
lúc đầu mới đọc ko nghĩ là có truyện như thế này @.@!!!, trước đây cũng chưa bao giờ chạm đến phim hay tiểu thuyết 18+ ^^!!!, toàn đọc truyện kiểu như "Nanh trắng" với "Tiếng gọi nơi hoang dã" =)))))))

nhưng cái mình thích nhất và bị cuốn hút bởi truyện này là tình yêu của 2 nhân vật chính :),  ngọt, sâu & ngày càng lớn dần lên :), lại cũng có nhiều chi tiết hài hước nữa :D. phải nói là mình nhiều khi cười lăn quay với những câu thoại của Sebastian & Evie =))))))), lời thoại và cách đối đáp cũng thể hiện ngay là kẻ trác táng lả lướt cợt nhả & cô bé cừu non ngây thơ nhưng cũng trưởng thành & mạnh mẽ dần qua từng trang truyện :)

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Chapter 3

For Evie, who had been uncomfortable during the previous week’s twelve-hour drive from Westcliff’s Hampshire estate, the forty-eight-hour journey toScotlandwas nothing short of torture. Had their pace been more moderate, it would have been much easier. However, at Evie’s own insistence they went straight through toGretna Green, stopping only to change drivers and horse teams at three-hour intervals. Evie feared that if her relations had managed to discover what she was doing, they would be in close pursuit. And considering the outcome ofSt. Vincent’s battle with Lord Westcliff, Evie had little hope that he could win in a physical standoff against her uncle Peregrine.

Well-sprung and equipped though the carriage was, traveling at such relentless speed caused the vehicle to jolt and sway until Evie began to feel nauseated. She was exhausted and could find no comfortable position in which to sleep. Her head bumped constantly against the wall. It seemed that whenever she did manage to nod off, only a few minutes passed before she was awakened.

St. Vincent was less obviously miserable than Evie, though he too had acquired a rumpled, travel-worn appearance. Any attempts at conversation had long since dwindled, and they rode together in stoic silence. Surprisingly,St. Vincentdid not utter a word of protest about this grim exercise in endurance. Evie realized that he felt the same urgency that she did to reachScotland. It was in his best interests, even more than hers, to see that they were legally married as soon as possible.

On and on and on… the carriage bounced on rough patches of road, at times nearly pitching Evie from the seat to the floor. The pattern of fitful dozing and forced awakenings continued. Every time the carriage door opened, with St. Vincent leaping down to check on a new team, a blast of freezing air came into the vehicle. Cold and aching and stiff, Evie huddled in the corner.

Night was followed by a day of biting temperatures and drizzling rain that soaked through Evie’s cloak as St. Vincent shepherded her across an inn yard. He took Evie to a private room, where she ate a lukewarm bowl of soup and made use of the chamber pot while he went to oversee yet another change of horses and driver. The sight of the bed nearly made Evie ill with longing. But sleep could come later, after she had gone toGretna Greenand permanently removed herself from her family’s reach.

All totaled, the duration of the stay was less than a half hour. Returning to the carriage, Evie tried to remove her wet shoes without smearing mud onto the velvet upholstery.St. Vincentclimbed in after her and bent to help. While he untied her shoes and drew them from her cramped feet, Evie wordlessly removed the rain-soaked hat from his head and tossed it to the opposite seat. His hair looked thick and soft, the locks containing every shade between amber and champagne.

Moving to sit beside her,St. Vincent contemplated her pinched-looking face and reached out to touch the chilled curve of her cheek. “I’ll say this for you,” he murmured. “Any other woman would be howling with complaints by now.”

“I c-c-can hardly complain,” Evie said, shivering violently, “when I’m the one who asked to go straight thr-through toScotland.”

“We’re halfway there. One more night, and a day, and we’ll be married by tomorrow evening.” His lips quirked with the wry suggestion of a smile. “No doubt there’s never been a bride more eager for the marital bed.”

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Chapter 7

  

The weather improved substantially during their journey back to London, with the rain finally disappearing. However, the warming temperatures outside the coach were offset by the degree of frostiness that had developed between the newlyweds inside. Although Sebastian grudgingly kept the foot warmer filled, there were no more invitations for Evie to snuggle in his arms or sleep against his chest. She knew it was for the best. The more she became acquainted with him, the more convinced Evie was that any closeness between them would result in disaster. He was dangerous to her in ways that even he wasn’t aware of.

