Chapter 4
London, A month later
“In my experience of matters such as yours, Osborne,” said Lord Percival Bretagne, rising to his feet, “dead ends never stay dead for long.”
Rhys reluctantly unfurled his long body and followed his host by coming to a stand, understanding two things at once.
Bretagne had just told him to be patient—and their meeting had reached its conclusion.
Frustration cascaded through Rhys. It had been a month—a month—since the night of the masquerade. A month since he’d come this close to winning Papa’s signet ring back—and lost it…again.
And here he was being told to be patient.
He had been patient. This last month he’d waited patiently for this quarter-hour meeting—only to be told to be more patient.
A quarter of an hour ago, he’d walked into Bretagne’s residence, confident the man would have usable information for him.
But, no, nothing. He’d essentially told Rhys in indifferently polite terms that when he learned anything new he would contact him, which was a thinly veiled way of telling Rhys to stop sending notes every week asking if he’d happened across any intelligence.
Fair play.
Rhys could accept he’d made a minor nuisance of himself.
It was a different sort of acceptance, however, he’d been dodging.
Papa’s signet ring was hopelessly lost.
He needed to accept that.
Except, he couldn’t quite.
It could yet turn up at a pawnbroker.
Surely, it would, eventually, for what would the blonde want with it, anyway?
She couldn’t wear it.
It was too big.
She’d want the money for it.
Christmas was only a few weeks away. Wouldn’t she want the money for a gift?
So, here was hope creeping in again and the inability to accept the loss.
Bretagne strode toward the door, and Rhys had no choice but to follow. Still, he yet had a question to ask. “So, you’ve known for years that Sir Felix is a card cheat?” He tried to ask offhand, but wasn’t sure he succeeded.
Bretagne didn’t bother glancing over. “I did.” He sounded utterly bored.
“Then why didn’t you ever expose him?”
Bretagne met his gaze, his expression both incredulous and slightly amused. “Why would I?”
Righteousness surged through Rhys. A surprising feeling, that, and one he couldn’t rightly say he’d experienced in recent years. “Cheating is wrong.”
Bretagne smiled—like a wolf. “But it’s one waster cheating another waster. I’ve no dog in that fight.”
Rhys felt the sting of Bretagne’s words.
A year ago, he was one of those wasters.
Bretagne was, of course, correct in his view.
When they reached the corridor, his host said, “I’m headed the other direction. You know the way out?”
“Aye,” said Rhys, taking Bretagne’s hand in a parting shake.
Then he was winding down corridors and staircases toward the ground floor and the door that led out a side entrance.
Bretagne and his wife occupied a residence in the east wing of the opulent, sprawling mansion belonging to his father, the Duke of Arundel, a practice that was common in aristocratic families.
Rhys was, in fact, an outlier in this regard, as several years ago, he’d taken up a flat of rooms on Bennet Street.
It wasn’t by happenstance that Bennet Street was near his favorite clubs and gaming hells on St. James’s Street. A real blessing to the wastrel rake.
Of course, much had changed in the last year.
He was now a reformed wastrel rake.
Or making the attempt, anyway.
It had to count for something, but he was having a difficult time seeing how, for the universe hadn’t exactly shown itself in a benevolent mood for his past transgressions. Otherwise, it would tip up Papa’s signet ring and indicate all was forgiven, wouldn’t it?
But, nay, apparently the universe had yet more to teach him, and he had only himself to blame.
How had he let it come to this?
The ring was nowhere.
Even Bretagne, a former and possibly present spymaster, had heard nothing.
Perhaps the blonde and Sir Felix had been in league, after all.
But Rhys had doubts about this theory.
When Sir Felix had approached them on the dancing floor, the panic that had sparked in the blonde’s eyes had been genuine. Then she’d been running, and Rhys following. But where she was able to find angles and slip through the crowd, he’d met obstacle after stubborn obstacle—and he’d lost her.
It hadn’t been her first time running from a man.
Rhys knew that much.
He knew something else, too.
She wasn’t an aristocrat.
Her voice had revealed East-End beginnings.
Then, when he’d returned to the ballroom to confront Sir Felix about how he knew the woman, the rotter had been gone, too.
And Rhys was left with precisely what he’d entered the Royal Pavilion holding—nothing.
Outside on the sidewalk, he flipped the collar of his greatcoat against a soggy northern wind that was blowing through, his feet pointed in the direction of Bennet Street. He’d made it ten or so yards when he heard a shout at his back, “Oi!”
His feet stuttered to an abrupt stop—and not because he thought the oi! intended for him.
He knew that oi!
Even from a single syllable.
He whipped around, frantically scanning the pedestrians bustling all around…the carriages and hackney cabs and drays racketing down the street…for a woman with blonde curls and, well, curves.
