less… subtle,” she replied, somehow mustering a show of outward composure. She would not—could not—allow herself to be intimidated. After taking a moment to study the muted colors and rather tasteful furnishings of the room, she returned her gaze to the etching on the wall. “By the by, is this a Frangelli?”
“Yes.” Straightening from his slouch, the man slowly sauntered into the room. “Do you find his style to your liking?”
She leaned in closer. “His technique is flawless.” After regarding the graphic twining of naked bodies and oversized erections for another few heartbeats, she lifted her chin. “As for the subject matter, it’s a trifle repetitive, don’t you think?”
A low bark of laughter sounded, and then tightened to a gruff snarl as the man turned to her companion. “Are your brains in your bum, Stiles? What the devil do you mean by bringing a respectable young lady here? Your message mentioned Becton, not—”
“It’s not the captain’s fault. I gave him no choice,” she interrupted. “I am Alexa Hendrie, Lord Becton’s sister. And you are?”
“This isn’t a damn dowager’s drawing room, Lady Alexa Hendrie. We don’t observe the formalities of polite introductions here.” The sardonic sneer grew more pronounced. “Most of our patrons would rather remain anonymous. But if you wish a name, I am called the Irish Wolfhound.”
“Ah.” Alexa refused to be cowed by his deliberate rudeness. “And this is your Lair?”
“You could say that.”
“Excellent. Then I imagine you can tell me straight off whether Sebastian is here. It is very important that I find him.”
“I can.” His lip curled up to bare a flash of teeth. “But whether I will is quite another matter. The place would not remain in business very long were I to freely dispense such information to every outraged wife or sister who happens to barge through the door.”
“Is it profitable?” she asked after a fraction of a pause.
“The business?” The question seemed to take him aback, but only for an instant. “I manage to make ends meet. So to speak.”
“Now see here, Wolf—” sputtered Stiles.
“How very clever of you,” went on Alexa, ignoring her companion’s effort to cut off any more risqué innuendoes. Smiling sweetly, she shot a long, lingering glance at the Wolfhound’s gray-flecked hair. “I do hope the effort isn’t too taxing on your stamina.”
“I assure you,” he replied softly, “I am quite up to the task.”
“Bloody hell.” Stiles added another oath through his gritted teeth. “Need I remind you that the lady is a gently bred female?”
The quicksilver eyes swung around and fixed Stiles with an unblinking stare. “Need I remind you that I am not the arse who brought her here?”
“Would that I could forget this whole cursed nightmare of an evening.” The captain grimaced. “Trust me, neither of us would be trespassing on your hospitality if it were not a matter of the utmost urgency to find Becton—”
“Our younger brother is in grave danger,” interrupted Alexa. “I must find Sebastian.”
“We have reason to think he might be coming to see you,” continued Stiles. “Is he here?”
The Wolfhound merely shrugged.
Alexa refused to accept the beastly man’s silence. Not with her younger brother’s life hanging in the balance. “You heard what the Wolfhound said, Captain Stiles. He is running a business and doesn’t give away his precious information for free.”
Sensing that neither tears nor appeals to his better nature—if he had one—would have any effect, she took pains to match his sarcasm. “So, how much will the information cost me?” she asked. “And be forewarned that I don’t have much blunt, so don’t bother trying to claw an exorbitant sum out of me.”
“I am willing to negotiate the price.” Despite the drawl, a tiny tic of his jaw marred his mask of jaded cynicism. “Kindly step outside, Stiles, so that the lady and I may have some privacy in which to strike a deal.”
“I’m not sure, er, that is…”
“What do you think? That I intend to toss up her skirts and feast on her virginity?” The Wolfhound looked back at her with a sardonic smile. “You are, I presume, a virgin?”
“Presume whatever you wish,” she replied evenly. “I don’t give a damn what some flea-bitten cur chooses to think, as long as I get the information I need.”
“Ye gods, Lady Alexa, bite your tongue,” warned Stiles in a low whisper. “You are not dealing with some lapdog. It’s dangerous to goad the Irish Wolfhound into baring his fangs.”
Dangerous. Another touch of ice-cold steel tickled against her flesh. Or was it fire?