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Lord Libertine
Gail Ranstrom
The seduction of Lady Lace Bored with his dissolute life, Andrew Hunter craved a new diversion. And one presented itself in the form of the mysterious Lady Lace! Her practised flirtations branded her an experienced woman – but her bewitching kisses spoke of innocence and purity.Lord Libertine set himself to seduce the truth from her. But the notorious rakehell was not prepared for the answers he gained. And in discovering the lady’s secrets, he endangered his own heart!


Praise for Gail Ranstrom
THE COURTESAN’S COURTSHIP ‘…this book should not be missed.’ —Rakehell
THE RAKE’S REVENGE ‘Ranstrom crafts an intriguing mystery, brimming with a fine cast of strong and likable characters and a few surprises.’ —Romantic TimesBOOKreviews
THE MISSING HEIR ‘Ranstrom draws us into this suspenseful tale right up to the very end.’ —Romantic Times BOOKreviews
SAVING SARAH ‘Gail Ranstrom has written a unique story with several twists that work within the confines of Regency England… If Ranstrom’s first book showed promise, then SAVING SARAH is when Ranstrom comes of age.’ —The Romance Reader
A WILD JUSTICE ‘Gail Ranstrom certainly has both writing talent and original ideas.’ —The Romance Reader
‘So, Lady Lace, is that yourgame? Gathering kisses?’
She was not surprised that he knew her alias. She was well on her way to becoming notorious.
He was dark and handsome—strong and commanding—dangerous. She realised what she had to do.
She closed the short distance between them, slipped her arms around his neck and lifted on her toes to reach his mouth. When she pressed her lips to his, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to the wall. No escape.
No mercy.
His kiss was consuming and powerful, making her head swim and her senses reel. When her resistance weakened, it turned coaxing, teasing with little flicks of fire at the edges. There could be nothing even remotely similar to this kiss. She was losing herself to it—losing her very will to resist.
Gail Ranstrom was born and raised in Missoula, Montana, and grew up spending the long winters lost in the pages of books that took her to exotic locales and interesting times. That love of the ‘inner voyage’ eventually led to her writing. She has three children, Natalie, Jay and Katie, who are her proudest accomplishments. Part of a truly bi-coastal family, she resides in Southern California with her two terriers, Piper and Ally, and has family spread from Alaska to Florida.
Recent titles by the same author:
A WILD JUSTICE
SAVING SARAH
A CHRISTMAS SECRET
(in The Christmas Visit anthology)
THE RAKE’S REVENGE
THE MISSING HEIR
THE COURTESAN’S COURTSHIP
INDISCRETIONS

LORD LIBERTINE
Gail Ranstrom

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Prologue
London, May 25, 1821
Panic licking at her heels, Isabella hurried down the long dingy second-floor corridor of Middlesex Hospital, the man sent by the Home Office leading the way. He indicated a door and she stepped through into a ward with twenty or more beds. The odor, something foul and fetid, hung ominously in the air.
“This way, Miss O’Rourke,” her escort said, directing her to a curtain along the far wall.
She slowed, reluctant now, after all their urgency. He’d tried to prepare her, the man from the Home Office—Lord Wycliffe, she thought he’d said. He told her she might not recognize Cora, and that she needed to brace herself and be strong. She glanced up at him again, hoping for reassurance and finding none.
She wished she could have waited for Mama to return from looking for Cora in the park, but Lord Wycliffe had said there was no time to lose. She’d left her sister Eugenia to bring her mother and Lilly to the hospital when they returned. Then Lord Wycliffe had brought her here. To identify Cora. On the way, he’d told Isabella what had been done to her—she’d been beaten, dishonored, disfigured and cast off in a dust heap at the end of a blind lane, where she’d been found by the morning watch. Now, so close, Isabella was afraid of what she’d find.
She swallowed hard.
“Do you need a moment, Miss O’Rourke?”
She shook her head and proceeded slowly. Lord Wycliffe stepped ahead and drew the curtain back for her. He touched her shoulder as she went forward. “I shall wait for you, miss.”
Only the meager light able to penetrate a filthy window illuminated the bed, but there was nothing of Cora’s in evidence. Where was her cloak? Her gown or slippers?
Isabella stepped closer. The occupant of the bed was swathed in bandages wound around her wrists and neck. Her head was turned away, and Isabella summoned the last of her courage before she touched her shoulder. “Cora?”
Slowly, painfully, her sister turned, and a sob broke free from Isabella’s chest. She had thought she was prepared for anything, but she hadn’t been prepared for this…this parody of Cora. And it was Cora—her honey-blond hair caked with dark, stiff blotches of blood, her forehead missing a large triangle of flesh, her eyes—those sparkling blue eyes—dull now and nearly swollen shut, and her lips cut and distorted.
The tortured lips parted, and a faint sigh emerged. “Bella…”
She took Cora’s hand. “I am here, Cora. You will be all right now. I am here and I will take you home.”
“Not…going home,” she said, and a glistening tear trickled down her puffy cheek.
Isabella nearly choked with the effort to hold her sobs back. “Please, Cora…”
“D-don’t pretend.”
Isabella could no longer stem the flow of her tears. Her pain and grief welled up and spilled over.
“Be…brave,” Cora whispered. “Avenge me, Bella.” Cora stopped for a moment when her swollen lip cracked and a fine line of blood appeared. Then she blinked and started again. “He lied about everything…was not who he said.”
“Who was not? And how shall I know him?” she asked. “If he lied about his name…”
“A gentleman. Tonnish. Charming, dark hair and dark eyes…taller than Papa was.”
“That is not enough, Cora. I need more. You must hold on. You must get well, and we will—”
“His kiss,” her sister sighed, closing her eyes as if remembering. “Always…always wets his lips after his kiss. As if tasting…and he tastes of…something bitter.”
“But—”
Cora opened her eyes again and the sheer intensity of her gaze immobilized Isabella. “Promise, Bella.”
“I…I promise. I swear it upon my life. Rest now, Cora. Mama will be here soon, and we…we…”
But Cora’s hand slackened and her face froze in a concentrated study of Isabella, as if entreating, even in death.
“No…” Isabella moaned as her knees began to buckle. “No…no…”
Lord Wycliffe came forward and braced her. “Come away, Miss O’Rourke. We shall wait for your mother in the matron’s office.”
But at that very moment, her mother and sisters rushed through the ward toward them. “Bella! Bella! Say it isn’t our Cora! Say there has been some awful mistake.”
“Mama…”
Isabella tried to stop her mother and sisters from going to Cora’s bed, from seeing what had been done to her, but they swept Isabella aside, knocking her back against Lord Wycliffe. A long keening wail broke over the ward as her mother threw herself over Cora’s lifeless form. “My baby! Oh, my darling child! Bella, how could you? How could you have let her come to this?”
“I didn’t know—”
“It was your duty to know!” Mama buried her face against Cora’s chest and sobbed, her words barely distinguishable as she said, “Itshouldhavebeenyou. Why couldn’t it have been you?”
The words, stark in their sincerity, cut into her heart and made it impossible for her to breathe. She turned away from the gruesome scene, and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Eugenia and Lilly clutched each other tightly, but Isabella had never felt so alone in her entire life.
Lord Wycliffe, a complete stranger, offered her the only comfort she could find. He slipped an arm around her waist to support her and murmured some indistinct platitude. Grief, anger, pain and loneliness filled her as she silently renewed her promise.
Rest in peace, Cora. I will avenge you.
Chapter One
London, July 2, 1821
“What are we doing cooling our heels at a masquerade when we could be kicking them up at a witches’ Sabbath?’ Tis summer, Hunter. There’s got to be something better to do. Some prank, some diversion.”
What, indeed? Andrew Hunter yawned and scanned the crowded ballroom at the Argyle Rooms. A masquerade, and he and his friends had not bothered to wear costumes or even dominoes. What a sad state of affairs, when he could not think of anything at all to interest him—here or anywhere else. Well, it was bound to have come to this sooner or later. He had not left much undone, untried, untasted.
Henley nudged him again. “There’s going to be a black mass in the tombs beneath the chapel at Whitcombe Cemetery. If you know of another…”
Andrew took a deep draught of his brandy and then shook his head. “None better than the Whitcombe Sabbaths. Go on without me, Henley. I think I’ll make an early night of it.”
“Early night? Are you ailing, Hunter?”
Ailing? Is that what one would call boredom to utter distraction? Aye, then, he had a bloody terminal case of boredom. “It’s all hogwash, Henley. Pretend and make-believe. Witches’ Sabbaths, cock fights, bear baiting, whoring…”
His friend gave him a sage appraisal. “We need to find you an interest, Hunter. A cure for the doldrums.”
“Lord save me!” Andrew laughed. “You are going to suggest a woman, are you not?”
“Nothing like a willing lass to lighten your cares, eh?”
He considered the suggestion for one brief moment. Then even that palled. How many women had he had in the last year alone? How many assignations and seductions? How many illicit flirtations? God help him, he’d lost his appetite for even that.
When his older brother, the Earl of Lockwood, had married barely four months ago, Andrew had taken a small town house. He had no wish to hang about the family manor and watch Lockwood’s domestic bliss—comical as it was. His brothers, James and Charles, had also rented flats to grant the couple their privacy. Whatever restraint had been placed on Andrew by his elder brother’s presence was now gone. Perversely, the freedom to indulge his slightest whim had robbed him of the pleasure.
All the same, he felt an odd restlessness tonight, an air of expectancy. Something unusual was in the offing, but he suspected he wouldn’t find it in the usual places. “No,” he said at length to Henley’s suggestion of female companionship. “Think I’ll see what’s afoot at the club, then stumble my way home.”
The look on Henley’s face was amusing—as if he could not believe his ears. “Have you become that jaded, Hunter? We used to live for nights like this. Why, look! All around us, men and women are looking for mischief.”
Once again, Andrew surveyed the crowd. Spirits were high, it was true. Hiding identities behind costumes and masks gave license to lewd behavior. Or was it summer and the long warm days that loosened one’s morals? Whatever it was, it was present at tonight’s gathering and would likely be present at the many balls, soirees, musicales, fetes, fairs and pleasure gardens in the days ahead. But…
“None of it is new, Henley. Just the same old thing wearing different guises.” Lord, how he wished for something new—anything that would drag him from his constant state of numbness.
“Pshaw! There’s plenty of variety. Why, this is the first year Lady Lace has made an appearance.”
“Lady who?”
Henley inclined his blond head toward a group in one corner. Lively conversation punctuated by laughter carried to them. In the center stood a diminutive woman dressed in black silk and masked by a black lace-edged domino. She was slimmer than he liked, and not nearly as buxom, but she had a certain allure about her. She waved one graceful hand in front of her face in a dismissive gesture, and two fair young men backed away. Two more took their place, including his friend Conrad McPherson.
Andrew narrowed his eyes to peer through the dim candlelight. Yes, she was thin, but not so thin that she could not fill out a gown. And though she lacked a deep cleft between her breasts, milky white swells hinted at what lay beneath the lace ruching that trimmed her décolletage. Chestnut-brown hair tied up in black ribbons would have been drab if not for the gleam and glints of fire in the curls left to dangle down her back.
“Intriguing,” he muttered. “Tell me about her.”
Henley grinned, no doubt pleased he had snared Andrew’s interest. “She is called Lady Lace, always wears black and has, thus far, evaded revealing her true identity. They speculate that she is from the north. Yorkshire, perhaps, or Scotland or Ireland by the faint trace of a Gaelic accent. She has not been long on the scene—a week, perhaps—and some say she is the widow of a country peer. Others swear she is a courtesan looking for her next protector. All we know for certain is that each night she appears, she favors a man with a kiss. And what a kiss! No sisterly peck on the cheek, but one deep and full of promise. Why has she never chosen me, I ask.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “A device designed to make people talk and men anticipate her arrival. She is nothing if not a very canny businesswoman. Mark me, she will make a choice soon, and the poor devil will pay through the nose for it.”
