The Viscount Always Knocks Twice by Grace Callaway

Chapter Nine

 

The pungent odor tickled Richard’s nose, and, before he could stop it, he sneezed.

For the third bloody time.

“Bless you. Er, again.” Seated to his left at the head of the table, Miss Billings paused in her monologue about bonnets long enough to remark, “I hope you haven’t contracted an ailment, my lord?”

“I’m fine.” Or I would be—if someone wasn’t wearing that blasted perfume. He didn’t know where the noxious scent was coming from, but every now and again, it wafted over to him, irritating his nostrils. “Thank you for your concern,” he said curtly.

His hostess launched into chatter again. About gloves this time. Egad.

Suppressing a sigh, he listened with half an ear. He’d been on edge all evening, and one reason for his disquiet was sitting directly across the table. Miss Kent was acting as if he didn’t exist. When he’d tried to approach her in the drawing room before supper, she’d been as slippery as a lamprey, wriggling her way through the guests, eluding him at every turn. At present, she was polishing off her fish course with gusto, and he’d have found her hearty appetite endearing if she wasn’t simultaneously presenting him with a cold shoulder.

That said shoulder was left bare did not improve his mood. The neckline of her daffodil satin frock invited far too much attention, and he had to quell the urge to rip off his jacket and throw it over her. His grip tightened on his knife as Goggston, sitting to her left, snuck yet another look at the exposed swells of her bosom. Richard wanted to strangle the prat… even if he couldn’t precisely blame him.

Because it was taking all of Richard’s willpower not to join in the ogling like some randy schoolboy. His only excuse was that he knew first-hand how soft and firm those breasts were, how perfectly they’d fit in his palms. His skin slickened beneath his cravat; he tried not to think about how her nipples had budded so sweetly at his touch, not to wonder at their color, if they were the same berry pink as her lips…

Her eyes suddenly met his. The impact of that tawny gaze was like a blow to the gut during a practice round at Gentleman Jackson’s. Her throat rippled, and she quickly looked away.

He became aware of the hot, thick throbbing in his groin, and he wanted to groan in frustration. God’s wounds, what was the matter with him? Why did one look from the little baggage affect him this way? He didn’t have time for this nonsense; he had more pressing concerns.

He looked around the dining hall, its dark paneled walls hung with portraits of the aristocracy. Billings had undoubtedly purchased some impoverished peer’s ancestors to decorate his house, and now they looked down their noble noses at the motley guests supping at banquet tables set with gleaming silverware and hothouse arrangements. A quick survey revealed that Wickham still hadn’t shown. Richard had no idea where his sibling was—but he had a good idea why the other had absented himself.

Richard looked to the foot of his table. Billings occupied the end seat, the Duchess of Strathaven to his right. But it was the man across from her, dark-haired and ruthlessly elegant, who held Richard’s attention.

What is that bastard doing here?

Turning to Miss Billings, he said, “Are you acquainted with the man talking to your father?”

“Mr. Garrity, you mean?” she replied without missing a beat. “Actually, I only met him today. He wasn’t precisely invited, you see, but he is one of Father’s business associates, and Father says we must do everything to make his visit a pleasant one.”

“What does Mr. Garrity do, precisely?” This came from Miss Kent, whose brow was furrowed.

“He supplies funds to those in need,” Miss Billings said guilelessly. “Father says he’s an important man.”

Billings wasn’t wrong. Garrity was one of the most powerful cutthroats in London. He’d built a thriving empire from moneylending at an outrageous margin. Any sod stupid enough to take a loan from Garrity was putting his neck on a bloody chopping block.

God’s blood, why were you so stupid, Wick?

A footman placed the next dish in front of him, and Richard sliced his roulade de boeuf with a savage stroke, guts of asparagus and leek spilling out against the Sèvres china. He told himself Wick still had three months to pay off the debt. As dangerous as Garrity was, the moneylender was known to be a man of his word. He wouldn’t come after Wick… yet.

“Has anyone seen Mr. Murray?” Miss Kent ventured.

The worry in her voice made Richard wonder if she knew about Wick’s connection to Garrity. He shook his head, answered gruffly, “Not since this afternoon.”

“Maybe the old boy’s taking a nap and slept through supper.” Goggs slurped at his wine.

“When have you known our Wick to nap?” The scoffing reply came from Parnell, sitting two chairs down from Richard. They were separated by Mrs. Sumner, an auburn-haired, voluptuous widow whose crimson dress left little to the imagination.

“Once he and I wagered on who could stay up the longest,” Parnell continued, his pale features smirking, “and Wick managed to go three days and nights without sleep.”

As if Wick wasn’t addled enough, he had a friend who encouraged sleep deprivation. Just bloody perfect.

