Page 9 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl (Seven Deadly Sins #4)

W akefield dropped his hands on the front of Lord Dynevor’s George II mahogany desk—the one elegant piece of furniture among the man’s otherwise garish, gothic adornments—and glared at the insolent pup who occupied the gilded throne behind it.

“My God, Dynevor,” Wakefield whispered. “I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done.”

No. That wouldn’t bring Wakefield anywhere remotely close to a satisfying punishment at what the bastard made Wakefield an unwitting part of.

“…I have no regrets, Benedict. You were the only man who I’d have ever wanted to give myself to this way…”

Wakefield slammed a fist down in a bid to drown out her tremulous voice at the exact moment Dynevor spoke.

“Oh, do tell, Wakefield.” The earl flashed a cold half-smile. “What is it I’ve done exactly?”

“I’m going to take you apart with my bare hands,” Wakefield seethed. “And I’m going to enjoy it immensely.”

The proprietor appeared more bored than offended or terrified, the latter of which the younger gentleman should be, and would be. That was if he had a bloody brain in his arrogant head.

Instead, the hotheaded earl reclined in his chair and folded his arms behind his long, dark hair. “Oh, come, Wakefield. You can do better than that.” Dynevor smirked. “Or, then again, you can’t. I, on the other hand?” The young pup smirked. “I know thousands of inventive ways to make you regret your insolence.”

Letting loose a full-throated roar, Wakefield swiped the other man’s ledgers from his desk, sending them falling over the edge in a series of staccato thumps as they landed. “Is this a bloody joke to you?”

This time the look Dynevor gave Wakefield was that of distaste. “Calm down, Wakefield. Thought ye had more self-control than this.”

He did. He had. His gaze zeroed in on the disgusted gentleman across from him. Wakefield narrowed his eyes. That was, Wakefield had been fully self-possessed—until Dynevor…and Cressida.

Straightening, Wakefield took a moment to collect himself.

He’d always privately derided the gents with hot tempers and overblown reactions. Between Wakefield’s descent into dissolution and grave mistake with Miss Cressida Smith, he’d found himself transformed into one of those dastardly fellows, in every way, and overnight.

Dynevor lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I can see how it’s problematic to you, a priggish sort of fellow. So ye bedded the lady? Did ye force yerself on her?”

That question brought Wakefield up short. “Certainly not,” he snapped indignantly.

His new business partner pressed him further. “Did you show her a good time?”

The sounds of Cressida’s cries and screams as she’d achieved climax after climax filled his head. But something in hearing the other man speak so casually and crudely about the lady, who until only last night had been a virgin, threatened to send his fury over the edge once more.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Dynevor accurately inferred. He lifted his broad shoulders. “I’d hardly refer to this situation as the disaster you are making it out to be.”

Situation. Wakefield’s temperature climbed. Situation? He inhaled sharply through his nose, slowly trying to collect himself.

His efforts proved futile.

“Situation, Dynevor?” he ranted. “ Situation ?” His shouts echoed around the room and bounced off the walls and ceilings, mocking Wakefield with his lack of restraint.

Releasing a thunderous bellow, he grabbed the desk, prepared to haul himself across the monstrous piece and deliver the violent beating the bastard deserved.

Dynevor’s office door exploded open with such force it crashed into the wall. Anticipating one of the formidable guards had come to save their first liege, Wakefield turned to take the threat down and stopped in his tracks.

The stunned visitor glanced back and forth between the two men: Wakefield, on top of the younger earl’s desk, and Dynevor, still reclined as comfortable as if they’d been discussing ton events and not what it was—the other man about to catch the beating of his lifetime.

Ah, the third partner, Mr. Lachlan Latimer, tall and broad as an oak—his street-toughened face bore nicks and scars that reflected the hardship he’d overcome and also the reputation he’d earned for being a merciless guard one didn’t cross. Latimer also happened to be Wakefield’s brother-in-law and the one who’d gotten Wakefield into this whole goddamned mess.

Latimer found his footing. He caught the door handle and pulled the panel shut hard. “What in the hell is going on here?”

Dynevor stood.

Calm enough now to register what a fool he must appear standing atop Dynevor’s desk, Wakefield jumped down.

Both earls held their silence.

Thick tension blanketed the room.

Latimer continued taking the situation in, looking back and forth between the two gentlemen.

“Surely, one of you intends to tell me what the hell is going—”

“You want to know what the hell is going on?” A fresh onslaught of rage sent Wakefield’s voice rising once more. “Why don’t you fucking ask this one?” He gestured angrily at the third member of their triumvirate.