She reassured herself with the knowledge that as soon as they arrived in town, they would more or less part company. She would stay at the club, and he would go to his house and continue his usual pursuits until he received word of her father’s death. At that time, it was likely that he would want to sell the club and use the proceeds, along with the rest of her inheritance, to replenish his family’s empty coffers.

The thought of selling Jenner’s, which had been the center of her father’s life, gave Evie a feeling of melancholy. However, it would be the most sensible course of action. Few men possessed the ability to run a gaming club successfully. Its owner had to possess the magnetism to lure people into the club, and the artful shrewdness to find ways to make them stay and spend great quantities of money. Not to mention the business sense to invest the profits wisely.

Ivo Jenner had possessed the first two qualities in moderation, but the third not at all. In the recent past he had lost a fortune atNewmarket, having become susceptible in his old age to the glib-tongued rogues who populated the racing world. Fortunately the club was such a powerful financial engine that it was able to absorb the heavy losses.

Sebastian’s unkind taunt that Jenner’s was a second-rate gambling palace was only partially correct. Evie knew from past conversations with her father, who had never bothered to mince words, that although his club was successful by anyone’s standards, it had never reached the heights to which he had aspired. He had wanted it to equal Craven’s, the rival club that had burned down so long ago. But Ivo Jenner had never been able to match the flair and devilish guile of Derek Craven. It was said that Craven had won the money of an entire generation of Englishmen. That Craven’s had disappeared at its zenith had solidified its legendary status in the collective memory of British society.

And while Jenner’s had not come close to the glory of Craven’s, it had not been for a lack of trying. Ivo Jenner had moved his own club fromCovent GardentoKing Street, which had once been a mere passageway into the fashionable shopping and residential area of St. James, but was now a regular roadway. After purchasing a large portion of the street and razing four buildings, Jenner had built a large and handsome club and advertised it as having the largest hazard bank inLondon. When gentlemen wished to play deep, they went to Jenner’s.

Evie remembered the club from her childhood, on the occasions when she had been allowed to visit her father for the day. It had been a well-appointed, if somewhat overelaborate place, and she had delighted in standing with him on the second-floor interior balcony and watching the action on the main floor. Grinning indulgently, Jenner would walk his daughter to St. James Street, where they would go to any shop she cared to visit. They went to the perfumer, the hatter’s, the book and print seller, and the bread and biscuit baker, who gave Evie a hot cross bun so fresh that the white piping of icing was half melting from the surface of the warm bread.

As the years passed, Evie’s visits toKing Streethad been curtailed. Although she had always blamed the Maybricks for it, she now realized that her father had also been partly responsible. It had been much easier for Jenner to love her as a child, when he could make her squeal by tossing her in the air and catching her in his burly arms. He could rumple her red hair, the same shade as his own, and soothe her tears upon leaving him by pressing a sweet or a shilling into her palm. But when she became a young woman, and he could no longer treat her like a little girl, their relationship had become awkward and distant. “This club’s no place for you, tibby,” he had told her with gruff fondness. “You has to stay away from a milling cove like me, and find some rum cull to marry.”

“Papa,” she had begged, stammering desperately, “d-don’t send me back there. Pl-please, please let me stay with you.”

“Little tangle-tongue, you belong with the Maybricks. And no use to hop the twig and run back here. I’ll only send you off again.”

Her tears had failed to sway him. During the ensuing years, Evie’s visits to her father’s club had dwindled to once every six months, or longer. Whether or not it was for her own good, the sense of being unwanted had sunk deep into her marrow. She had become so uneasy around men, so certain that they would be bored by her, that it had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Her stammer worsened—the harder she fought to get the words out, the more incoherent she had become, until it was easiest to remain silent and fade into the woodwork. She had become an expert at being a wallflower. She had never been asked to dance, never been kissed, never been teased or courted. The only proposal she had ever received had been cousin Eustace’s reluctant offer.

                                                                                                   

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Marveling at her change in fortune, Evie glanced at her husband, who had brooded silently during the past two hours. His eyes narrowed as he looked back at her. With his cold expression and cynical mouth, he seemed completely unlike the seductive scoundrel who had shared a bed with her two days earlier.

