Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

L eaving the Sutton town house without notice had proven easier than Persephone had anticipated. She had even chanced a hasty visit to the girls' nursery to whisper a farewell one last time.

By noon of the following day, she was ensconced in a small room she had paid far too dear a price for, considering its slovenly state. But never mind that; it was to be expected. Her years navigating London as an unwed lady left her feeling fortunate indeed to have found a room that was at least suitable to live in.

And though her heart was aching and broken, she had resorted to finding her next situation, just as she had half a dozen times before. She had already answered three requests for a governess. However, given her urgent need of a new placement and the current available posts, her choices were lackluster at best and dreadful at worst.

She had been here before. Had done this before. Starting over was no different today than it had been the last time she had done so. She looked at her portmanteau resting beside the tiny bed and tried in vain to conquer a fresh rush of tears. Rafe's cravat was still tucked neatly within it, placed there with loving care the last time she had extracted it to bring it to her nose for the faintest hint of him.

You did the right thing, Persephone.

Why did doing the right thing feel so terribly wrong, as if it would break her heart in two?

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. For a wild moment, her heart leapt as she imagined it was Rafe, coming to collect her. But no, how foolish. He would have no notion of where she had gone. More than likely, it was Mrs. Bridges, from whom she had rented her room.

She went to the door and opened it without thought. And just like that, her world changed.

Her entire body went cold at the familiar form towering over her. Not many men were taller than she. But one man in particular had always been a full head taller, in true Calcot fashion.

"My dear Persephone," Cousin Bartholomew drawled pleasantly, as if she would welcome the sight of him, as if he had been invited or expected. "It feels as if it has been an age since I have last beheld you."

She moved to slam the door on him, but he was too quick, his booted foot keeping her from closing it. "What are you doing here?"

Throwing all her weight against the door, she tried desperately to keep it closed so he could not enter. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry, desperation seizing her in a relentless grip. Surely this was a dream from which she would soon wake, realizing it had all been a terrible illusion.

"Coming to collect my bride," he answered, using his superior strength to push the door inward.

She attempted to hold fast to the battered plank floors but her slippers were sliding. "If you do not go, I'll scream and Mrs. Bridges will come to see what is amiss."

"Mrs. Bridges is a woman of practicality and good breeding." He wedged his shoulder into the doorway, gaining on her. "She knows I am a peer of the realm and that you are my mad, runaway ward. She will not save you, my dear."

"I am not mad!" she cried out, still pushing with all her might, though it was fast becoming apparent doing so was a losing battle.

"Your denial will not aid your cause," he gritted, giving one more, sudden shove.

Persephone was caught off-balance, and she toppled backward, landing hard on her rump as Cousin Bartholomew gained entrance, closing the door at his back. His countenance was smug.

Victorious.

Hateful.

Her stomach clenched with terror. For so long, she had avoided him. And now, her greatest fear had come to fruition. He had returned, and he intended to take her with him. Just when freedom had finally been within her reach.

She scrambled to her feet, eying him warily.

She did not know if he would pounce or if he would, as he had so often enjoyed doing in the past, toy with her until striking at the moment she least expected it.

"Did you not think I would come for you, my dear?" He tilted his head, considering her, an ugly smile slowly spreading over his thin lips. "Ah, I can see from your countenance you did not believe I would. But then, all these years, and your birthday so near. You must have believed yourself incapable of being found."

Not incapable, but she had begun to feel complacent in a way she had not been in the earlier years of her flight. She could admit as much to herself now. When she had first left Silwood Manor, she had guarded everything with the greatest of care—her identity, her person, her friendship. The Persephone of seven years before never would have allowed herself to so much as hold a conversation with a man like Rafe Sutton.

But she would not give Cousin Bartholomew the gratification of her acknowledgment. Instead, she kept her head held high and maintained her silence.

He laughed then, as if he found this moment, her at his mercy after fighting him for so long, amusing. But, knowing Cousin Bartholomew, he likely did.

"Ah, my sweet, innocent Persephone, clinging to your hopes like the stupid little romantic you are." He laughed again, but there was no accompanying light of mirth in his light-blue eyes. They were dead, just as they had always been. "I would have thought I had disabused you of your mother's nature when you were a child. But then, the most difficult of spirits to crush is the foolish, hopeful one. Fortunately for me, destroying them also proves the most enjoyable."

She suppressed a shudder, refusing to show him fear, for she recalled all too well how he thrived upon the terror of others and the power he wielded over them.

He reached out with a gloved hand then, the butter-soft leather lightly connecting with her chin, tilting it upward. "You do not imagine I will be gentle with you after the merry chase you have led me on, dearest."

How she hated his use of the endearment. On his lips, it was a weapon. A venomous snake, waiting to strike. Still, she said nothing, refusing to give him her words.

"You must, else you would not be showing such disobedience." His nostrils flared. "Oh, my dear. I can assure you that you will not be treated as you once would have been. I tried to tell you, but you would not listen, how marriage to me would be a wondrous state. All you had to do was please me, and I would have been quite lenient. But a man does not want a soiled bride."

