Page 103 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
“The brother lived even richer until he didn’t. He’s racked up sizable debt from excessive wagering, which, according to the ledgers at Forbidden Pleasures, The Devil’s Den and Lucifer’s Lair, are bad to poor at best.”
“Her brother is a patron at The Devil’s Den?”
Seeing how Markham had just said as much, it likely accounted for the odd way in which he looked at Wakefield now.
Markham didn’t bother answering. None of this, however, was that incriminating? Perhaps the lady knew the places her brother frequented and had been curious for herself.
“This, however, is where it gets really interesting,” Markham said, instantly slashing across that faint hope on Wakefield’s part.
“The Albys are involved with the Carews.”
The air exhaled from Wakefield’s lungs on a violent hiss. “The Carews.”
The brother of whom had sired Marcia out of wedlock and abandoned the lady’s mother. Now Viscountess Wessex and the sister…a baroness herself, who’d viciously tried to upend Marcia’s life and from what Wakefield previously learned, had a history of making a mess in other people’s lives.
And this is the manner of company she kept?
These were the people she was involved with. Where there had only been suspicions before, now he had confirmation about just what manner of woman Cressida Alby and her brother in fact were.
“What exactly do they want of me?” he asked. His voice was surprisingly calm, though a tumult raged inside.
“That I haven’t been able to deduce at this point. However, I will. It appears we were both right, however, Wakefield.” Markham shook his head.
“It would have been simple enough for you to obtain all this information yourself and without paying the exorbitant fee, but your suspicions proved apt. On the other hand, given the company the lady keeps is the Carews, with a history of bribing, extorting, and in the brother’s case, assaulting innocent ladies, there’s definitely more at play. None of which indicates anything good or honorable where Miss Alby is concerned.”
Wakefield took all of that in. He didn’t want to feel anything about Markham’s report. He’d come to discuss business. The business being Miss Cressida Alby, not Smith.
Wakefield finally had meaningful information about the lady. Even as he knew all of that, he, a man of logic, couldn’t keep at bay the stinging sense of betrayal, hurt, and the stirrings of resentment and fury.
“Thank you, Markham. You’ve done well.”
The gentleman stood. “It won’t take me long to unentangle all of this. I expect I’ll have a complete report to you by the end of the week. In the meantime, I’d advise you to be extra cautious with Miss Alby. Do not let yourself get too close.”
Too late. Way too late.
“I’ve stationed more men outside your townhouse, given the change in circumstances.”
Only there wasn’t really a change. They both just knew more now about Cressida. That realization hit him square in the solar plexus after Markam had gone.
Wakefield stood locked to the spot, staring at the door the other man had just departed through. Now he knew, and yet, atthe same time, he knew nothing at all about what Cressida was up to.
He clenched and unclenched his jaw and weighed his options.
He could reveal nothing about what he discovered and keep a careful eye on her, possessed of the knowledge that she was up to something, or he could confront her with the fact of everything he’d learned. In so doing, he’d have an advantage on her—the art of surprise. There was no surer way to get the actual truth out of someone than to disarm them.
With a plan in hand and his heart steeled, Wakefield returned upstairs to his suites. Before he confronted her, he’d need rest so he was at the top of his game when he spoke to her. And time and distance with which to bury the staggering pain of betrayal.
Chapter 27
It appeared the mistresses of lofty noblemen didn’t care much for gardening. Shut away from Polite Society, with free reign to the grandest kitchen she’d ever entered with ceilings that didn’t leak, and hard plaster walls that didn’t let in the cold and walled-in gardens overgrown and in desperate need of cultivating.
Kneeling in Benedict’s overgrown garden, Cressida rather thought she could become accustomed to becoming a mistress. She paused her efforts to wrench out a particularly stubborn weed and sat back on her haunches. She dusted the back of her forearm over her perspiring brow. No. Being honest with herself, she could readily admit she wasn’t interested in being some kept woman for any gentleman. It was only for Benedict she’d be willing to make an exception.
With a groan, she arched her back and stretched her aching muscles. Here she’d been attempting to preserve her pride and keep Benedict from knowing the truth about her family, her circumstances, and her impoverished state. Only to find here, right now, that she had no pride where Benedict was concerned. Now she could admit the truth.
He’d been right in his earlier accusations. He’d called her out for not being forthright with him. It wasn’t a matter of pride. She’d made the choice to not tell him, not to protect herself, nor to preserve the little pride she had left, but to protect herself from the inevitable disdain and antipathy that would replace all the warmth he’d shown her. And in failing to disclose her connections, she’d inadvertently put him in harm’s way. Were Stanley to discover it had been Wakefield who’d purchased her and also now brought her into the shelter of his home, he’d most definitely find a way to exploit that to his benefit.
She’d let her desire and need for self-preservation come before all else. And if she truly loved Benedict, which she did, she was also selfishly choosing herself over him.