She turned her attention to the window as the scenery of London passed by her. Soon they would be at the club, and she would see her father. It had been six months since they had been together, and Evie had braced herself for a great change in him. Consumption was a common disease, and everyone was aware of its ravages.

It was a slow death of lung tissue, accompanied by fever, coughing, weight loss, and drenching sweats at night. When death arrived, it was usually welcomed by the victim, and all those who cared for him, as an end to the terrible suffering. Evie could not imagine her robust father being reduced to such a condition. She feared seeing him equally as much as she yearned to care for him. However, she kept this all to herself, suspecting that Sebastian would only mock her if she told him of her fears.

Her pulse quickened as the carriage rolled along St. James and turned ontoKing Street. The long brick and marble front of Jenner’s became visible, silhouetted against the yellows and reds of a ripening sunset that glowed through the ever-present haze that hung overLondon. Staring through the carriage window, Evie let out a tense sigh as the vehicle passed through one of the many alleys that led from the main thoroughfare to the mews and yards behind the row of buildings.

The carriage came to a halt at the back entrance, which was far preferable to entering through the front of the building. Jenner’s was not a place that nice women frequented. A gentleman might bring his mistress, or even a prostitute who had captured his passing interest, but he would never think of escorting a respectable lady into the club. Evie became aware that Sebastian was watching her with the dispassionate interest of an entomologist observing a new species of beetle. Her sudden paleness and her visible trembling could not have escaped his notice, but he offered no word or gesture of comfort.

Preceding her from the carriage, Sebastian fitted his hands around Evie’s waist and helped her down to the ground. The smell of the back alley was the same as it had been since Evie’s childhood—manure, garbage, liquor, and the crisp overlay of coal smoke. No doubt she was the only young woman of privileged upbringing inLondonto think that it smelled rather like home. At least it struck her nostrils more agreeably than the atmosphere at the Maybrick house, which was redolent of rotting carpets and bad cologne.

Wincing at the ache of muscles that had been cramped in the carriage for far too long, Evie went to the doorway. Entrances to the kitchen and other service rooms were located farther along the building, but this one opened to a staircase that went up to her father’s apartments. The driver had already summoned a club employee with a few decisive pounds of his fist at the door, and stepped back perfunctorily.

A young man appeared, and Evie was relieved to see a face that she recognized. It was Joss Bullard, a long-familiar figure at the club, who had worked there as a debt collector and an usher. He was large, stocky, and dark-haired, with a bullet-shaped head and a heavy jaw. Possessing a natural inclination toward surliness, Bullard had treated Evie with a bare minimum of courtesy whenever she had visited the club. However, she had heard her father praise him for his loyalty, and for that she was appreciative.

“Mr. Bullard,” she said, “I’ve c-come to see my father. Please allow me i-i-inside.”

The burly young man did not move. “’E ’asn’t asked for you,” he said gruffly. He switched his gaze to Sebastian, taking note of his expensive garments. “Go to the front, sir, if you’re a member.”

“Idiot,” Evie heard Sebastian mutter, and before he could continue, Evie interrupted hastily.

“Is Mr. Egan available at pr-present?” she asked, naming the club’s factotum, who had worked for her father for the past ten years. She had no great liking for Egan, who was a boastful, blustering sort, but he wouldn’t dare refuse her entrance to her own father’s club.

“Nay.”

“Then Mr. Rohan,” Evie said desperately. “Please tell him that M-Miss Jenner is here.”

“I told ye—”

“Get Rohan,” Sebastian snapped at the young man, and wedged his boot against the door to prevent it from being closed. “We’ll wait inside. My wife isn’t going to be kept standing out on the street.”

Looking startled by the cold gleam in the taller man’s eyes, the employee muttered his assent and disappeared swiftly.

Sebastian guided Evie over the threshold and glanced at the nearby staircase. “Shall we go upstairs?”

She shook her head. “I would rather speak to Mr. Rohan first, actually. I’m sure he’ll be able to tell me something about my father’s c-condition.”

At the sound of her slight stammer, Sebastian lifted his hand to the nape of her neck, slid it beneath her untidy hair, and squeezed gently. Though his face was still cold, his hand was warm and soothing, and she felt herself relax involuntarily. “Who is Rohan?”