The next instant, he located…her.
Arm still lifted, she was dashing into the street toward the hackney cab that had stopped for her.
Rhys’s lungs lost their ability to draw breath. Truly, he couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him. It was her—the blonde card cheat he’d been searching for this last month.
Though he was viewing her in daylight for the first time, it could be no other—sun-kissed curls springing free from the chignon at her neck…
those curves which not even a woolen winter pelisse could obscure…
her smile that sparkled all the way to her eyes…
His first impression proved to have been the correct impression: she was no lady.
Ladies didn’t smile up at hackney cab drivers like that.
Not for the first time, he wondered: how had she secured an invitation to that masquerade ball, anyway?
The mysteries surrounding this woman were certainly mounting.
When she placed a foot on the first step of the carriage, Rhys snapped to.
Oh, no, no, no.
He wasn’t losing her again.
No time to spare, his feet were on the move, covering the ground between him and the cab in fewer than ten long strides, and, without a second thought, he was shoving into the conveyance just as her hand was reaching for the handle to close the door.
“Oi!” she exclaimed from her seat on the bench, “what do you think you’re—” Her eyes, the clear blue of a rare type of topaz, went wide as saucers. “You!”
Only after Rhys had shoved inside the carriage did he realize it was a two-seater.
He saw but a single option—to squeeze onto the bench beside her.
Even as he attempted to make himself small and shove back into the cramped corner, the fact remained that the entire right side of his body was in full contact with the left side of hers.
Outrage shimmered about her, umbrage twinning with bewilderment in her topaz-blue eyes.
The universe continued to have its fun with him, didn’t it?
The cab lurched into motion, and no choice left to him, Rhys got directly to it. “You have something I want.”
Her brow crinkled, then a second later, released. “All this over fifty—fifty-five pounds? I thought gambling debts were naught but minor annoyances to you lords.”
Up until a year ago, Rhys had been precisely that sort of lord, and he couldn’t help feeling annoyed that she’d so efficiently hit the bull’s-eye of his past character. “Actually,” he said, “you took eighty-four pounds off me. But that’s not why we’re here.”
She gave her head a slow, incredulous shake. “Is that so?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “I know why I’m here. You’re the one with some explaining to do. There is no we.”
“The ring.”
Her eyes narrowed into irritated blue slits. “Now, I won that ring off Sir Felix, fair and square.”
Rhys lifted his brow. “Fair?”
“To my way of thinking,” she began, looking disinclined to give any ground, “when one cheats a cheat, it ain’t cheating.”
Rhys exhaled sharply through his nose. She had a point, and it was a good one. Still… “A year ago, Sir Felix cheated it off me.”
Understanding lit within her eyes. “And now you want it back.”
“Yes.”
“And you think I should just give it to you.”
“I could pay you for it.”
Her head tipped to the side. Nothing in her demeanor said he’d gained an inch of ground, as she didn’t appear at all motivated by his offer of money. “What’s so special about this ring?”
She held the whip hand—and she knew it.
He was going to have to tell her the significance of the ring. “The ring belonged—belongs—to my father.”
She scrunched back into her corner and considered him for a long, uncomfortable moment. “And you gambled it away?” It was a question—but only technically.
Just one answer to that question would suffice… “Yes.”
Her head tipped to the other side. “You’re a nob. Can’t you buy him another ring?”
“It’s his signet ring.”
“Signet ring?”
“The sort of ring passed down from father to son.”
“So, your pa gave it to you, then?”
“It would’ve gone to my eldest brother.”
Rhys was leaving a great deal unsaid between the lines here, but this woman looked as if she heard every last unspoken word loud and clear—he’d taken the ring without permission, then lost it in a card game.
Like any wastrel lord would.
He saw no option but to divulge yet more information. “My father is an earl.”
A faint, possibly cynical smile curved the blonde’s mouth, then she whistled. “So, you’re a right, proper nob, then.”
“Proper might be shooting wide of the mark.”
A knowing glint shone in her eyes that Rhys didn’t like. That glint said she’d seen his type—the wastrel lord—and didn’t think much of him.
He cleared his throat and aimed for authoritative with his next words. “So, it would be best if you and I came to terms, and you returned the ring.”
The reality of the words emerged altogether differently from his intent. He’d been aiming for authoritative, but what hit the air sounded distinctly…entitled.
And within that note of entitlement lay an implication of class imbalance and of the power of an earldom and, for that matter, the entire English aristocracy at his back.
Again, her mouth curved into a little smile, this one, however, holding no trace of humor. She didn’t flinch when she said, “Would it now?”
Immediately, Rhys saw his mistake.
And he saw it was too late to right it.