Page 36 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
NINE
“How long do you think Amara can keep Brock from unveiling her?” Wynne asked, pitching her voice so that only Devona could hear.
“Hours if she acts as I suggested.” Sadly, Amara did not share Devona’s enthusiasm for intrigue. She had balked at her disguise, vowing that the wearing of men’s garments would call her mother’s wrath down upon her. From Devona’s perspective, Lady Claeg remained in a permanent state of ire. Talking Amara into using henna had taken all of her skills. Amara did possess a streak of stubbornness, which at any other time Devona would have applauded. Fortunately, she had more experience gaining what she desired. Brock had escorted a slightly bemused Amara, fully dressed in her male attire and complete with freshly dyed and curled locks, to the ball. Devona counted on Amara to play her role because her brother’s freedom depended on it.
“Shall I take this basket, miss?” Pearl carried a large basket filled with bread.
“Yes, we shall all take one to press our purpose.” Gar came up behind Pearl, carrying a small cask of beer on his shoulders.
“Does this plan of yours consider who shall rescue us in case we fail?” Pearl glanced at Gar, who only grunted. Neither one of them was thrilled to have been recruited.
“Do not sound so dour, Pearl. If we fail to release Mr. Claeg, at least we will have fed a few inmates.”
“I wish I had your faith, miss.”
Devona felt that optimistic thinking was the higher road to success. She refused to contemplate what would happen to them all if their mission failed. Papa was the least of her worries. How would Tipton feel about having a felon as his betrothed? She shuddered at a sudden chill. No, it was better to think about fooling them all.
“We have company, Sister.” Wynne grabbed her basket, prepared to support her sister in any manner.
A guard approached the gate they had gathered at, his harsh, drawn features far from welcoming. “You there. This is no place to set up business.”
Devona faced him. Wearing a warm smile, she walked to the gate. “Forgive us for being late. Two of the bakeries that promised to donate their goods abandoned our good cause. It took us most of the day to find a replacement.” She did not waver under his suspicious stare. Instead she raised her hands to beckon her companions to join her. “The Benevolent Sisters of Charity would be disappointed if I could not carry out my duty. There are many within who do not benefit from family and friends. Our mission is to lessen their suffering.” She tried to appear humble. When he just stared, she could feel the sweat bead on her forehead despite the relative coolness of the evening. He did not believe her, or perhaps the hard man just did not care.
“Sister, do not forget the beer to wash away the bitterness of their plight.” Wynne approached the gate, radiating sincerity and looking like a true angel of mercy.
The guard scratched his head. “Beer, eh?”
“More than enough to go around, right, Sisters?” Gar added, winking to include the guard in the camaraderie.
Wynne touched the gate, allowing her fingers to accidentally brush against the guard’s fingers. He jolted at the contact. “We understand that the men who see to the care of the prisoners deserve a reward, too.”
“Ain’t that the truth, Sister.” He eyed the barrel on Gar’s shoulder. “How much do ye have there?”
Gar bared his teeth in a mock grin, knowing the gates of hell had just opened to them. “Enough to need a sturdy back or two.”
***
Amara was all but thrown into the awaiting coach. Her useless attempt to brace herself against the door frame resulted in her sprawling facedown onto the floor. So utterly graceful, she thought. She groaned when someone yanked her up into a sitting position.
“Some might consider this kidnapping, Mr. Bedegrayne.” He grunted, and then shoved her across the bench to make room for him. Lord Tipton climbed in and sat on the opposite bench. “There were witnesses.” She swallowed a bubble of hysteria when both men chuckled. So much for seizing control of the situation.
“How much time do you think we have?” Brock asked, giving Amara a chance to study his profile. Of the two Bedegrayne men, she had always thought him the more beautiful.
“We are working against a deficit, thanks to Miss Claeg’s ruse.” Tipton fixed his piercing gaze on her. “So why do you not save us the burden of dragging you throughout London.”
Prepared to do her part to save her brother, she drew herself up, appearing the perfect martyr. “Forgive me. I cannot help you.”
“By tomorrow, all will know that you spent the night out on the town with two lusty gentlemen. Tell me, who would marry you after that?”
“Tipton,” Brock warned.
“All you have to do, Amara—I may call you Amara—is tell me where my betrothed is and what she plans to do.” He propped his elbow against the wall, lightly resting his jaw on his fist. And waited.
Amara could not fathom why this man enthralled Devona. He was too intense. Too predatory. Her gaze dropped to her hands fisted in her lap. “You can try to intimidate me all you want, my lords. Ruin me if you must, I cannot break my word.”
Tipton’s control slipped. Lashing out, he shouted, “What good is your word, Miss Claeg, when your silence places Devona in danger! Enjoy the moment, for if anything happens to her, my fury yields to no boundaries.”
She paled at his threat. What was she to do? Devona had promised her plan would work. There was risk, to be sure; however, even Devona would know the price she would have to pay for taunting the devil. She turned away from them and stared in silence out at the passing glimpses of shadowed civilization.
