Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"A kiss?" Eleanor was convinced she had misheard. A minute ago, they had been waging war. Now, the man who haunted her dreams stared into her eyes and offered the one thing she craved. "Have you lost your wits?"

Perhaps he had taken a dose of laudanum tonight.

Maybe he'd downed a bottle of claret before the performance.

"There's no time to explain." Theodore Chance bent his head until his mouth was mere inches from hers. "Kiss me now, Miss Darrow. The more authentic the caress, the more information you'll earn."

Authentic? She had never kissed a man in her life.

But as she locked eyes with him, she found herself lost in the beauty of his cerulean gaze. A lady could dive into the fathomless depths and never resurface. One might be hypnotised into forgetting danger lurked below.

"Miss Darrow?" he pressed, his warm breath breezing over her lips.

Three figures emerged from the left, catching her eye. In a world where social connections were currency, it paid to know every fashionable lady in town. Thus, she knew the golden-haired beauty on Viscount Wrotham's arm was a woman Mr Chance admired.

"You plan to use me to annoy Lady Lucille Bowman?"

She would tell him to go to the devil if she wasn't desperate to reclaim her sewing box. Without it, she might not survive the night.

"Does it matter? We've contemplated kissing each other before."

"Have we? Perhaps you've mistaken me for someone else."

A sly smile played on his lips. "Your feminine qualities have not gone unnoticed. I've seen the way you look at me, Miss Darrow. I'm experienced enough to know you've thought about more than kissing."

The conceited devil.

As her life depended upon bringing a swift end to this game, the time for honesty was nigh. "You have many fine qualities, Mr Chance." Her heart had melted upon hearing the loving things he had said to his sister, Delphine. He would die to protect his family. Both were attractive attributes. "I may have admired your countenance, but that was before you stole my box. You're like a fine wine that proves disappointing on the palate."

"If you want it back, you'll kiss me. I believe you'll have a different opinion when you do."

Eleanor stared at the face that made women swoon. Could she trust Mr Chance to keep his word? Did she want to kiss her tormentor? In all fairness, he was unaware of the dangers she faced. He didn't know the heavy price she must pay for being part of his foolish game .

"And you will keep your word?" she said.

"I will tell you exactly where you can find the box. It is up to you to retrieve it." Aware the viscount was fast approaching, he added, "It's now or never, Miss Darrow."

Her heart skittered. Lady Lucille was a prestigious client. One she would likely lose after this debacle, but living to see another day was more important than filling the coffers. The ladies of the ton were fickle . One exquisite design would have them swarming to the shop like bees to blossom.

"Very well. One kiss. That is all."

Mr Chance grinned like his horse had won the Derby. He moistened his lips. "Close your eyes, Miss Darrow. Remember, I shall be in your debt if you make it look authentic."

There was no time to reconsider.

Theodore Chance captured her chin and slanted his lips over hers in a kiss that proved quite shocking. It wasn't a rough, carnal mating of mouths. It wasn't a prelude to something salacious. It was soft and slow and tender. A heart-stopping kiss that sang to a lady's soul, not her senses. A thief's caress.

He robbed the air from her lungs. He pilfered her hopes and dreams and replaced them with ones in his own image. He stole every wicked misconception she had ever had about him.

Then he pulled away, taking a tiny part of her with him.

Their eyes met.

"You seem surprised, Miss Darrow." His gaze lingered on her lips as if he yearned to reclaim them. "What were you expecting?"

She had expected to be mauled by a selfish scoundrel.

She had expected a libertine's lewd advances .

She had hoped to feel disgusted, not moved and utterly intrigued.

"Now I know why you bear the King of Hearts moniker," she said. Beneath his formidable exterior lay a beautiful fusion of gentleness and strength. "Once a lady has kissed you, no other suitor would suffice."

Before he could reply, Viscount Wrotham interrupted their intimate interlude. "Why in blazes are you lingering outside my box, Chance?" Despite his attempt at annoyance, a note of unease tinged the viscount's tone.