“You are without a mistress at the moment, are you not, Hunter? What say you give it a go?”
“She’s not my usual fare. Not enough meat on her bones.”
“You might want to try something new, eh? What a coup to make away with the most sought-after woman of the season. Quite a difference between her and the schoolgirls invading town to make their bows.”
Did he care about a coup? No. But the thought of revealing what lay beneath the black weeds and lace held a certain appeal. He was not ordinarily competitive, but the idea of claiming a woman who did not behave like a schoolgirl and who would not act coy for a marriage proposal was alluring. Pray she was not a courtesan looking for a protector. He had just paid a generous congé to the last. “Go on to Whitcombe without me, Henley. I’ll catch up to you later.”
Isabella O’Rourke fought back her gag of revulsion as the black-haired man kissed her. He had a definite finesse, but the fact remained that she had permitted this intimacy with a stranger. And she knew now all she needed to know.
This was not the man who had killed Cora.
She drew away with a show of reluctance and placed one palm against his chest to keep him at a distance. “La! You quite take my breath away, Mr. McPherson. I shall have to watch myself around you.”
He laughed and gave her a crisp bow. “Do not watch yourself, madam. I shall do that for you.”
She smiled and drew her closed fan down the side of his right cheek. “I shall think upon it, sir. Now off with you.” She made a shooing motion toward the ballroom and waited until he disappeared.
Alone, she exhaled and waited while a bottomless shudder passed through her. She turned to the console table in the alcove and found an abandoned glass of rich amber liquid. Whiskey? Brandy? It didn’t matter. With just the slightest hesitation, she lifted it and took a deep drink, holding the liquor in her mouth until it burned. God grant it would burn away the last traces of her humanity so that she could finish what she’d begun.
She swallowed, closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wall, waiting for the warmth to spread through her.
“That little shudder of revulsion, madam? Was it for yourself or your partner?”
Myself! She straightened and turned to face the intruder in the alcove. He was watching her, one shoulder propped against the wall and a cynical smile curving his deeply sensual mouth. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into her, and she suspected he saw more than he should. Oh, that would never do!
“You find a kiss revolting, sir?” Her question was not an answer, but she hoped he would not pursue one.
“I do not, but your reaction proves different.” He bowed, a mere mocking of manners. “Andrew Hunter at your service, madam.”
She gave him an equally mocking curtsy but did not volunteer her name. What would he say if he knew she’d only had her first kiss a week ago? “My reaction aside, Mr. Hunter, I do like kissing. That is why I do so much of it.” Oh, how smooth her lie was. How convincing.
He grinned as if deriving some satisfaction from her reply. “So, Lady Lace, is that your game? Gathering kisses?”
She was not surprised that he knew her alias. She was well on her way to becoming notorious. She considered lying to him but realized it would be futile. If she was any judge, this man had told enough lies in his life that he would surely recognize hers. “Perhaps I am too countrified, sir, but I am always amazed when I realize the degree to which complete strangers in the city feel they are entitled to the intimate details of one’s life.”
He gave her a slight nod. “I gather I am not the first to inquire into your background. But a name is hardly intimate, madam.”
“There is no need to grant anyone permission to use it, since I do not plan on being long in London.”
He reached out and lifted the domino from her face, dropping it on the console table. “Do I look like the sort of man who needs permission?”
No, he certainly did not. His very presence unnerved her. He was strong and commanding. He was dangerous. He was a man just like the one who had killed Cora. And then she realized what she had to do. She would come to it sooner or later, so it was best to have it over and done with now.
She closed the short distance between them, slipped her arms around his neck and lifted on her toes to reach his mouth. She felt his little shock of surprise in the sudden stiffening of his spine, but when she pressed her lips to his, he softened, wrapping his arms around her and turning with her until her back was pressed to the wall. No escape.
No mercy.
His kiss was consuming and powerful. It was undeniable, making her head swim and her senses reel. And then, when her resistance weakened, it turned coaxing, teasing with little flicks of fire at the edges. Her breasts, flattened to his chest, began tingling and aching, quite unlike anything she’d experienced before. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that she was losing herself to this kiss—losing her very will to resist.
Oh, dear Lord, she’d lost control of this situation! She summoned the few senses remaining to her and fought to regain that tenuous hold. Alas, Andrew Hunter had no intention of relinquishing it. His tongue met hers and merged with a hot demand. She wanted to retreat, but there was nowhere for her to go. With the wall at her back and Mr. Hunter at her front, she was trapped as effectively as if she’d been caged. And in another minute, she would crave captivity. She slid her fingers up his neck and stroked the soft wave of dark hair at his nape and arched against him, wanting more of the breathless feelings he elicited.
And then he went still and stiff. He surrendered her mouth with a low growl and reached up to disentangle her arms from around him and turned away. Had she disgusted him?
“You have bewitched me, Lady Lace,” he said as he turned back. “But I prefer to conduct such activities in private.”
She realized that she had somehow wandered from her original purpose, but she didn’t know how. She could only stand there, looking at him, unable to speak.
“Name your price. And please do not disappoint me by asking me what I mean.”
Oh, that much, at least, was clear. She could only hope he thought she was a courtesan rather than a common whore. “I understand, sir, but I fear you have misread me. I am not for sale. Not at any price.”
“Then you are looking for a husband.”
“No.”
“Just as well, my sweet, since no respectable man would marry a woman who’d kissed half his friends and more.”
She gave him a self-deprecating laugh and looked away, wondering if there was another abandoned glass of liquor nearby. “Perhaps the man I am seeking is not respectable.”
“Then you and I are ideally suited, madam, since I am not the least bit respectable.”
She might have thought he was teasing or cajoling, if his tone had not been completely serious. Oh, she could believe him. One could not kiss like that without years of practice and miles of experience. But there was something darker in his voice, something frightening. She glanced back to find him uncomfortably close. She raised one hand to hold him apart.
“No words of affection? No declaration of fidelity or undying love? No pretty manners or promises? What sort of courtship is this, sir?”
“Have I not said you’ve bewitched me? I could tell you lies, Lace, but I hoped you were not the sort to require such twaddle. How could I love you when I barely know you? How could I swear fidelity when we will both be on to the next lover as soon as our affair palls? But if that is what you need, I shall give it to you, though be warned—I won’t mean a word of it, and I won’t have you crying ‘foul’ afterward.”
He was honest, at least. Of the four similar proposals she’d garnered, not one of them had been honest enough to tell the truth. “N-nevertheless, Mr. Hunter. I am not for sale.”
“If not money or marriage, name your terms.”
Searching for words, she shrugged. “When…when I know them, sir, I shall tell you.”
“Please do. When I want something, I am not a very patient man.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
He grinned, bowed and took his leave. When he was halfway across the ballroom, he turned to look at her again. She could feel his gaze sweep her from head to toe. His admiration was clear, but the open sexuality of his gaze unnerved her.
She glanced at her domino on the console table. How would she ever hold him at bay? She had better find her quarry soon.
Lady Lace. Ah, yes. This was going to be interesting. How long had it been since a woman had denied him? Well, that sort of woman, at any rate.
Andrew took his hat and walking stick from the footman at the door and stepped into the darkened street. The distance to Whitcombe Cemetery was scarcely twenty minutes, and he waved a coach away, deciding the exercise would expend a measure of his restless energy.
And banish the memory of the most remarkable kiss he’d ever indulged.
To be kissed in so sudden and forward a manner, to be consumed by that kiss to the point of instant and painful arousal, was unprecedented for him.
Lady Lace was definitely a witch. That kiss—how had she known the very thing that would set him back on his heels and make him lose his self-possession? And how had she managed to accomplish the very thing no woman ever had—meet him on his own terms, without demurring or pretense?
How had he thought her drab at first sight? Lace definitely improved with proximity. At close hand, she was perfectly proportioned. Her breasts were soft and ample enough to burn their impression against his chest. And her hair was not dull at all, but alive with multicolored strands of chocolate, chestnut, caramel and copper. And her eyes—the most soulful greenish hazel he’d ever seen. But her mouth—dear Lord—that mouth! It was all his favorites wrapped into one. The hint of a saucy lilt in her voice and the soft, lush lips accented by a small mole above one corner beckoned him. Straight, even teeth and a sweet, almost shy, tongue replete with intoxicating brew completed the spell.
Ah, but what could he do about her? Clearly, she had her own plan. Just as clearly, he was not a part of it. But that knowledge did not satisfy his lust for her or engender any soft romantic notions in him. He wanted her, and he fully intended to have her.
He felt his blood rising again and quickened his pace. He hadn’t intended to go to the witches’ Sabbath tonight, but now he felt the need to slake an indefinable thirst for excitement and fulfillment. Aye, he’d go to meet Henley and the others and they’d find sin of some sort.
Isabella closed the door of the rented town house on James Street and braced herself. As awful as the night had been, coming home to the guilt and pain was worse. She dropped her cloak where she stood, kicked her slippers off and tiptoed into the salon. A soft sigh from the sofa told her that Eugenia had waited up for her.
Her sister sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Bella?”
“Gina, I told you not to wait up. Go along to bed, dear. Mama will need you in the morning.” She went to the sideboard and poured herself a small glass of port to help her sleep.
“She’s had a bad night, Bella. She’ll sleep late. But she may want to see you tomorrow.”
Isabella gave her sister a sad smile. How dear of Gina to hold out that hope. In truth, their mother was the sort who needed to fix the blame for any disaster on anyone but herself. This time it was Bella’s turn to be the scapegoat.
And the awful truth was that Bella blamed herself, too. If only she’d paid more attention to Cora’s absences. A short walk in the park, indeed! Her sister had been meeting a murderer. If only she’d gone with Cora. If only she’d raised an alarm sooner when Cora had been late coming home.
“Mr. Franklin came by at suppertime,” Gina said. “He wants to know if we intend to honor the lease through September. I did not know what to tell him.”
A lump formed in Isabella’s throat and she sighed. “If I am gone next time he comes, tell him yes. We cannot leave London until Mama is well enough to travel, but that may not be for a while. Nevertheless, we shall pay, even if we leave the place vacant. Mama signed the contract, and we shall honor it.’ Tisn’t as if we are destitute.”
Gina nodded. “The sooner we leave, the better, say I. Not only has London killed Cora, but it is stealing you away, too.”
“Hush, sweet,” Bella soothed. “London is not stealing me away. I am simply seeking Cora’s murderer. He shan’t get away with it. I promised.”
“But, Bella, you have changed. You…you are drinking too much strong spirits, you are going out without a chaperone and staying out late. You will be ruined.”
She gave a choked laugh. Will be? If Eugenia found out about the kisses… “Cora is dead. Dead. The scandal will ruin us all—you, Lilly and me. I only hope we can leave London before the news filters to the ton, which it is sure to do when Lord and Lady Vandecamp arrive in London. They will withdraw their sponsorship in quick order. When Mama is well enough, we will return to Belfast, likely never to return.” She sighed. “So, do you really think I care what a bunch of London popinjays think of me? We are already ruined.”
“That isn’t fair. It wasn’t our fault. And, no matter what society will think, it was not Cora’s fault, either.”
“That will not matter.’ Tis always the girl who is blamed. What fast behavior! Why was she unescorted? What was shedoing there? Somehow it will be twisted to be Cora’s fault. Now go on to bed, dear. I am home safe now, and I shall come up presently. I just want to look in on Mama and Lilly.”
Gina stood and gathered her robe around her. “Do not fall asleep on the sofa again. Cook will find you when she comes down to prepare breakfast. She’ll tell Nancy, and Nancy will tell Mama.”
