Page 11 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Dynevor snorted. “I’ve got women playing at virgins who volunteer to be sold and bought by my patrons. Do you truly believe I don’t ascertain for myself that this is a choice they want to make?” He gave Wakefield a weird look.
Wakefield cursed the heat that suffused his cheeks. Disquieted by both his own out of character show of temper and the earl’s puzzlement, Wakefield was grateful when, a moment later, the auctioneer continued the action.
His relief proved short-lived.
“Lady Aurum is aptly named, gentlemen.” The auctioneer strung along those impatient bidders of a sale that’d already gotten underway. “This innocent has dark, wheat-gold curls upon her head, but have a look at her eyebrows, and you shall realize she’s all golden between her legs too.”
Laughs filled The Devil’s Den.
Under the glow of the lights, the actress’s nearly translucent peignoir did nothing to hide the red blush that spread across her body—her entire body.
Despite himself, lust filled Wakefield. His gaze went hungrily to the shadow of curls at the V between her long, fit thighs, those golden curls the auctioneer tempted the crowd with.
The young proprietor smirked. “Though this isn’t, I trust, your usual pleasures, you must admit you see the draw in it.”
Wakefield made a noncommittal grunt. It was widely known Wakefield, as a rule, was a one-mistress-at-a-time man, who didn’t partake in public spectacles with his lovers. He’d soonerchop his own fingers off than admit to that or any weakness, on the account of not having any.
An unfooled Dynevor chuckled and took another drink.
Wakefield’s preoccupation this night had little to do with the game of pretend and even more to do with the enigmatic participant.
Refusing to acknowledge the earl’s wry knowingness, Wakefield shifted his attention back to his new business partner. “I’m here to discuss numbers. The women participating in this particular act aren’t paid prostitutes at the club.”
Dynevor’s jaded mirth vanished under a scowl. “Aye, that’s right. All of ‘em here not only want to be here, they fight for the privilege.”
“Privilege.” Wakefield grasped on the other man’s particular word choice. “That’s how you and Latimer sold the idea to me, and yet I received an update this week which indicates you’ve now resorted to offering some form of payment to the female patrons. Doesn’t that make them prostitutes?”
Color to rival the virgin’s blush slapped at the younger gentleman’s cheeks. In a rare crack in his armor, Dynevor dropped his elbows on the edge of the table, leaned towards Wakefield, and glared.
“Oi don’t ‘resort’ to anything. Everything Oi do, every idea Oi put forward, is fucking deliberate and with purpose.”
That further dissolution of the earl’s proper King’s speech into Cockney revealed a fiery temper that wouldn’t serve Dynevor, or Wakefield’s new business, well.
“And yet, here we are, Dynevor,” he said, spreading his palms out. “With you paying customers.”
Dynevor’s crooked nose flared. “Ye got a lot o’ bluidy nerve questioning me.”
The auctioneer’s errant calls punctuated their discussion. “Two hundred pounds!”
Fury and frustration blazed in the younger man’s fiery eyes. That raw rage on display, that Dynevor couldn’t control, recalled everything Wakefield read about the lad’s past: the future Marquess of Maddock being kidnapped by the bloodiest, most ruthless gang leader and turned into a common thief…and worse.
The research Wakefield himself had done following the offer of partnership from his brother-in-law revealed a spotted past where Dynevor was linked to arsons.
He and Dynevor remained with their focus on each other, sizing one another up.
Wakefield knew firsthand that one’s past left one scarred, and the other earl’s rage had more to do with the dark deeds he’d done and far less to do with his actual age. Either way, this was business, and the sooner they came to an understanding of what Wakefield’s role would be, the better it was for their arrangement—and pockets.
“You forget you invited me to be a partner, Dynevor,” Wakefield quietly reminded.
By the way a vein at the other man’s temple throbbed, he was regretting it more by the minute.
Wakefield leaned in the remaining way across the table. “Did you actually believe, Dynevor, you were bringing in a gentleman who’d be content to throw money at your club, but remain a silent partner, without any voice in the actual investment?”
“Hoped,” the earl muttered under his breath.
Wakefield chuckled. “The hell you were. You’d no sooner do business with a fucking lackwit with a big purse than I’d give a fortune to someone and remain a silent partner.”
Cursing, Dynevor grabbed his glass and took a long swallow. “Could’ve fooled me, with you asking to have your ownership stake remain unknown.”
