Page 42 of Winter's Waltz
Chapter 8
When she was helpless or nervous, Gen liked to perform useful, menial tasks. And tonight, she was both, more than she had ever been before. Because an unknown foe was doing everything in his power to make certain Lady Fortune failed before it had a chance to succeed. And because she had invited the Marquess of Sundenbury into her bed.
She sat by a brace of candles in her private apartment above the gaming hell, penknife in hand as she sharpened the nib of what must have been her tenth quill. In her agitation, she had scavenged all the pens she could find, intent upon doing something useful. Anything to take her mind off the troubling incidents which had befallen Lady Fortune. And anything to keep her from thinking about the marquess’s promise.
I will make certain you are very, very, very impressed.
The memory of his low, delicious voice uttering those sinful words to her still sent a shiver down her spine.Christ and all the saints.What was she going to do with such a man? How was she going to keep herself from turning into a quivering, stuttering fool? She had already admitted she was a virgin to him.
Grumbling a curse, she worked on the nib in her hands, cutting at a precise angle.
Her entire store of Madeira had been thieved. Gone without a hint of when it may have been taken. None of the details she had hired had seen anyone suspicious lingering about Lady Fortune or entering or leaving. Peter had been conducting a check of the cellar when he had noticed the wine missing.
And after she had finished tallying her ledgers—and tidying the mess of her spilled inkwell—she had confirmed her fears. There were not funds remaining for a replacement store of Madeira. Not if she intended to pay her employees their wages and continue repairing the kitchens, both of which were utter necessities. Gen believed in loyalty and fairness above all else. She wanted everyone in her employ to believe in her, in Lady Fortune, and she wanted them to know they could be assured of the coin she promised them and the bread they needed to put upon their tables.
Damn whoever was attempting to destroy her business to hell. She had sent word of the stolen wine to Dom. Reluctantly, but she had done it. She did not possess the connections in their world that her older brother did. If it was truly Ruben Wilmore behind the attempts to hurt Lady Fortune, Dom would know better than anyone.
But that would do nothing to replenish her Madeira. Oh, she had not doubt that Dom would be more than eager to send her all the wine he possessed at The Devil’s Spawn in an effort to aid her. That was the way of things with her siblings. Yet, she balked at asking for or accepting his help. Lady Fortune was meant to be hers, and that meant its battles were hers to fight as well. She would simply have to serve a different drink to her ladies until she had the coin for more Madeira.
She heaved a sigh of irritation at the thought. If she wanted to attract the wealthiest ladies with the most blunt to lose, and if she wanted to make them believe her establishment was exclusive and sought after, she needed Madeira, curse it. She also needed kitchens which were not partially rebuilt and a French chef who was not furious his space had been destroyed.
A sudden tap at the door, almost so light she failed to hear it, had her jumping. The blade of her penknife slipped, slicing into the tender pad of her thumb. On a yowl of pure frustration and pain, she stuffed the digit into her mouth, sucking. The coppery tang of blood met her tongue.
Her door flew open, and the Marquess of Sundenbury came storming across the threshold, looking as if he were charging into battle. He slowed when he spied her and exhaled loudly.
“You are uninjured?” he demanded.
She plucked her thumb from between her lips. “Injured, but the fault is mine. Do close the door before everyone beneath this roof is aware that you are in my chamber.”
He retraced his steps and closed the door as she asked before turning and stalking toward her, his countenance still stark. “I was in your chamber before.”
“It was after a fire. No one took note,” she said, glancing at her thumb and dismayed to find blood oozing steadily from the cut she had given herself.
She was instantly dizzied. The room was spinning.
“Damnation, Gen!” He was on his knees before her in an instant, taking her hand in his. “What the devil happened?”
She glanced back at her thumb, which proved a mistake. Her skin went hot, then cold. Her stomach clenched. “I cut myself.”
“You are pale.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the snowy linen around her thumb, holding it tight.
“The sight of my blood makes me…ill,” she managed.
She was lightheaded. On the edge of vomiting. Damn these old wounds, which never seemed to heal. Which took her back to that long-ago day, when Gav had saved her life.
“Take a deep breath,” he said, keeping his handkerchief in place. “I will tend to your wound.”
She closed her eyes, but the memories were there. The monsters, too. So she opened her eyes, staring at the marquess.
“Breathe, Gen.” His gold-brown stare bored into hers, calming, tender.
A reminder she was in the present and the past could not harm her.
She took a gulp of air. She had tattooed her family and others with impunity, the needle she used to implant the pigments in their skin often drawing blood. It was only her own blood that made her ill, the painful reminder of her vulnerability. Of her inability to protect herself from harm.
“Your color is returning.” He was calm, reassuring.
A bastion of comfort.
