“He began to work at five or six years of age as a climbing boy for a chimney sweep. When he became too old to climb, he resorted to begging, thievery, dock labor ... There is a period of a few years which he will not speak of at all, as if it never existed. I don’t know what he did at that time ... nor do I wish to know. Somehow in the midst of it all he gained a rudimentary understanding of letters and numbers. By his teens he had educated himself enough to become a Newmarket bookmaker. According to him, it was at that time that he conceived the idea of operating his own gambling club someday.”
“What remarkable ambition for a boy with such origins.”
Worthy nodded. “It would have been an extraordinary achievement for him to build a small den in the city. Instead, he dreamed of creating a club so exclusive that the most powerful men in the world would clamor to be allowed membership.”
“And that’s precisely what he’s done,” she marveled.
“Yes. He was born without a shilling to his name ...” Worthy paused. “He was born without a name, as a matter of fact. Now he is wealthier than most of the gentry that patronizes his club. No one is really aware of how much Mr. Craven owns. Landed estates, houses, streets lined with rent-paying shops and tenants, private art collections, yachts, racehorses ... it’s astounding. And he keeps track of every farthing.”
“What is his goal? What does he ultimately want?”
Worthy smiled faintly. “I can tell you in a word. More. He’s never satisfied.” Seeing that she had finished her tea, he inquired if she wanted another cup.
Sara shook her head. The brandy, the firelight, and Worthy’s calm voice had all combined to make her drowsy. “I must leave now.”
“I’ll have a carriage brought around.”
“No, no, the Goodmans live a short distance from here. I shall go on foot.”
“Nonsense,” the factotum interrupted firmly. “It is ill-advised for a lady to go anywhere on foot, especially at this time of night. What happened to Mr. Craven is an example of the dangers that could befall you.” They both stood up. Worthy was about to say something else, but his words died away, and he stared at her oddly. Most of Sara’s hair had fallen from its pins to her shoulders, the red glow of firelight dancing over the chestnut waves. There was something oddly moving about her quaint, old-fashioned prettiness, which would easily be passed over in this day when more exotic beauty was preferred.
“There’s something almost otherworldly about you ...” Worthy murmured, quite forgetting himself. “It has been too long since I’ve seen such innocence in a woman’s face.”
“Innocent?” Sara shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Mr. Worthy, I know all about vice and sin—”
“But you’ve been untouched by it.”
Sara chewed her lip pensively. “Nothing ever seems to happen in Greenwood Corners,” she admitted. “I’m always writing about the things other people do. Sometimes I’m desperate to live, to have adventures and feel things, and—” She broke off and made a face. “I hardly know what I’m saying. What must you think of me?”
“I think,” Worthy said with a smile, “that if you long for adventure, Miss Fielding, you’ve made quite a start tonight.”
Sara was pleased by the notion. “That’s true.” She sobered immediately. “About the man I shot—I didn’t intend to harm him—”
“You saved Mr. Craven from horrible disfigurement, if not death,” Worthy said gently. “Whenever you feel guilty about what you’ve done, you might remind yourself of that.”
The advice made Sara feel better. “You’ll allow me to return tomorrow?”
“I insist that you do so.”
She gave him an enchanting smile. “Well, in that case ...” Taking his proffered arm, she allowed him to escort her downstairs.
Derek lay stretched out on the bed. The laudanum coursed through his veins, making him sluggish, dizzy. It did little to numb the pain, or his self-disgust. His lips pulled into a bitter smile. He almost would have preferred it if his attackers had made a proper beast of him, instead of giving him a piddling slash that made him look less a monster and more a fool.
He thought of Joyce, and waited for a feeling of betrayal, anger, anything but this cold sense of admiration. At least she cared enough about something to take action, even if it was her own pride. Whereas he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything. He had everything he’d ever wanted ... wealth, women, even the pleasure of watching his betters scrape their boots at the entrance of his club. But over the past two years all his former voracious appetites had dried up, and he was left with nothing, a young man with a withered soul.