“I didn’t take your brother-in-law as the emotional sort,” the young proprietor drawled.

Horror brought Wakefield whipping back in the other man’s direction. “My God. This is a joke to you,” Wakefield whispered.

“I wouldn’t say it is a joke,” the younger man clarified. “Your behavior and reaction, on the other hand, I—”

Wakefield only made it two steps when his brother-in-law came flying over and caught Wakefield by the shoulders.

He managed to wrestle free from the taller, stronger, more ruthless man.

“Hey,” Latimer said, catching him again in a firmer hold that Wakefield couldn’t shake free of this time. “Will one of you explain what the hell is going on?”

Wakefield and Dyvenor exchanged looks. Wakefield’s icy and blistering. The other proprietor, stony and mutinous, just like the goddamn child he was. A manipulative child at that. But then what had he expected? He should have thought better, given the future marquess was a known former arsonist.

“Is either of you going to say anything?” Latimer exclaimed.

Wakefield snapped another hand angrily in the young proprietor’s direction.

“This one here ruined me, trapped me. You both assured me the women taking part in the Virgin Auction are all eager wantons or Cyprians, and instead,” Wakefield seethed, his rage growing with every part he shared, “he gave me a virgin last night. A goddamned lady with innocent eyes, who was…innocent in every way.” Wakefield stopped himself from speaking and drew in a shaky breath. Thoughts came tripping in all at once of the woman he’d left abovestairs—Miss Cressida Smith, whom he’d fucked like a whore and whose virginity he had inadvertently taken.

His stomach revolted and he closed his eyes, fighting back that sick feeling that’d settled in his throat.

Another horrifying thought slipped in. Oh, God. She had been willing, hadn’t she?

He replayed their entire exchange and every passionate moment that passed between them last night. Horrified silence thundered in the wake of his admission.

A stunned Latimer looked between both gentlemen before finally finding his voice. “What is he talking about, Dynevor?”

“Careful, Latimer,” Dynevor cautioned. “Have care before you take sides against me in support of your half-mad brother-in-law, who can’t get out a coherent sentence.” The earl sharpened his eyes into angry slits and leveled a warning stare on his partner. “It reads as disloyal, and given your history with noblemen and disloyalty, I won’t tolerate a fool who questions me.”

A muscle twitched at the corner of Latimer’s right eye, a subtle betrayal of his inner turmoil.

Latimer was cool-headed enough to understand he was also in the wrong in his seeming to take sides. “My apologies.”

No man, least of all one of his standing, relished the reminder of his own missteps and mistakes. Among Latimer’s was the trust he’d given his former partners, the Duke of Argyll, the Duke of Malden, and the Marquess of Rutherford from his previous club, Forbidden Pleasures. That trio of vaunted peers not only undermined Latimer, they’d supplanted him as head of security in favor of another nobleman.

That betrayal had led to Latimer’s partnership at The Devil’s Den with the Earl of Dynevor, which in turn led to Wakefield’s invitation to become a third proprietor.

Wakefield’s jaw rippled. That situation had placed Wakefield in the very quagmire of misfortune he found himself drowning in.

“Can someone please explain it to me from the beginning?” Latimer asked quietly, this time with an impartiality in his voice.

Wakefield took it upon himself to explain everything . From his business meeting with Dynevor at the auction. The enigmatic lady who’d been paraded across the stage as a pretend virgin, and how Wakefield awoke the following morning to discover his lover had in fact been a virgin in every sense of the word.

The parts he took to leave out pertained to all the ways in which he’d taken Cressida Smith and the greatest mistake he’d made, spilling his seed inside her—multiple times.

His gut clenched.

After he’d provided an accounting, Wakefield found himself in a more even place when he spoke a word of warning to the young proprietor. “You want me as a silent partner, Dynevor. You said as much yourself. What better way to ensure my silence than having me fuck a virgin? A lady from Polite Society?”

The Earl of Dynevor’s dark eyebrows lifted a fraction. Then, ever so slowly, Dynevor broke out into quiet applause that grew increasingly enthusiastic, leaving absolutely no doubt as to the young earl’s sincerity—or rather, the lack thereof.

Wakefield stayed absolutely still through that protracted clapping, knowing the other man sought to get a rise out of him.

“I have to hand it to you, Wakefield,” he said, dryly. “That? Why, it is a level of ruthlessness that impresses even me. That you think I would let you have some woman I knew was a virgin to ensure your silence?”

