Page 58 of The Rakehell of Roth
“Harsh, Clarissa.” Isobel winced at the choice of words, given that they were exactly what Winter had said about her hightailing it to Chelmsford.
Her best friend grinned. “I serve it cold.”
“Revenge?”
She smiled. “Truth.”
“So, you’re saying I should protect my pond?” she asked.
Clarissa nodded. “Yes, definitely protect the pond, and most of all, bring that man to heel. He deserves to know what he’s given up. Isn’t that why you came to London in the first place? Well, here’s your chance to win that wager and walk away with your head high.” She grinned. “And make some tea while you’re at it.”
“You’re obsessed with tea.”
“All women are, even if they won’t admit it,” Clarissa said sagely. “Tea meaning sex, obviously.”
Isobel stuck out her tongue. “I know what you mean.”
“So, do you want this invitation or shall I put it back where I found it?”
Isobel drew a deep breath and reached for the black rectangle. “Never let it be said that I am a quitter. I have a wager to win.”
Which was why exactly two hours later, Isobel found herself garbed in the very strange disguise of a female—albeit somewhat androgynous—highwayman. From the top of her wide-brimmed black hat, to the simple black cravat, ebony satin waistcoat, and raven superfine trousers and coat, to the tips of her polished boots, she exuded an air of mystery. Her blond hair was coiled into a knot at the base of her head, tucked into the hat, and her lips were painted a deep scarlet.
She stared critically at herself in the mirror. “I look like a walking riding crop.”
“You are bloody gorgeous, woman,” Clarissa said. “Mysterious. Sultry. The epitome of Lady Darcy.” She wiped a mock tear from her eye. “Our precious, dirty little darling out in the world. God, our sweet baby grew up so fast.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Isobel said with a giggle. “Are you certain you don’t want to change your mind and come with me?”
She shook her head. “The invitation doesn’t specify additional guests. We risk discovery and not getting in at all if two of us show up with one invitation. Best to play it safe just in case. I’m expecting a full account when you return.”
“What will you do?”
Clarissa shot her a wicked wink. “Make tea.”
“Oliver is ill.”
“Thatpart of him isn’t.”
“There’s something truly wrong with you,” Isobel said as a discarded chemise came flying toward her face.
“Good thing you love me.”
Dodging the projectile, Isobel laughed wryly. “I do.”
…
Sitting in his private office in The Silver Scythe, Westmore shot Winter his trademark smirk, only this time it made Winter want to punch him in his blindingly white teeth. “Soldier up, Roth. Let’s see if you can go for half of what I got last year.”
Winter rolled his eyes. The annual charity auction of gentlemen at The Silver Scythe was in full swing. While he had no quarrel about being auctioned off to a horde of hungry heiresses with money to burn, he couldn’t be bothered to make more than the barest ounce of effort. They were lucky Matteo was willing to pick up the slack.
Three days’ growth of stubble had made Winter take on the appearance of a buccaneer and his valet had insisted on a top to bottom groom. Now, hair neatly trimmed, face shaved, nails buffed and polished, and dressed in formal togs, he was the epitome of polished lordliness.
“Lord Roth. Your Grace.” Matteo swept in, dressed to the nines with his usual elegance, tailored black trousers paired with an open crimson robe, and gold paint adorning his bare, muscular chest. The effect was as intended—completely shocking. “It’s a packed house tonight. We are almost ready to close the evening’s auction. All the others are completed.”
“Jesus, Matteo.” Westmore gave a mock groan. “The women aren’t going to bid a farthing for us humdrum Englishmen with you parading around in that.”
The man grinned and winked. “I can always dress you in some borrowed fare, Your Grace. Not to mention some body paint would do the trick. I’m sure the women would die for it. Your musculature is perfect.”