Bella nodded absently. Nothing was secret from the servants. When Gina was gone, she returned to the bottle on the sideboard. A sip? Just a tiny dram? Enough to let her sleep without dreaming? Or was Nancy reporting her drinking habits, too? Measuring the level of liquid in the bottles?
What was wrong with her? She’d never even tasted anything stronger than watered wine before Cora died, and now she was using it liberally and undiluted. To forget the pain. To sleep without dreams. To wash away her self-loathing and the taste of too many kisses, too many strange men.
She went back to the sofa, leaving the decanter untouched. She just needed a moment to close her eyes and make plans for tomorrow, and to rest.
First, she’d rise early, with her sisters. With Mama unable to cope with even the slightest unpleasantness, Lilly and Gina needed guidance. She could not have them wandering off alone as Cora had done.
Cora. Tragic, beautiful Cora.
How she wished she could remember Cora beautiful now—with her honey-blond hair and blue eyes so like Lilly’s, and so unlike Gina and Bella in coloring and temperament. But she could only remember Cora as she’d last seen her in Middlesex Hospital—a grotesque parody of what she had been. And, dear Lord, how could she ever forget Cora’s sightless eyes entreating her beyond death? Be brave. Avenge me, Bella.
In the weeks following Cora’s death, she’d made daily visits to the Home Office and begged for information. But in the end, there had been no leads, and the case had been put aside. Lord Wycliffe had been too busy, she’d been told, and was working on “other things.” They’d sworn they had done all they could, but admitted that Cora’s killer might never be brought to justice.
But Bella couldn’t accept that. His kiss, Cora had said. Always…always wets his lips after his kiss. As if tasting…andhe tastes of…something bitter. So, for the last week, she’d gone out in society, found men who matched Cora’s description and urged a kiss—the only avenue the authorities had not pursued. The only one left to her.
That man tonight—Mr. Hunter—had turned away after their kiss. Had that quirk simply been a reaction to her catching him by surprise? But she couldn’t recall if he tasted bitter.
The mere thought propelled her to her feet and sent her back to the sideboard. No small dram would do, but a full half-glass. She drank it standing there, and did not move until the little trails of fire tingled all the way to her toes.
Which dream did she most dread? Those of Cora, or a new one of that one impossible kiss?
Chapter Two
Garish sunbeams pierced the heavy draperies around Andrew’s bed. It must be afternoon. He winced, his head throbbing in concert with his heartbeat. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth and he could not rid himself of the foul taste. What had he partaken of last night? Sulfur?
Ah, yes. The witches’ Sabbath, sans witches. A chalice containing wine laced with brimstone had been passed from hand to hand as the robed and hooded group stood around the altar where Lady Elwood had lain naked in voluntary submission. She’d giggled when Throckmorton poured wine in her navel and proceeded to lap it away. Rather than finding the scene arousing, Andrew had only wondered where Lord Elwood was.
He sat up and rubbed the grit from his eyes, trying to remember the rest of last night. Henley, Throckmorton and Booth had abandoned themselves to the sexual excess of the orgy following the Sabbath, and Andrew had left them in favor of prowling the taverns, looking for carousing friends. He hadn’t wanted to go home after all. His encounter with Lady Lace had left him restless and unsettled. He was not ready for sleep, and neither his valet nor his cook were particularly good company in the wee hours.
He snapped the bed curtains back and stumbled to his washstand. The cold water he splashed on his face brought him fully awake. This business of being a libertine was rather more taxing than he’d first imagined, but he’d thrown himself into it with enthusiasm.
As the second son of an earl, he was not heir to the title, had few familial responsibilities and had enough wealth to render him independent. After Oxford, when he’d still been trying to find his way, he’d bought a commission in the Light Dragoons, been sent to Spain to rout Boney, been decorated for bravery and then been spit out again on the shores of Britain.
By the time he’d returned to England, there was no corner of his soul left untouched, unsullied. He’d tried to drown his memories at first, then realized they’d always be a part of him. He should have changed, should have recognized his debauchery and stopped. Ah, but it was years and years too late to turn back now. There was no redemption for Andrew Hunter, Lord Libertine.
He dried his face, threw his towel down and dragged his fingers through his hair. He’d go to a barber today and then to his fencing master for exercise. And tonight, one more time, he’d go through the motions of polite society. At least the arrival of Lady Lace on the scene had broken the monotony. Yes, she’d be a fine, if temporary, distraction.
Bella slipped into the midst of a large group of revelers entering Marlborough House for a ball, wrapping her paisley shawl more closely around her. She edged closer as the men presented engraved invitations, knowing it would be assumed that she was included in the group, then followed them into the hallowed halls.
As unobtrusively as possible, she separated herself from the group and wandered away. She returned a hesitant wave from Mr. McPherson. He would not come talk to her tonight. He was in the midst of a group of women, and she knew full well that her behavior had put her beyond the pale of polite introductions.
She took her bearings, feeling a bit like a country mouse surrounded by such splendor. Marlborough House literally glittered with crystal and candlelight. The richness of the furnishings and decor took her breath away. Before she could turn around, she had a glass of champagne in her hand and was caught in a stream of guests entering the ballroom.
All the gaily colored gowns she and her sisters had ordered would remain in their boxes, and Bella, the most reserved of the sisters, was wending her way through the ton as a wanton. Not precisely the figure the O’Rourke girls had hoped to cut.
She put her melancholy aside and tried to look serene and approachable. If she looked helpless enough, some gentleman was bound to take pity on her. And once that was done, she could manage a few introductions.
She gazed quickly over the sea of people. So many dark-haired men! Before she could take another step forward, she was struck by the sudden, crushing realization that she’d never kiss them all. She had to find a better way to narrow the possibilities.
Bile rose in her throat and she whirled back toward the foyer, her instinct to flee nearly overwhelming her. She needed a moment alone to control her racing heart. She could not think what was behind these sudden bouts of panic, but she could not allow them to control her.
Finding her way blocked by the flow of arriving guests, she turned down a corridor, praying there would be a ladies’ retiring room or private sitting room where she could collect herself.
* * *
Arriving at Marlborough House, Andrew caught a glimpse of his quarry. Fortune had favored him quickly. Lady Lace. Again, she had dressed in black. A black silk sheath with a black lace overdress and a décolletage that dipped scandalously low. Stunning. He glanced toward the reception line and back down the corridor where she’d disappeared. He’d pay his respects to his host later. But first…
He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he was brought around by a hand on his shoulder. Lord Wycliffe, his former commanding officer and a close friend of his older brother, gave him a canny smile.
“You have the look of a man on the prowl, Hunter. Is some luckless lass in for a run?”
Andrew grinned. “How did I give myself away?”
“The eagerness in your step,” Wycliffe told him. “I hoped I would see you here tonight, though it would have been easy to miss you in the crush. I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you. No time like the present, eh?”
“Actually—”
Wycliffe shook his head and turned Andrew toward the library, where men were clustered in low conversation. “She will not get away from you, Hunter.” He went to a tea table where bottles of liquor were waiting, poured them both a small draught and handed one glass to Andrew.
He took the glass and narrowed his eyes. What had he done to put Wycliffe in a mood? “Make it quick, sir. I wouldn’t want to give her too much of a lead.”
Lord Wycliffe laughed. He edged toward the far side of the room, nearer the fireplace and away from the possibility of being overheard. “Now then, when your brother retired from the Home Office, it left a bit of a hole. And I thought—”
“I’m not Home Office material, Wycliffe. I might have helped Lockwood out once or twice, but if you think I can fill the hole he left, you are mistaken.”
“Come, now. Do you forget that I know just how well you work and how discreet you can be? Your service in Spain proved that. It is, in fact, because I know you so well that your name came to mind. After all, who better to catch a scoundrel than another scoundrel?”
Andrew grinned in spite of the veiled insult. “Scoundrel, eh? How are you thinking I can help?”
“We have a case that is rather troubling. We are stymied at the moment and thought you might have an insight.”
“You mean, I gather, that you wonder if I know anything.”
“It is not a stretch, Hunter, to think that you might have knowledge of a crime. Not that you committed it, mind you, but that you might have heard or seen something. This particular case is the sort of thing that is in keeping with your…er, wide range of interests.”
A polite way of saying that he had a reputation for wallowing in the dregs of London society? A fair enough assessment, he supposed. He took a long drink from his glass before answering. “Which particular interest are you speaking of, Wycliffe?”
The man glanced over his shoulder, ostensibly to make certain they were not being overheard. “The religious underworld, so to speak.”
Andrew blinked. What interest could the Home Office have in religion—underworld or otherwise? His doubt must have shown, because Wycliffe leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“Black Sabbaths, witches’ Sabbaths, covens, satanic rituals. That sort of thing.”
“They are absolute hogwash. Frivolity. Grown men looking for an excuse to behave like naughty lads.”
“Grown men who have gone too far.” Wycliffe cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps men in your stratum, Hunter. Men with a nasty streak.”
He recalled last night. Lapping wine from Lady Elwood’s navel could be considered by some to be naughty, even nasty, but why would the Home Office care about that? “Gone how far?”
“You may as well be warned, Drew. Rape. Ritual sacrifice. That sort of thing.”
Andrew grimaced. Nasty, indeed.
Wycliffe reached into his jacket and brought forth a small scrap of paper. He unfolded it and passed it to Andrew. “Have you ever seen this before, Hunter?”
Crudely drawn, the figure appeared to be an inverted triangle. On the paper below that was sketched a crude dragon—a wyvern, if he recalled his mythology correctly. “You associate these patterns with dark religions?” he asked.
“We haven’t a single notion what they suggest. This is new to us, and completely unprecedented.”
“Where did you find it? And why is the Home Office involved?”
“The triangle was carved into a young woman’s forehead some weeks ago. The flesh had been removed and we did not find it. The dragon had been painted in blood on her lower belly. Her blood. She’d been raped, beaten and left for dead.”
“Human sacrifice, then?” A freezing cold invaded him clear to the bone. Wycliffe was right. This had gone too far. He’d seen savagery like this in the war, but never in London. Civilized London.
“There were other, ah, indications that she’d been used as a ritual sacrifice. We found puncture wounds on her wrists, as if her blood had been drained into some sort of vessel. Yet the girl survived for several hours afterward and expired of her wounds at hospital.”
“Who was the girl? Is there anything in her background that would give you a lead?”
Wycliffe shook his head. “Fresh into town for the season and had never been here before. Good family. And the evidence would indicate that she’d been virgin before the ritual. According to her family, she had no acquaintances.”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Keep your eyes and ears open. Say nothing, not even to your friends. We cannot have the public in a panic over ritualistic murders. You see, this was not the first body we’ve found with such markings.”
Andrew refrained from asking just how many bodies they’d found. All that mattered now was that, if the killer was not stopped, there would be more. “What do you want me to do?”
“Keep your nose to the ground, Hunter. Eventually you will catch wind of the stench.” Wycliffe paused and met Andrew’s gaze. “Do not take it upon yourself to handle this on your own. If you hear anything, see anything, bring it to me.”
He nodded, thinking of a few of his acquaintances who were capable of such monstrous acts. There were some who, quite literally, knew no boundaries. But this went beyond anything Andrew had ever done, and he could not say that about much.
Wycliffe stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew you would not turn me down, Hunter. And I know I can trust your discretion.”
The outcome had never been in doubt. He would always agree to anything Wycliffe asked of him. His guilt over the events in Spain would see to that. He nodded and put his glass down.
At least this would give him another interest this season. Another break from the tedium. Meantime, Lace was waiting.
* * *
Bella found herself in a small sitting room and spun to close the door behind her. Alas, Mr. McPherson had followed her. He must have thought she was summoning him by their shared glance in the ballroom. She would correct that notion at once.
She put one hand up, palm outward. “Heavens, Mr. McPherson! You should not be here.”