“He’s one of the croupiers…he has been employed here since he was a boy. My father started him as a listmaker’s runner. You would remember Mr. Rohan, if you’ve seen him before. He is rather difficult to overlook.”

Sebastian pondered the remark and murmured, “He’s the Gypsy, isn’t he?”

“Half Gypsy, I believe, on his mother’s side.”

“What is the other half?”

“No one knows.” She threw him a guarded glance as she said quietly, “I’ve always wondered if he might be my half brother.”

                                                                                                                                    

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Interest flickered in his pale eyes. “Did you ever ask your father?”

“Yes. He denied it.” However, Evie had never been quite convinced. Her father had always demonstrated a vaguely paternal manner withCam. And she was not so naive as to believe that he hadn’t sired a few illegitimate children. He was a man of renowned physical appetites, and moreover he had never been one to worry over the consequences of his actions. Wondering if the same could be said of her husband, she asked cautiously, “Sebastian, have you ever…”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he said, understanding immediately. “I’ve always been inclined to use French letters—not only to prevent conception, but also to avoid the more exotic ailments that afflict the unwary.”

Bewildered by the statement, Evie murmured. “French letters? What are those? And what do you mean, ailments? Do you mean that doing…that…could make one ill? But how—”

“Good God,” Sebastian muttered, his fingers touching her mouth to still the questions. “I’ll explain later. It’s not the kind of thing one likes to discuss on the doorstep.”

Evie was prevented from asking further questions by the appearance of Cam Rohan. AsCamsaw Evie, a faint smile came to his face, and he bowed gracefully. Even whenCam’s manner and movements were restrained, there seemed to be an invisible flourish, a suggestion of physical charisma. He was by far the best croupier at Jenner’s, though his appearance—that of a boy pirate—would hardly lead one to think so at first. He was about twenty-five, his body imbued with the slimness of young adulthood. The swarthy hue of his skin and the inky blackness of his hair betrayed his heritage, not to mention his first name, which was common for a Romany. Evie had always liked the soft-spoken young man, whose fierce loyalty to her father had been demonstrated numerous times over the years.

Cam was well-dressed in dark clothes and polished shoes, but as usual his hair wanted cutting, the thick black locks curling over the crisp white edge of his collar. And his long, lean fingers were adorned with a few gold rings. As his head lifted, Evie saw the glitter of a diamond stud in one ear—an exotic touch that suited him.Cam regarded her with the remarkable golden-hazel eyes that often lulled people into forgetting about the nimble mind behind them. At times his gaze was so penetrating that he seemed to be looking right through you…as if he were watching something behind you.

“Gadji,” Camsaid softly, a friendly use of the Romany name for a non-Gypsy woman. He had an unusual accent, cultured, but tainted with hints of cockney and a sort of foreign rhythm, all blended in a unique mixture. “Welcome,” he said with a brief but dazzling smile. “Your father will be pleased to see you.”

“Thank you,Cam. I…I was afraid he might already h-have—”

“No,”Cam murmured, his smile dimming. “He is still alive.” He hesitated before adding, “Most of the time he sleeps. He won’t eat. I don’t think it will be long. He’s asked for you. I tried to send for you, but—”

“The Maybricks wouldn’t allow it,” Evie half whispered, her mouth tightening with anger. They had not bothered to tell her that her father had asked for her. And Joss Bullard had just lied to her. “Well, I’m away fr-from them for good,Cam. I’ve married. And I will remain here until my father…no longer n-n-needs me.”

Cam’s gaze swerved to Sebastian’s implacable countenance. Recognition kindled, and he murmured, “Lord St. Vincent.” If he had an opinion about Evie’s union with such a man, he did not reveal it.

Evie touched the surface of Cam’s coat sleeve. “Is my father awake now?” she asked anxiously. “May I go up to see him?”

“Of course.” The Gypsy took both her hands in a light grip, the gold rings warmed by the liberal heat of his fingers. “I will see to it that no one interferes.”

“Thank you.”

Suddenly Sebastian reached between them and plucked one of Evie’s hands away, pulling it decisively to his own arm. Though his manner was casual, the firm pressure of his fingers ensured that she would not try to pull away.