It was the absence of feeling that had driven him to Lady Joyce Ashby’s bed, and ultimately had led to tonight’s disaster. Joyce, with her sinuous body, blond hair, and catlike eyes, had stirred an interest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Mild though the feeling was, it had been enough to make him pursue her. He couldn’t deny there had been many entertaining nights, filled with sophisticated games and sensual depravity ... and it took a hell of a lot to make him feel depraved. Finally Derek had ended the liaison, disgusted with himself as well as her. The memory rolled over him, and he relived it in a drugged stupor.
“You can’t be serious,” Joyce had said, her silky voice amused at first. “You would never give me up.” She stretched on the bed, her naked body unconcealed by the rumpled linen sheets. “Tell me, who would it be after me? Some bovine country maid? Some little actress with bleached hair and red stockings? You can’t go back to that, Derek. You’ve developed a taste for finer things.”
Derek had grinned at her confident tone. “You aristocratic ladies and your gold-plated twats. You always think it’s such a honor for me to touch you.” He surveyed her with mocking green eyes. “You think you’re the first high-kick wench I’ve ever had? I used to have blue-blooded bitches like you pay me to do this. You’ve gotten it for free.”
Joyce’s beautiful face, with its narrow, aristocratic nose and sharply sculpted cheekbones, was suddenly pinched with rage. “You lying bastard.”
“How do you think I got the money to start my club? They called themselves my ‘patronesses.’” Derek gave her a hard smile, pulling on his trousers.
Joyce’s red lips parted in a sneering laugh. “Then you were nothing but a whore? A male whore?” The idea clearly excited her.
“Among other things.” He buttoned his shirt and faced the mirror to straighten his collar.
Joyce slid from the bed and strode to him, pausing for a moment to admire her naked body in the mirror. Married at a young age to an elderly widowed earl, she had satisfied her sexual urges by taking a long string of lovers. Any pregnancies had been terminated quickly, for she would never ruin her figure with children, and the earl had already begotten suitable heirs with his first wife. Joyce’s cunning wit and beauty had made her a society favorite. A lovely predator, she devoted herself to ruining any woman whom she perceived as a threat to her own position. With a few carefully chosen words and some brilliantly engineered “coincidences,” Joyce had been known to shred many a good reputation and cast innocent women into the depths of disgrace.
Derek also looked into the mirror, seeing what Joyce intended him to see, the erotic contrast between his clothed form and her gold-and-white nakedness. At times Joyce could seem as guileless as an angel, but he had seen her turn into a witch with wild hair and a contorted face, screaming at the height of ecstasy and clawing him with her long nails. She was the most wanton woman he’d ever known, willing to do anything for the sake of pleasure, no matter how debauched. They were quite a pair, he thought grimly, both of them existing only to satisfy their own needs.
Keeping her pale blue eyes on his expressionless face, Joyce ran her hand over his flat stomach, seeking his crotch with her palm. “You still want me,” she purred. “I can feel how much. You’re the most satisfying lover I’ve ever had, so big and hard—”
Derek pushed her away so roughly that she fell back
onto the bed. Expectantly she spread her legs and waited for him. Surprise dawned in her eyes as she realized he wasn’t going to oblige her.
“It’s over,” Derek said flatly. “I’ll pay all your debts on Bond Street. Pick out something from that little frog-eating jeweler you like so much, and charge it to my account.” He left his black silk cravat hanging loose around his neck and shrugged into his coat.
“Why are you doing this? Do you want me to beg?” Joyce smiled provocatively. “I’ll get on my knees before you. How would you like that?” As she sank to the floor and leaned her face toward the front of his trousers, Derek forced her up, clamping his hands on her shoulders.
“Listen to me, Joyce—”
“You’re hurting me!”
“I haven’t lied to you. I made no promises. How long did you think this would go on? We both got what we wanted. Now it’s over.”
She glared at him. “It will end when I say so, and not before!”
Derek’s expression changed. “So that’s it,” he said, and laughed. “Your pride is hurt. Well, tell your friends whatever you want, Joyce. Tell them that you were the one to break it off. I’ll agree with anything you say.”