He advanced on her, despite her words. “I have not thought of anything but you since last night. You have enchanted me, and—”
“You have misunderstood me, sir.”
“Canny little minx! I want more, and I’m willing to pay for it. Willing, in fact, to set you up in your own place. Name it, and ’tis yours.”
He stepped closer. She stepped back, her hand still in front of her. “I have heard it said, sir, that one will know their true love by his kiss. I am simply trying to find…the right man. I regret, Mr. McPherson, you are not the right man.”
“Come now. Give me another chance. Was I not commanding enough?”
“Sir, that is not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“That I did not feel that you were, ah, the man I am looking for.”
“Balderdash! That’s a bunch of feminine nonsense!” McPherson closed the distance between them and jerked her against his chest.
“Stop!” she squeaked as one of her hands became caught between them.
On the contrary, Mr. McPherson crushed his mouth against hers in a bruising kiss. He used one arm to hold her so close against him that she could not gain leverage for her trapped hand to wedge him away. His other hand cupped the back of her head, preventing her from turning away from his mouth.
She tried to protest, but all that came out was a muffled, “Mmm-ph…”
She wasn’t aware of the door opening until she heard the clearing of a throat. She staggered backward and caught her hip on the corner of a chair when Mr. McPherson released her.
“I say, Hunter, rather bad timing of you.”
With a sinking feeling, she turned toward the door. Yes, her rescuer was the man from last night. The one who’d stolen her wits and whose kiss had been open to doubt. He was studying them both, a glass of something amber in his hand, his dark eyes judging and assessing.
“McPherson,” he acknowledged. “Should I excuse myself?”
Heavens! She could not decide if it would be safer to remain with Mr. McPherson or make her escape with Mr. Hunter. She glanced away and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She thought she tasted blood from the way Mr. McPherson’s teeth had mashed against her closed lips.
“Yes, damn it,” Mr. McPherson said. “And close the door on your way out.”
She turned back and saw that Mr. Hunter had his hand on the doorknob. He met her gaze and stopped. With a lazy smile, he dropped his hand to his side and shook his head. “Actually, McPherson, I like the quiet here. Why don’t we all sit down and have a chat?”
Mr. McPherson’s face suffused with color. He seized her wrist and pulled her toward the door.
“Leave the lady here, McPherson.”
She held her breath while the two men faced each other down. In the end, Mr. McPherson made the decision she would have. He left, slamming the door behind him.
“You are welcome,” Mr. Hunter said, the hint of a smile in his voice.
Was he pleased to see her discomfort? She chafed her wrist and refused to look at him. “Thank you,” she grumbled. “I do not know what got into him.”
“Truly?” His laugh was a low, warm rumble. “I have a few ideas, madam. Allow me to indulge them. Perhaps he did not appreciate the promise you made with your lips that you later recanted. Or perhaps you have so enchanted him that he could not help himself. Or—and this is just conjecture, you understand—perhaps he did not realize you were just making sport of him.”
“I did not intend…that is, I did not know he would follow me tonight. I did not mean to encourage him in the least.”
“For many men, once is enough.”
She rubbed her hip to still her trembling hands. “Is that why you are here, sir? To renew your offer? Will you, too, devil my every step?”
His glance dropped to her hands, then moved back up to her eyes. A flicker of emotion passed over his features, but she could not tell what he was thinking.
He came forward and pressed his glass into her hand. “Drink,” he said. “It will calm your nerves.”
He stepped away from her, as if he were uncomfortable being close. “As for me, I may devil your footsteps, but set your mind at ease—I will never force myself upon you. I have already said, have I not, that I will wait for your answer?”
She frowned. What an odd blend of concern and anger he possessed, that he could both assist and insult her in the same moment. And she did not care for the touch of antagonism in his voice. “You confuse me, Mr. Hunter. One moment you are pursuing me most ardently, and the next you sound as if you do not even like me. You have taken great care to warn me against you. Is this sport? Are you trying to make your conquest of me more difficult, so the winning will be sweeter?” She lifted his glass, took a swallow and winced as the whiskey stung a little cut on the inside of her lip.
“I think you drink that whiskey a wee bit too eagerly for a lady. Do you have a drinking problem, madam?”
“Not yet, Mr. Hunter, but I am working on it.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I daresay you will get there. You appear to be deucedly determined. But I should warn you that a drunken woman loses her attraction.”
She looked up and studied the handsome face. No. Whatever concern he might have had for her was gone. Now there was just a challenge. “What would I have to do to make you go away, sir?”
“Come clean. Tell me what you are about. Or say, ‘Yes, Mr. Hunter, I will be delighted to take you to my bed.’”
Bella was discomfited to learn that she could still blush—if the heat in her cheeks was any indication. She covered it with an extra measure of defiance. “Then would you go away? Truly?”
But he only shrugged—not that she would have told him the truth anyway. “Money, then?” she asked. “If I paid you, would you go away?”
He looked surprised, then a little insulted. “This is a first for me. How droll. No one has ever attempted to buy me off before.”
“Really? Your company is so tedious that I would have thought you could make a rather nice living from it.”
He took his glass from her and raised it as he gave her a crooked grin. “It would seem you’ve taken my measure, madam.”
Heavens! Was there no discouraging the man? She sighed and started to push past him on her way to the door. He caught her arm when she was beside him and leaned sideways to whisper in her ear. “Have a care, Lace. I may not always be around to save you, and the way you are heading, you are going to need saving.”
Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes and she blinked them back quickly. “What business is it of yours what I do? Do you devil everyone you dislike? Everyone who has ever done something of which you do not approve?”
He gave her that slow smile again. “Did I say that I dislike you, Lady Lace? I do not recall that. On the contrary, it is my devotion to you that will keep me at your heels.”
Chapter Three
Drew’s hand tightened around his glass as he watched Lady Lace wind through the crowds when she returned to the ballroom. He wished he could call her graceless or gauche, but she held her own with a quiet dignity that belied her apparent purpose—to kiss every eligible male in society. He eased his grip on the glass before he could break the stem, but his stomach began to tighten.
How many times had he pitied men who’d fallen victim to Cupid’s arrow? Who followed their ladylove’s every move and sigh? God save him that indignity. Lace was a slow burn in his blood, and as soon as he satisfied his need, he would be himself again. And now, to make matters worse, he’d have to find McPherson and make amends. He’d be damned if he’d lose a friend over a skirt.
“My! Such a dark look, Hunter.”
He turned and found Viscount Bryon Daschel and Percy Throckmorton standing behind him. “Then my look matches my thoughts.”
Daschel, whose good looks accounted for his nickname, “Dash,” followed the line of his gaze and nodded. “Ah, yes. Lady Lace. Quite the comer, that one.”
“You do not seriously believe she will be a force in society?”
“Male society, at least.” Daschel grinned. Throckmorton sniggered and nudged him.
For some unaccountable reason, Drew wanted to put his fist down Daschel’s throat. Lace was his new obsession, and his interest had become proprietary. He took a deep breath and assumed a look of unconcern. “She is trouble, Dash. You’d do well to stay away from her.”
“No doubt.” Daschel gave him a rakish grin. “But when has that ever stopped me? And why do I have the feeling that you intend to disregard your own advice?”
“You know me, Dash. As a…connoisseur of beautiful women, I am immune to her charms. My interest in the woman is…shall we say, more cerebral.”
Daschel laughed. “And here I was thinking it was located in another region entirely.”
Again Throckmorton sniggered. “I say, Hunter, we all ought to have a go at her. Only fair, wouldn’t you think?”
“No. I wouldn’t.” In fact, if Throckmorton wanted to have a go at Lace, he’d have to “go” through Drew.
“Come, now. Let’s not quarrel,” Daschel soothed. “Let Hunter indulge his fascination.’ Tisn’t as if the chit is in danger of losing her reputation, is it? That, I gather, is too far gone for retrieval, though I haven’t spoken to anyone who has made her a conquest yet. Give Hunter a chance to break her in for the rest of us, eh? I warrant he’ll do as good a job of it as he always does.”
Break her in? Lace might be unfettered, but he was beginning to suspect she was not quite a tart. There’d be no profit in debating the fine points with Daschel and Throckmorton, however. He decided a change of subject was the safest course of action. “Did you come to discuss the woman in question, or did you have other business with me?”
“Thought you might like to come along on a jaunt tonight,” Daschel said.
Jaunt. That was the word Daschel always used for an excursion into the opium dens near the wharves. Last year, when Drew had been searching for a solution to his ennui, and for a way to feel anything at all, he’d spent a considerable amount of time and money as a lotus eater. The only thing he’d gained was the knowledge that he did not like being in a helpless state and at the mercy of others.
“Thank you, but no, Dash. Not for me.”
“Last year—”
“Was last year. This year I prefer a different poison.”
“Do tell.”
Drew lifted his glass with a self-mocking smile. “Mundane, perhaps, but steadier. Easier to control.”
Daschel nodded. “As you will. But you must come with us tomorrow. Throckmorton has arranged a private tour of Bedlam. Should be quite amusing.”
“Amusing?” Drew doubted observing the unfortunate inmates of an asylum could provide entertainment. He shrugged. “Perhaps. Where and when?”
“Outside the entrance at midnight. Bring your ready. There’s bound to be wagering.”
“If I’m not there, do not wait for me.”
Daschel gave him a puzzled smile. “Sooner or later, Hunter, I shall think of something to pique your interest.”
“I hope you will, Dash,” he said honestly. “It is a sorry state of affairs when there is nothing remaining to engage my notice.”
Gazing at Lace, Daschel murmured, “I would not call her ‘nothing,’ Hunter. Finish with her quickly, will you? I fancy I’m next.”
Drew gave his friend a rueful smile. He doubted there’d be anything quick about Lace and, unless he was wrong, she’d be worth the wait.
He left Daschel and Throckmorton and moved to the perimeter of the room, keeping Lace in view. She wandered slowly through the crowds, and he saw her decline an invitation to dance with Lord Entwhistle, then move on. After a short conversation, she took the arm of a man Drew did not know and strolled toward an alcove. He knew what would happen there and fought the urge to interrupt them. And failed.
As it happened, he did not have time to interrupt. As soon as he edged closer, Lace pushed past the column and drapery that shielded the alcove from view. She passed him without realizing he was there, her head down and a dark look of consternation furrowing her brow.
Again he followed her through the crowds, to the foyer and down the steps to the street. He was surprised to see that no carriage or coach awaited her and that she simply drew her shawl up around her shoulders and turned toward the Mall.
The Mall? The bridle path after dark? Alone? That was foolhardy at best. At this time of night she could run afoul of brigands of all sorts—cutpurses, cutthroats, debauchers…. Satanists?
She’d just made a deucedly bad decision. He hurried after her, keeping at a distance. She had made it clear that she did not desire his company tonight but, to be perfectly honest, he was curious to see where she would go. Odd that he hadn’t wondered before where she lived, or how. This might well be an opportunity to discover her background. Heaven—or maybe hell—knew Drew was never one to pass up an opportunity.
Bella wrestled with her self-contempt as she turned into the Mall and hurried toward Wards Row. The evening had turned chilly and mist swirled around the hem of her gown, just beginning to rise. Fog would not be far behind.
Her evening had been a complete waste. Even Mr. McPherson’s behavior had been boorish, though she had to accept part of the blame for that. Had she never kissed him to begin with… And then she’d gone on to kiss yet another man. To no avail. All for naught.
No, that was not entirely true. There had been Mr. Andrew Hunter to teach her what a kiss should be. And to remind her of what she was becoming. She pushed that unhappy thought aside and took note of her surroundings.
Lamplight made her feel exposed in the middle of the inky night. Tall trees lined the bridle path and stirred in the light breeze. Shadows shifted through the leaves. A hint of malice pervaded the air tonight. A hint of something evil. She glanced over her shoulder, certain that she’d heard a footfall.