Puzzled by the display of possessiveness, Evie frowned. “I have knownCamsince childhood,” she said pointedly. “He has always been quite kind to me.”

“A husband always likes to hear of kindnesses done for his wife,” Sebastian replied coolly. “Within limits, of course.”

“Of course,” Cam said softly. His attention returned to Evie. “Shall I show you upstairs, milady?”

She shook her head. “No, I know the way. Please r-return to what you were doing.”

Cam bowed again and exchanged a swift glance with Evie, both of them acknowledging tacitly that they would find an opportunity to talk later.

“Do you dislike him because he’s a Rom?” Evie asked her husband as they went to the stairs.

“I rarely dislike people for things they can’t change,” Sebastian replied sardonically. “They usually give me sufficient cause to dislike them for other reasons.”

Her hand fell away from his arm as she picked up her skirts.

“Where is the factotum, I wonder?” Sebastian continued, setting a palm at the small of her back as they ascended the stairs. “It’s early evening. The hazard room and the dining room are open—he should be busy.”

“He drinks,” Evie commented.

“That explains a great deal about the way this club is run.”

Sensitive to any insult about her father’s club, and uncomfortably aware of the gentle pressure of his hand on her back, Evie had to bite her tongue to hold back a stinging reply. How easy it was for a pampered nobleman to criticize the way professional men did things. If he had to run a place like this himself—perish the thought—he might have a great deal more respect for what her father had accomplished.

They climbed to the second level and proceeded along a second-floor gallery that wrapped completely around the upper part of the room. One had only to look over the balcony railings to view all the action of the main floor. This, the largest area of the club, was devoted entirely to hazard. Three oval tables covered with green baize cloth and yellow markings were surrounded by dozens of men. The sounds that floated upward—the constant rattle of dice, the quiet but intense exclamations of the casters and the croupiers, the soft drag of the little wooden rakes as they pulled money from the table into the croupier’s hands—they were among some of Evie’s earliest childhood recollections. She glanced at the magnificent carved desk in the corner of the room where her father had sat, approving credit, granting temporary memberships, and raising the hazard bank if the play had been too deep. At the moment the desk was occupied by a man of rather seedy appearance whom she did not know. Her gaze moved to the opposite corner of the room, where another stranger acted as general supervisor, regulating payments and overseeing the pace of the play.

                                                                                                         
                                                                                    

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Pausing at the railing, Sebastian looked down at the main floor with an oddly intent expression. Wanting to go to her father at once, Evie gave an impatient tug at his arm. However, Sebastian did not budge. In fact, he barely seemed to notice her, so absorbed was he in the activities taking place downstairs. “What is it?” Evie asked. “Do you see something unusual? Something wrong?”

Sebastian shook his head slightly and dragged his attention from the main floor. His gaze moved around them, taking in the faded painted panels on the walls, the chipped molding, the threadbare piling of the carpeting. Jenner’s had once been splendidly decorated, but as the years had passed, it had lost much of its luster. “How many members of the club are there?” he asked. “Excluding temporary memberships.”

“There used to be something like two thousand,” Evie replied. “I don’t know what the current figures are.” She tugged at his arm again. “I want to see my father. If I must go unaccompanied—”

“You’re not to go anywhere unaccompanied,” Sebastian said, focusing on her with an bright immediacy that startled her. His eyes were like polished moonstones. “You could be pulled into one of the bawdy rooms by some top-heavy drunkard—or an employee, for that matter—and raped before anyone realizes you’re missing.”

“I’m perfectly safe here,” she countered with annoyance. “I am still acquainted with many of the employees, and I know my way around the club better than you do.”

“Not for long,” Sebastian murmured, and his gaze returned almost compulsively to the main floor. “I’m going to go over every inch of this place. I’m going to know all its secrets.”

Taken aback by the statement, Evie gave him a perplexed glance. She realized that subtle changes had taken place in him from the moment they had entered the club…she was at a loss to account for his strange reaction. His customary languid manner had been replaced by a new alertness, as if he were absorbing the restless energy of the club’s atmosphere.

“You are staring at the club as if you’d never seen it before,” she murmured.

Sebastian ran his hand along the balcony railing experimentally, regarded the smudge of dust on his palm, and brushed it off. His expression was contemplative rather than critical as he replied, “It looks different now that it’s mine.”

