Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(40)

“An’ so you should.” Ivo Jenner laughed low in his throat. “A prize wench, you are. Forget about Crawen. Let me take you to a better place than this. My club. The pigeons aren’t as fine—but there’s deep play an’ all you wants to drink—an’ no Derek Crawen.”

“Go somewhere with you?” Sara asked, picking up her glass of wine.

“You’d rather stay ’ere?” he countered.

As Sara sipped the fruity beverage, she contemplated him over the rim of the glass. She began to feel better than before, a little less hollow. He had a point, she thought. There were no possibilities for her at Craven’s, not with Worthy and probably the entire staff ready to “escort” her out. Furthermore, this would be a chance for her to continue her research on gaming clubs. Of course, Ivo Jenner was not the most trustworthy of men. But neither was Derek Craven. And—childishly spiteful though it was—the idea of fraternizing with Craven’s business rival was not without appeal.

After replacing her mask, Sara gave him a decisive nod. “Yes, Mr. Jenner. I would like to see your club.”

“Ivo. Call me Ivo.” Grinning widely, Jenner donned his own mask. “I ’ope we can leave without being caught.”

“We’ll have to stop at the front entrance. I’ll have need of my cloak.”

“We’ll be stopped,” he warned.

“I don’t think so.” She threw a reckless grin in his direction. “I’m feeling very lucky tonight.”

He chuckled and crooked his arm invitingly. “So’m I, love.”

Brazenly they walked into the main rooms and along the outskirts of the crowd. Jenner proved skillful at maneuvering his feminine prize out of the reach of the exuberant guests, alternately exchanging laughter and threats as he shouldered his way through. Arm in arm, he and Sara made their way to the front entrance of the club. They paused to request Sara’s cloak from Ellison, the butler.

Ellison flushed in excitement as he saw her. “Miss Mathilda! Surely you’re not leaving so soon.”

Sara gave him an impish smile. “I’ve had a more intriguing invitation. To another club, as a matter of fact.”

“I see,” The butler’s face drooped with disappointment. “You’ll want your cloak, then.”

“Yes, please.”

As an attendant rushed to fetch the required cloak, Jenner pulled Sara a foot or two away. “ ’E called you Mathilda,” he said in a strange voice.

“So he did.”

“That’s who you are? Mathilda? The one they wrote the book about?”

“In a way,” Sara said uncomfortably. It was definitely a twisted version of the truth. She couldn’t tell him her real name. No one must know that well-behaved, proper Miss Sara Fielding had ever gone to a ball and become intoxicated, and consorted with men of ill-repute. If word somehow ever got back to Perry Kingswood, or his mother…She shuddered at the idea.

Seeing the involuntary movement of her shoulders, Jenner received the cloak and draped it about her reverently. Lifting the rippling mass of her hair, he pulled it free of the velvet mantle. “Mathilda,” he breathed. “The woman ewery man in England wants.”

“That’s a great exaggeration, Mr. Jenner…er…Ivo.”

“Jenner?” Having overheard the last few words, the butler looked sharply at Sara’s masked companion. “Oh, no. Miss Mathilda, don’t say you’re going off with this debauched, dangerous ruffian—”

“I’m all right,” Sara soothed, patting the butler’s arm. “And Mr. Jenner is really very sweet.”

Ellison began to protest vigorously. “Miss Mathilda, I cannot allow—”

“She’s with me,” Jenner interrupted, glaring at the butler. “No one can say nofing about it.” Masterfully he pulled Sara along with him and ushered her down the front steps toward the line of waiting carriages.

With the assistance of Jenner and a footman dressed in a slightly frayed uniform, Sara climbed into a black and burgundy carriage. Though the interior was clean and presentable, it hardly matched the luxuriously outfitted vehicles she had become accustomed to at Craven’s. Sara smiled slightly, reflecting on how spoiled she had become in a matter of days. Fine food, French wine, impeccable service, and all the opulence of Craven’s club…It certainly was a contrast to Greenwood Corners.

Uneasily she gazed down at her borrowed finery. It had been willful, frivolous, inconsiderate of her to have put Worthy and Lady Raiford to trouble. It wasn’t like her. She had changed in the last few days, and not for the better. Craven was right—she should return to the village as soon as possible. Her parents would be ashamed if they knew of her conduct, and Perry…Sara bit her lip in dismay. Perry would condemn her for such behavior. He was of the old school, believing that natural feelings and animal urges should be strictly governed, never to take precedence over the intellect.

Wearily Sara leaned her head back against the flat cushions. Mr. Craven must despise her now, she thought. Unwillingly she remembered the searing delight of his hands on her skin, and the hot brand of his mouth. A shiver chased across her shoulders, and her heart gave an extra thump. God forgive her, but she wasn’t sorry for any of it. No one would be able to take it away from her, the memory that would remain even when she was safely tucked away in her country village. When she was an old woman, rocking serenely in a corner of the parlor and listening to her granddaughters giggling about their handsome swains, she would smile privately at the thought that she had once been kissed by the most wicked man in London.