She would have flinched at the condemnation in his voice, but she was doing her utmost to remain calm and unaffected.

"After what you have done with Gregson?" He shook his head slowly, and in an instant, his face changed, the lines of complacency growing harsh and violent, his eyes darkening. He caught her chin in a violent grip so painful she could not suppress her squeak of surprise. "My innocent virgin bride has returned to me a whore. I will be treating her as one."

"I am not your bride," she bit out.

He squeezed her jaw hard enough that she had no doubt there would be bruising there on the morrow. "Yes you are."

"No," she managed to choke out past the pain and the fear. "I am not. You cannot force me to marry you."

His lip curled. "I will not have to force you, my dear. When you consider the choices before you, you will beg to be my wife."

Finally, her rage and hatred for him overcame all else. A rebellious surge rushed through her. She was not the girl he had cowed. She was nearly five-and-twenty. She had lived on her own, in secret, for almost seven years. She had earned her living and worked desperately hard just to be free of him. She would not surrender to this madman now!

Persephone spit in his face.

His reaction was almost instant. He slapped her so viciously, her teeth clacked together, and she bit her tongue. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and her eyes welled with tears, but she refused to blink and allow a single one of them to fall.

Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world, Cousin Bartholomew reached into his waistcoat and extracted an embroidered handkerchief. Like the rest of his clothing, it looked impossibly expensive, and she had no doubt she had paid for it.

Holding her gaze, he wiped the spittle from his lips and cheek. "That was badly done of you, my dear. In time, you will grow to learn that I am a fair man. If you obey me and seek to please me as a proper wife ought, I will be kind to you in return. If, however, you are disobedient, I will be left with no choice but to punish you."

She remembered how much he liked punishment. Just how much it pleased him. Once, as a child, she had unintentionally spied him punishing a chambermaid with a riding crop while she had begged and pleaded with him to stop. Each denial had earned another slap. Sick to her stomach, Persephone had run, too terrified to ask the poor maid what had happened when later their paths had crossed. When she had grown older, she had come to understand there was something unnatural about him. That he enjoyed the pain of others.

Much as he was enjoying hers now.

His hand still gloved, he stroked her cheek in a feathery caress, his gaze on the tingling skin he had abused. "How ruddy your skin becomes after it has been struck. Such a pretty flush. I have a suspicion I shall be seeing more of it when you defy me."

He meant to beat her. And he would find pleasure in every moment of it.

"I will not marry you," she said. "You cannot force me into a marriage."

But even as she issued the denial, she knew how weak it was. Cousin Bartholomew was a powerful man with powerful friends, capable of any depravity, willing to commit any sin to further his cause. That was why she had run seven years ago rather than remain at Silwood Manor. It was a miracle she had eluded him for this long.

He'd had control of her fortune from the time her father had died when she had been but nine years old. And he had been determined to do anything and everything in his power to keep her inheritance in his greedy claws.

"If you refuse, I will have your rookeries-born ruffian rat killed."

The dull pulse of dread which had been her constant companion since his arrival in her shabby little room tightened into a cold knot of fear. Surely he could not be speaking of Rafe. There was no way he would know she had formed an attachment with him, that he was the man she loved.

She stiffened. "Mr. Jasper Sutton was my employer, Cousin. He did nothing more than provide me with shelter and fair recompense in return for my labor. He is a fine man and undeserving of your wrath."

"It is not Mr. Jasper Sutton I speak of, my dear." His grin was pure evil, utterly triumphant. "I am referring to his younger brother, Mr. Rafael Sutton. It is he who attacked Lord Gregson."

She bit her inner lip, willing her face to remain an expressionless mask. Refusing to give him any satisfaction or proof he was right.

"Silent, my dear?" Again, one of his cutting laughs. Strange how viciousness could cloak mirth and become so ominous.

If anything were to happen to Rafe because of her, she would never forgive herself.

"Very well," she said. "I will go with you."

Her portmanteau was already packed.

"Are you going to spend the rest of your life rattling Saint Hugh's bones and drowning your bloody arse in jackey?" his younger brother Hart asked grimly at Rafe's side.

The interior of The Devil's Spawn was swirling around the edges of his blurred vision, a state that was likely partially caused by the fact that he could not recall when last he had slept and partly thanks to the gin he'd been drinking all evening.

"Rolling dice is a good fucking distraction," he informed Hart crudely, wondering why he had allowed the arsehole to accompany him this evening.

Hell, had Hart even asked permission? Rafe struggled to sift through the murky shadows of his mind and could not recall how he had come to be here, sitting at the green baize and wagering half his blunt away on what would have once been enemy territory. Their families had been forever joined when Rafe's sister Caro had wed Gavin Winter, putting an end to the feud that had once divided Winters and Suttons.

The devil's arsehole. All he could remember was that he had been searching for Persephone for a week, and he had nothing to show for his efforts. Not so much as a damned whisper of her name in all London. And that nothing echoed what was left of his conscience and his soul.