As Wakefield expected, only when Dynevor didn’t get any reaction from Wakefield did he quit his clapping.

A warning glint entered the young man’s eyes. “Let me be clear, I’m not in the habit or in the business of dealing with actual virgins, and that goes for your bed partner last night. Blame me all you want. She was given the same choices as every other woman who frequents the club: she had free will to leave whenever she wanted. I gave her the instructions. I offered her another opportunity to leave after the auction. She had many opportunities to go.” Dynevor shrugged. “She chose to stay.”

Wakefield scoffed. “An actual lady—”

“Chose,” Dynevor snapped.

“To be here?”

The earl nodded. “Aye.”

Wakefield felt as if he’d been handed one million puzzle pieces and instructed to put them in their proper places. Miss Cressida Smith insisted she knew him. She’d certainly spoken to Wakefield with a familiarity that suggested they moved in similar circles.

Could she really have been a lady of the ton? “What respectable woman would choose to stay?” he mused aloud.

“Perhaps the lady is an actress?” Latimer put forward the possibility.

Even as he asked it, Dynevor’s expression reflected back Wakefield’s own skepticism.

In terms of what the lady was thinking or feeling, she read like the pages of a script, so much so as to prove she wasn’t an actress, at least not a talented one. From those revealing eyes to her transparent feelings, and the emotion-laden words that left her lips, Cressida Smith left a man with absolutely doubt as to her thoughts or emotions.

He frowned. Unless it was just the opposite, and the lady possessed a talent for the stage, and some nefarious intentions brought her into The Devil’s Den and, worse, into Wakefield’s life.

Or perhaps you’re just grasping at straws.

Wakefield put his focus back on Dynevor. “Did the lady give any indication she knew me?”

The younger earl hesitated. Wakefield saw that telltale pause, as did Latimer.

“Dynevor?” his brother-in-law urged.

Lord Dynevor frowned. “After the close of the auction, I followed club policy and went to meet with the lady. I gave her the safety measures in place and allowed her another opportunity to leave if she’d changed her mind. At that point, I also gave her the name of her purchaser.”

Something about hearing the other man casually speak about Cressida sent his body into a full recoil. “I didn’t purchase her,” he gritted out. Hearing it stated in such vulgar terms made the lady out to be a whore.

“It’s all the same.” Dynevor waved a gloved palm.

Wakefield grabbed the equally tall lord by his jacket and shook the imperious pup. “You buy whores,” he hissed. “By the very nature of your club’s latest offering—”

“Of a sudden, it’s my club?” Dynevor quipped.

Wakefield continued over him. “The women are here of their own volition. They pay to take part, you said.” That in and of itself meant he hadn’t treated Cressida Smith like some whore.

For some reason, that distinction mattered way too much to Wakefield.

He gave the younger man an even harder shake.

“Wakefield, unhand him,” his brother-in-law ordered in the same reproachful way he handled university lads who’d had too much drink.

Wakefield and Dynevor continued to ignore him.

“Aye, the women who want to play the role of virgin do pay.” An infuriatingly unfazed Dynevor stared at Wakefield like he was a bedlamite. “The night you spent with the lady, however, comes out of the club’s profits, just not directly out of your pock—”

Letting loose a lengthy curse, Wakefield hurled the earl away from him.

Dynevor crashed backwards against the edge of his desk and glared. “Jesus, Wakefield! What the hell is wrong with you?”

What was wrong with him? Everything.

Shaken, Wakefield dragged a hand through his hair.

Someone settled a firm hand on his shoulder. Half-crazed, he looked blankly at his brother-in-law.

Latimer stared at him with concern. He gave Wakefield’s shoulder a steadying squeeze and then put a question to Dynevor on Wakefield’s behalf.

“Dynevor, did she give any indications she knew Wakefield? Anything at all.”

Ah, the stoic proprietor did for Wakefield what Wakefield himself remained incapable of doing—returning to that slight pause Dynevor had met that same question with.

Grateful for that support, Wakefield used the opportunity to compose himself.

Dynevor scrubbed at a blunt jawline that left the fellow looking perpetually angry. “I gave her the name of her bedpartner like we do all the others. I let her decide if she wanted to fuck Wakefield.”

Wakefield sucked a breath sharply through his nose.

Latimer clasped Wakefield’s arm; that anchoring grip kept him in the present.

“And?” Latimer prodded.