“A fellow with staying power, eh? Mr. Murray sounds like someone I’d like to get to know better.” Mrs. Sumner’s blackened lashes lowered in a roguish wink.

Why was his brother such a damned magnet for trouble? Gritting his teeth, Richard prepared to reply, but Miss Kent beat him to it.

“Mr. Murray is very busy these days,” she said primly. “He has to think of his future.”

Mrs. Sumner’s plucked brows shot up. “You speak for him, Miss Kent?”

“As a friend, I do.”

Her steady reply ignited a sudden, unpalatable sensation in Richard. It took him a moment to recognize the feeling as… jealousy. Of his own brother? The possibility flummoxed him. All his life, he’d looked after Wick—would give the other the shirt off his own back if necessary. Yet Miss Kent’s loyalty and concern made his chest constrict with a contemptible emotion.

Longing.For something that would never be his.

Blocking out the unacceptable thoughts, he turned to Mrs. Sumner. “As Mr. Murray’s brother, I can assure you that his plate is presently full. He has no time for diversions.”

“Pity.” The widow’s gaze roved over him. Then she leaned forward, giving him an unobstructed view of her twin assets. “Tell me, my lord,” she cooed, “does stamina run in the family?”

His neck heated. How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? This was one of the many reasons he loathed flirtation. He’d never had a talent for navigating the labyrinth of hidden meanings and innuendo. He preferred honesty and straight dealing. When Lucinda Belton had laughingly declared, “I’ve never met a man as direct as you, Carlisle—why, you’re as blunt as a mallet,” she hadn’t been wrong.

As he struggled to come up with an acceptable reply, Miss Kent spoke up.

“It seems you’ve fallen into your dish, Mrs. Sumner,” she said with studied candor.

He saw that the widow’s bodice was indeed soaking up the sauce from her plate. Straightening, Mrs. Sumner reached for her napkin and rubbed at the greasy spot on her bosom—slowly, her fingertip tracing a suggestive circle. She winked at him.

By Jove. Appalled, he looked away.

The widow said casually, “How kind of you to notice, Miss Kent.”

“Rather difficult not to,” Miss Kent said.

Her disgruntled tone lifted Richard’s spirits.

Abruptly, she turned her attention to the acrobat seated on the other side of Goggston. “Monique, I’d love to hear more about the secrets behind your performances. And yours as well, Mr. Burns,” she added.

Next to Parnell, Cedric Burns flashed white teeth that sparkled against his tanned complexion. “I haven’t any secrets, m’dear. What you see on the stage is purely the result of practice and skill.”

Monique reached for her goblet of wine, smirking. Richard thought that her beauty was like beveled glass: it had a hard, polished edge. Unlike Miss Kent, whose fresh prettiness owed nothing to artifice, the acrobat honed her charms with rouge and paint.

“Pure fustian, Monsieur Burns. The Great Nicoletti claims the same thing,” she said, “yet he cuts his assistant in half with a saw and then puts her back together again. Tell me, what sort of practice makes such a feat possible?” Her smile was derisive. “Every great performer has secrets.”

“If you don’t care to share the tricks of your trade, Burns, just say so,” Parnell drawled.

“Hard work is the trick,” Burns protested. “My partner and I practice for hours each day.”

“Where is the lovely Miss Ashe, wot?” Wormleigh said from halfway down the table. As usual, the aging dandy appeared foxed, his jowls ruddy above the elaborate folds of his cravat.

“She developed a megrim. Sends her regrets,” Burns said.

“Too bad. Never met a gel who could handle fire.” Wormleigh leered. “Would like to know her secrets, wot.”

“A woman must guard her secrets as closely as her jewels.” Monique raised her glass to her rouged lips. “They are her most valuable commodity.”

“What if she doesn’t have any secrets?” Miss Billings piped up.

“Then she has no choice but to rely on her jewels.” Smirking, Parnell said, “Stunning necklace, by the by.”

Miss Billings beamed. “You’re ever so kind, my lord. It’s a French heirloom.”

By Richard’s reckoning, Parnell hadn’t given her a compliment but an underhanded barb. And while Richard, himself, found some of Miss Billings’ habits annoying, she was, in general, an artless, well-meaning sort of female. She did not deserve to be publicly insulted—and in front of guests who were, at that very moment, dining on her generosity.

“You look lovely, Miss Billings,” Richard said brusquely. “With or without the jewels.”

His hostess blinked, her jaw slackening.

“I agree, Gabby,” Miss Kent declared. “You look marvelous.”

She glanced at him—her tawny eyes surprised and… approving? Warmth spread through his chest like sunshine.

