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changing from indignant resistance to that of a shrewd businessman. If you take him tonight you will
leave me with only one man who will accept gentlemen clients until a replacement can be found. Mr.
Walsh is an exceptional individual, as I am sure you are well aware. It will be a difficult endeavor to
find someone who can stand in his place. He has also already cost me one client tonight. A client who
will likely never return. And you, sir, have threatened the good reputation of my establishment. It will
cost me a great deal to placate the gentleman currently waiting in my office, ensure word does not get
out about tonight s incident.
Max understood at once. Tristan is leaving tonight. He will not return to this establishment. I will
have a bank draft to the sum of twenty-five hundred pounds sent to you by tomorrow morning. I trust
it will compensate you for the inconvenience and repay his debt. You will understand that I do not
have the sum with me at the moment.
He removed his gold pocket watch and diamond cravat pin, pulled out the remaining pound notes
from his pocket, and held out every valuable on his person to Rubicon as proof of his ability to make
good on his word.
I will have your full name, sir.
The veil of anonymity would be lost by the morning, as soon as she received the bank draft. If
giving her his name now would help serve as collateral and save him the effort of trying to pummel
past two burly guards with Tristan in tow, then so be it.
Max Arrington.
The edges of her lips tipped up the tiniest bit. She recognized his family name, knew exactly who he
was. He could only trust she was a shrewd enough businesswoman to know abusing such knowledge
would not be in her best interest.
A moment s consideration, and Rubicon nodded.
Max did not give her the courtesy of a tip of the head. After dropping the valuables onto a side
table, he grabbed Tristan s clothes from the floor. With a protective hand on Tristan s lower back,
Max ushered him past the two remaining guards.
Once they were a few paces from the bedchamber, he asked Tristan, What is the quickest way out
of this house, preferably not through the front door?
Servants stairs to the back door. That way. Tristan jerked his head toward a plain door marked
with a steel knob versus the highly polished brass ones decorating the others in the corridor.
Neither Tristan nor Max said a word as they made their way down the stairs. As they neared the last
step, Tristan stopped, his head turning toward an open door to the right, toward the sounds of a busy
kitchen. The clank of a pot, the chatter of female voices, the rhythmic tap of a knife against wood.
Here. Put these on. Max held out Tristan s clothes.
As Tristan stood on the last step and tugged on his trousers, Max glanced about. The stairs ended in
a small space lit by a serviceable lantern hanging from the ceiling, a closed door directly before them,
the open one to the kitchen off to the right. The closed door likely led to an alley behind the house.
He much preferred to have his carriage brought round for Tristan. His driver would be up a few
buildings beyond Rubicon s, exactly where he had waited the last two instances when Max had visited
the house. It wouldn t take but a handful of minutes for Max to walk around to Curzon Street, but he
was reluctant to leave Tristan alone for even a moment. He d struck his bargain with the madam. She
had let him leave the bedchamber with Tristan. Still, he couldn t ignore the fear Tristan would be
snatched away the instant Max turned his back on him.
Your coat, Tristan murmured.
Max took the proffered garment. In the time it took him to slip it on and do up the buttons, Tristan
had his own shirt, waistcoat and coat on, displaying an efficiency he completely lacked back in that
bedchamber. Then the man turned, as if to go back up the stairs.
No. Max s arm shot out, blocking Tristan s progress as he made to slip past him.
My shoes, cravat. You left them in the room.
You can make do without them for the night. The bare feet peeking from the hems of Tristan s
trousers and the shirt collar laying open, exposing his pale throat not to mention the hand at
Tristan s waist, holding the placket of his button-free trousers in place were the least of Max s
concerns.
But
You are not going back to that room. My carriage isn t far. If the lack of shoes is a concern, I can
carry you.
An indignant scowl marred Tristan s beautiful features. I can manage on my own.
Good. Max indicated the closed door. Shall we?
As they walked out of the house, Max s senses went on full alert. The moon s faint light, peeking
from behind the night clouds, was enough to see by, but heavy darkness shrouded the backs of the
buildings lining the alleyway. Mayfair wasn t known for an overabundance of pickpockets and
thieves. Still, Max placed a hand on Tristan s shoulder, kept him close, his gaze sweeping their
surroundings, guiding Tristan around shallow puddles and on the lookout for any sign of others in the
alley.
As expected, he found his team of four waiting around the corner on Curzon Street. The footman
held open the door as if it was any other night and his master did not have a disheveled young man in
tow.
The town house. Max followed Tristan inside the carriage and took a seat on the black leather
bench.
Tristan settled on the opposite bench, one hand at his waist, keeping his trousers in place. The door
snapped shut. Faint golden light from a nearby streetlamp seeped through the windows beside each
bench, keeping the interior from pitch darkness.
Is that all right?
Tristan pulled his attention from the window. Pardon?
That we are going to my town house. Is that all right?
Max received a nod of agreement. Tristan turned his attention back out the window.
The carriage moved forward. The streetlamp s light slipped away, leaving the dark outline of
Tristan across from him.
They weren t all like that, Tristan said into the silence, as the carriage wound its way through
Mayfair.
One is more than enough. Max highly doubted it had been an isolated incident. Tristan had told
him during their first night together that he preferred not to be hit with a closed fist. Clearly there had
been a reason for that particular request.
How many other bastards had Tristan had to endure? How many had treated him like a toy to be
purchased and used, with no thought at all to if they broke him in the process?
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