Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

H aving been born to the rookeries had its benefits. One of them was learning how to hide in plain sight. How to blend with the shadows and await one's prey. In his youth, Rafe had been a dab hand at pickpocketing fancy culls who wandered about like fat hens in a fox's den. He had learned many lessons in those rough days before The Sinner's Palace had become one of the most sought-after gaming hells in London. And one of those lessons was about to suit him well.

The best time to strike was when a man was drunk, when he had recently drained his ballocks, or when he thought he was about to accomplish both or either of those pleasantly sated states. He had already used this time-honored tenet to have a mildly violent discussion with Lord Aidan Weir concerning his sister Pen. He was about to have another with Viscount Gregson on behalf of a different woman.

It had taken him only a few days to learn the habits of his quarry. And so it was that he found himself waiting to enter an adjoining chamber at The Garden of Flora. His presence this evening was not, as it had been on previous occasions, to take pleasure. But rather, to confer pain and humiliation.

Madame Laurent had been kind enough, when he had relayed his information concerning Lord Gregson, to offer her assistance. As the owner of one of the finer, if more depraved, establishments catering to the lusty whims of London, Sophie did not tolerate any patrons with abusive tendencies.

The greatest asset of an abbess was her ladies, and if her ladies were injured or worse, it affected her purse. Sophie understood the health and well-being of the women in her employ was distinctly connected to how much coin she could collect from her patrons. If a man were to mistreat any of them, or if he were found to have passed on the Covent Garden ague, he was prohibited from returning.

If a cull is willing to force himself on an innocent governess in his family's home, Christ knows what he is capable of , Rafe had told Sophie.

Being an intelligent and shrewd businesswoman, she had agreed, promising to send word the next time Lord Gregson arrived at The Garden of Flora. She had also agreed to set up a tableau rendering Rafe's plan far more easily enacted. Tonight was the night.

Lord Gregson was about to have the basting of his spoiled, lordly life.

The door to the chamber opened, and a brunette named Mignonette emerged. In truth, her name was likely Mary or Sarah, or something equally plain. Sophie required all her ladies to take the names of flowers.

Mignonette was one of the most expensive ladies at The Garden of Flora for a very good reason. She stopped at nothing to please whomever was fortunate enough to enjoy her company for the evening. Strangely, however, her lush beauty, on display in a diaphanous dressing gown, did not stir him this evening.

All his thoughts were for a sunset-haired governess who had drugged him and dragged him into her bed. It made no sense, and yet, there was something about prim Miss Wren that brought out all the possessive instincts he had. Not just desire but a deeper, stronger connection. A bond he could neither explain nor define.

And that was why he found himself here, waiting to mete out justice to that slimy arsehole Lord Gregson, on her behalf. If ever he had known of a man who needed to be beaten to death with a sack of his own shite, it was he. Rafe's blood ran hot with impotent fury as he remembered how pale and shaken Miss Wren had been in the carriage as she had confessed to what had occurred at her previous post. She had come perilously close to retching. The reminder sent a resurgence of bloodlust slamming through him.

"His lordship is awaiting his surprise," Mignonette said softly, extending her arm to offer him a rather wicked-looking cat-o'-nine-tails.

Apparently, some patrons of The Garden of Flora enjoyed being flogged. Lord Gregson was one of them. That salient bit of information had given Rafe all the ammunition he required.

He took the whip from Mignonette, surprised by the heft of it in his hand. "Thank you, darling."

Mignonette came nearer, bringing with her the rich scent of her perfume, which was not nearly as pleasing as the floral notes of Miss Wren's Winter's soap. "Of course. I had not realized how despicable Lord Gregson is. We thank you for rooting out a viper on our behalf."

Mignonette's accent suggested she had been raised by the quality. She spoke with an eloquence that was difficult to feign. Quite a bit like Miss Wren.

He inclined his head, his fingers tightening on the braided leather hilt of the whip. "My pleasure."

"Perhaps I can see to your pleasure later," she suggested, running a finger lightly down his forearm.

Still, he felt nothing. Not a hint of interest. Nor a stirring of his cock. He told himself his lack of response was because of the fury igniting his veins.

"Some other night, love," he said softly, giving her a smile he knew the ladies always adored.

Women and dimples. He'd never understand the fascination, but he most assuredly wasn't against exploiting it for his own benefit.

She pouted. "If you insist."