The others launched into superlatives about Miss Billings’ jewelry. Richard was no connoisseur of gewgaws, but even he could guess that her necklace must have cost a king’s ransom. Deeply hued sapphires, each the size of a thumbnail, were set in a web of icy, glittering diamonds.

“Now Miss Billings,” Monique cut in silkily, “with your earlier statement I must disagree. Everyone has secrets.”

The hum of conversation faltered; guests shifted in their seats. Richard guessed that the Frenchwoman’s pronouncement had made each and every one acutely aware of whatever knowledge he or she didn’t wish others to know. Memories of his rendezvous with Miss Kent smashed through his mental barriers. How indescribably good she had tasted, how soft and perfect she’d felt in his arms…

Beneath the table, he hardened with shocking swiftness.

“Well, I don’t have any. Truly,” Miss Billings chirped. “I’m ever so boring, nothing mysterious about me at all. Father says I’m like an open ledger…”

For once, Richard was grateful for the girl’s droning soliloquy. As she went on and on, it gave him a chance to recover from his disreputable state. He’d gotten to about half-mast when the soft underside of a slipper slid up his calf. All the muscles in his body went rigid; he shot a disbelieving gaze across the table. From the way Miss Kent was angled subtly forward in her chair, there was no doubt it was she who was caressing him under the table.

Good Lord, was she playing footsy with him?

Lust clawed at him. In an instant, he was rock-hard again.

She froze, her gaze lifting slowly to his. He didn’t have time to mask his reaction, the hunger raging through him. Her eyes widened… she looked startled? What the hell did she expect when making such a bold advance?

She sprang from her seat. Which obliged the gentlemen around her, himself included, to rise as well. He cast a quick glance downward; thank God his jacket hid his rampant cockstand.

“Pardon me,” she blurted.

Cheeks pink, she took off like a doe.

It took every ounce of his willpower not to follow her immediately. To track her down and finish what she’d started. But to do so would elicit talk… so he forced himself to bide his time. The ten minutes he waited felt like ten years. Finally, he excused himself. With anticipation roiling in his veins, he went in search of the naughty minx so that he could settle the score between them once and for all.

~~~

Violet walked through the halls of the mansion in an agitated state, barely noticing where she was going. She couldn’t believe what she’d done… again. Carlisle was like a bad luck penny. His mere presence brought out her worst behavior. First the fountain, then the Priest Hole, now this.

Her heart thumped with mortification. She’d only meant to give Gabby a nudge beneath the table—to keep her promise to stop the other from chattering on. But her foot had missed its mark. Drat Carlisle and his overly long and muscular legs!

Now he had further proof to use against her: more evidence that she was an improper hoyden—the awful flirthe’d accused her of being. Despair welled beneath anger; for once, she couldn’t keep it at bay.

Why, oh why, can’t I get anything right?

Her heart squeezed as she recalled how Carlisle had looked at her, his eyes forge-dark and smoldering, his nostrils flaring, that muscle ticking in his jaw… for one panicked moment, she’d feared that he might do something crazed. What, exactly, she didn’t know and didn’t want to find out. He’d looked like a man pushed to the very limits of his self-control.

Calm yourself. Pull yourself up by your slipper laces…

She tried telling herself that Carlisle was nothing but a judgmental ass. Yet over supper he’d shown surprising sensitivity and kindness toward Gabby. He’d stepped in, turning Parnell’s mean-spirited remark into a compliment.

So maybe he’s not always a judgmental ass, her inner voice amended. Only to you.

The notion offered no comfort. Dash it, why did Carlisle confuse and vex her so? Why did his opinion of her matter so much?

“For crumpet’s sake, stop obsessing over it,” she muttered to herself as she paced down the corridor. “Think of something else.”

Her thoughts veered to Wick, and worry for her friend distracted her from her own frazzled state. Thunder and turf, Wick had looked terrified when he’d seen Garrity at the performance, as if his worst nightmare had come to life—and now she’d come to discover that Garrity was a moneylender?

This could be no coincidence and didn’t bode well. The fact that Wick hadn’t shown for supper increased her concern. She decided to go look for him, make sure he was all right.

She headed up the grand stairwell toward the guest wing where Wick’s room was located just around the corner from Monique’s. She arrived and knocked on his door. No answer.

“Wick, it’s me, Violet,” she said softly. “Are you there?”

Still no reply.

Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out a scrap of parchment and a pencil stub and scribbled a hasty note against the wall. As she was about to slip the message under Wick’s door, her nape tingled. Her head whipped up, her gaze sweeping the empty hallway. There was no movement in the corridor save the flickering of the wall sconces.

She exhaled. Her overactive mind was playing tricks on her. Bending, she slid the paper beneath the door and hurried back to supper.