Page 25 of The Devil Himself
He staggered back, his bum landing on the bed, and Rys uttered a sharp curse.
“What?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but will the carriage be necessary?”
“Not now. I have instructions for you.” With a glance of real regret at his mouth, Rys moved away. “I’ll send clothes for you, but rest for now. We’ll go to my house around five, before the crush starts.”
“Thank you.” What else could he say?
And he would rest for a bit. Perhaps after he took himself in hand and tested his stamina while he rid himself of his cock’s hardness.
Ten
As it happened, Rys had to take Luc to his home and get him settled, then promise to return for a late supper.
He’d been summoned to the Carnival of Dionysus in response to the note he’d sent Deacon Collingsworth, and he wouldn’t leave the man waiting. They had a truce of sorts, considering they were direct competitors, and he didn’t want to test it.
Collingsworth could be far more ruthless than he when the occasion called for it.
“Be careful,” Luc had told him from his place ensconced on the long chesterfield sofa in Rys’s study.
“I will.” Even though careful could only go so far in a hell, could it?
He walked into Dionysus just as the evening crowd was beginning to assemble. He handed his hat, coat, and gloves to the attendant, then bared his teeth. “Please tell your employer that the devil is here.”
“You’re expected, Mr. Grey. Please follow Boggs here.” The man indicated a lad of perhaps eighteen, who bowed and led the way through the gaming floor to Deacon’s office.
“Enter!” Deacon called to his knock, and the man himself stood as Rys entered, unfolding a tall, broad-shouldered form that spoke of hard work. “Ah, Grey. Good to see you.”
“Collingsworth.” He crossed the sumptuous, masculine office to shake hands. “Thank you for letting me come discuss this with you in person. It’s a rather delicate matter.”
“Indeed. Whisky?”
“A short one, if you please. I have more to accomplish this evening.”
“I imagine so.” Deacon chuckled, moving to pour them both a shallow glass of whisky. “Sit, Rys. It’s been too long.”
“Has it?” He felt comfortable with the jest, and he took a seat on the overstuffed leather chair, crossing one booted foot over the opposite knee. “Has it really?”
Deacon’s chuckle turned to a shout of laughter. “All right, all right. No more hyperbole on my part. Now, what is this all about?”
“You are aware of my family connections.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“I am.”
“Then you know that my brother Owen, the marquess, was recently killed.” It still sounded so strange to say it.
“I am. My condolences.” Deacon watched him, his green eyes gleaming like a cat’s, his caution obvious.
“Since Owen’s death, my second brother, Daffyd, has apparently run up a rather extravagant debt at your club. I understand you hold the vowels.”
“I do.” Deacon swirled the liquor in his glass. “What of it, Rys? Are you wanting to buy them?”
“God no. If that’s how he wants to live his life, so be it. But?—”
“But?” Deacon sipped his whisky, ever patient but also remaining watchful.
“But he is acting in a way that threatens my brother’s widow and son.”