"I'm afraid I do." He had other matters to attend to, far more important ones.

Rafe took his leave of the lovely Mignonette and ventured into the adjoining chamber where Lord Gregson anticipated his "surprise." Madame Laurent had a host of devices and pieces of furniture which lent themselves to the particular vices of her guests. In this instance, Lord Gregson was strapped to a narrow, padded bench, lying prone, a blindfold tied over his eyes. His wrists were bound above his head, and his ankles were held in place with buckled straps at the opposite end. The sight of his pale arse made Rafe ill. At least the bastard was facedown.

"What took you so long, Mignonette?" the viscount asked, having no notion of what he was about to endure.

But then, it was only fitting, for neither had Miss Wren. She had been innocently sleeping when this detestable scoundrel had attempted to force himself upon her. Rafe could only imagine the fear which must have gripped her. Witnessing her reaction to the memories of that night in the carriage haunted him still.

Drove him here.

Now.

To this moment of vengeance.

"Forgive me for the delay," he drawled, striding forward, preparing to strike.

"What the bloody deuce?"

Lord Gregson's alarm was as apparent as it was enjoyable. He instantly struggled with his bonds, fear lacing his words.

"You cannot escape, you piece of horse shite," Rafe said, unable to keep the note of savage satisfaction from his own voice. "Rather similar, ain't it?"

"Similar to what? What the devil is happening? Who are you, and where is Mignonette?" demanded Lord Gregson, panicked now as he tugged wildly at his wrists and ankles, to no avail.

"Similar to the way you attempted to force yourself on an innocent governess." He tested the whip, cracking it against the carpets. "You do recall, do you not? Stealing your way into her room in the night, forcing yourself into her bed, pinning her down and telling her she wanted you to violate her? Ignoring her when she told you to stop?"

Rafe had to pause and clench his jaw, his rage overflowing like the swelling banks of a flooded river.

"I never violated anyone!" Lord Gregson denied, his voice high-pitched with fear. "What are you going to do to me?"

"You never violated her, because she was able to fight your drunken arse off and alert the household," he bit out. "As for what I'm going to do to you, Lord Gregson, that's simple. I'm going to exact retribution."

"Please, no," Lord Gregson whimpered.

"This one is for Miss Wren," Rafe said grimly, drawing back the cat-o'-nine-tails and striking with all his might.

The lordling screamed in pain. Rafe did not so much as flinch as he drew back the whip again, undaunted by the red welts marring Lord Gregson's back and hairy arse.

"And this is for any other innocents you may have defiled."

The whip cracked again.

"Please," Lord Gregson whimpered. "I beg of you, stop."

"Do not doubt that if more word of you attacking innocent ladies emerges, I will find you again," he warned, before lashing him again. "I'll cut you up and feed you to a pack of wild dogs. Do you understand me?"

"Please." Lord Gregson was weeping like a babe.

"Tell me you understand." The whip cracked another time.

"I understand! I'll never do it again. I swear it!"

The desperation in the other man's voice was enough to persuade Rafe he may have finally managed to make some progress.

He brought the whip down a final time for good measure before tossing it to the floor. "Heed my warning, Lord Gregson, or I promise you, the next time won't go as easy."

With that warning, he stalked from the room, leaving the lord sobbing, welted, and bloody.

After another long, yet fulfilling, day of working with her charges, Persephone made her way to her room for the evening. Anne and Elizabeth continued to make marked strides in their reading and other lessons. She was quite pleased with the improvement they had shown, and during her daily visit to confer with Persephone over the girls' progress that evening, Lady Octavia had expressed her happiness as well. Mr. Sutton, who ordinarily accompanied his wife, had been absent.

She could not have been more fortunate to have discovered this post quite unexpectedly whilst living off the meager, dwindling wages she had been able to collect from her previous situation. It had certainly been the answer to her desperate prayers, and in more ways than one. Mr. Sutton and Lady Octavia were kind and thoughtful. They did not speak to her condescendingly as the Earl and Countess of Landsdowne had. They paid her fair wages and treated her as if she were a valued member of the household. They were never sparing in their praise, and nor did they cast judgment on her choice of lessons.

