Martin held her gaze, then nodded. "I'll look." Helen's brows rose; he ignored the sign and turned to the comer she'd indicated. If she thought he'd thank her for summoning him to Amanda Cynster's aid, she would need to think again.
It didn't occur to him to leave without seeing whatever Helen had wanted him to see, not until, skirting the walls, he caught sight of the group in the corner. Then he swore under his breath, and wished he'd left. But it was too late then.
He wasn't fool enough to charge in without assessing the situation. He could see why Helen was concerned; the group before him was without precedent, a volatile and likely explosive mix.
Amanda had assembled an extraordinary number of the most eligible but lecherous rakes in town, thus attracting the attention of the well-bred madams who cruised Helen's rooms. Few could hold a candle to Amanda-they would have seen her as an upstart competitor. Should have seen her as such, but something had got twisted. And Martin knew who'd done the twisting.
Instead of hissing and showing their claws, the other, more mature ladies and Miss Cynster had come to some mutual understanding. Martin could guess what such an understanding might entail, but from the enthralled looks on the gentlemen's faces, the fact that Amanda herself was not about to play their game tonight had not yet sunk in.
Then again…
He watched her flirt with an elegant roue, and wondered whether he should be so cocksure. She was a prize at any price but in this arena, she promised an experience well beyond the norm. She was not only beautiful, sensually attractive, untarnished and intelligent, she was also quick-witted, independent-defiantly feminine. There were connoisseurs enough in the circle around her who would appreciate that.
Not, however, tonight. Regardless of her plans.
After a narrow-eyed assessment, he rejected a frontal assault. Turning away, he beckoned a footman.
Laughing up at Lord Rawley, Amanda lifted the note from the salver, flicked it open-and nearly dropped it. She hadn't known Dexter was present; she'd been so intent, so on edge, she hadn't felt his gaze… hadn't seen him.
"I say-what is it? Bad news?"
She glanced up to find Lord Rawley and all the other gentlemen looking seriously concerned. "Ah… no." The instant brightening of their expressions told her why they'd been concerned. "That is…" She crumpled the note, suppressed an urge to rub her forehead. "I'm not sure."
This was what she'd wanted, schemed to get. But why was he waiting in the front hall?
She smiled at her admirers. "There's a messenger in the hall I must speak with. If you'll excuse me for a moment?"
Lady Elrood led the chorus. "Of course, my dear."
Amanda slipped away before any gentleman could offer to accompany her.
Stepping from the crowded drawing room into the front hall, she looked toward the front door, and saw no one bar two footmen. Before she could turn and look toward the stairs, her cloak fell over her shoulders.
Before she could react, the hood was yanked down over her face. Arms like steel wrapped about her and lifted her from the floor.
"The door, you dolts-open it!"
Any doubt she might have harbored over the identity of her attacker fled. She wriggled, tried to kick-all to no avail. By the time she thought of screaming, Dexter had carried her over the threshold and started down the steps. She quieted, waiting to be put down.
He reached the pavement, took two strides, hefted her-and tossed her unceremoniously onto a carriage seat.
Fury erupting, she fought to free herself from the folds of her cloak.
The carriage door slammed; she heard a shout. The carriage shot forward as if fleeing from the devil himself. She struggled free of the cloak-and saw the facades along Bel-grave Road flashing past. Absolutely stunned, she slumped back against the seat.
How dared he?
She was so shocked, then so incensed, she couldn't form a coherent thought. The carriage rocketed along, barely slowing to take corners; she had to hang onto the strap to keep upright. Not until the carriage slowed, then rocked to a stop, could she collect her scattered wits.
Gathering her cloak and reticule, she opened the door and stepped down, unsurprised to find herself at the corner of North Audley and Upper Brook Streets, a few steps from home. Turning, she opened her reticule.
The jarvey coughed. "Y'r pardon, ma'am, but the g'ntleman paid h'ndsomely."
Of course he had. Amanda looked up, and smiled. Unsweetly. "In that case, I suggest you leave."
The jarvey didn't argue. She waited until the hackney rounded a corner, then hitched her cloak over her shoulders and trudged home.
"At least it shows he cares."
"It shows he's a dolt-an overbearing, conceited, arrogant ass! An entirely typical Cynsterlike male."
"So now what?"
"I start on plan B."
Her nemesis next caught up with her at Mrs. Fawcett's soiree. Mrs. Fawcett was a widow of not entirely unblemished reputation whose evening entertainments were highly considered amongst the demimonde.
"What the devil do you imagine you're doing?"
The deep-throated growl was music to Amanda's ears. Without turning from the game of silver-loo she was supposedly watching, she glanced back at Dexter, just behind her. "I'm enjoying myself."
A smile on her lips, she looked back at the play.
After a moment's brooding silence came: "If you won't think of your reputation, think of Carmarthen-you're placing him in an invidious position."
In this venue, she'd brought Reggie as escort; he was deep in discussion with another gentleman of much the same age. "I don't think he's in any danger." Cocking a brow, she looked up and back to meet Dexter's aggravated gaze. "Would you rather I came without him?"
"I'd rather you didn't come here at all. Or anywhere like it."
Looking away, she shrugged. "I can't conceive why you imagine your opinion is likely to sway me."
"You promised if I gave you the adventures you requested-all of them-you'd stay away from venues such as this for the rest of the Season."
He was speaking through clenched teeth.
She turned; they were so close, her breasts brushed his chest. Reaching up, she traced a finger down one lean cheek. And smiled, directly into his eyes. "I lied." Then she widened her eyes at him. "But why should you care?" With a mock salute, she stepped around him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there're gentlemen present I've yet to meet."
She left him, idly ambling away. But she hadn't missed the jolt of tension that had locked his large frame. Nor the gaze that burned between her shoulder blades for the rest of the night.
Martin wrapped his fingers about Amanda's wrist as she paused on the threshold of Mrs. Swayne's drawing room. He'd seen her slip away to the withdrawing room, and had lain in wait for her; that was what she'd reduced him to.
He drew her out of the flow of guests. "So tell me, just what is your plan?"
He stopped by the wall; she opened her eyes wide. "Plan?"
"Your objective in turning the better part of the ton's rakes into slavering slaves just waiting for you to take your pick."
"Ah-that plan." She looked across the sea of raffish rogues and rakes filling the small drawing room.
Martin grimly held onto his temper. He deeply regretted giving way to it at Helen's-satisfying though it had been at the time, just look where it had landed him. He'd spent the last week attending every blasted function throughout the demimonde, searching for Amanda through the salons and parties. Keeping an eye on her. People were beginning to notice. And the very last thing he wished was to focus attention on his interest in Amanda Cynster.