Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(102)

“It’s the truf,” Jenner said indignantly. “Dammit, I want you to find ’er! It’s all ower London—my own blasted club—that I’m the man what set the fire that killed bloody Mathilda! Bad for my reputation, an’ my business, and besides…I’ve a liking for the little wench.” He gave Derek a disdainful look. “Deserves better than this black’earted bastard, she does.”

“You’ve said your piece,” Alex murmured. “Now leave. I’m getting tired of holding him back.” He didn’t let go of Derek until Jenner was safely gone, the front door closed behind him. Derek shook him off and retreated several steps, giving him a baleful glare.

Lily released an explosive sigh. “That blustering idiot Jenner! I discount every word he said as nonsense.”

Derek had turned his attention to the closed door. His large, rawboned body was very still. The Raifords waited for him to voice his thoughts. His voice was strained and barely audible. “Sara has a green necklace. She was going to wear it tonight.”

Alex watched Derek alertly. “Craven…would Sara have had any reason to leave the club tonight?”

“With a blond woman?” Lily asked skeptically. “I don’t think any of Sara’s friends are blond except my sister Penelope, and she certainly wouldn’t have—” She broke off at Derek’s quiet exclamation. “Derek, what is it?”

“Joyce,” he muttered. “It could have been Joyce.”

“Lady Ashby?” Lily bit her lip and asked gently, “Derek, are you certain you’re not trying to convince yourself of something you want desperately to believe?”

Derek was silent, concentrating on his own thoughts.

Alex frowned as he turned the possibilities over in his mind. “Perhaps we should pay a visit to Ashby House,” he conceded. “At this point it wouldn’t do any harm. But Craven, don’t rest your hopes on discovering anyth—” He turned with surprise to find Derek already striding out the door. Raising his tawny brows, he looked at Lily.

“I’ll stay here,” she muttered, pushing him after Derek. “Go and keep him safe.”

After Sara and the driver helped Joyce into the coach, they began the long journey back to London. Joyce curled in a miserable huddle, groaning and cursing whenever the wheels of the vehicle jostled over a deep rut. Her endless complaining was finally too much for Sara to take. “Oh, good Lord, that’s enough,” she exclaimed impatiently.

“I’m going to die,” Joyce moaned.

“Unfortunately that’s not the case. The bullet passed cleanly through your shoulder, the bleeding’s stopped, and whatever discomfort you feel isn’t nearly enough to make up for all you’ve done,” Sara continued with growing exasperation. “The first time I met Derek was on the night you had his face slashed, and ever since then you’ve harassed and tormented us both. You brought this on yourself!”

“You’re enjoying my suffering,” Joyce whined.

“Somehow I can’t dredge up much sympathy for a woman who’s just tried to kill me! And when I think of the cruel, callous way you destroyed Derek’s club…”

“He’ll always hate me for that,” Joyce whispered in satisfaction. “I’ll always have that part of him, at least.”

“No,” Sara said firmly. “I’m going to fill his life with such happiness that he’ll have no room to hate anyone. He won’t spare you a thought. You’ll be nothing to him.”

“You’re wrong,” Joyce hissed.

They fell into a seething silence that lasted the rest of the journey. Eventually the carriage stopped in front of Ashby House, a magnificent stucco-fronted mansion frescoed in a rich shade of umber. Sara bid the driver to assist her in bringing Joyce into the building. They had to ascend a short flight of steps. Mewling in discomfort, Joyce leaned heavily against Sara, digging her nails punishingly into her shoulder and arm. Grimly Sara resisted the urge to throw her down the stairs. As they reached the front door, an astonished butler admitted them. Sara spoke to the butler tersely. “Pay the driver whatever he was promised, and show us to Lord Ashby. Quickly.”

Bewildered, the butler stared at Lady Ashby’s bloodstained gown. “Go on,” Sara encouraged, and he complied with her orders. After he was paid, the driver scurried back to his coach and left with all due haste.

“What are you going to tell Lord Ashby?” Joyce murmured.

Sara regarded her with cool blue eyes. “The truth, my lady.”

Joyce gave a faint cackle, looking like a wild golden witch. “He won’t punish me. He lets me do whatever I want.”

“Not this time. I’m going to make certain you answer for what you’ve done tonight.”

“Try it,” Joyce invited, cackling again.

The butler led them to a nearby sitting room, magnificently fitted in red and black. Since Sara no longer offered her support, Joyce clung to the butler’s arm, becoming pale and dizzy as they reached their destination. “Send for a physician,” Joyce commanded thinly, holding her shoulder as she eased into a chair. “I require immediate attention.”

The butler left, and the heavy rumble of a voice came from the corner of the room. “I’ve been waiting for you, Lady Ashby. It appears you’ve been about some mischief tonight.”