Admittedly, she had never expected to become a governess. When circumstances had forced her into the position to protect herself, she had been uncertain of what she was meant to be teaching. Her own governesses had been strict and stern, forcing her to walk with books balanced on her head, making her wear a corset to improve her posture, rapping her wrists with a rod when she did not please. But Persephone had no wish to implement the same tortures which had been inflicted upon her. She chose instead to instill a love of literature and learning which had been denied her. She was abysmal at needlework and water colors, it was true. Her governesses had all despaired over her fledgling abilities. Cousin Bartholomew had been appalled when he had checked upon her progress.

The work of a tyro , he had said dismissively, before firing her governess of the moment.

Although Persephone had not seen it then, she could discern quite plainly now that he had been attempting to groom her into being the wife he wished for himself. In his mind, it was simple. He would mold her, marry her, and absorb all her wealth for himself. But he had made one mistake in failing to realize she was not the sort of lady who would allow herself to be molded.

Thank heavens she had escaped him. All she needed to do was remain out of his reach until her birthday. And possibly beyond. But she would confront that matter later, when the necessity arose. For now, she was tired and comfortable and safe.

Or rather, as comfortable and safe as she could possibly feel given her tenuous position. Despite the kindness Rafe Sutton had shown her that day in the carriage, Persephone remained convinced it was only a matter of time before her lies were revealed. Whether unintentionally or out of an abundance of caution given that she was providing care for his nieces, she could not say. All she did know was that each morning, she woke with dread in her belly even as the sun rose high on the promise of a new day.

Undoubtedly, tomorrow would prove no different.

Persephone unleashed a wistful sigh as she reached the door to her room. Holding her taper aloft to illuminate the passage, she reached for the latch and pushed the door open, crossing over the threshold. The moment the portal closed at her back, however, she knew something was amiss.

The scent of the room was different.

Different, yet familiar.

Shaving soap and man and…

Rafe Sutton.

Freezing where she stood, she cast a wild glance about the shadows of her small room.

"Good evening, Miss Wren."

She wheeled about to find him behind her, his large form occupying the inkiness of the far corner of the room where a small chair dwelled. Often, the piece of furniture in question provided an excellent place to read in the morning before she needed to join Anne and Elizabeth for their first lessons of the day. It was her place, the only space in the entire town house which was solely hers. The only place that had ever seemed hers, in fact.

And now, Rafe Sutton was occupying it as if he belonged there.

"Mr. Sutton," she snapped, holding her free hand to her madly galloping heart. "What are you doing here?"

He made no move to stand. Instead, he waved his hand in a languid gesture which encompassed his body. "What am I doing here beneath this roof, or here in your room again?"

"Beneath this roof," she said hastily. "Or rather, in my room. Oh, bother. Both."

Her foolish gaze seized the opportunity to drink him in. His long legs were encased in trousers, his ankles crossed. His hazel eyes met hers through the murk, sending a spark of awareness straight through her, as burning as if it had been cast directly from a live flame. He wore no jacket this evening, she realized as she moved nearer, chasing the darkness with the soft, warm illumination of her candle. Instead, he was in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, the knot of his snowy cravat loose at his throat.

Why did he have to be so wickedly alluring? There was something about the man that transcended mere looks. He simply exuded something that drew her to him in a way no man before him had. Or, she suspected, could.

"I am staying here."

The smooth, self-assured response had her instantly on edge.

"Here in my room?" she blurted, before inwardly chastising herself.

It could not be! Mr. Sutton and Lady Octavia would never allow such a scandalous arrangement. Her mind whirled. She was flustered. Her face hot. The rest of her body… hotter .

What was this flush that overcame her whenever he was near? Why and how? Could she put an end to it?

Rafe chuckled and unfolded his body from the chair, rising to his full height. Curse him, but the sound was velvet and silk to her senses. Soft and smooth and decadent.

Rafe? When had she begun to think of him in such intimate terms?

"Beneath this roof, Miss Wren. My brothers and sisters and I are opening a new venture in the West End, The Sinner's Palace II. I'll be running the daily operations, which means I need to be closer than the East End more often than not."

Beneath.

This.

Roof?

He was staying here ? Every night? Worry assailed her, mingling with the unwanted desire. Not fear about his presence, but rather for what it would mean to her in terms of the looming secret she had revealed.

"Have you told Mr. Sutton and Lady Octavia about what happened at my last situation?" she asked, trying to tamp down her body's frantic response.

He moved soundlessly, with the same innate grace she had noted before. Catlike and elegant and yet delightfully masculine all at once.

