Conspiring with a Rogue (3 page)

Drake Sutherland never did anything halfway and that included getting good and drunk as a wheelbarrow in an attempt to forget Whitney. He’d been so driven to wipe away her memory for at least a while tonight that he’d consumed more drams of the Dandy Club’s finest whiskey than he could remember. Drake squinted at the bar wench’s face but failed to get his blurry vision to cooperate.
Time to depart
. He barely knew his own name and the constant flow of Whitney’s images in his head had ceased. His mission was accomplished.

Drake stood to make his way to the exit, but the tricky ground shifted, and he landed face-first on the club’s cold marble floor. Disgusted at his clumsiness, he rolled onto his back and jerked in surprise at the large hand thrust in his face.

“You’re bloody foxed.” Trent Rutherford leaned down and offered his hand.

Drake ignored Whitney’s cousin’s rebuking offer of a hand up and attempted to push himself off the ground. He tilted too far to the right and lost his balance, landing once again with a thump on the hard floor. Rowdy cheers exploded around him, and he grinned at the men crowded into the gaming room of the club. Their faces swam in and out of focus as he once more attempted to get his hands firmly planted beneath him.

Success.
He chuckled to himself, finally gaining balance and shoving up, but his treacherous right shoe slipped out from under him, causing him to land with another jarring thud. Snickers surrounded him, and the clink of glasses raised in humorous toasts thundered in his ears. The situation was fast losing its humor.

He hated England. He hated everything about the place, from its foul air to the unremitting drizzle that left the ground slick and made a man fall. He hated this stuffy place, but he could not leave because, this was the last place he had ever seen Whitney. Damn her for taking his heart and soul. Somehow he had to forget her and move on with his life.

“Take my hand, you blundering idiot,” Rutherford snarled, his face a tight mask of anger. “Unless your aim is to be labeled a laughingstock.”

Drake might have been slushed, but he could clearly remember his aim. “I assure you making myself a laughingstock was not on my agenda for tonight.”

“Good.” Rutherford gave a quick no-nonsense nod.

The gesture was annoyingly typical of all of Whitney’s relations. It rubbed Drake the wrong way. He glared at Whitney’s cousin. “What’s it you snobby Englishmen say? Bugger off?”

A brief smile touched Rutherford’s lips. “Quite right.”

“Good. Bugger off with you.”

Rutherford squatted down, his face inches from Drake’s. “It’s simply bugger off.”

“Fine,” Drake growled. “Bugger bloody off.”

Rutherford shook his head. “I wish I could. Especially since you’re butchering our expletives. Unfortunately, I gave Lion my word to look out for your sorry self while he was away. Quite foolish of me.”

Drake made a mental note to have a talk with his former business partner when he returned about meddling where his help was neither needed nor wanted. “Consider your word kept.”

“If only it were as easy as that, I’d give my word more often.” Rutherford winked at him. “Come now, do you honestly think I’d be keeping my word if I let you become a known drunk?” Before Drake could utter a reply, Rutherford shook his head. “Seems to me, a reputation like that might hurt your shipping company. Do you want to bankrupt yourself?”

“I’m not drunk,” Drake protested, though he knew damn well he was. It had taken quite the effort to get this way. But at the reminder of how foolish he probably appeared, Drake grasped Rutherford’s hand and allowed the man to help him to his feet and to an empty table.

Drake yanked his stifling neck cloth loose, then signaled for another drink.

Rutherford shook his head, a sour look crossing his face. “It annoys me that you’re forcing me to lecture. I hate to play that part. But since you insist…”

“I did no such thing,” Drake grated, searching his fuzzy mind to make sure. He was sure. Or
mostly
sure, anyway.

“Go home and sleep it off. I hate to point out the obvious—”

“Then don’t,” Drake snapped.

Rutherford pressed his lips into a mocking smile. “Yet you force me to do just that,” he said, a hiss of air escaping through his clenched teeth. “I do believe,” he started with a pained look at Drake, “Whitney is not coming back. Forget her and make a plan to move on.”

