The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(72)

Her bloody dagger. Robert still hadn’t returned that precious piece, and lulled by the seeming safety in the duke’s residence, she’d shamefully not given it a proper thought—until now.

A stranger stepped out of the alley between two buildings, and her heart quickened as the absolute folly in being here flooded her with a belated apprehension. She shot a quick glance back at the waiting hack, and then hurried forward. Helena reached the alley between the Hell and Sin and the next set of establishments.

Someone wrapped a hand around her forearm, and her pulse sped up. Diggory! She opened her mouth to tear down the streets of St Giles when the stranger clamped a large, gloved hand over her mouth. Helena bit hard, the taste and scent of fine leather flooding her nose, and a harsh, angry voice cursed against her ear.

A very familiar voice. Helena’s shoulders sagged. “R-Robert?” How was he here?

“You are as bloodthirsty as the day I met you, Miss Banbury,” Robert drawled.

Of course, he’d come to his clubs. She slid her eyes closed, and let her shoulders relax. Of all the bloody bad luck. Except . . . she squinted into the inky dark of night. A hardened suspicion glinted in his eyes.

“What are you doing, madam?” His terse, more duke-like command raised a frown on her lips.

He’d expect her to account for her whereabouts? Wasn’t that the way of the world, then? Women were not afforded the luxury of going where they wished, when they wanted. Even with her role as bookkeeper that existential truth had held. Capable with numbers and charged with accounting, she’d been given explicit rules . . . for her protection.

Yet where had the ownership of her own self existed, even when she was employed at the Hell and Sin?

“What are you doing here?” she returned.

His eyebrows lowered. Then, as a lord, he’d certainly never been expected to account for his whereabouts.

Robert dipped his face close to hers, and with the space shrunk between them, the seething suspicion blared bright in his blue eyes. “I am here for you, madam.”

She gulped, the menacing arrangement of his features at odds with the charming rogue she’d come to know these days. Swallowing hard, Helena glanced from her brother’s gaming hell and then back to the hired conveyance. For a very brief, tiny moment, she considered darting across the street and fleeing so there were no questions to answer.

Robert wrapped his hand around her forearm, again.

She narrowed her eyes on his gentle hold, prepared to send him to the Devil for that dark suspicion. What would you expect . . . ? Ladies do not visit St Giles . . . and certainly never alone . . . Even with a justifiable reason for that suspicion, pain stabbed at her. Her chest heaving, she met his unflinching stare. “Did ye believe oi’m up to some havey-cavey activity, moi lord?” She tauntingly slipped into coarse street tongue.

Her annoyance swelled as he remained coolly unaffected, and silent. Staring at her in that piercing, searching manner.

Ribald laughter sounded from the opposite direction, and she stiffened.

Several gentlemen strolled in their direction, and Robert released her arm, his meaning clear. She was free to dictate the terms of their discussion. The trio of loud, stumbling men sprung her into action. Tamping down her frustration, Helena started back toward her hired hack, with Robert easily matching her steps. They reached the carriage and he pulled the door open.

Handing her inside, he followed; his tall, broad muscular form shrank the small quarters. He claimed the opposite bench and folded his arms. And said nothing.

Helena shoved back her hood, and glared. “You followed me.” She hated that the sharp charge rang thick with hurt, preferring her fury.

“You were at Charing Cross Road and now here. Hardly fashionable ends of London for a lady to visit.”

“I never professed to be a lady,” she gritted out at his high-handedness.

“What are you doing here?” he pressed.

They remained seated, locked in a silent battle. Helena jutted her chin. If he thought to cow her into answers, he was to be sadly mistaken. She’d perfected the art of silence at the hands of men far crueler, far more terrifying than Robert, the Marquess of Westfield. Her cheek throbbed. How peculiar to actually be grateful for that painfully earned lesson.

Robert broke the impasse. “The duchess believes you are stealing from His Grace.”

She narrowed her eyes, even as a sharp pang struck her heart. “Is that what you believe, my lord? That I’m a thief?” He gave no outward reaction to her volley. Instead, he sat in cold, unyielding silence. Emotion roiled in her breast: fury, pain, regret. She’d lost her heart to a man who’d question her honor. A fool. She’d been a bloody fool for having lost her heart to him. Unable to meet his eyes, Helena jerked her gaze to that slight crack in the curtains, and stared out to the dirtied London streets.

“No,” he said quietly.

She stiffened, but did not take her attention from the front fa?ade of the Hell and Sin.

“I do not believe her.”

She didn’t want it to matter, but his words did. And yet . . . “You are here though, aren’t you?” she taunted, slipping a harsh, humorless smile at him.

He quirked a single golden eyebrow, and how she hated his cool. “Would you not have me find out what has you first at Charing Cross and now the Hell and Sin Club . . . in the dead of night, no less?”