"Even if I were to tell Jasper and his wife that bastard Gregson attempted to force himself on you, they would find fault with that cowardly scoundrel, where it belongs," he said, his countenance serious, his gaze searching. "Surely you know that?"

"I forged my letter of character to gain this position," she said. "When I left Lord Landsdowne's home, I knew I would have to forfeit that, but I was also desperate."

"You did what you needed to do." Rafe removed the remainder of the distance between them, plucking the taper from her fingers before moving away to light a brace of candles and a small lamp.

More light flooded her room, and she was at once grateful for it and dismayed.

Grateful because her eyes no longer had to strain through the darkness to make out the beautiful symmetry of his face. Dismayed because her eyes no longer had to strain through the darkness to make out the beautiful symmetry of his face. And all the rest of him, too.

He was more handsome than she had recalled, if at all possible. Surely it was impossible, was it not? Certainly implausible. Yet, he was. She found herself moving toward him, seeking his warmth. Seeking his presence.

"I did what I had to do, yes, but I lied," she pointed out. "I lied to you. I lied to them. All you need to do is tell them my letter of character was forged, and they will ask me to leave without reference."

She was giving voice to her fears. Quite foolishly. And yet, the words had left her in a mad rush. When had Rafe Sutton become her confidante?

"I won't tell them, Miss Wren." Gently and slowly, as if he feared she were a wild creature who might start and flee, he reached out, running his forefinger beneath her jaw. The caress was so tender and fleeting, she would have believed she had imagined it if not for the tingling warmth where his bare skin had touched hers. "Will you tell me your name?"

"Persephone," she said, the only part of her that was not a lie. The only part of her that was truly hers to give him.

When she had escaped Cousin Bartholomew, she had known she would need to change her surname to render it more difficult to find her. It was a matter of course that he would come looking. He would not wish for his fortune to flee him. But she had kept her given name, not wanting to lose herself entirely.

She was still Persephone. She was merely no longer Lady Persephone Calcot.

"Persephone," Rafe repeated, a small grin quirking his lips, his dimples appearing. "Ah, how interesting."

"Interesting?" She was trying not to allow herself to be charmed by him and failing miserably.

She ought to tell him to leave her room instead of admiring the glint of the low light in his blond curls, and yet she could not. There was the faintest golden stubble of whiskers on his jaw that she found utterly mesmerizing.

"Hades and Persephone. I know the tale," he said, his smile fading and taking with it those maddening grooves that served to enhance his appeal. "Hades stole Persephone away to the underworld."

He ran his hand along the well-defined angle she had been admiring, and for a brief, mad moment, she wondered what it would feel like, what would happen if she were to replace his hand with hers.

Then, she banished the dangerous thought from her mind.

You're being foolish, Persephone. This man is not for you.

"I am afraid I fail to see what is interesting about the story," she forced herself to say. "It seems rather unbelievable, if you ask me. He fell in love with her after seeing her picking flowers? How trite."

Rafe raised a brow. "I reckon that for the right woman, a man might lose his heart and his head easily. He may even forgive a lady for slipping laudanum into his brandy."

A strange warmth invaded her. What was he suggesting? Surely not that he had lost either his head or his heart to her. That was impossible. He scarcely even knew her. And furthermore, she was still lying to him, even now. Her every waking moment was one falsehood after the next, perpetuated over and over, without end.

The guilt returned, heavy as a stone. "Perhaps you should not have forgiven me, Mr. Sutton."

"I'm a forgiving chap when forgiveness is due." His jaw clenched. "Not when it ain't. You can be sure Lord Gregson won't be trying to force himself on any other ladies any time soon. I've made certain of that."

Lord Gregson.

The mentioning of him had her entire body stiffening as if she had been struck. Slowly, Rafe's words permeated the intensity of her reaction.

"You've made certain?" She searched his countenance. "How?"

"I whipped his lily-white arse until he was bleeding and sobbing like a babe."

She blinked, certain he was jesting. But Rafe Sutton's expression remained solemn and imperturbable. "You…whipped him?"

Surely he knew he could be arrested for daring to strike the son of an earl.

"He deserved it." Half his mouth pulled up in a small grin that was sadly bereft of dimples.

"Something serious could befall you for doing so, Mr. Sutton."

"Eh." He waved a hand in dismissive fashion, as if he were chasing an irritating fly. "No need to worry on my account. I made certain the buffle-headed scoundrel hasn't a bloody inkling who gave him the drubbing. All 'e knows is why."

