Page 32 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
EIGHT
Rayne wearily sank into a large overstuffed chair. His valet, Stevens, appeared at his side and immediately began fussing about the scuff marks on his boots while he went about his task of removing them. Rayne thought the odd, slender man’s voice held the quality of a buzzing insect. It was high, persistent, and in its finest form made the recipient want to smash it into an indistinguishable smear.
“Enough.”
Stevens’s sharp angular nose went high in the air, almost sniffing the command. “My lord, you have hired me to see that you are outfitted as a gentleman. Pardon me for saying so, sir, but you could not get yourself hired on as a cook’s apprentice wearing garments as wrinkled and soiled as the ones you are wearing. Now if you will follow me upstairs, I will make certain there is a hot bath prepared and a freshly pressed dressing gown—”
“No.”
The valet had taken a few steps before he understood. “Is something amiss, milord?”
Rayne rubbed his eyes. “Only your presence. Leave me, for now. Think of the extra dust I shall pick up in my hours of solitude. It will give you something else to fret about.”
Stevens left without a word, something about which Rayne would have been surprised if the servant had acted otherwise. He paid his staff well to keep them quiet and honest, and to see to their duties with diligence. It was not his valet’s fault that Rayne was in a dark mood. The man had only been doing his job. Normally, his fussy behavior amused Rayne. Not tonight.
He had ended his day with a visit to Brogden’s bedside. The visit had not gone well. What had he expected? The man had ignored all medical advice, keeping various skilled surgeons at a distance, in the hope that his friend would save his leg. Rayne had failed him. He reached for the glass of brandy Speck had poured earlier, warming it near the hearth. He filled his mouth with the liquor, enjoying the subtle burn on his tongue. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back, resting it on a strategically placed pillow.
What scorched his pride was the fear that if he had been better skilled he might have been able to repair Brogden’s leg. No, by the fates, he thought with a sudden fierceness, he had been correct to amputate. There had been too much gangrene. The man was fortunate not to have died from the poison. Even if Rayne had been able to scrape away all the rotten flesh, there would have been nothing left to stitch together over the bone.
“My lord, a Mr. Bedegrayne to see you. Shall I send him on his way?” Speck asked, looking like he would relish the idea of vanquishing one of the Bedegraynes and succeeding.
Rayne glanced at the ornate clock on the mantel. It was past eight in the evening, a time when men were at their clubs or escorting their women to a ball. He would have preferred to send the young, angry man away. However, Brock played a small part in his plan to gain custody of Devona. If he was fortunate, he might survive the evening without gaining an appointment for a duel.
Bedegrayne filled the doorway, his pale green eyes flashing annoyance as he entered the room, with Speck following in his hostile wake to collect his coat and hat. A most thorough servant, the man was probably searching him for hidden weapons as well. Rayne was not particularly worried that Brock would shoot him in his study, but he had lived close to the rough fringes of life to be on alert.
“Bedegrayne,” Rayne greeted him calmly enough to have the younger man visibly clenching his teeth. “So good of you to save me the trip of seeking you out.” He nodded at the chair Speck was already positioning beside him. “Take the seat, and tell me what drove you from the gaming hells so early this evening?” With a subtle hand movement he dismissed Speck’s protective tarrying. The butler silently departed.
“You can stuff your civility, Tipton. I am not as gullible as my sister.”
“Which one? Lovely Wynne or the Bedegrayne changeling, Devona?” His steepled fingers linked, then unlinked in a contemplative gesture. “The Bedegraynes breed such beautiful creatures. ’Tis a pity the sacrifice was a bit of common sense.”
Brock, still refusing to sit, rested his hand on the top of Rayne’s chair. “You surprise me, Tipton. I had assumed we would have to dance a bit before we got to the point.”
Unblinking, Rayne met his opponent’s gaze. “You have developed some eccentric tastes if you think I’d prefer dancing with you.” He almost grinned at the barely contained growl Brock swallowed. He admired the restraint. It gave him some hope the young man had not been completely corrupted by the group of deviants he preferred.
“Since you respect the direct approach, how’s this?” A concealed blade slid from his left coat sleeve, landing efficiently into his hand. The razor-sharp edge hovered dangerously close to Rayne’s throat.
One side of his mouth lifted into a parody of a smile. Speck was losing his touch in his old age to have missed the knife. For a man facing imminent death, Rayne did not appear overly concerned. “It seems you have the advantage. The real question is, will you lose it?”
A lock of blond hair fell across Brock’s face, giving him a rakish look. His angular features were drawn tight, and the hint of sweat on his forehead revealed that he was aware he was playing a game with stakes beyond his means. “You have mocked me and my family. You toy with my sister’s affections. Do you think anyone would cry foul if I just slit your throat? I would probably be the toast of the Season.”
“You are most likely correct.” Rayne mentally measured the length of the blade and the slim distance between his throat and the deadly point. “I think the only soul who would hate you for your deed would be Devona.”
Brock sneered. “She is too innocent to understand the minds of men.”
“You think?” he countered, taunting. “I guess it is the failing of older brothers to not comprehend that even sisters have unfulfilled desires.”
“You touched her.” The words were stark. Brock was feeling the full impact of his failure to protect his sister from theton’s fiend.
“I think men in general underestimate the alluring passion women keep bound up within them like firmly tied stays. Take Devona—”
Brock’s hand jerked, leaving a small bloody nick. “Obviously, you did, you callous bastard!”
The cut was negligible, but the young Bedegrayne was on the verge of having a stroke. Rayne decided to help him along. “A man would never ask for a more sweeter, responsive woman in his bed. The taste of her was as addictive as honey.”
The last of Brock’s self-control snapped. Red-faced with fury, he pulled the knife back to strike the fatal blow. The slight movement was all Rayne needed. His movements were as precise as a metronome. He grabbed Brock’s wrist in a viselike grip, kicked his leg out, and knocked his opponent to his knees.
Sweat beaded on both their brows as they continued the silent struggle to gain control of the knife. Rayne surprised him by ramming the hilt of the blade upward into Brock’s forehead. The burst of pain was enough to stun him. Rayne took the advantage and forced Brock’s arm down. The blade slammed harmlessly into the padding of the chair.