No. Only the breath of the wind.
The sudden image of Cora creeping out to meet her beau at night rose before her. Had she come here and sat on one of the benches in the light, waiting for him? Had he wooed her until she had willingly gone with him? Was it here that he had swept her away to her death?
Fear and fatigue, grief and guilt—all filled Bella to the bursting point. How had she been so blind to what her sister had been doing? Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she fumbled to fish a handkerchief from her reticule. As she dabbed at her eyes, a faint whisper carried on the breeze and raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. Avenge me, Bella.
No.’ Twas just her imagination. She shivered, realizing for the first time that she’d be safer in the darkness than on the lighted path where she made an easy target. The shadows offered safety, anonymity. They would not frighten her if she became a part of them.
She veered off the bridle path and found sanctuary behind a row of oak trees. All she need do was follow the course of the path in the dimness until she could cut across St. James Park and thence home.
Clever girl! Andrew watched as Lace slipped seamlessly into the darkness. She had good instincts. It had not taken her long to realize the danger she had put herself in. With the slightest hiss of her hem against the grass, she was gone. If he tried to find her and follow her now, he’d give himself away, and he wasn’t ready to do that just yet. No, he couldn’t let her think she had the upper hand.
She must not have realized that in her haste, she had dropped her handkerchief. He went forward, all reason for stealth gone now, and bent to retrieve the item. The dainty square was of fine Irish linen with a tatted lace edging of the same sort that had been on her gown tonight and the domino the night before.
The little piece of linen was damp. From the dew, or from tears? Why the thought of her tears upset him, he couldn’t say. Women cried. It was a natural state of affairs. Nevertheless, he lifted the article to his face and inhaled the faint floral scent. Not quite the same as she’d worn tonight, but similar.
A corner thickened with embroidery threads drew his attention. The letters C O in an elaborate script were formed from pale-blue silk thread. CO? So, was Lace’s real name something as mundane at Caroline? Charlotte? Catherine?
Whatever her name was, she would be his. Once, for a week or a month, or until the novelty wore off—the length of time did not matter. The simple fact was that he would know her in the biblical sense. And she would know him. She might think she was in control of the situation. She might even think she had a choice. But she had no idea who she was dealing with.
Bella closed the door with a soft click and turned the lock. She leaned her forehead against the panel and sighed, vowing she’d take enough money to hire a carriage next time. She hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of being watched, and it had followed her all the way home.
She dropped her reticule and shawl on the foyer table before tiptoeing to the sitting room sideboard and pouring herself just the smallest amount of brandy.
“I thought that was you,” Gina said behind her.
She gasped in surprise and turned to see her sister rising from a chair in the corner of the room. “Must you wait up every night?” she sighed.
“What do you expect, Bella? I’ve already lost one sister, and my mother might as well be gone. You refuse to tell me what you are doing, where you are going or when you’ll return. You refuse my help. And then you wonder that I am waiting up? Please, Bella. Give me credit for common sense. Should something happen to you, I will be responsible for Mama and Lilly. I have a right to know what you are doing.”
Poor Gina. She was right. At least Mama and Lilly had the luxury of not knowing that she was sneaking out at night. She drank her brandy and sat on the brocade settee, patting the seat next to her. “You have always been sensible, Gina. I…I just thought it would be easier for you if you did not know the particulars.”
“Nothing about this has been easy.” She sniffed and swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I want to help. I want to be doing something. But, day after day, we just sit here with the curtains drawn, hushing our conversations so Mama can rest. Even Lilly is feeling the strain. We sigh and cry, and no one actually does anything. Except for you. Let me help, Bella. Please.”
She sighed. Should she tell her sister what she was doing and risk her scorn? Or lie to her and do even more damage to her conscience? If she could find some way for Gina to help—some way that would not put her at risk….
“Tell me, Bella. What is it you do every night when you go out? You say you are looking for Cora’s murderer, and yet you do not say how. Do you know him?”
“No,” she confessed. “I only know that he has dark hair and eyes.”
Gina gave her a disbelieving laugh. “Dark? Oh, that must make the search easy, indeed. I am certain you will find him anyday now.”
“There’s more,” Bella admitted, staring down at the floor, unwilling to meet Gina’s eyes. “Cora said he was taller than Papa, and that he…he licked his lips after he kissed her as if she were some tasty treat. And that he was a gentleman. A member of the ton. You know our Cora would never have dallied with someone beneath her.”
“Cora kissed him?” Gina’s green eyes widened, but she collected herself quickly. “A dark man above six feet tall? Well, that is a bit more to work with. But how would you ever discover if a man licks his lips…Bella! You are not kissing every dark man you meet?”
She took a deep breath and turned away. “What other choice do I have?”
“Oh! Then this is why you are so insistent that you haven’t a future in the ton? That your reputation is sullied? You poor thing! No wonder you are drinking.” Her sister jumped to her feet and began pacing. “We must think of another way. Even narrowing the possibilities to tall dark men, there must be more. Think, Bella. What else did Cora say?”
She shook her head. “That he tasted bitter, then nothing more before…”
Gina said, “I have wrestled the thought this way and that for the past week. Cora was beaten. Mutilated. What sort of man kills a woman he has vowed he loved? Further, what sort of man betrays that trust in such a foul, cruel manner? What sort of monster?”
“A man who is tall, dark, charming and cunning. One who cajoled and cozened our sister into trusting him. A man who is a part of society and yet keeps his true nature secret. A rake and a rogue of the very worst kind.”
“Barely human,” Gina agreed.
Bella nodded and went back to the sideboard. “You have not told Mama and Lilly the details of Cora’s murder, have you?”
Gina joined her and poured a very small dram of brandy for herself. “Never. That would surely be the end of Mama’s sanity.”
They raised their glasses in unison and drank. Gina grimaced and her eyes watered, but she sighed deeply when the liquor settled. “There is one thing you have not considered in your search, Bella. The killer is all those things Cora said but, most important, though he hides his true character, it must reveal itself on occasion. His closest friends will be like-minded. Rakes, rogues and villains.”
How had she overlooked that detail? She’d known enough to look in the ton, but she hadn’t narrowed her search to the very dregs of it. “So, to find him, I should kiss only rakes, rogues and scoundrels?” she mused. “Yes. They become apparent fairly quickly, and they tend to flock together. So in order to find him, I shall have to go where rogues and scoundrels go. G-gambling dens and other unsavory places.”
“No! That is too dangerous. You mustn’t imperil yourself.” Gina’s widened eyes filled with tears.
Bella sighed. “In the past week, I have forfeited something of my soul. But I have my promise to Cora to keep. If I do anything less, I will not be able to sleep at night. No, I intend to do whatever I must and I would advise you to keep out of my way.”
Gina opened her mouth as if she would argue, then closed it again and shook her head.
“Try to understand,” Bella pleaded. “The only other choice I have is to let our sister’s murderer go free.”
“Oh, I understand,” Gina said, determined lines settling around her narrowed eyes. “I feel the need for justice, too, and I know the getting of it can be dangerous. I am only trying to think how to help you.”
“I will not take you with me.”
“I did not expect that you would. But I can help ensure that Mama and Lilly will not find out. I can keep them occupied.”
“How? We are in mourning and will be for another six weeks. Social events are forbidden. They cannot call on neighbors or attend teas. We are trapped in this house until Mama is better and we can go home.”
“Lilly is becoming restless. She needs outings. I think short walks and a trip to Hatchard’s bookstore for reading materials might be in order. She has been asking for another of Miss Austen’s books. And a little shopping for mourning apparel would be appropriate. Yes, and a healthy glass of undiluted wine with supper will keep her soundly asleep at night. We needn’t worry much about Mama, yet. She is barely coherent from the laudanum she is taking in the evening. She is bound to make an effort soon, and when she does, I shall be ready.”
Amazed, Bella watched as Gina began pacing, tapping one finger against her right cheek in an attitude of thoughtfulness. “And we shall have to concoct some story about what keeps you out evenings, should they discover you gone. Companion to a dowager? Reading to a blind neighbor? Caring for an ill friend?”
“Gina, you are truly diabolical.”
“I know I cannot stop you, but I do not mean to lose another sister, Bella. You are about to enter a dragon’s den. And where you will be going, you will need all the help you can muster.”
A little shiver shot through her at the fierce expression on her sister’s face. Just how far would Gina go to help her?
Chapter Four
The soft click of his brother’s library door closing behind him was somehow comforting to Andrew. Being in the house he’d grown up in made him feel a part of the family again.
His brother looked up from his desk, gave him a slight smile and gestured to an overstuffed chair by a tea table.
“Pour a cup of tea, Drew. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Tea? He glanced at the clock in one corner of the room, the swing of the heavy brass pendulum measuring the seconds. Two o’clock. He glanced at the decanters on the sideboard, then sighed, poured himself a stout cup of tea, laced it with sugar and sat to wait quietly.
Lockwood scribbled a few lines, then pushed the paper aside, stood and stretched. “Good to see you, Drew,” he said as he poured his own tea and sat across from him. “I do not run into you as much anymore.”
“You’d have to leave your house to do that, Lockwood. I gather this means you are still wallowing in wedded bliss?”
Lockwood grinned. “Have you come to mock me? Or is there another reason?”
“Wanted to know if you set Wycliffe on my heels.”
“Ah, Wycliffe.” His brother lifted his teacup and regarded him with a speculative gleam in his eyes. “No, actually. He came to me, Drew, after he’d already made up his mind. He said he was going to ask you for some help and a bit of expertise in the less-savory side of society activities. Is it any wonder your name came to his mind?”
The logic was inescapable. “I suppose not.”
“And Wycliffe said he needs discretion. Though your behavior is somewhat less than discreet, I have never known you to discuss your women or your affairs with others. I agreed that you were the ideal candidate. Do you have some objection to helping the Home Office?”
“I suppose not,” he said again, disliking his own churlish attitude. There was, in fact, not much he did like about himself these days.
“Then what is the problem?”
“I do not like having others depend upon me.”
“Drew…” Lockwood began, putting his teacup aside. “It has been a long time since the war. Do you not think it is time to talk about it? I am your brother. No matter what it is, you can trust me.”
Not with this. Never with this. “Who said it has anything to do with the war?”
“You were changed when you came home.”
“War is not an experience that leaves one untouched. If I recall, even you took a few years to put things in perspective.”
“But you were in—”
“I do not need you to remind me where and how I served. And I did not come here to talk about my service to the crown,” he interrupted. Blast! Why did Lockwood have to hound him on this? Did he think confession was good for the soul? Not in this case. Never in this case. Only Dash knew. And only because Dash had been there.
“So you just came to complain about doing something constructive?”
Andrew took his teacup to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of sherry. To hell with sobriety. “I came to ask if you set Wycliffe on me or if using me was his idea,” he reminded Lockwood. “And I need information. Do you recall a scandal that took place years ago? Before we were born? Something back in the 1760s?”
“The Hellfire Club?” Lockwood’s eyebrows rose. “The scandal that almost brought the government down?”
He nodded. “Were they Satanists?”
“They were reprobates of the worst sort, Drew. Scoundrels and wastrels to a man. They liked to think of themselves as dedicated Satanists, but they were more interested in sexual licentiousness and excess than any real worship. The pity of it was that they were men of influence, not ignorant superstitious bumpkins.”
“And what do you know of witchcraft, Lockwood?”
“I know it’s balderdash. Casting spells. Laying curses. Child’s play.”
“Some take it seriously.”
“What have you gotten into, Drew?”
He took a bracing swallow of his sherry. “Don’t know. Just that something nasty is going on right under our noses. Wycliffe suspects a cult of some sort and I am inclined to agree. But it’s not my business. I’m just to keep my eyes and ears open and report what I learn to Wycliffe.”
“Can you leave it at that?”
“Why not? You know how I dislike getting involved.”
