Read Online The Passionate One by Connie Brockway - Free Book Online Page B

room The Ploughman boasted. The others of their party had
left. Only Phillip Watt, John Fortnum, St. John, and Ash remained.
    “Isn’t he,” Ash
murmured noncommittally. He was not surprised that St. John had found his way
to Wanton’s Blush. He wagered incautiously and ostentatiously. A plump little
pigeon like St. John would certainly have attracted Carr’s far-ranging notice.
    “It made quite an
end to what was a grand season.” St. John looked around to make certain that
his audience was suitably impressed. When no one responded, he finished
scooping the small ante from the center of the table into his pocket.
    Ash stretched out
his leg, mentally tallying the wealth of jewels bedecking St. John’s exquisite
persimmon-colored silk jacket. It was amazing St. John had escaped Wanton’s
Blush apparently unscathed. Few did.
    “You were
regrettably absent, however.” The little spark of malice in his eyes told Ash
that St. John was well aware Ash had spent that season in a French gaol.
    “I had prior
commitments. Or rather, I was committed previously.”
    St. John burst out laughing and Phillip frowned, disliking being excluded from
the joke. Men like St. John always enjoyed excluding others. Wearily, Ash
waited for St. John to relate the amusing story of his incarceration.
    How would Rhiannon
react when the tale reached her? Would she find it vastly diverting to know
she’d nearly been throttled by a gaol rat? Or horrifying? He was curious, he
told himself, no more.
    He glanced up to
find St. John regarding him with a bland smile. Apparently he’d decided to keep
the matter their little secret. Doubtless because as men of the world they
understood the humor in his having been a prisoner while these country louts
could never appreciate the jest.
    Not that Ash
appreciated it himself. But he appreciated men like St. John. They were so easy
to anticipate. Ash nodded at him, promising himself that St. John would pay for
his sport... and for reminding Ash of Rhiannon when he’d almost excised her
from his thoughts.
    “Your father, now
there’s a gaming man,” St. John went on. “Unhappily for you, you don’t seem to
have inherited his luck with the cards. Happily for me, however.”
    “Yes,” said Ash,
“he’s a rare devil all right.” He plucked a wrinkled brown apple from the bowl
at his side and began paring the soft skin with his stiletto. He was in no
hurry; he had nowhere to go.
    Today he’d primed
the pump for his future gambling by establishing himself in the others’ eyes as
a fellow with questionable skill and no great luck. When he eventually left
Fair Badden, his newfound companions would shake their heads over his belated
good fortune, never bothering to tally the slow but steady stream of money that
had made its way into his purse. No one would be the wiser. No one would be
hurt.
    He had to stay
focused on that, on his hidden talents, on maintaining his persona as an
entertaining companion, a bon vivant who tarried amongst them for a few short
weeks.
    “Exactly, sir,” St. John said, “devilish.”
    “How did you meet
Carr?” Fortnum asked.
    “I was in Scotland staying at the home of some mutual acquaintances. He was there and invited me to
stay at Wanton’s Blush. How could I resist?” St. John held up his hands. “It’s
magnificent. A miniature London with all its varied pleasures.”
    “I didn’t like London,” Phillip Watt suddenly put in.
    “Oh?” St. John asked, openly amused. “Pray tell, why?”
    “Why should I go
elsewhere for what I already have here?” Phillip leaned his great blond head
back and beamed like some Adonis. “Fair Badden has everything I want.”
    Ash glanced at him.
Doubtless within five years Watt and Rhiannon would have littered the rural
landscape with little golden godlings and goddesses. Ash looked away. He’d
always hated mythology.
    “I have fine wine
to drink,” Phillip went on, winking at Ash in a friendly manner, “when the tide
is