The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(64)

Robert choked. “What do you know about scandalous events?” He tugged at his cravat. When he’d agreed to accompany Beatrice several days ago, he’d hardly anticipated a discussion with his innocent sister about how he chose to spend his nights.

“Not enough,” Beatrice muttered under her breath, casting a look about at the lords and ladies picking their way among wagons and shops. She gestured furiously to the small corner shop in the distance. He squinted, reading the crooked wooden sign. Ye Olde Bookshop. “After all, this is my idea of great fun.”

He made a noncommittal sound. After all, that was quite how a gentleman preferred his sister’s interests to be—wholly unscandalous.

“What are your clubs like?”

Robert blinked, as Beatrice’s innocent query cut into his musings. “What are my . . . ?”

“Clubs like,” she finished. “I confess, I’m quite bored with all the same, tedious events of the ton. I’m conducting research.”

A memory trickled in of a full, tempting mouth as the spirited nameless vixen had brandished her knife about. Then her words registered. “Conducting research?” he choked. “For what purpose?” Now, this is how a gentleman did not prefer his sister to be.

“Do not be prudish and straitlaced,” his sister scolded.

Prudish and straitlaced, he mouthed. Those were assuredly the first time such accusations had ever been leveled at him.

A frown formed on his lips. So this was why his sister had been seeking him out. A desire for . . . information. Information he’d sooner carve his tongue out than utter for her innocent ears. Yet, it was still safer than speaking to her of the family’s finances. “I am afraid you’ll require research material that is decidedly not from your brother,” he said dryly, ruffling the top of her head.

Beatrice pursed her lips. “I’m not a child, Robert. Nor do I have the same luxury as a gentleman.”

“Luxury?” he repeated with a wry twist that only deepened her frown. Were they truly different in the expectations Society had of them? His actions, though freer, were still closely scrutinized and whispered about by gossips and recorded in column sheets.

“I cannot go about and spread my proverbial wings,” she said, throwing her arms wide. “Not without absolute ruin.”

The solemnity in her tones elicited another frown. His sister spoke with the same frustration of a lady who’d tired of her lot and station. There was a faint desperation there that could only come after four unsuccessful Seasons. Where most gentlemen relished their unwedded state, ladies largely lived with the hope and expectation of a match.

He picked around his thoughts, searching for something, anything slightly scandalous but still safe to feed her proverbial interests. “There is a thrill at the wagering tables,” he said at last. Or there had been. Now, more than ever, those once-thrilling enjoyments had begun to grow tiresome.

Beatrice’s eyes lit, and she leaned close, urging him with her gaze to share more. “Do you play whist or faro or hazard? I suspect you are more of the hazard-playing type,” she prattled, as they continued walking, making their way through the largely empty streets. She cast a look upwards.

“Hazard,” he supplied.

She gave a pleased nod. “As I suspected. I overheard Papa speaking to his man-of-affairs about those clubs you visit.”

He gnashed his teeth. His father was speaking to old Stonely about Robert’s habits. It apparently mattered not at all to either man that Robert had committed himself these weeks now to poring over ledgers and cutting expenditures where he could. Fortunately they reached the small establishment, sparing Robert from answering. He removed his hat and beat it against his leg. His sister paused on the stoop, and cast a questioning look back.

Robert motioned to her and the lingering servants. “I will allow you the privacy of your research,” he said with a wink. “While I see to my busi—”

A cry went up somewhere ahead, cutting into his parting.

He and Beatrice swung their heads as one toward the sound. “What is it?” She stretched her neck about, straining to see.

He took her by the arm. “It is nothing for a lady’s eyes to see,” he said tightly, neatly steering her toward the entrance of the shop. Never again was she coming here. Ever. Even if he had to assign a bloody guard to her.

His words earned a deeper frown, as his sister dug in her heels.

Another muffled shout carried the length of the busy street. He searched his gaze ahead and then swallowed a curse as a colorfully clad dandy brandished his walking cane while a street urchin cowered at his feet. A surge of fury went through Robert. The wind carried over a boy’s sharp cry, as the gentleman brought his cane back and—

Robert’s blood iced cold as a tall, cloaked figure shoved herself in front of the boy. His insides twisted. “Get inside,” he gritted out, and knowing his sister’s penchant for exploration, he turned to the footman. “See her inside.”

“Robert?” Beatrice’s concerned voice followed after him.

He quickened his stride. Mayhap he was seeing the woman everywhere. Mayhap that was all that accounted for his conjuring her here, throwing herself in front of a stranger’s raised cane. Because no woman in her right mind would ever dare risk coming here to these streets and putting herself before harm . . .