Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(8)

“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 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 na**d 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 na**d 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.