“It’s not yours yet,” Evie replied darkly, realizing that he must be assessing the value of the place for its future sale. How like him to think of money while her father lay on his deathbed. “Do you ever think of anyone other than yourself?”

The question seemed to pull him out of his absorption, and his face became inscrutable. “Rarely, my love.”

They stared at each other, Evie’s eyes accusing, Sebastian’s opaque, and she understood that to expect any decency from him was to invite recurring disappointment. His ruined soul could not be repaired by her kindness and understanding. He would never become one of the reformed rakes that were featured in Daisy Bowman’s trove of scandalous novels.

“I expect that you’ll get everything you want quite soon,” she said coldly. “In the meantime, I’m going to my father’s room.” She started off along the gallery without him, and in a few long strides he fell into step beside her.

By the time they reached the private apartments that Ivo Jenner occupied, Evie’s blood was rustling madly in her ears. Equal parts of fear and longing caused her palms to dampen and her stomach to turn hollow. As she reached for the doorknob to the suite of rooms, her palm slipped on the tarnished brass.

“Allow me,” Sebastian said brusquely, brushing her hand aside. He opened the door and held it for her, and followed her into the dark receiving room. The only light came from the open doorway of the bedroom, where a small lamp gave off an indifferent glow. Evie went through the next threshold and paused, blinking until her eyes adjusted to the shadowy atmosphere. Barely aware of the presence of the man beside her, she approached the bed.

Her father was sleeping, mouth slightly open, his skin pale and glowing with a peculiar delicacy, as if he were a wax figure. Deep lines crossed his face, giving his cheeks the appearance of window shutters. He was half the size he had once been, his arms astonishingly thin, his form shrunken. Evie struggled to reconcile the unfamiliar, slight form on the bed with the big, burly father she had always known. Grief-stricken tenderness flooded her as she saw his red hair, now heavily mixed with silver, standing up in places on his head as if it were a baby bird’s ruffled feathers.

The room smelled of burned candle wicks, medicine, and unwashed skin. It smelled of sickness and approaching death. She saw a pile of dirty bedclothes in the corner, and a litter of crumpled bloodstained handkerchiefs on the floor. The night table was covered with a collection of dirty spoons and colored glass medicine bottles. Evie bent to pick up some of the soiled articles on the floor, but Sebastian caught her by the arm. “You don’t have to do that,” he muttered. “One of the housemaids can see to it.”

“Yes,” Evie whispered bitterly. “I see what a fine job they’ve been doing.” Jerking her arm away from his, she snatched up the dirty handkerchiefs and went to drop them into the pile of discarded bed linens.

Sebastian wandered to the bedside and glanced down at Jenner’s wasted form. He picked up one of the medicine bottles, passed it beneath his nose, and murmured, “Morphine.”

For some reason it provoked Evie to see him standing near her helpless father and examining his medicine. “I have things in hand,” she said in a low voice. “I wish you would leave now.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“I’m going to straighten the room and change the bed linens. And then I’m going to sit by him.”

The pale blue eyes narrowed. “Let the poor devil sleep. You need to eat, and change from your traveling clothes. What good do you think it will do him, for you to sit in the dark and—” He broke off with a muttered curse as he saw her obstinate expression. “Very well. I’ll give you one hour, and then you will share a meal with me.”

“I intend to stay with my father,” she said flatly.

“Evie.” His voice was soft, but it contained an inflexible note that caused her nerves to prickle in warning. Approaching her, he turned her rigid body to face him, and gave her the slightest hint of a shake, forcing her to look up at him. “When I send for you, you’ll come. Is that understood?”

Evie felt herself quiver with outrage. He issued the command as if he owned her. Good God, she had spent her entire life so far having to obey the edicts of her aunts and uncles, and now she would have to submit to her husband.

However…to give him his due, Sebastian still had a long way to go before he could equal the combined efforts of the Maybricks and Stubbinses to make Evie’s life miserable. And he was hardly being unreasonable or cruel in demanding that she take a meal with him. Swallowing back her anger, Evie managed a nod. As his gaze moved over her strained features, there was an odd gleam in his eyes, like the sparks struck from a blacksmith’s hammer as it met a sheet of molten metal.