“And she appeared to know him. Looked real relieved she did. Almost… happy ,” the earl grumbled. “She seemed real innocent. From the look of her—”

Wakefield lit into him. “What kind of look is it you’re talking about?”

The earl’s hard lips moved. A dumbfounded Dynevor looked to Latimer for support.

Wakefield’s brother-in-law lifted his big shoulders in a shrug.

“I don’t know, Wakefield,” Dynevor said, flustered. “She’s got callused hands and came in a dress I wouldn’t let my maids wear. I figured she got herself sold into marriage to some bounder she hates who doesn’t take care for her needs and wanted to see to it herself.”

Wakefield’s brows snapped together. As obsessed as he’d been with making her come, and burying himself in her eager cunny over and over, he’d only vaguely noted she didn’t possess the snowy white skin or soft body of a highborn lady. There had been ink stains upon the tips of her fingers. Her nails were cracked and otherwise mostly filed to nubs. Only with Dynevor now pointing out those telling details, did last night’s afterthoughts resurface.

He faintly registered Latimer and Dynevor quietly speculating about Wakefield’s mystery lover.

While they conversed, Wakefield went over all his shy lover’s professions and acknowledgements.

“…I could never fear you, Benedict…”

“…This is everything I dreamed it would be with you…”

“…I want you to be the one, Benedict…”

Suddenly, Wakefield went still. His entire body went cold.

A horrifying possibility slid in, one just as plausible and that made even more sense.

He sucked in a breath. “What is it, Wakefield?” his brother-in-law asked concernedly behind him.

Wakefield couldn’t even answer. His mind raced. The lady knew of his reputation. She struggled financially and would very easily, by a simple read of any gossip column, know about Wakefield caring for his illegitimate half-sisters. For a desperate woman, she’d know if any child was born of their passionate night together, Wakefield would do right by them.

Oh, God.

“She trapped me,” he whispered.

Next to him, his powerful partners stopped talking.

“What was that?” Latimer asked.

“Of course…” Wakefield continued speaking to himself. It made complete sense.

Lord knows he’d fucked her enough times last night and been careless enough that the possibility he’d put a babe in her belly were high.

And he only had himself to blame. No other man, not his brother-in-law, not his new business partner, just Wakefield and Wakefield alone was the guilty party.

Wakefield ran an unsteady palm along his cheek. “She trapped me,” he said tiredly.

“You don’t know that,” Dynevor said, so confidently and matter-of-factly it cut through Wakefield’s living nightmare.

The other man’s limpid response also hammered home how calm and collected Dynevor was in the face of Wakefield’s tumult.

“I don’t know that? I don’t know that?” Wakefield repeated. “What other conclusion should I reach?”

The earl shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know. I just… The lady is too innocent to be duplicitous.”

“And here we have our first bit of naivete from London’s own Earl of Dynevor,” Wakefield jibed. “You, who grew up the most violent gang leader in England’s history, Mac Diggory’s favorite child, should come to think that women are incapable of duplicity?”

Wakefield released a sharp bark of laughter.

Instead of taking offense, the young earl chuckled. “I’ve got four sisters, all of them born on the streets. I witnessed firsthand their strength, courage, and their talents. They also proved to me there are some women who are capable of honesty. I’m not saying many of them.” He lifted his palms up, conceding only some. “But enough that I can also count on any one of my sisters coming in here and bloodying my nose were they to find out I questioned all women’s worth.”

Wakefield only half heard him. He didn’t give a damn about Dynevor’s opinions or about his relationships with his family or anything in between. What he needed to sort out right now was how to proceed with Miss Cressida Smith.

Rap. Rap. Rap. There came a knocking at the door.

“Enter,” Latimer called first.

The door opened and Mauley appeared. Mauley, a former guard at the Home Office, whose loyalty to his then employer cost him his career but had earned the man new work as second in command to Latimer at The Devil’s Den.

“What is it?” Wakefield snapped, annoyed by the interruption.

“Wakefield’s lady—”

“She is not my lady ,” Wakefield gritted out.

The icy gentleman fixed a frosty glance on him. “That’s good. Then maybe I shouldn’t have come to tell you she asked for a carriage. I had her wait in the kitchens.”

The lady was leaving?

Latimer was the first to speak. “Thank you, Mauley.”

The guard nodded.

“The hell she’s leaving,” Wakefield growled. “See that she doesn’t, Mauley.”

Mauley inclined his head and backed out of the office.

Wakefield tightened his jaw. He not only needed answers from his beguiling lover, he required them—and he intended to get the truth out of her mouth.