Mr Chance ignored him and continued gazing at Eleanor's lips. "You're not without skill yourself, Miss Darrow. Despite your obvious inexperience, a fiery passion simmers within."

Lord Wrotham cleared his throat. "I say, this isn't a bordello. Take your fornicating to the alleys of Covent Garden."

"I'm glad you approve, sir." Eleanor leaned into Mr Chance's hard chest and whispered, "Once we're rid of our audience, you will keep your word and give me back my sewing box."

"I confess, I find your presence here quite disturbing, Miss Darrow," Lady Lucille stated, her cheeks flushed with a fiery rage reminiscent of the rubies dangling from her earlobes. "Tell me, how does a woman of your occupation find time for frivolity?"

"A woman can always find time for love, my lady."

The comment earned Eleanor a wink from Theodore Chance.

"Some ladies prefer the chill of jewels around their necks to the fervent caress of a passionate man's lips," Theo said.

The viscount nudged his maternal aunt, Mrs Dunwoody, a matron of some import. "We know what sort of woman prefers the latter."

Mr Chance turned so quickly the weasel-faced lord stumbled back. "Insult my betrothed again, Wrotham, and you'll face me at dawn."

Eleanor fought to stifle a gasp.

His betrothed?

What was the man thinking?

"Your betrothed?" Mrs Dunwoody fluttered her fan as if warding off a dreadful stench. "I suppose a modiste is a step up from those who sleep in the gutter. Your poor grandfather must be turning in his grave."

"One can live in hope," Mr Chance countered. "I pray he's fodder for the worms. A man who disowns his kin deserves to rot in hell."

"Your father was the devil incarnate," the snooty woman snapped. "He deserved to lose everything. There is always one scoundrel in a litter. You've proven you're no different."

Unable to hold her tongue, Eleanor said, "The Lord holds everyone to account, Mrs Dunwoody. When the day of reckoning comes, the Earl of Berridge will need to atone for leaving his young nephews on the street."

How could anyone sit idly while four boys were thrown out of their dead father's house and left to fend for themselves in the rookeries?

Mr Chance snorted. "I could not have worded it better myself, Miss Darrow."

He did not question how she knew his family history. A modiste was party to all manner of gossip. She knew many of the ton 's secrets. Why else would she be in this terrible predicament?

Mr Chance offered Eleanor his arm. "Now, if you will excuse us, we must return to our box." Before the lord could protest, Mr Chance parted the curtains and gestured for her to sit in the plush velvet chair.

Being a coward of the highest order, the viscount dithered while Mrs Dunwoody stormed into the box. Her beady gaze fell on Aramis Chance and she faltered. "This is a p-private box belonging to the Earl of Berridge. You will vacate it immediately."

Aramis Chance ignored the woman.

Theodore Chance remained standing. "Berridge is our uncle. We are permitted to occupy the family box."

Mrs Dunwoody pressed her case. "What poppycock. Your father relinquished the right to call himself family thirty years ago when he stole the silver and shot a man in Hyde Park."

"Two men in Hyde Park," Theodore corrected. "Though I believe it was self-defence."

"I shall fetch the manager and have you forcibly removed."

"Before you do, I suggest you read the contract. As a blood relative, I have a right to sit in this box."

Viscount Wrotham found the courage to take up the reins. "King George himself decreed your father should be disowned. You're no longer family. You've no claim here."

Members of the audience shifted their attention to the box. Midway through her soliloquy, an actress glanced their way, too.

Theodore Chance grinned. "George is no longer king. One could argue he was not of sound mind sixteen years ago. For reasons I cannot discuss, our family has King William's favour. Let us take the matter up with him. I believe he will agree there was a conspiracy to oust us. By rights, my eldest brother is in line to inherit an earldom when your father meets his maker."

Mrs Dunwoody blanched.

Viscount Wrotham struggled to muster a reply.

"You're playing into our hands, Wrotham. Aramis will call your father out for slandering our name and inciting men to murder us. I shall call you out for insulting my betrothed. While you're rotting in a shallow grave, our brother Aaron will be the next Earl of Berridge."

A tense silence ensued.

