Page 23 of Tempting the Marquess

Chapter4

God,he would give anything for a brandy.

Grimacing, John took another swallow of the revolting pressed herb cordial that masqueraded as alcohol. He’d become so adept at the tipping out of spirits and replacing at this brothel, it didn’t even register anymore.

As always, this unpleasant task was part of a far greater plan. And men who willingly took on the worst tasks earned the greatest rewards.

“Evening, Claremont!”

He forced a smile at the approach of Sir Francis Quinn. An idiot, middle-aged dandy who continued to pretend he hadn’t fucked Eva. Why the man bothered, he didn’t know. Half of London had rutted between his wife’s thighs, and he truly didn’t care. Eva also served a purpose, a nod to convention.

“Sir Francis. You look like a man with news to share.”

“Not really. Just wanted to compliment you on your daughter. Taking the city by storm, a credit to you and the countess, sheis.”

Interesting. The baronet wanted to fuck Samanthanow.

For a long moment, John pondered offering his daughter for an evening. Sir Francis would love that, and it would ensure his loyalty and a robust flow of news from the East India Company docks. Then again, there were men far higher up in society who wanted Samantha. He’d seen it in their eyes. With her mother’s looks, a figure that screamed fertility, and family connection to the Westleighs, the little bitch was quite a prize. Spending time with her and pretending to play the devoted Papa revolted him as much as this damned cordial did. But for his greater plan, he would do it. And much, much worse.

“My thanks. Samantha is indeed a treasure.”

“Westleigh is very protective of her. As are his cronies,” said Sir Francis peevishly, fiddling with a lacy shirtcuff.

John stifled a smile. Sir Francis and his petty jealousies. Smart men said nothing, lulled enemies into their confidence, discovered weak points, then delivered the fatal blow. A man like the baronet was too stupid to get close to the likes of Westleigh or more importantly, the thoroughly intriguing Marquess of Standish. William Hastings was a mystery, much like his damned father before him. But easily solved puzzles were no fun. And men without conscience or scruples were no challenge to destroy.

The best foes were worthyones.

“Why are you thinking about them, when we are surrounded by beautiful, available women?”

Sir Francis sighed. “Bit short of blunt. And they are so damned insistent on payment at this establishment. But it is to be expected, better class of whorehere.”

“Then allow me to assist.”

The baronet brightened. “Really?”

“Of course. Been too long since the two of us entertained three or four women at once. Who do you fancy, my friend?”

“Blondes,” said Sir Francis, his eyes glittering. “Several of them, to be whipped until they serve my cock as all obedient slaves should.”

So predictable. Inwardly rolling his eyes, John lifted a hand and beckoned the brothel madam. “Your wish is my command.”

The things one did to cultivate relationships.