Anger exploded inside Drake. Why did everyone who knew Whitney continue to invoke her name? He was trying to forget her, damn them. “Don’t tell me what to do as if it’s simple. Do you think I enjoy getting sopped every night?”

The man wisely held his opinion to himself, but his thoughts shone through his pity-filled gaze.

“I don’t want your pity,” Drake snarled, instantly reminded of the sympathetic glances he’d received from strangers as a child when his father had forced him to beg for handouts on the street. He’d vowed to make something of himself and never be looked at that way again. And here he was now. Disgust filled him. “I don’t
need
your pity,” he growled. “Do you hear me?”

“Impeccably. You’re talking rather loudly. You don’t want to be told what you should do?”

“Hell, no.”

Rutherford shrugged. “Fine, consider this a suggestion.”

“From you?” Drake chuckled at the notion. “About getting over a woman? Do you expect me to believe you’ve ever felt like this?”

“
Drunk
?” Rutherford smiled mockingly. “
Absolutely.”

“You damn well know what I mean.”

Whitney’s cousin’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, the thin scar on his right cheek turning from red to white. Drake regretted his harsh words.
Partially
. They might have been true, but they were cruel. Normally, he was not a cruel man, but damn if he was not surly tonight. Too much scotch and the date, he supposed.

He’d woken this morning acutely aware that half a year had passed since Whitney had left him for another man. Gone without a trace. He could not even confront her to demand a verbal explanation of what she had meant by “unpleasant memories.” Was he the unpleasant memory?

He shook his head and tugged on his waistcoat, trying to put himself back into some semblance of order. She was his life’s breath, and he was apparently her unpleasant memory.

Rutherford snapped his fingers in front of Drake’s face. “Quit dreaming, princess.”

“Go home,” Drake demanded. He didn’t want anything from anyone, especially Whitney’s cousin.

“I plan to after you listen to me.”

Drake leaned back into his chair and regarded the man. The determined set of Rutherford’s jaw reminded Drake of the way Whitney’s face would set in grim lines when she wanted something. Even Rutherford’s eyes were shaped like Whitney’s. “You and Whitney share a resemblance,” he accused.

“Do we? I’d not have thought I shared anything with my fair, innocent cousin, save the family blood coursing through our veins.”

Drake clenched his jaw. He’d always foolishly considered Whitney an innocent too. “I suppose she fooled us both.”

Rutherford leaned forward. “I don’t believe so. I think she had her reasons for leaving.”

Drake grabbed the scotch out of the hand of the waiter’s hand and gulped the liquid down. A path of fire slid down his throat. He welcomed the burn, hoping to God it would cool the nasty words scorching his tongue. “I know her reasons,” he muttered, releasing a truth he swore to take to his grave. “Another man.”

His angry words produced one raised eyebrow from Rutherford. Quite a response given the man never showed emotion. Still, the lack of further reaction angered Drake. He set his glass on the table with a thud. “If you’ve got me here to preach forgiveness, forget it.” He rubbed at his twitching eyelid and breathed deeply, trying to get back some calmness and civility.

“I don’t believe in forgiveness,” Rutherford said. “Not that I’m admitting there is anything to forgive.”

“Really?” Drake snarled. “You don’t consider your cousin leaving me for another man something that calls for forgiveness?”

“Let’s not argue,” Rutherford said. “If I thought there was a chance of her returning…” He shrugged, then drained his drink and set the glass on the table next to Drake’s.

The hollowness inside Drake yawned wider.
Damn
. He had thought he couldn’t feel worse. He hated when he proved himself wrong. Not even her cousin, one of her dearest friends, thought they would ever see her again. Drake sucked in air, stunned to realize he had still held some insane hope of seeing her. By God, he was the worst sort of lovesick fool. “What’s the cure for the disease I have?” His voice sounded broken and pathetic to his ears.

Rutherford regarded him with hooded lids. “I don’t have a cure, per se.”