"You're becoming a tosspot like our pa," Hart observed shrewdly.

To that, Rafe raised his glass in mock salute. "I ain't a tosspot. I'm a chap whose heart's been crushed to dust beneath 'is lady's fine beater cases. Have a care now, you bleeding arsehole. I'd 'ate to give you a basting, but I will, lad. Don't doubt it."

Persephone had left him without a word, nary a farewell, and no means of finding her after she had gone. No chance to right the wrongs he had done.

"I'm not a lad." Hart reached out and thieved the glass from Rafe's fingers. "And you've had enough hazard and gin for the evening, brother."

He couldn't have Persephone.

She was lost to him forever.

All he had left was dice and drink.

He attempted to wrest the plunder from his brother's greedy hand, but the bastard was too quick. "Give me my jackey."

"You don't need it, Rafe."

"And since when are you my mother?" he snapped, growing irritated by Hart's attempts at steering him from his course. "I'm older than you by a bleeding year."

Persephone wasn't coming back. After scouring every inch of London, desperation keeping him awake all night long as he tirelessly attempted to find her, he had finally admitted defeat. He'd never see her again. He wanted to lose himself in game and drink. Was that so much to ask for?

Hart clapped him on the back whilst sliding the glass along the table, farther away and out of Rafe's reach. "What do you say we pay a call to The Garden of Flora?"

He could never look at another woman again, for as long as he lived.

"Don't want petticoats," he grumbled. "There's only one woman for me."

"And yet, she's left you," Hart pointed out calmly. "Don't be daft. This bit of skirts wasn't for you. Find a moll and fuck her silly. You'll feel better for it in the morning."

There had been a time in Rafe's life when the notion of hiring one of Sophie's girls for the night and surrendering himself to depravity would have been all he wished. But Persephone was the only woman he wanted. The only woman he would ever want, now and forever. Too blasted bad he had been too stupid to tell her that when he'd had the chance. Maybe she wouldn't have run.

"I don't want a moll." He reached for the gin again and just missed it, but he also managed to upend the glass and send his precious jackey all over the table. "Ballocks."

Something smacked into the back of Rafe's head then. He blinked, his vision fuzzier than ever. He rubbed his skull, scowling. "What the devil was that?"

" That was me." Dominic Winter was hovering over him, a hard expression on his face. "And there's more where that came from if you don't get some sense into that thick pate of yours."

"Winter." Rafe attempted to pin the other man with a glare for having the daring to lay a hand upon him, but his eyes were being deuced difficult thanks to all the spirits he had partaken. Besides that, he was filled with the munificent glow that only a dram—or two, or three—could provide. He was in that transcendent state where he bloody well loved everyone. Or most people. Not Hart. Fuck him, the cursed liquor thief. " Bene bowse , old chap. Your jackey is quite good, loath though I am to admit it."

Winter inclined his head. "The patrons of The Devil's Spawn are damned exacting. I aim to please. No baptized spirits here as they will find in other, lesser establishments. But your brother is quite right that you've had enough."

Christ. Not more of this damned fee, faw, fum.

He sighed. "You don't look like my mother, Winter."

"I certainly hope your mother was prettier than I," Winter said, deadly serious. "Given your ugly Friday face, it ain't likely."

He scoffed. "Don't tempt me into giving you the drubbing of your life."

Rafe knew he was by no means in a state to enter into a bout of fisticuffs with Dominic Winter, or any other manner of defending himself, and yet he could not seem to still his tongue. When a man had nothing left to lose, he clung to recklessness, and damn all else to perdition.

Where was his gin? Hart had taken it from him. Why? He needed more. Right bleeding now. Yesterday, in fact. His brother was a heartless arsehole.

Oh, Christ. That was right. He'd spilled it, hadn't he?

"You'll be coming with me, Sutton, or the only one of the two of us receiving a drubbing will be you," Winter said coolly. "Hart?"

Who the devil did Winter think he was? True, this was his family's gaming hell. But this was the goddamned East End , and there was neither king nor queen nor prince in these far-flung, dangerous, forgotten streets. There was only keen wits, struggling chaps, and families doing their utmost to make certain they could stay together with a solid roof over their heads, filled bellies, and that ever-elusive feeling of home.

It had taken Rafe all his life to realize his home was The Sinner's Palace. And then, not long after finally welcoming his family's gaming hell as a place of comfort and familiarity and hope rather than darkness, he had realized his true home.

Miss Persephone Wren.

"Rafe?" Hart was asking, his hazel Sutton eyes searching.

Had he said something?

"Eh?" he asked, cupping a hand to his ear as if he could not discern the words his brother was speaking. "Louder, brother. I can't hear a goddamn thing you are saying."

"Winter says he may have word of your Miss Wren," his brother said, raising his voice.

Everything within Rafe froze. "Persephone? Miss Wren? Christ, why did you not say so sooner, man?"

"Come with me, Sutton. I'll see to it you get a filled belly, and then I'll tell you everything I know."