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“Faith,” she said warningly. Taking a step forward, Marcia placed herself between Faith and the head proprietor, diverting his attention back to her, settling that icy stare on Marcia. “Are you…involved with those men?”

Mr. DuMond opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Red inserted his own defense of the gaming hell owner. “Course ’e isn’t. The whole reason I was there to save your necks was because Mr. DuMond ’ad me watching after—”

“Enough, Red,” the proprietor said crisply, and the loyal servant instantly fell silent.

Marcia attempted to make sense of what he was thinking or feeling or his intentions, but came up empty. His cheeks, nicked and scarred, lent an interesting air to what would have otherwise been a beautiful face. Why, in fact, he might have been any other handsome London gentleman but for the scars that reminded that he was no gentleman, but a man to be feared.

“Escort the viscountess’s friends to my sitting room. I wish to speak to the viscountess in private.” Mr. DuMond issued that command, and Mr. Red sprang into motion.

“Come on, then, you troublesome minxes. Told you not to touch anything,” he mumbled, even as Faith and Anwen raised their voices in protest.

Mr. DuMond looked to Marcia. “Deal with your friends.”

“Faith. Anwen,” she called over, and her friends went silent. She held their eyes, giving them a look. “It is going to be all right.”

“I don’t trust him,” Faith returned, folding her arms.

“Which one of us?” Mr. DuMond put that question to Faith.

She glared mutinously at him. “Neither of you.”

“So you aren’t a complete lackwit. As such, I trust you have sense enough to do as you’re told, Lady Brookfield.”

Faith paled.

“Oh, dear,” Anwen whispered.

Mr. DuMond curled his lips in a harsh smile.

“Come along, then,” Mr. Red urged.

The moment they’d gone, Mr. Red shut the door, leaving Marcia alone with the notorious gaming hell owner, Mr. DuMond.

In a bid to hide the tremble in her hands, Marcia gave her fingers a task, smoothing the front of her skirts. All the while, she studied the man across from her. He, however, paid her no notice, instead heading over to the sideboard stacked with drinks.

He was tall and broad of shoulder, and his arms strained the constraints of his well-cut jacket.

In fact—she did another sweep of the room—from his appearance on down to the fine Chippendale furnishings, he might as well have been any gentleman.

“Did you know the man who attempted to abduct us?” she asked the moment they were alone, helping herself to the seat across from him.

Mr. DuMond reclined in his seat and dropped one elbow on the arm of his chair. “Do you take me as a man who abducts women?”

It didn’t escape her notice that he’d sidestepped her question about whether he knew her would-be abductor.

Unnerved, Marcia stood and meandered back over to the window, examined the crowds below, and waited for her husband’s arrival.

Chapter 22

The past days he’d spent as a married man proved remarkably different than how Andrew had previously spent his time. Where he’d previously buried himself in wagering and wicked pursuits, Andrew, now in possession of the money he’d once squandered, had flung himself headfirst into different wagers—those of the business type.

And during the night, instead of visiting various mistresses or whores, all his time was spent in the arms of one woman—his wife.

This night, however, after having concluded his business affairs, he’d found his wife… gone.

There’d been a time he’d expected he wasn’t a man capable of wanting just one woman. Only to discover how wrong he’d been.

He’d also expected, as a bachelor who’d just been leg-shackled, that he should have breathed a proverbial sigh of relief at finding Marcia off with her friends, and himself in the company ofhisfriends.