“How dare you speak to me in that superior tone, you ignorant cockney! I know how many thousands of boots you licked to get where you are, and so does everyone else! Gentlemen will come to your club, but they’ll never invite you to their homes, or their parties, or let you eat at their tables or approach their daughters, and do you know why? Because they don’t respect you—they regard you as something to be scraped from then-shoes and left in the gutter where you came from! They think of you as the lowest form of—”
“All right,” Derek said, a humorless smile crossing his face. “I know all that. Save your breath.”
Joyce stared at him closely, apparently realizing her insults hadn’t affected him at all. “You have no feelings, do you? That’s why no one can hurt you—because you’re dead inside.”
“That’s right,” he said smoothly.
“And you don’t care about anyone. Not even me.”
His glinting green eyes met hers. Although he didn’t reply, the answer was clear. Drawing back her arm, Joyce struck him with all her strength, the blow sounding like the sharp crack of a pistol. Automatically Derek moved to strike back. But his hand stopped before it reached her face. He lowered it slowly. His face was dark and cool.
“I can make you want me.” Joyce said hoarsely. “There are things we still haven’t done together— new games I could show you—”
“Good-bye, Joyce.” He turned and left the room.
His refusal of her body was insultingly casual, as if he had turned down an unwanted offer of seconds at the supper table. Joyce flushed crimson. “No,” she snarled. “You won’t leave me! If it’s another woman, I’ll claw her eyes out!”
“It’s not another woman,” came his sardonic reply. “It’s just boredom.” Suddenly his accent changed to coarse, flat cockney. “Or as you gentry likes to call it, ennui.”
She ran out of the bedroom, still naked, calling after him as he went down the stairs. “Come back this instant ... or you’ll pay for this every day of your life! If I can’t have you, no one will! Do you understand me? You’ll pay for this, Derek Craven!”
Derek hadn’t taken her threat seriously—or maybe it was just that he hadn’t cared. He had done what he’d planned with his life, never dreaming that at the end of the long, treacherous path success would be coupled with such disappointment. Now he had gained everything he wanted, and there was nothing to look forward to.
Damn ennui, the mind-numbing clutches of boredom. A few years ago, he hadn’t even known what the word meant. A rich man’s disease, he thought, and smiled grimly in ironic appreciation.
Two
Sara dressed carefully for her visit to the gambling palace. She wore the best gown she owned, a gray-blue grenadine with three deep bias tucks at the hem, and a high-necked bodice ornamented with lace. She had very few clothes, but they were all made with good sturdy cloth. The gowns she preferred did not adhere to any particular style that would date them. She hoped the bloodstains could be removed from the garments she had worn last night. There had been quite a scene when Sara had returned at such a late hour, spattered with blood. In response to Mrs. Goodman’s frantic questions, Sara had explained mildly that she had encountered a little trouble during her research. “Nothing to worry about—I merely stopped to give assistance to a stranger.”
“But all that blood—”
“Not a bit of it’s mine,” Sara reassured her with a smile.
Eventually she had diverted Mrs. Goodman to the problem of how to treat the stains. Together they had applied a paste of starch and cold water to her coat and gown. This morning the clothes were soaking in a mixture of gin, honey, soft soap, and water.
After pinning her hair up to stay away from her face, Sara covered the chestnut locks with a sprigged lace cap. Satisfied with her appearance, she searched through one of her trunks for a light cape. A glance through the small pane of her window had revealed that it was a typically cool autumn day.
“Sara!” Mrs. Goodman’s puzzled voice drifted to her as she descended the stairs. “A magnificent private carriage has stopped right outside the house! Do you know anything about it?”
Intrigued, Sara went to the front door of the Goodmans’ modest home and opened it a crack. Her gaze took in the sight of a black-lacquered carriage, gleaming ebony horses, outriders, and a coachman and footman dressed in buckskins, frock coats, and tricorns. Mrs. Goodman joined her at the door. All along the street, curtains were pulled aside and staring faces appeared at windows. “No carriage like that has ever been seen on this street before,” Mrs. Goodman said. “Look at Adelaide Witherbane’s face—I think her eyes are ready to pop out! Sara, what in heaven’s name is going on?”