“Go on.”

“How about another woman?”

The thought of wooing another woman held no appeal to him. Yet he was dull-headed to cling to the memory of a woman who did not want him. He straightened in his chair, determined to make some sort of change. What he needed to do was force himself into an action that would help him move on from Whitney. “You could be right.”

Rutherford leaned in, a knowing smile curving his lips. “I’m not suggesting you court a proper lady. Bed an improper one. There’s nothing like a woman’s soft touch to make you forget what troubles the mind.”

“Spoken as if from experience. What troubles
your
mind?” Drake wasn’t sure he really cared, but the distraction would be welcome.

The man winked across the space. “I’ve forgotten. Which makes my statement perfectly correct.”

Drake laughed, surprised at how good it felt. Being miserable was tiring. Maybe another woman, a woman meant only to give pleasure, was exactly what he needed to banish the picture of the blond-haired, amber-eyed temptress who’d stolen his heart.

“You might have a point,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table as an idea formed. Maybe the problem had never been Whitney. Maybe the problem was him. He couldn’t believe it had taken him six months to figure this out. Perhaps all the spirits he’d consumed lately had dulled his thinking. He needed to change
himself
to forget her. He would become the most notorious rake England had ever seen. And there was no better place to start his reformation than London’s most wicked sex club. “Aren’t you a member of the Sainted Order?”

Rutherford’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “I am. But I’m curious how you know of a
secret
membership and club.”

“Lionhurst told me ages ago. Before…” Drake let the sentence die on his lips. No need to say before whom. They both knew perfectly well Whitney was the one who had swept into Drake’s life and stolen his heart. Drake stared down at his hands for a moment, struggling to control his memories, to keep her image at bay. Finally mastering himself, he glanced up and met Rutherford’s piercing gaze. “Lionhurst once said he’d help me gain admission to the club if I cared to do so, but since he’s not here, will you assist me?”

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Rutherford said, “but it’s better than your love affair with the bottle.” After a moment’s pause, he stuck out his hand. “I’ll help you.”

Drake clasped Rutherford’s hand, surprised at the formal gesture. Something stiff and sharp poked into Drake’s palm as Rutherford pumped his hand up and down. “Be there at midnight. Knock twice and tell them Saint Ambrose sent you.”

“Be where?”

“God, you’re dull witted. Sober up before tonight or they’ll laugh you out the door.” Rutherford cut his eyes down, shoved his chair away from the table and quit the room without so much as a backward glance.

“Irritable bastard,” Drake mumbled under his breath. He stood and made his way to the privy. Once he was sure he was alone, he uncurled his fingers and brought the rectangular cream card up to his face. He squinted in the shabby light, tracing his fingers over the black raised lettering as he read.
The Sainted Order, All Saints Abbey, One Church Street
. He forced a smile to his lips. Happy people smiled. He did not feel happy, but with enough practice and a new start maybe happiness would come.

Several hours later, after passing the Sainted Order’s ridiculous initial test for membership, Drake reclined on the settee in the private bedroom where he was awaiting the prize that would help him become a new man. Happy people relaxed, so he went through the motions. Leaned back with one leg crossed over the other, he still didn’t feel happy, but he was determined to stick to his plan until he damn well began to feel at least less depressed. Candles blazed from every corner of the room, casting shadows on the wall.

Whitney had loved candles. The pathetic thought made him groan. When would he quit ruminating over a woman who had left him? The bedroom door creaked open, saving him from answering his sorry question. A woman slipped into the bedroom, adorned in a costume of sheer gold. She jingled as she padded barefoot across the hardwood floors and knelt before the settee he was lounging on.

A black mask covered most of her face, except for her light blue eyes. If her eyes had been amber as Whitney’s were, he was certain he would have bolted. Unease over bedding another woman coiled through him. He felt like he was betraying Whitney, though why escaped him. She was the betrayer. He’d been faithful every day since the day he had met her, and the entire six months since she had left him. He was a fool.