“Because you’re here asking questions, not just keeping your eyes and ears open. The problem has engaged your interest, has it not?”
Andrew considered the question. Yes, he supposed it had. Between Wycliffe’s assignment and Lady Lace, this was turning out to be a banner season. He shrugged. “Aye,’ tis mildly interesting. More for the oddity than anything else. But do not get your hopes up, brother. One sparrow does not make a summer.”
“Ah, but I do hope that one day you will turn the corner and step back into your life.”
Andrew tossed off the last of his sherry and stood, giving Lockwood a cynical smile. “I wouldn’t take wagers on it.”
“Now you’ve engaged my interest, Drew. This is quite intriguing. Satanists, witchcraft and some sort of problem that involves the Home Office?’ Tis enough to draw me out of retirement.”
That was the last thing Andrew needed. If something should happen to Lockwood now that he had settled down and had an heir on the way… “Keep out of it, Lockwood. I can handle this without you.”
“I know you can, Drew. I’ve never known you to shy away from doing what had to be done.”
“Hate to dash your hopes, sir, but I am what I am.”
“What you are is a good man, Drew.”
He couldn’t contain his snort of laughter as he closed the library door behind him.
Martha O’Rourke waved her hand listlessly in front of her face. “Take them wherever you want, Bella, as long as you keep your eye on them.”
“Couldn’t you come, too, Mama? We will wait while you dress. The fresh air will do you good,” Bella said, without any real hope that her mother would agree.
“Fresh air? Is that what you think I need? As if that would change anything.” She dropped her hand into her lap and gathered her dressing gown tighter at the neck. She glanced at Gina and Lilly, hovering behind Bella. “You should be in proper mourning.’ Tis disrespectful of Cora to have you prancing all over London as if nothing were wrong.”
“No one is ‘prancing,’ Mama.” Well, except for her, and she was wearing proper mourning. She tried again. “Lilly and Gina have barely been out at all.”
“Nor should they be. Why, in my day, ladies did not leave the house for months. Months, Bella.”
But her mother had not allowed her that luxury. Someone had to deal with the details, and with Mama unable to cope with even the smallest matters, that task had fallen to Bella. “I…I will take Gina and Lilly to a dressmaker for mourning clothes, Mama. Will three each be enough? A walking gown, tea gown and dinner gown?”
“Yes. Yes, three each. And you too, Bella. You look absurd in my cut-downs.”
Bella glanced down at herself. Was it true? Had people been laughing behind her back? Mr. Hunter hadn’t seemed put off by her appearance, and she would imagine he’d be a severe critic. “Yes, Mama. We shall be home before tea.”
Martha collapsed against the chaise cushions again. “Mind you, do not let them out of your sight. Cora would be alive if only you’d paid attention.”
Bella winced. Guilt had become her bosom companion without Mama’s frequent reminders. She turned and followed her sisters from their mother’s private parlor.
“…wish it had been Bella,” she heard her mother tell Nancy, the maid. “Cora was always so sweet.”
The quick stab in the pit of her stomach was back again. That was happening more and more frequently these days. Tears stung the backs of her eyes and a thick lump formed in her throat. She would not cry again. She would not. Oh, but in a deep, secret part of her, Bella wished it had been her, too. Anything would be better than this constant purgatory she was living in.
“She didn’t mean it, Bella,” Gina whispered as they left the town house, Lilly trailing as she tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet.
“Yes, she did. She’d rather it had been any of us but Cora. She was always Mama’s favorite. That is why she thought she could do as she pleased. And now Mama can scarcely bear to be in the same room with me.”
“She has always been harsher with you, Bella. I think it is because you are like Papa—smarter than she, and stronger, even though you are her daughter. And yet, what would she do without you? We’d still be moldering behind closed doors after Papa’s death if you hadn’t coaxed her from her bed and pushed her back into society—and that was seven years ago!”
“What would she do without me? Why she’d have you, Gina. I fear you and I have all the sense in the family, and that Lilly and Cora…well, they were gifted with charm and beauty.”
Gina sniffed. “We are not lacking in charm or beauty. More than one lad has said so.”
“And I shall hope you will have a chance to prove that. For myself…I am only charming when it suits me. A monumental shortcoming, but there it is.”
“I have seen you charm birds from the trees, Bella.”
“When it suits me,” Bella reminded her. “I am brash and unpleasant the rest of the time.”
Gina laughed, and Lilly caught up to them as they entered the promenade beside the bridle path along the Mall. She said yet another silent prayer that no one would recognize her from her nightly excursions into the ton. She hated taking the risk, and yet there was no other way to keep her sisters occupied during the day.
A little farther along, they crossed the path and emerged on the street at their dressmaker’s shop. Madame Marie had made their presentation gowns, and now she’d make their mourning gowns.
* * *
Lockwood’s voice still ringing in his ears, Andrew had run into Daschel at Angelo’s, his fencing master’s salon. According to their tutor, he and Dash were equally matched, so they’d been paired for practice. They’d foregone masks and gloves in favor of unimpaired vision and grip. Neither of them were inclined to give quarter, so the bouts were arduous, with frequent lunges and parries.
Other students had gathered to watch them, and Dash was playing to the crowd. Truth to tell, Andrew knew his friend was a better swordsman, but he was apt to let overconfidence cloud his judgment. It was his one weakness, and one that Andrew occasionally exploited.
Daschel scored the last hit of the bout and Andrew gave him a flourishing bow. With a grin and a clap on his shoulder, Dash suggested a ride through the park before they went their separate ways. It only took them a minute to hang up their swords and collect their horses.
“Are you joining us at Bedlam tonight, Drew?” Daschel asked as they turned their mounts onto the path.
“Depends,” he hedged.
“On whether you find Lady Lace? Egads, man. If you really want her, we can arrange something.”
“Make a business agreement?”
“Or something more straightforward.”
“No. I am enjoying the chase. I cannot remember the last time I’ve had such a challenge.”
“How long do you intend to play your little game? And what if, in the meanwhile, she chooses another?” Dash asked. “I do not think you have long to claim her. In fact, I just might try my hand at capturing the lady.”
A sick feeling of jealousy settled in Andrew’s stomach, and he glanced sideways to see if his friend was jesting. There was a flicker of something he couldn’t identify in Dash’s dark eyes. Mirth? Or was it something more daring? “Are you suggesting a competition, Dash?”
“One hundred guineas to whoever beds her first.”
“Pistols at dawn first,” Andrew murmured.
Dash guffawed. “That bad, eh? Well, I suppose I must wait until you’ve finished with her, then.”
Choosing to ignore Dash’s comment, Andrew broached the subject that had been on his mind since his conversation with Lockwood. “D’you ever think of…Spain?”
Dash was silent so long that Andrew wondered if he’d heard the question. “I’ve done my damnedest to forget,” he said after a moment. “But, yes. I think of it from time to time. Why?”
“The subject came up with Lockwood earlier.”
“Is he still after you to tell him what our unit did? What we saw?”
“I think he knows. Lockwood knows everything, but he believes confession is good for the soul. What do you believe, Dash?”
“Confession? Surely—if you want to hang. But there’s no need for that.”
Andrew doubted his friend’s conclusion that there was no need for him to hang. The secret was like acid eating through what was left of his soul. His conscience was already calloused, and he feared he didn’t know right from wrong anymore. “I was in command. I should have—”
“You can’t spend your life second-guessing your decisions, Drew. For Christ’s sake! There were five of us under your comment. None of us knew what to do. You, at least, contained the situation and kept it from the reports.”
Andrew dismounted and started leading his horse. And remembering. Of the six of them assigned to covert duty, only he and Dash were left. Three had been killed in Spain, and Richard Farron had been killed in a duel within a week of his return to England. Richard had been hell-bound for destruction. And there were still days when Andrew wondered why he and Dash hadn’t met a similar fate.
“I will never tell. You have my word upon that, Drew.” Dash dismounted and joined Andrew.
“And I appreciate your loyalty, but I’ve increasingly begun to wonder if Lockwood isn’t right. The worst that could happen is that I’d hang. And some days that prospect does not trouble me at all.’ Tis probably what I deserve. It is only the thought of what the scandal would do to my family that has kept me silent this long. God knows the world does not have much to offer anymore.”
“Stay a little longer.” Dash grinned. “I swear, we shall find something to perk you up. I know of things I think I could…interest you in, but I’ve feared you might balk.”
Andrew laughed and shook his head. He knew Dash through and through. He was every bit as much a rake as Andrew, but he had a slightly keener edge—hence the excursion to Bedlam. Was the invitation to Bedlam a test of his stomach for such things?
Dash glanced ahead and narrowed his eyes. “Say, there! Is that not Charlie and Jamie coming our way?”
Drew would not be surprised to find his brothers on Rotten Row on a fine afternoon. He followed the direction of Dash’s pointing finger and grinned. James caught sight of them first and rode for them at breakneck speed. He and Charles reined in, stopping barely a foot from Andrew’s right boot.
“Well met!” Charlie laughed as they dismounted. “We were hoping to find you, Drew. Jamie and I are looking for trouble tonight. What do you recommend?”
Andrew grinned at Dash. “There’s to be an expedition to Bedlam tonight. Fancy a trip into madness?”
Jamie looked interested but Charlie frowned. “What? Do they lock you up with the inmates so you can play at being mad?”
“I rather think they make sport of them, Charlie,” Jamie said. “And who’s to say we’re not as mad as them?”
“Make sport of the unfortunates? But what is sporting about that?”
Dash grinned. “Observation of human nature can be enlightening, Charlie. Indeed, we can learn much from them. They have so few…inhibitions. I warrant their actions sometimes make more sense than ours.”
Charlie gave them an uncertain grin, and Andrew knew his wayward brothers would be going to Bedlam tonight. He supposed he’d have to go along to keep an eye on them, though it was not their first venture into the seamy side of London.
“Look smart, fellows! Here come those new bits o’ muslin we saw earlier,” Jamie said. “Come to town for the season, no doubt.”
“Wish we could get an introduction,” Charlie agreed as his gaze fixed on a point behind Andrew. “I’d be pleased to know any of them, but especially the one with dark hair and fine eyes. The taller one.”
Andrew turned to see three women coming along the walking path. He recognized one immediately—Lady Lace, dressed in her signature black. How interesting to see her by daylight. They were all carrying bandboxes and talking quietly.
Lace smiled at something the taller girl said and looked up. Her eyes met his, and she stiffened and quickened her pace as she recognized him. Why, she intended to give him the cut! How amusing.
He stepped out of his group, nearly in their path, and removed his hat, impossible to ignore now. “Madame,” he said with a sharp bow.
A flash of panic lit those lovely hazel eyes, a bit more greenish in the light of day. Her full lips parted and he could see she was struggling for composure as her cheeks tinted a delicate rose. What was wrong with her? He’d seen none of this girlishness before.
He thought for a moment that she would step around him and ignore him altogether, but her quick sideways glance at her companions told him that she was more worried about what they would think than about giving him the cut direct. Interesting.
“M-Mr. Hunter,” she acknowledged reluctantly.
He could feel his brothers at his back and knew they would never let the ladies escape without an introduction. “Allow me to introduce my companions.” He stood aside to indicate each of them in turn, now with their hats in their hands. “My brothers, James and Charles Hunter, and my friend, Bryon Daschel, Lord Humphries.”
The ladies inclined their heads with a slight nod at each introduction and murmured polite responses. Andrew studied them. The taller dark one, as Charles had called her, was lovely and lush looking and bore a faint family resemblance to Lace. His experienced eye detected a sensual nature to that one. The other, slightly younger by the look of her, was fair with sparkling blue eyes. She was, as yet, unformed in her nature and he thought she could go either way—soft and compliant or demanding and imperious.
“A fine day for a walk, is it not?” Dash commented, filling the awkward silence that should have been filled with Lace’s introductions of her companions.