“I have no idea.”
Disbelieving, they watched as the footman ascended the steps of the Goodman home. He was well over six feet tall. “Miss Fielding?” he asked deferentially.
Sara opened the door wider. “Yes?”
“Mr. Worthy has sent a carriage to convey you to Craven’s whenever you are ready.”
Mrs. Goodman’s suspicious stare turned from the footman to Sara. “Who is this Mr. Worthy? Sara, does this have anything to do with your mysterious behavior last night?”
Sara shrugged noncommittally. Mrs. Goodman had been distraught by Sara’s late arrival, her disheveled appearance, and the bloodstains on her clothes. In response to the multitude of questions, Sara had replied mildly that there was nothing to worry about, she had been occupied with research for her novel. Finally Mrs. Goodman had given up. “I see,” she had said darkly, “that what your mother wrote to me is true. Beneath that quiet surface is a stubborn and secretive nature!”
“My mother wrote that?” Sara asked in surprise.
“What she said amounts to the same thing! She wrote that you’re in the habit of doing whatever you wish no matter how eccentric, and that you rarely answer any questions starting with the words ‘where’ and ‘why’”
Sara grinned at that. “A long time ago I learned not to explain things to people. It misleads them into thinking they’re entitled to know everything I do.”
Bringing her mind back to the present, Sara gathered her reticule and gloves, and began to leave with the footman. Mrs. Goodman stopped her with a touch on her arm. “Sara, I think it would be best if I accompany you, in the interests of your safety.”
Sternly Sara held back a smile, knowing that the elderly woman’s curiosity was running rampant. “That is very kind of you, but there is no need. I will be quite safe.” She went to the carriage and paused as she glanced at the towering footman. “This was quite unnecessary,” she murmured. “I had intended to walk to Craven’s this morning.”
“The driver and I are at your service, Miss Fielding. Mr. Worthy is insistent that you should not go about London on foot any longe
r.”
“Do we need to take the armed outriders as well?” Sara was embarrassed by all the pomp and show. The carriage would have been far more suitable for a duchess than a novelist from a small country village.
“Especially the outriders. Mr. Worthy said that you have a tendency to frequent dangerous places.” Opening the carriage door with a flourish, he assisted her to the set of tiny carpeted steps. Smiling ruefully, Sara settled back among the velvet cushions and arranged her skirts.
When they arrived at the gambling club, the butler admitted her into the entrance hall with exquisite politeness. Immediately Worthy appeared with a courteous smile. He greeted her as if she were an old friend. “Welcome to Craven’s, Miss Fielding!”
Sara took his proffered arm as he brought her into the club. “How is Mr. Craven this morning?”
“He’s off his appetite, and the stitches are unsightly, but otherwise he is quite well.” Worthy watched Sara as she turned a circle in the center of the sumptuous entrance hall. Her expression was transformed with wonder.
“My word,” was all she could say. “Oh, my.” She had never seen such luxury; the ceiling of stained-glass panels, the glittering chandelier, the walls lined with gilded columns, the heavy swaths of deep blue velvet. Without taking her eyes from the gorgeous surroundings, she fumbled in her reticule for her notebook.
Worthy spoke while Sara scribbled furiously.
“I’ve told the staff about you, Miss Fielding. They are willing to provide any information that you might find useful.”
“Thank you,” she said absently, adjusting her spectacles and peering at the carving on the capitals of the columns. “This is an Ionic design, I believe?”
“Scagliola, the architect called them.”
She nodded and continued to take notes. “Who was the architect? It looks like something by Nash.”
“No, Mr. Craven felt that Nash’s ideas were not sufficiently imaginative. Besides, Mr. Nash was quite elderly, and far too busy with projects for the king. Instead Mr. Craven chose a young architect by the name of Graham Gronow. He made it clear to Gronow that he wanted a building so magnificent that it would outshine Buckingham House.”