Page 6 of Greed: The Savage
He no longer had family.
Even the living ones were each dead to him in different ways.
After Dynevor had stuffed Thornwick’s report into its leather folio, he tossed it aside. “We’ve got to talk about Wakefield’s wife.”
Thornwick didn’t even flinch. “We’ve spoken of it plenty.”
“Yes.” Dynevor splashed a measure of whiskey into his tumbler. “I’m referring to our plan of making sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Ah.” It had been a turn of bad luck that one of the women brought forward to take part in the form of a virgin auction, a masquerade of iniquity which proved to be one of club’s most lucrative ventures, had done so under duress.
Italsohappened be how Devil’s Den partner, the Earl of Wakefield, a respectable nobleman, ended up spending the night with that patroness, who’d actually been coerced to take part.
The way Thornwick saw it? Miss Cressida Alby had landed herself a fine husband, deep in the pockets. Fortunately, she’d barely been of the noble ranks, and only through her dissolute brother’s lucky inheritance.
The Devil’s Den wouldn’t fare so well were it an actual virgin-lady who landed herself up for auction.
Thornwick retrieved his brandy and took a sip. “I take it you’ve had a chance to fully mull over the proposals?” He’d given his employer no fewer than eight plausible plans of attack.
“I did,” Dynevor said. “The identification token? A very clever system.”
Thornwick inclined his head. He’d been required to develop codes and speak in codes for the government. That work made this particular assignment an easy one.
Each potential client would be interviewed first by him, in the setting of the ladies’ own homes, or they’d meet at another agreed upon location.
“I especially like the idea of a jeweledsouvenirfor the ladies involved.”
Forparticipating, each woman would receive, as a gift, two broaches to choose from, which they would be made to wear at night: a white topaz—W to symbolize willing. And a reddish-orange hyacinth, the H meant to signify “help.”
“They do like their baubles,” Thornwick said.
Dynevor chuckled. “Aye, they certainly do.”
“Between my private interview off-premises of the prospective participants,” Thornwick said, ticking off the list for his employer’s benefit, “my questioning them when they arrive, the identification badges in the form of brooches, and signed consent protocol, witnessed by me upon their arrival, you can be assured there won’t be another situation similar to Lady Wakefield’s involvement at the club.”
It was perfect—for the both of them.
Dynevor wouldn’t have a real virgin in his club.
As for Thornwick, he’d end up with a siren of ill-fame for his future duchess.
Only the most charming harlots with a title would ever take part in such forbidden acts, which was why he’d find the perfect bride to beat his father in the ultimate battle and, if Satan was obliging, silence the Duke of Calderay once and for all.
And for an added reward, Thornwick wouldn’t be saddled with some mealy-mouthed virgin but a skilled match for him in bed.
An honorable fellow would have felt some compunction at the ulterior motive Thornwick cooked into his work for Dynevor.
Calm and unreadable, the young earl smoothed a palm over his mouth. “All of that works sufficiently.”
Thornwick already knew as much.
His instincts deciphered something covert in the other man’s guarded quiet.
“As for the interview,” Dynevor went on, “Wakefield and Latimer have it in their heads that you’d be best served bringing someone else with you for those interviews.”
God’s curse upon it! That was the last bloody thing he needed when he went duchess-hunting? Not only because it prevented him from properly interviewing, but when he’d selected,courtinga debauched beauty for his bride, his actions would be under scrutiny.
Anything suspicion-minded would be brought back to Dynevor, and Thornwick already had enough enemies. He didn’t need to make one in the powerful lord of this lair.