"Is this how you mean to seek vengeance?" Lady Lucille said, jumping to the same conclusion most conceited women would. "If you're doing this to hurt me, it won't change anything between us."

Mr Chance chuckled as if the notion were ridiculous. "The fact you think this is about you tells me everything I need to know. Go home, my lady, and take your weak-chinned affianced with you." His expression darkened. "Go now, else there'll be hell to pay."

The craven trio backed out of the box.

Mrs Dunwoody uttered something derogatory as a final farewell, but a scream of laughter from the audience drowned out the cutting remark.

Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. She was one step closer to reclaiming her sewing box. Yes, Lady Lucille would probably warn her friends to find a new modiste, but Eleanor would not die tonight.

"Well, thank you for an entertaining evening, Mr Chance, but I have business elsewhere." Having wasted enough time, she bid his family farewell and gathered her cloak. "May I have a private word outside? "

The amusement in his eyes confirmed he was unaware of the secrets hidden inside the box. "Of course."

He drew back one curtain but blocked the exit so she was forced to squeeze past him. This time, it wasn't the divine smell of his cologne that made her heart flutter but the man's sheer size.

Theodore Chance might be the youngest of four brothers, but he was no less intimidating. He stood tall and robust, a perfect monument to maleness. His powerful presence would make any woman feel safe. What a shame he was her enemy and not her ally.

The devil grinned as he joined her in the corridor. "I suppose this is where you demand I keep my end of the bargain."

"You made such a fuss about being deceived. I'm confident you're a man of your word." She straightened. Something about his manner made her wary. Perhaps he liked this game and had no desire to see it reach a swift conclusion. "I did everything you asked. It is imperative that you return my box to me tonight."

He drew his thumb across his bottom lip as he studied her. "You did more than I asked, Miss Darrow. I asked for a kiss, but you gave me a glimpse of something more intriguing."

Heavens above!

This man would test a nun's patience.

"Do not mistake me for those simpering misses who hang on your every word." She tried to dismiss thoughts of their kiss, but the touch of his lips had left an indelible imprint in her memory. "I am immune to your flirtations and flattery."

"I beg to differ." He raised his chin, his eyes shining in silent challenge. "You may lie to yourself, Miss Darrow, but you cannot lie to me. Had I deepened the kiss, you would have welcomed me into your mouth."

The mental image of him pressing her against the wall and ravishing her senseless was entirely unhelpful. Fortunately, the fear of being slain in her bed snapped her back to reality.

"I thought you had taken a vow of celibacy."

"I'm willing to bend the rules for you, madam. You're not inclined to marry, and perhaps you'll find an illicit liaison more satisfying than sorting the spools in your sewing box."

If she had nothing better to do than tidy the threads, she might agree. His comment meant he didn't know the box had a hidden compartment. Her survival depended upon the secret notes reaching their recipients.

"The only satisfaction I seek is having my box returned to me."

"Yet your eyes tell a different story."

As if in agreement, the theatre erupted in a symphony of applause. As the audience prepared to flood the halls, eager to stretch their legs and find refreshment, she spoke with an air of finality. "No more games, sir."

Mr Chance inclined his head in acquiescence. "Your box is wedged between the mattress and headboard in my bedchamber at Fortune's Den."

The weight of her burden lifted from her shoulders. "Bring it to my shop in New Bridge Street tonight and we can put this sorry business behind us." If she did not deliver the blackguard's note by six o'clock tomorrow, she would have to leave London.

Mr Chance chose to be pedantic. "I agreed to tell you where to find the box. If you wish to reclaim it, you must do that yourself."

With her relief short-lived, she firmed her jaw but felt like throttling him with his starched cravat. "You will be the ruin of me, sir, and not for any romantic reasons I may have once envisioned."

He narrowed his gaze. "Ruined over a few threads? Is there something you're not telling me, madam?"

Confess, the logical voice in her head cried.

She was out of her depth, drowning in a quagmire of deception, sinking in a swamp of secrets. Telling the truth meant admitting she was involved in immoral schemes and wicked charades. He would think less of her than he did already.