“Good girl,” he murmured with a mocking smile, and left the room.

                                                                                                                  

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Chapter 8

  

Sebastian was briefly tempted to leave Evie at the club and go to his own household, which was walking distance of St. James. The lure of his quiet home, with its modern plumbing and well-stocked pantry and larder, was difficult to resist. He wanted to eat at his own table, and relax before the hearth dressed in one of the velvet-lined silk robes that hung in his bedroom armoire. To hell with his stubborn wife—she could make her own decisions and learn to live with the consequences.

However, as he wandered discreetly around the second-floor gallery, taking care to avoid being seen by those on the busy main floor, Sebastian was aware of a nagging curiosity that would not be denied. With his hands tucked negligently in his coat pockets, he leaned against a column. He watched the croupiers at work and noticed the indifferent efforts of the general supervisor to oversee the play and keep everything moving at a satisfactory pace. Activity at all three hazard tables seemed a bit sluggish. Someone needed to stir things up and create an atmosphere that would urge the guests into deeper, faster play.

Slovenly house wenches sauntered lazily through the room, pausing to interact with the male guests. Like the meals at the dining hall sideboard and the coffee room downstairs, the women were a free benefit of membership. Whether a man needed a wench for consolation or for celebration, the prostitutes would accompany him to one of several upstairs rooms reserved for this purpose.

Wandering down to the ground-floor card rooms and coffee room, Sebastian surveyed his surroundings. There were small but prolific signs that it was a business in decay. Sebastian guessed that when Jenner had fallen ill, he had failed to appoint a reliable replacement for himself. His factotum, Clive Egan, was either inept or dishonest, or both. Sebastian wanted to see the account books, the records of expense and profit, the private financial records of the members, rent rolls, mortgages, debts, loans, credit—everything that would contribute to a complete portrait of the club’s health. Or lack thereof.

As he turned back to the staircase, he saw the Gypsy, Rohan, waiting in the shadowy corner, his posture relaxed. Sebastian remained strategically silent, forcing the boy to speak first.

Rohan held his stare as he said with meticulous politeness, “May I help you, milord?”

“You can start by telling me where Egan is.”

“He’s in his room, milord.”

“In what condition?”

“Indisposed.”

“Ah,” Sebastian said softly. “Is he often indisposed, Rohan?”

The Gypsy remained silent, but his steady, sloe-eyed gaze was filled with speculation.

“I want the key to his office,” Sebastian said. “I want to have a look at the account ledgers.”

“There is only one key, milord,” Rohan replied, studying him. “And Mr.Egan always keeps it with him.”

“Then get it for me.”

The boy’s heavy dark brows lifted a fraction. “You want me to rob a man when he is drunk?”

“It’s a hell of a lot easier than waiting until he’s sober,” Sebastian pointed out sardonically. “And it’s not robbery when the key is, for all intents and purposes, mine.”

Rohan’s young face hardened. “My loyalty is to Mr. Jenner. And his daughter.”

“So is mine.” That wasn’t true, of course. The majority of Sebastian’s loyalty was reserved for himself. Evie and her father were, respectively, a distant second and third on the list. “Get me the key, or prepare to follow in Egan’s footsteps when he departs on the morrow.”

The air was charged with masculine challenge. However, after a moment, Rohan gave him a look of distaste mingled with reluctant curiosity. When he acceded, and moved toward the staircase with long, fluid strides, it was not out of fearful obedience, but rather out of the desire to observe what Sebastian would do next.  

By the time Sebastian had dispatched Cam Rohan to bring Evie downstairs, she had straightened her father’s room and enlisted the grudging help of a housemaid to change the bed linens. The sheets were damp from night sweats. Though her father stirred and muttered as they carefully rolled him to one side and then the other, he did not awaken from his morphine-induced stupor. His rawboned body, swamped in the folds of his nightshirt, startled Evie with its lightness. Anguished pity and protectiveness filled her as she drew the new linens and blankets up to his chest. Dampening a cool cloth, she laid it over his forehead. A sigh escaped him, and at last his eyes opened into dark, shiny slits amid the furrows of his face. He regarded her without comprehension for a long moment, until a smile stretched his cracked lips, revealing the edges of tobacco-varnished teeth.

“Evie,” came his low croak.