“Yes, a lovely day,” she conceded.
“Have you been shopping?” Jamie asked with a glance at their bandboxes.
The younger one answered with a flirtatious smile. “Bella thought we could use the outing. I vow, I feel better already.”
Bella? Ah, so Lady Lace was actually “Bella.” Was that a pet name, shortened from a longer name, or her actual given name? Her dark brows drew together as she shot the younger girl a quelling look.
Jamie glanced around at their surroundings. “Fresh air is good for the constitution, I am told.”
“Do you walk here often?” Charlie asked the taller one.
She shot a sideways glance at “Bella.” “Not as often as we wish, sir. But we make do.”
Jamie fiddled with the rim of his hat. “If the exercise is too demanding for you, I’d be happy to make a loan of my cabriolet.”
Andrew frowned. That was going a little too far for a covey of women whose names they still didn’t know. And that fact was still the most disconcerting of all. He glanced pointedly at “Bella.”
“We have been gone overlong, Mr. Hunter. I am certain you will excuse us. We really must be getting back.”
“May we escort you?” Though he knew she’d refuse, just as she’d refused to introduce her companions, he asked just to annoy her. She really was lovely when she had her ire up. Ah, and there it was, the deepening flush tinting her cheeks with indignation.
“No!” She paused and took a deep breath. “I mean, thank you, but no. It is not far and we would not want to interrupt your ride.”
He’d almost forgotten the horses. “Perhaps we shall meet again,” he said. “Soon.”
Her eyes widened and she glanced at her companions once more, then pushed them ahead of her with a hand on the small of the younger girl’s back.
They watched the ladies’ departure, appreciating the sway of their skirts as they hustled away.
Dash was the first to speak, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth as he glanced skyward. “I say! Is it snowing? I feel a decided chill.”
“Gads!” Charlie glanced at their departing backs and then at Drew. “She appears not to like you much.’ Tis one thing to cut you, and another to cut the rest of us.”
Jamie chuckled. “There you have it—the very reason we should learn manners, Charlie. We never want a beautiful woman finding us unworthy of a common introduction. Or judging our companions by our own bad behavior.”
Despite their words, Andrew’s companions burst out laughing at his discomfort. Bella would pay for this. Oh, so sweetly.
Dash glanced between Bella’s stiff back and Andrew’s own bemusement. “What did you do to her, Drew?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Yet.”
Chapter Five
Bella tightened the laces at the top of her chemise and tucked the strings into her bodice. “Keeping Mama and Lilly occupied is more important than you can know, Gina. But if there is ever anything I cannot handle alone, I swear I shall enlist you. I swear it.”
Gina frowned, suspicion narrowing her eyes. “See that you do, or I shall take matters into my own hands.”
“Just what do you think I am keeping from you?” She smoothed the fabric of her gown over her hips.
“Many things, Bella. For instance, who was that man today? The one you addressed as Mr. Hunter, who attempted the introductions? Surely you have not forgotten such a handsome man?”
How much could she tell her sister without inciting her horror? “How could I introduce you without giving myself away to Lilly? And no one knows me by my name.”
“Really?” Gina tilted her head to one side. “What do they call you, then?”
“Lady Lace.” She tried not to notice Gina’s giggling as she stuffed a handkerchief in her reticule. “And I am not altogether certain Mr. Hunter is the sort of man one ought to introduce to one’s sisters.”
“I gathered as much,” Gina said. “But I think I would not care. He is far too handsome. And the others, as well.”
The slightly stubborn jut to Gina’s chin warned her that her sister would need better answers. Which of the Hunter brothers did she have her eye on? Or was it Lord Humphries? She supposed it did not matter—any of them could break her heart.
“Why are you hiding your name, Bella? I thought you did not give a whit for your reputation now that Cora is dead.”
“I do not care in the least, but I thought it better if no one knew where to find me. The last thing I want is for Mama to get word of what I’m doing. How ghastly it would be to have some man turn up on our doorstep asking for an audience.”
Gina sank onto the bed in feigned distress. “Oh! That would be dreadful, indeed. Awful even under the best circumstances. Mama is enough to frighten all but the most ardent suitors away.”
She smiled at Gina’s teasing. “And anyway, Gina, when we return to Belfast and our mourning ends, there is still a chance that you and Lilly will find husbands among the gentry.”
“You, too, Bella.”
“That is quite impossible. My face is now known in London. How could I tell my future husband that he could never take me beyond Belfast lest I be recognized as a…a…” She shrugged and gave a self-deprecating laugh as she pinched her cheeks to bring her color up. “I am not blameless. I have now kissed more men than any collective dozen of my friends.”
“As to that, Bella, was Mr. Hunter—the one who spoke to you—one of the men you kissed?”
Heat crept into her cheeks and she busied herself with fastening a jet necklace around her throat. “Really, Gina! I do not see what difference that would make.”
“Well, if you are not keeping track, someone should.”
“Yes, then. Which is all the more reason I wish to keep you and Lilly away.”
“Was he that dreadful?”
No! Lord, no. In point of fact, he’d been the best of the lot. “I fear that he would think you and Lilly are likewise…loose. He could have reason enough to believe that, since we were together. Would you really want to defend yourself against an ardent swain?”
“Yes, if he looked like Lord Humphries or any of the Hunter brothers. I am assuming, of course, that you have cleared them of any suspicion of having killed our Cora.”
“I, ah, of that group, I have only kissed Mr. Andrew Hunter.”
“And you have acquitted him?”
“Not entirely.”
Gina tilted her head to one side. “Not entirely? But how is that possible?”
“I…it was rather sudden and he turned away immediately afterward, so I fear I must do it again before I can eliminate him.”
The corners of Gina’s mouth twitched. “Ah. I see. Well, yes. I suppose you must. And then move on to the other Hunter brothers? And Lord Humphries?”
“Eventually,” she admitted. “If I do not find the murderer first.”
“But tonight?”
She swept up her cloak and turned toward the door. “Tonight I am not likely to see them. Remember, I am going where scoundrels and rakes go.”
Andrew leaned over Charlie’s shoulder. “Seen enough?”
“We’ve only just begun. Do you suppose it is all like this?”
“I haven’t a single notion, Charlie. This is my first visit, as well.” When they had arrived at Bethlehem Hospital and paid the keeper for entry, Andrew hadn’t known what to expect, though he gathered he would not find it entertaining. Thus far he’d been right.
They’d been led past cells where unfortunates were either cowering in corners or reciting nonsensical words in singsong voices. Here a man played in his own filth, and there a woman exposed her breasts and cackled. Yet another man screamed and shouted curses, pounding the door separating patients from visitors. And everywhere the odor of unwashed bodies and rancid food assailed them.
The keeper, their guide, told stories of how this one had been abandoned by a lover, or that one had lost his entire family in a fire and had fallen into deep melancholy. But how, Andrew wondered again, could such misery be entertaining? Was it all just a matter of taste?
As much as he wanted to leave, he also wanted to find out what purpose Dash had for this outing, because it was not like his friend to arrange something like this without a reason.
Charlie shrugged and echoed Andrew’s own thoughts. “I cannot see the purpose of this, Drew. It tickles none of my senses. I am not amused, entertained, titillated or curious. Surely there’s more?”
“Observation of human nature, I believe Dash said,” Andrew whispered.
“An’now, gents, ’ere we are at the commons, or the gallery as some calls it,” the keeper announced. “These ’uns is harmless. You can ’ave a bit o’ fun with them if you wants. Cost you extra, though.”
Another group of visitors had arrived before them and stood in a far corner, their laughter overriding the sound of shouts and curses. Andrew turned in the direction of their pointing fingers to find a group of men scrambling over what looked to be a hunk of nearly raw meat. The scene reminded him of a pack of dogs behind a butcher shop. This, he assumed, was what the keeper had meant by “a bit o’ fun.”
Dash, who had gone ahead with Henley, Jamie and Throckmorton, glanced over his shoulder to look at Andrew. Waiting for a reaction, no doubt. But Andrew had none to give him. Whatever response Dash had been looking for, he could muster neither outrage nor amusement. He’d seen enough in the war to make him numb to human suffering and to realize that there was no limit to man’s inhumanity. He turned back to the activities in the common room, trying to keep track of the shifting tableaus as they were incited by the “visitors.”
Money changed hands, and then one of the inmates approached a woman dressed in a mobcap and a low-cut dress. He whispered in her ear and she glanced at the group that had sent him. A manic smile exposed gaps where teeth should have been, and she began to hitch her skirts up around her hips. Lord! Were the visitors such immature idiots themselves that they derived pleasure from seeing an unfortunate expose herself?
But it did not stop at that. The payment had been for something else entirely. There, for all to see, the male inmate dropped his trousers and the pair of them began to copulate to the enthusiastic encouragement of the onlookers. On some base level, Andrew realized that watching such activities was arousing for a good many people—that it awakened a hunger, at the very least. He’d known courtesans and the owners of private clubs to arrange such performances. But here and now, at the expense of those who either did not comprehend their actions or appreciate that they were being made sport of, it seemed intrinsically wrong.
“Amazing, is it not, what one will do for money?” Dash asked. “I daresay we could make this lot do damn near anything we chose.”
Andrew blinked and turned to his friend. “For a crust of bread or a cut of meat?”
“Aye. Does it remind you of the war, Drew?”
This echo of his own thoughts caused the hair on the back of Andrew’s neck to prickle. Was this why Dash had brought him here? “The madness? Or the depravity?”
“Both. And the power. Bedlam is as close to Valle del Fuego as I’ve found since our return.”
That godforsaken village! “Why would you want to be reminded, Dash? God knows I’ve spent years trying to forget.”
“Aye, but there was something there—something lacking in London. Some tiny primal spark. You must feel it. Something so…so fundamental that it has no name.”
There was more Dash was trying to tell him, something he would not put into words and was pleading with Andrew to understand. “Uncivilized,” he admitted. “Not altogether comfortable.”
“Precisely!” Dash’s expression was somber. “It pulls at one, does it not?”
Andrew glanced again at the copulating couple. Yes, it pulled at him, that urge to shed everything civilized. This was the part of Bedlam that appealed to Dash—primeval man, stripped of morality, propriety and law.
A chill crept down his spine, and his throat clogged with the heavy atmosphere. He wanted to feel again. Anything. To have some part of him awakened to ordinary senses. What would that take? The pull grew stronger, almost impossible to resist. He wanted it, craved it, and yet the last shred of decency he possessed resisted. He spun back down the passageway. “I need a drink.”
Belmonde’s! Ah, thank God for ordinary debauchery. Andrew’s tension eased as he downed his second brandy. Tonight he’d come dangerously close to the abyss. He’d flirted with it for so long that he was mildly surprised he’d even recognized the line. And some fatalistic part of him knew it was coming—the day he could no longer resist the pull. The day he would cross that line.
He was on his way back to the salon from changing coins for counters when he passed the foyer. Ah, the night was full of surprises. There stood Bella, even lovelier than usual, in earnest conversation with the doorman. And he knew why. The little chit did not have entrée.
He went forward. “Ah, here you are, my dear. Don’t dawdle.” He removed her cloak and handed it to a waiting footman, then turned to the doorman. “Biddle, see to it that she is admitted without delay in the future, would you?”
“Why, yes, sir. I’d have done so ere now, but she did not mention your name.”
He grinned down at the speechless woman as he took her arm. “Ah, she is shy, Biddle. Very shy. But you will use my name in the future, will you not, my dear?”
Her eyes widened and she nodded.
He slipped Biddle a few counters and winked as he led her away. “How nice to see you again, Bella. Dare I hope you were looking for me?”
“You…you may hope anything you wish, sir. But I had no idea you’d be here. I thought you and your ilk would be at some aristocratic soiree.”