"I'm tired, Mr Chance." She had barely slept since realising her precious notes were missing. "What do you want me to say? That I shouldn't have helped Delphine? That I shouldn't have lied to you?"

"You let me think you enjoyed my company." As he spoke, she caught a fleeting glimpse of sadness behind his stoic facade. "You let me believe our conversations were the highlight of your day."

"I am truly sorry." To say anything else meant admitting she held him in high regard—well, she had before he began his quest for vengeance. "Delphine is my client and my friend. How could I refuse her request?"

He remained silent, though the hum of conversation echoing from the auditorium built to a crescendo. People poured out of the private boxes. Many stared in their direction.

Her blackmailer might be amongst them—a devious dog in a docile pack. She had no clue whether the villain was a man or a woman.

"Come with me, Miss Darrow." Mr Chance parted the curtains to the earl's box, spoke to his brother and left abruptly. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think Aramis was glued to his wife's lips."

With a firm grip on Eleanor's elbow, he led her to the foyer, pushing past those loitering on the grand staircase. All eyes were upon them as he opened the wooden doors and led her outside into the cool summer night's air.

He inhaled deeply. "I would rather watch libertines lose at the card table than endure the nonsense on stage."

His remark was a cue to ask an important question.

"Is the club closed tonight?" she said, gauging how and when she might force the lock on the front door. "I'm surprised your eldest brother could spare you."

Aaron Chance was a hard taskmaster. Fooling him to gain entrance to Fortune's Den would be no mean feat.

Being astute, he gave a playful wink. "I suppose you're considering how you might force your way inside. This would be much simpler if you were honest and told me what's so special about the box."

Unwilling to take the blame for him being attacked a second time, she politely told him to mind his own business. "My troubles are my own. Might you summon a hackney? There is somewhere else I desperately need to be."

Mr Chance obliged by whistling to the jarvey parked farther along the narrow street. He retrieved an ornate iron key from his coat pocket, captured her gloved hand and placed it in her palm.

"Don't lose heart." His teasing grin made her wonder if the move was a strategic part of his game. "I agreed to oblige you if you made the kiss look authentic. This is your reward, Miss Darrow." He curled her fingers over the key but did not release her hand.

Something passed between them.

Something other than frustration and annoyance.

Something that made her heart race wildly.

"I presume it's the key to your club, sir, though I don't see why you cannot bring the box to my modiste shop."

He leaned closer, filling her head with his intoxicating scent. "Giving you the box means I lose the wager. If I keep it in my possession until midnight tomorrow, my brother must pay me a hundred pounds."

"A hundred pounds?" She almost choked on the words. Theodore Chance had caused her untold misery because of a stupid bet?

The hackney cab drew up beside them. Mr Chance opened the door and offered his hand. "Come to Fortune's Den after midnight tomorrow, and you may reclaim your prized possession."

Tomorrow was a day too late.

She needed the secret notes tonight.

Keen to leave and put her plan in motion, Eleanor ignored his proffered hand and climbed into the vehicle. "New Bridge Street," she said to the jarvey before facing Theodore Chance. "Thank you for the key. It makes entry into London's most dangerous gaming hell a little less impossible."

He glanced at her lips and smiled. "Approach from the east. Have the hackney park on the corner of Houndsditch. Aaron will be in his study until the lights at The Burnished Jade have dimmed."

Suspicion flared .

Why had he decided to be helpful?

"I must be better at kissing than I thought," she said, praying he did not return home until the early hours. Encountering Theodore Chance in his bedchamber would be any woman's fantasy, but she could not afford any mishaps tonight. "Had I known that was the price for your benevolence, I would have tried harder."

He laughed, giving her a glimpse of the exuberant man she used to admire. "You could not have done more to please me," he said.

Annoyed that his praise should cause a soft fluttering in her chest, she huffed. "Good night, sir. I shall try not to wake you when I come for my box."

"Have no fear. How could I sleep with the prospect of you sneaking into my bedchamber?" He moved to close the hackney cab door. "Until tomorrow, Miss Darrow. I shall await your arrival with bated breath."