Her Wanton Wager by Grace Callaway Read Free Book Online Page A

gaming rooms, nodding to the staff cleaning up the night's excesses. When he'd first laid eyes on the place years ago, it had been a dilapidated shack with rotting beams and tumble-down walls. He'd seen its potential at once. It had taken his life savings—earned through a combination of violence and investment—to buy the place.
    Pausing to gaze around the brilliant circular marble foyer, he didn't doubt that his risky venture had paid off. Three premier stories of the tried-and-true triumvirate of depravity—gaming, drink, and whores—and all of it belonged to him. Normally, this fact brought a charge of satisfaction. Today, however, he felt ... weary.
    He continued to an alcove in the hallway. Running his fingers along the wall, he released a hidden mechanism, and a panel swung open. He'd had this private corridor built so that he could survey the entire house at his discretion. The passageway snaked behind the walls of every room on every floor. From the card parlors to the wenches' quarters, he monitored all that passed in his domain. Some might call his a controlling nature—and they'd be right on the money.
    Power was everything; he'd never be without it again.
    He followed the corridor all the way to his private wing at the back of the building. Sunlight hit him as he entered his suite; the series of spacious chambers had large windows overlooking a vibrant gated garden. His own personal oasis. Yawning, he headed to the bedchamber. He waved off his valet, and not bothering to draw the curtains, stripped off his clothes and climbed naked into the postered bed.
    Despite his fatigue, the moment his head hit the pillow, his mind leapt awake. The cursed habit of too many years spent in the rookery, where vigilance had been the key to survival. Where between one eye blink and the next, a man could get himself gutted if he let his guard down. Gavin lay there, surrounded by the smell of fresh linens and sunshine, staring up at the embroidered bed hangings. And instead of sleep came the unbidden memories of his past.
    He'd been a boy not yet ten when his mother deserted him. Alone in the world, he'd faced the chilling prospect of the workhouse when a sweep named Grimes had come along and offered him an apprenticeship. Relieved at the prospect of learning a trade, of joining a coterie of boys his own age, Gavin had gone along.
    What a bloody fool I was.
    He'd soon learned that his new master cleaned more than chimneys—Grimes had used his sweeps to rob some of the finest homes in the City. The bastard had a predilection for violence ... and also for young boys. The knowledge had come too late; Grimes had kept his apprentices caged like slaves. The first time Gavin had been summoned to the master's chamber, he had feared the worst.
    He'd not been the only boy sent for that night. Nicholas Morgan, one of the older boys, had been there too; Grimes' depravity had known no bounds. Helpless fear had twisted Gavin's empty belly as he'd crossed the creaky threshold toward the master, whose eyes had glowed a sinister orange in the firelight. But then matters had taken a different turn. A knife had flashed in Morgan's hand and landed in Grimes' chest.
    The bastard had deserved the blade in the heart; Gavin wished he'd put it there himself. Morgan's sin had not been killing Grimes, but what he'd done afterward. Gavin could still feel the sharp steel, wet with blood, pressed against his own throat.
    One word o' this to anyone, an' I'll gut you like a pig, you understand?
    Dazed, he could only stare into Morgan's hard eyes.
    Answer me, you filthy git! The blade bit into his throat, and he felt a sticky trickle—his blood or Grimes', he didn't know. Your silence or I'll end your miserable life right now. Don't think I won't do it.
    A whimper sprang from his throat. He heard his own voice, words tattered by sobs. Don't leave me here. I'm scared. Take me with you, please …
    Shame simmered as Gavin recalled how he'd begged Morgan to