Too Wicked to Wed by Cara Elliott

hesitated again. “No doubt such praise sounds shocking to your ears, but despite his reputation as an unprincipled cad, and his current means of livelihood, the Wolfhound is not nearly the beast he is made out to be. He is loyal, and generous—and humorous, when he chooses to show that side of his nature. Those few who know him well would attest to the fact that he is an altogether great gun.”
    Save when an errant rub of flint in the form of a sharp-tongued lady causes the primed powder to explode in a shower of sparks.
    “What with the robbery and a run of cheating by a cutthroat Captain Sharpe coming one on top of the other,” continued Gryff, “it is not Killingworth’s fault that he finds himself on the brink of financial ruin.”
    Ruin?
    “Lord Killingworth the random victim of a thief and a cardsharp?” Alexa could not keep the shock from her voice. “That part of Town may be rough, but the odds of two such strikes being unrelated seem quite low.”
    “You are right,” agreed the marquess. “It’s no coincidence. I am convinced someone is out to destroy both the Lair and the Wolfhound.”
    Alexa could easily imagine any number of reasons why some man—or woman—might wish the earl ill. Still, she felt a pain in the pit of her stomach for having contributed to his troubles. “Why?” she asked in a taut whisper.
    “I have no idea. And neither does Killingworth.”
    Somehow the answer made her feel even worse.
    “My own recklessness has only compounded his woes. The Wolfhound refused an informal loan of funds, insisting that I hold a formal pledge for the money. He trusted me to keep it safe. Instead I…well, I hardly need explain to you what happened.”
    “I am sorry for the role I played, and for putting you in an awkward position with your friend.”
    Gryff turned in stark profile. “It is not for you to apologize. The fault is mine.”
    Alexa drew in a deep breath. Like the other Hellhounds, he was a striking figure, his harshly handsome features chiseled with an untamed arrogance. And yet in a certain light, the edges took on a gentler cut. Hard, yet soft. She couldn’t define it any better than that. But though no expert in games of seduction, she imagined it was a quality most women found alluring.
    “It’s of little consolation to Killingworth, but the incident taught me that perhaps it’s time…for an old dog to learn some new tricks.”
    She looked away. “You think that is possible?”
    “Hope springs eternal.” His cultivated cynicism was back. “If it did not, then life might be too bleak to contemplate.”
    “I—I see.”
    “I rather hope you don’t.” A strange sort of sadness seemed to shadow his features. “It’s not a sight I would wish for a lady of your tender years.” Before she could muster a reply, he gave a brusque bow. “Good day, Lady Alexa. I’ll leave you here, with a last reminder that you have only to name your price for your share of the Lair.”
    As Alexa watched him walk away, she couldn’t help thinking…
    Would the cost be too dear?

    The glass was but a hair’s breath from his lips when Connor yanked it back. Another jerk smacked it down on the desk, drowning his disgruntled oath in a loud thump.
    “Hell, I had better send out for a cheap tot of blue ruin and save these last few precious drops,” he muttered, staring balefully at the decanter. His quarterly delivery of aged French brandy was now a viscous puddle of ooze in the Iron Nun alleyway. God only knew what was diluting the delicate balance of oak and grape. Cat hair? Rat droppings? Rotting cabbage? Not to speak of the substances whose amorphous shapes and hues defied identification.
    It made him quite sick to think of it.
    “Every last barrel, smashed to smithereens,” announced McTavish, his doleful burr for once all too understandable. “Must have used smithy hammers to reduce oak to splinters of that wee size.”
    “My, aren’t you a fount of interesting information,”