Her Wicked Proposal novel Chapter 25

The White House in Soho Square was filled with the sounds of the rich and elegant seeking their pleasure. It was a night for devilry and revelry. The young bucks who'd been trapped at balls, parties and sandwiched in the crowds at Almack's since the beginning of the season in January were finally able to escape to less reputable locations and enjoy themselves freely in ways they could not with the eligible ladies under the watchful eyes of their mothers.

Even a few ladies who'd borne their husbands the required heirs were taking the night to slip away from their cold marriage beds, along with some adventurous widows scattered throughout the expensively furnished rooms of the most famous pleasure haunt in London.

Samir Al Zahrani exited the Skeleton Room, one of the more macabre themed areas within the establishment, his soul blackened with greed. The English provided him a perfect market to carry on his trade, both legal and otherwise, with discretion and near anonymity.

Even his father, one of the emissaries visiting London, was unaware of the full extent of Samir's business affairs. Willfully blind, was perhaps more accurate. His father was a man of honor and would have tried to stop him, but Samir knew his father was an old fool who did not recognize opportunity when it presented itself. While his father's business struggled, Samir's thrived, and soon he would surpass his father in both wealth and influence.

He moved through the house, admiring the array of mirrors and the other unusual additions to the mansion that entranced and enthralled its well-paying guests. His purse was fat with coins and banknotes from his most recent sale of exotic women to furnish the house. No slaves in England? Perhaps officially. But those who thought as he did had their quaint little ways around such naïve ideals, and to avoid unwanted scrutiny.

New inventory was in constant demand in the cleaner pleasure haunts. Wealthy men did not want to bed weary and worn middle-aged women. That was where he came in. Samir Al Zahrani traveled the world buying and sometimes stealing rare and exotic women, and occasionally men, to sell to the highest-paying customers. Such as the operators of the White House.

But Samir's business had little to do with his presence in England today. He'd lost a pair of his most precious assets here a year ago. Two mares sired by his father's famous Arabian racer, the one the English called Firestorm.

Samir had been cheated in a card game by a damned Englishman, Sheridan. He would pay for his arrogance and trickery. Samir had vowed to kill the viscount and take back his mares. But revenge would take time, so Samir had soothed his wounded pride for a time in France before coming back.

He'd considered hiring a few local lowlifes to murder Viscount Sheridan and make it look like a robbery. His own private guards could have handled such a thing, but this required more care. The last thing he needed was for Sheridan's death to be traced back to him or his country. That would be bad for business. Tonight, he'd left his guards at home and ventured the streets alone.

As he was on his way out of Soho Square, a coach rattled past him and stopped, blocking his path. The muted glow of the street lamps did not seem to penetrate the darkness that cloaked the black coach in his path. Samir felt his hackles rise, like a dog sensing a threat yet unseen. Perhaps he should have brought his guards after all...

"Get out of my way!" he snarled up at the driver perched on the coach's front, but the driver remained silent. The door of the coach opened and a well-manicured hand slid out from the inky depths, inviting Samir to come inside.

"You are Al Zahrani, the Arabian merchant, are you not?" The voice was thick with its arrogant presumption of being correct.

"Fortune favors you tonight. I am Al Zahrani," Samir growled. Did this Englishman just think the first dark-skinned man he passed by was the one he sought? He had survived battles in deserts beneath a sun so hot as to kill any man from this wet country. He did not fear one smug English aristocrat.

"We have a common enemy, you and I." The hand beckoned him again, but Samir hesitated.

"And what enemy would that be?"

"The man who stole your mares. Viscount Sheridan." The voice spoke Sheridan's name with such loathing that Samir smiled. His inquiries had reached the right people, it seemed.