His ilk? He laughed. If she only knew what “his ilk” had been up to tonight! “You’re more likely to see me here or at some other tasteless entertainment than at a soiree. But tell me, what is your business here?”
“I was looking for…for…”
“Yes. The right man, I believe you said the other night.” He shook his head and gave her a rakish grin. “I believe you’ve gone astray, Bella. The only men here are the wrong men.”
“Yourself included?”
“Myself at the top of the list.”
“I see.” She looked down pensively and a stray curl tumbled over her shoulder. “Well, I suppose I should at least thank you for not exposing me this afternoon.”
His conscience tweaked him when he recalled how very close he’d come to doing just that. He still wasn’t certain why he hadn’t. “My companions were much amused by your snub. I think you owe me something for that. I can tell you that I was made to bear some rather cutting rebukes, which I’d have cheerfully done had I but known the reason.”
She made no reply as he captured a glass of wine from a passing footman’s tray. He presented it to her with a slight bow. “I believe you are still pressing forward with your ambition to become a lush?”
She looked confused for a moment and then laughed. “Not quite so diligently as last night, but yes. I have become a great believer in bottled courage.”
What an odd phrase. Did she actually need to fortify herself to come out, or to kiss men? A sudden suspicion tweaked his pride. “Are you meeting someone here, Bella? Or are you on your own?”
“A-alone.”
Just the word he had been hoping to hear. “Not any longer, my dear.”
“A-about my name, sir.”
“If you would like proper address, madam, you will have to give me your entire name.”
“I haven’t had to give it until now, sir.”
“Then how would you like me to address you? And should the occasion for an introduction arise? Then what, madam?”
She heaved a deep sigh and glanced around. “Could we not just ignore it? Or ‘madam’ will do. In any event, it will not matter much longer.”
Disappointment sharpened his response. “Oh? Then shall I assume you are near to making your choice?”
“There is not much choice about it, Mr. Hunter. I have yet to find…”
“Yes, the right man. So I gathered. And I also gather that I fall short of your requirements?”
“I…suppose that would be for the best,” she said, though her tone was uncertain.
He found encouragement in her hesitation. “Then what is your purpose here tonight? You’ve said you are not meeting someone, so…?”
“I thought I might see a familiar face.”
“You have, madam. Mine.”
“Oh, dear.”
Her chagrin was almost comical and he grinned at her confusion. “Not quite the response I was hoping for, but at least you are honest.”
“Actually, I thought this would be an establishment frequented by, well, by men who did not often attend ton events.”
“Looking for fresh hunting grounds, my dear Bella?”
“No. Yes.” She shook her head and glanced up at him. The look in those captivating hazel eyes warned him that she was about to lie. He waited, quite breathlessly, for what she was about to say. “I wanted to learn how to gamble.”
Ah, diversion. Excellent ploy. So much more inventive than a bald lie. Too bad she didn’t know who she was playing with. “Allow me. I would recommend beginning with rougeet noir or vingte et un. The rules are simpler than the other popular games, and the play is easier to follow.”
He led her toward a rouge et noir table and explained the rudiments of the game. When she nodded, he handed her a counter. “Try it, madam. There’s nothing like risk to make one feel the excitement, is there?”
She held his counter up and smiled. “I have nothing at risk. Does that make it more exciting for you?”
He laughed. Lord, but she was breathtaking when she smiled. He wished she would do more of that. “I am feeling the excitement even now, Bella.” And he was.
She turned back to the table and gave him her glass, but not before he noted the flush that swept up her cheeks. He watched her as she studied the play. After three rounds she placed the counter on red and stood back.
Red won the count, and she grabbed his sleeve in her delight. “Now what do I do?”
“Wager again or collect your winnings and leave the table.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Bella.” He wondered if caution or risk would win her imagination.
She left the counters on the spot. And again, red won. She clapped her hands and turned to him. “Again?”
“And again, and again, if you wish.”
The tip of her tongue made a brief appearance to moisten her lips as she thought this over. Finally she nodded to the croupier to let her wager stand. Andrew leaned close to her ear and asked, “How does it feel, Bella, to have your fortune riding on the turn of a card?”
“Your fortune,” she reminded him in a whisper. “And it makes me tingle all over.”
He groaned at the mere thought. God, what he’d like to do to her to make her tingle! She turned to him at the sound and her eyes widened. “Oh! I should have paid you back, shouldn’t I?”
“Noir!” the croupier called.
He shrugged. “Too late. All gone. And now how do you feel?”
She watched the croupier scoop her pile of counters away. “Determined to win it back.”
“I fear I’ve done you no favor, Bella. You have all the makings of an incorrigible gambler. Soon you will be impoverished, and ’twill be all my fault.”
“Truly?”
“Aye, but I could show you other ways to take a risk. Ways to find that same thrill and more.”
“You could?”
Ah! How telling. If she were truly a courtesan, she would not have missed that innuendo. Perhaps she was an adventuress, or an ingenue seeking a protector. And again his curiosity was piqued. Who was she, really? And what was her game? She intrigued him more than any woman he’d ever known. He took her hand and led her toward the dim end of the huge salon and one of the many curtained alcoves reserved for private play.
Whirling her into one of the empty niches, he snapped the draperies closed. Darkness surrounded them, intimate and dangerous. He found her narrow waist and pulled her against his chest. Instinct led him to her mouth, and the merest brush of his lips stifled her little gasp of surprise. Oh, but he would not claim his kiss so soon. He paused to nibble at her full lower lip and slide his hand down the length of her spine, pressing her closer. Her lips parted in anticipation, and he answered with a soft tantalizing touch, still not a proper kiss. Her arms circled his neck and she tried to deepen the contact. Yes, just a few more moments and she would be his for the taking.
He kissed the line of her jaw up to her earlobe and paused there, running his tongue along the curve of her ear until she shivered.
“What price, sweet Bella?” he whispered in that delicate opening, not wanting to cheat her of her due, nor willing to wait much longer. “Name your terms.”
She moaned and he was lost. Whatever she wanted, she’d have it. He was no schoolboy, but she made him feel like one, caught up in the wonder of a first kiss. All he could think of was the way she felt against him, the way she tasted, the sweetness of her response and the heart-wrenching sound of her yearning whimper.
He returned to her mouth and hovered there. She would have to come up on her toes to make the final contact. The choice would be hers. Ah, but he knew his women, and Bella lifted toward him. The last rational fragment of his brain worked feverishly. Could he take her here, on the banquette behind this velvet curtain? Should he whisk her home to his bed? Or was there somewhere she’d rather go? To her rooms, perhaps?
The curtain snapped back and the spell was broken.
Chapter Six
“Damn!” Bella heard someone say.
She blinked and came back to herself with a start. Andrew Hunter steadied her with an arm around her waist as she found his brothers, Lord Humphries, Mr. McPherson and a blondish man she did not know staring at them with rapt interest.
Mr. McPherson, who had uttered the curse, frowned, looking for all the world like a scorned lover. “I say! What the deuce do you think you’re doing, Hunter?”
Mr. Hunter sighed and released his hold on her. “I would think that is obvious, McPherson. A better question might be what the deuce you are doing here,” he challenged.
“Come now, good fellows. Shall we all be friends again?” Lord Humphries—Dash, she thought they called him—made a conciliatory gesture. “’Tisn’t as if she is anyone’s wife.”
Mr. Hunter glanced at her and gave her a reassuring smile. “Nor anyone’s mistress,” he allowed. “And therefore, open to…proposals of any sort.”
“Whatever he proposed, I will double it,” Mr. McPherson said. He fastened her with a look so possessive that she wondered if he was in his right mind.
And then she realized they were bidding on her like some sort of horse at auction. They thought she was for sale. Well, why not? Her behavior had favored such speculation. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks.
“Mr. McPherson, you do not have enough to buy me, nor do you, Mr. Hunter. I’d have told you so if any of you had asked. Kindly refrain from addressing me in the future.”
And with that, she lifted her chin and swept past the men with what she prayed was an air of aristocratic self-possession.
And found herself confronted with the stark reality of her position. Alone. In a gambling hall. With two men determined to have her. Mr. McPherson was brutish in pursuing his goal, but Mr. Hunter was even more dangerous in his own way. He had nearly seduced her with something less than a kiss.
But, worst of all, she still didn’t know the truth. Mr. Hunter’s near kiss had been utterly confusing. He had played with her, brushing his lips across hers, nibbling, kissing a path to her ear, where his breath had been hot and moist, then returned to her mouth, this time hovering, waiting, savoring his victory over her senses. At some point he had moistened his lips, but when? And then they’d been interrupted, and they hadn’t had time to deepen the kiss.
If Andrew Hunter had been Cora’s beau, wouldn’t she have mentioned more than that particular trait? His seduction was transcending enough to have enthralled Cora, but of all the things she might have been able to say about him, would she have thought about him moistening his lips or tasting bitter? What of his bottomless, enigmatic eyes? What of his self-mocking smile or his wit?
She shuddered and came back to herself. Such silly musing! The moment had meant nothing to Andrew Hunter and even less to her, and she had more important things to worry about. She would simply get a straightforward kiss from him next time they were together. She scanned the people in the crowd, standing at tables, sitting in front of croupiers, talking in groups, and realized she could not bear the thought of kissing any of them tonight. Or ever. Her stomach twisted and she stumbled, nearly doubling over with the pain. Avenge me, Bella.
Mr. Hunter was at her elbow, steadying her and turning her toward the foyer. “Do you need assistance, madam?”
“No!” She jerked her elbow away from him. “I believe you’ve done enough, sir. Go back to your friends.”
He gave her that infuriating grin when he should have been mumbling an apology. “If I cannot escort you, allow me to have Biddle hail you a coach.”
With a snap of his fingers, her cloak appeared and he draped it around her shoulders. At his nod, Biddle hurried ahead of them and stepped into the street with a raised hand to summon a coach. And before she could protest, he was handing her up and asking her address. She opened her mouth to reply when she realized what he’d done.
“Tell the driver to turn right on Whitehall and I shall call to him where to stop.”
Again came that infuriating grin. “’Twas worth a try, Bella.”
She was saved the trouble of a reply when the coach lurched into motion.
Edwards cleared his throat for the third time, and Andrew realized the valet was not going away. He sat up and pushed his fingers through his snarled hair—testament to a restless night. “What is it, Edwards?”
“A note, sir.’ Tis urgent.”
He pushed the bed curtains back and winced at the midmorning sunlight, then swung his legs over the side of his bed and took the letter from Edwards. He recognized the handwriting and the seal. Bryon Daschel, Lord Humphries. What could have gotten him up so damn early? He broke the seal and read the short letter.
Whatever cobwebs remained from his sleep were wiped clean. He stood and went to the basin to splash water on his face. “Tell His Lordship I will be down when I’ve dressed, Edwards. Have Cook make coffee.”
“Coffee, sir?”
“Yes, coffee.” For once, it was too early to start drinking. And too damned important.
Edwards bowed and closed the door behind him with a mercifully soft click.
Andrew dried his face on the soft cotton towel and regarded his reflection with disgust. No time to shave. He ran a comb through his hair and stepped into the trousers that Edwards had laid out for him the night before. He was dressed in record time and hurried to the library.
“Tell me you’re jesting, Dash.” He crossed the room to the coffeepot that Edwards had just delivered and poured them both a cup. Disdaining cream or sugar, he took his cup to his desk and sat, looking for a sheet of paper and a pen.
Dash brought his cup to sit across from Andrew. “Not jesting, Drew. And I believe I’ve already notified all our mutual friends,” he said in a quiet voice.
Andrew stilled and sat back in his chair. “What happened?”
“After you left us last night, Jamie and Charlie decided to go to Thackery’s and see what ladybirds might be available. McPherson and I went looking for friends down by the docks. You know McPherson’s fondness for opium dens.”

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