The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(25)

He kept his gaze directed forward. With each step he took, the skin at the back of his neck pricked with awareness.

A broad, towering, loudly, if elegantly, clad man stepped into his path. Though they’d never spoken, he recognized him as Niall Marksman, one of the club’s owners who regularly walked the floors of the club.

Suspicion flared in the blue-nearly-black irises of his eyes. “Might oi be of assistance, my lord?” The hint of cockney to the man’s words contradicted the gentlemanly fa?ade his attire inspired.

The ruthless underbelly of London was one he’d only casually and infrequently visited. He had appreciation enough for life that he’d been content with the mundane crowd and pleasures of the respectable White’s and Brooke’s. Still, he’d not be intimidated by these men who ruled their powerfully built gaming empire. Robert flicked a cold stare over the man still intently scrutinizing him. “I am leaving,” he said.

“Ye’ll find your carriage waiting for ye.” A muscle jumped at the corner of Marksman’s left eye and he folded his arms across his broad chest in a menacing fashion.

Inclining his head, Robert continued walking. He reached the front of the club and a liveried servant pulled the door open and Robert stepped out into the morning light. He scanned the quiet streets. His driver hopped down from the perch atop his box and pulled the door of his carriage open. Robert strode over to the conveyance. “Oxford Street,” Robert instructed, as he climbed inside.

The riveting Helena had proven a much welcome distraction from his current circumstances, but with his departure from the club, reality now intruded. There was his father’s man-of-affairs to meet with so Robert could know the full extent of his family’s finances. As his carriage rattled on through the streets of London, taking Robert away from the seedy, dirtied streets of St Giles, he forced away thoughts of the spirited beauty who with her outrage toward him had proven herself more honest than any woman he’d ever known.





Chapter 6


Rule 6


Never be caught without your weapon.

He’d stolen her knife.

As Helena rushed through her morning ablutions, she yanked a brush through her tangled curls; with each tug of the strands, she took a perverse delight in the distraction. Though robbing her really wasn’t the worst of the crimes committed by Lord Robert No-Surname. Her nipples tightened with the thrill of his remembered caress. His expert caress. With a growl, she gave one final yank of the brush and set to work braiding her hair. She was no weak ninny to go and moon over a man who’d taken liberties . . . even if his kiss did sear her soul.

All she needed to do was go through the records and search all the patrons named Robert . . . and then, what?

She grabbed a gown from her armoire. “Search each guest suite?” she muttered. And risk being discovered, which would cause all different manner of problems . . . for the club . . . and with Ryker. Which only reminded her that even now her brother, who waited for no one, expected her nearly a half hour ago. Her panic mounted.

Another knock sounded at the front of her room.

Stepping into her dress, Helena hopped across the room and yanked the door open.

Clara spilled in. “What is keeping you?”

“Help,” she pleaded, deliberately ignoring the question.

The other woman’s gaze went to where Helena clutched her gown at her front.

With military precision, Clara spun her around and began fastening the dress. When she’d been a girl, Helena had taken pains to hide the puckered scars crisscrossing her back until Ryker had seen the marks. In curt, gruff tones he’d called them her badges of strength and courage and ordered her to find pride in them. From that moment, she’d seen them as more than angry, ugly stains upon her person, but rather as a reminder of the perils that awaited a woman alone, with no skill to recommend her beyond her talents in the bedrooms.

“There you are.” Clara fastened the last pearl button. “Your brother is not happy,” the other woman said as Helena proceeded to fetch her serviceable boots.

She plopped on the edge of her mattress and took her time tugging them on and lacing them up. Her braid flopped over her shoulder. “I expect he’s not.” The man fueled by his power and success would find equal displeasure in her unfavorable liquor reports as he would in being kept waiting.

Helena hurriedly collected her spectacles and settled them on her nose. Welcoming the diversion that would keep her from thinking about the golden-haired nobleman and his wicked grin, an unholy anticipation filled her to go toe-to-toe with her obstinate brother. “Thank you, Clara.” Placing a kiss on the other woman’s cheek, Helena collected her ledgers and strode over to the door.

Clara quickly pulled it open. “Good luck.”

Helena stepped out into the hall. Yes, she should really be focused on her upcoming meeting, especially given the financial update she brought to Ryker. As she stomped through the empty corridors, she lamented her lack of a boot with a thick heel, and that her brother hadn’t bothered to lay carpet upon the hardwood floors.

Then she might feel some satisfaction and not this delicate tread of a young woman who’d been effectively disarmed, by a gentleman no less, and who’d then had her weapon stolen.

Stolen.

Whatever would her brother and the others say about that indignity?

She reached Ryker’s office, dreaded by most, and shifting the burden in her arms, pressed the handle and entered. Helena did a quick sweep for the displeased brother.