Lord of Scoundrels - Loretta Chase [105]
"No." He had smothered feeling, but his head had begun to pound, and his useless arm was throbbing. He could not freeze and smother physical pain. He could scarcely think past it. Even if he could have reasoned coolly, there was no explanation he could give for his behavior that would satisfy her.
He shouldn't have tried to explain, he told himself. He could never make her understand. Above all, he didn't want her to comprehend, any more than he wanted to himself, what he'd felt when he'd looked down into that face, into the devil's mirror.
"No," he repeated. "And stop fussing about it, Jess. None of this would have happened if you hadn't insisted on coming to the bedamned wrestling match. By gad, I cannot seem to stir a foot when you are by without"— he gestured wearily— "without things going off in my face. No wonder I have a headache. If it isn't one thing, it's another. Women. Everywhere. Wives and Madonnas and mothers and whores and— and you're plaguing me to death, the lot of you."
* * *
By this time, Roland Vawtry had relieved Ainswood and the others of responsibility for Charity Graves and was marching her into the inn where she claimed to be staying.
She was not supposed to be staying at an inn in Devonport. She was supposed to be where he'd left her two days earlier, in Ashburton, where she'd said nothing about Dain or Dain's bastard. There, all she had done was sashay into the public room and settle at a table nearby with a fellow who seemed to know her. After a while, the fellow had left, and Vawtry's comrades having departed for assignations of their own, he had found himself sharing the table with her and buying her a tankard of ale. After which they had adjourned for a few rollicking hours of what Beaumont had claimed Vawtry badly needed.
Beaumont had been right on that count, as he seemed to be on so many others.
But Beaumont didn't have to be here now to point out that what Charity Graves badly needed was to be beaten within an inch of her life.
The inn, fortunately, was not a respectable one, and no one made a murmur when Vawtry stomped up after her to her room. As soon as he'd shut the door, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her.
"You lying, sneaking, troublemaking little strumpet!" he burst out. Then he broke away, fearing he would kill her, and certain that he did not badly need to be hanged for murdering a tart.
"Oh, my," she said with a laugh. "I fear you're not happy to see me, Rolly, my love."
"Don't call me that— and I'm not your love, you stupid cow. You're going to get me killed. If Dain finds out I was with you in Ashburton, he's sure to think I put you up to that scene."
He flung himself into a chair. "Then he'll take me apart, piece by piece. And ask questions later." He raked his fingers through his hair. "And it's no use hoping he won't find out, because nothing ever goes right when it comes to him. I vow, it must be a curse. Twenty thousand pounds— slipped through my hands— I didn't even know it was there— and now this. Because I didn't know you were there— here— either. And the brat— his bastard. Who knew he had one? But now everyone does— thanks to you— including her— and if he doesn't kill me, the bitch will shoot me."
Charity approached. "Did you say 'twenty thousand,' lovey?" She sat on his lap and drew his arm around her and pressed his hand against her ample breast.
"Leave me alone," he grumbled. "I'm not in the mood."
Roland Vawtry's mood was one of black despair.
He was mired in debt, with no way of getting out, ever, because he was Dame Fortune's dependent, and she was capricious, as Beaumont had so wisely warned. She gave