A rush of emotion swept over her, so overwhelming that her eyes began to sting with the precursor to tears. The knowledge he had done violence to Lord Gregson left her reeling with shock and a stirring sense of justice having been done.

But what to say in such a moment? It had been plain to Persephone, from the moment she had first met him, that Rafe Sutton was not the sort of gentleman who ordinarily graced Mayfair drawing rooms. His admission, however, was confirmation. He had whipped Lord Gregson.

Rafe's words echoed in her mind.

He deserved it.

Yes. He had deserved it. But no one had ever taken such a stand for her before. She'd never had a champion. All her life, she had been at the mercy of others. She blinked as her vision blurred with tears. They trickled down her cheeks, unstoppable.

"Ah Christ, lovely." Rafe extracted a handkerchief from his waistcoat and dabbed at her cheeks. "No need to cry over the fate of such a piece of shite."

His gesture, so tender and unexpected, and in complete disparity to the viciousness of the act he had perpetuated upon the viscount, made her tears flow anew.

She sniffed but held herself still, accepting his ministrations. "I am not weeping over Lord Gregson."

A frown creased his brow. "Why, then?"

"Because no one has ever championed me." The admission was humiliating.

A woman grown, four-and-twenty years of age, and not one soul had ever cared about what had become of her. Aside from when she had run away from Cousin Bartholomew, she did not expect he had ever given her much consideration. And before that…well, she had no memories of her mother or father.

"Bleeding hell," Rafe swore. "Then you've never known anyone who deserved to know you."

The most ridiculous urge to throw her arms about him rose within her. To hold him tight, breathe in his scent and bask in his nearness. But how strange, when she had never embraced another in her life, aside from her charges. And oh, what a blessing the exuberant hugs of Anne and Elizabeth were. Although not the same.

Not a man's embrace.

Not Rafe Sutton's arms circling her waist.

Would he embrace her in return?

"Thank you," she said, and then she gave in to the desire.

One step was all it took. One step, and she was pressed against him from breast to hip. Her movement was so sudden and awkward, she nearly upset their balances and sent the both of them crashing to the floor. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in the soft linen of his simply tied cravat. He held her against him, and unless she was mistaken, he pressed his nose to her crown. She inhaled deeply, wanting to commit the scent of him to memory. To remember always the warmth and vitality he exuded. To preserve this moment so that she could return to it in her mind and be newly astounded by the rush of feeling.

"You needn't thank me, lovely," he rasped.

Lovely , he had called her for the second time. She could not lie—she liked the way it sounded in his deep, smoky baritone, with his accent that was not quite proper, just a bit raw and rough and… real . Just him .

And then the sweetest gesture of all—his lips pressed to her part. He had kissed her. Rafe Sutton, East End charmer, had sought vengeance against Lord Gregson for her, and then he had dried her tears, held her in his arms, and kissed her. Not on her lips, where others had forced kisses she had not wanted in the past. But in that previously unconsidered place, the top of her head.

He was a complex and mysterious man, and she knew in that moment that if there was anything she must do when in his presence, it was to guard her heart. Rafe Sutton was the sort of goodhearted rogue a woman could fall in love with. And she very much could not afford such a folly.

One moment more, Persephone.

Or two.

One, two, three…

Let go of him, you fool.

With another sniffle, she released her hold on him and stepped away, feeling both bereft and embarrassed by her display of emotion.

"Thank you," she repeated, for it was necessary, and words, in this instance, were insufficient. "I suppose we should both get our rest, then."

"We should," he agreed, tucking his handkerchief back into the pocket of his waistcoat with a nod.

She thought of his cravat which she had discovered the morning after he had slept in her bed. Likely, she ought to return it to him, and yet, she found herself strangely reluctant to relinquish the scrap of starched linen, pitifully wrinkled by its presence beneath her pillow.

And the number of times you have extracted it and held it to your nose for a hint of his scent.

"I bid you good evening, Mr. Sutton," she said, hating the words, hating putting an end to their time together, and yet knowing she must.

For her own self-preservation, if nothing else.

"Call me Rafe," he said, that rogue's smile of his firmly back in place. "Good evening, Persephone."

With a bow, he was gone.

And she stood in her room alone, arms hugging her waist, wondering why she had never felt her loneliness in such acute fashion until now.