by Zoë Archer
The Hellraisers.
Sheltered Anne might be, yet even she had heard of these men, her husband’s closest associates. He was, in fact, one of their ranks. Whoever had access to a scandal sheet knew of the Hellraisers. Their exploits were well documented, and if only half of the stories were true, they lived very wild lives indeed. Carousing, gambling, racing, duels, and opera dancers.
They were never mentioned directly by name. Lord W—y, habitué of the gaming tables. Lord R—l, a veteran of warfare against the French in the Colonies, lately seeing more action at certain establishments of pleasure in our fair metropolis. Mr. B—y, as feared at the Exchange as he is known for the noble company he keeps.
These three Hellraisers were spotted without their companions Sir E F-S and the Hon. Mr. G—y in a den of fashionable iniquity, after which they retired to more private entertainments at the home of Lord R—l.
The one reason why men of such wicked reputation saw admittance to polite society was by virtue of their titles. Only Leo lacked a title, but his vast fortune admitted him where absence of breeding might deny.
Surely it must be wonderful to be a man, to have such freedom.
Yet she should not trust the scandal sheets. Everyone understood that they manufactured most of what they printed, and Anne would be foolish indeed if she attributed such wild behavior to her new husband. Not without learning who he truly was.
“Come, and I’ll introduce you to them.”
Before Anne could speak, Leo took her hand and led her across the room. He’d never held her hand before, and she felt the heat of his touch travel up her arm and through her body. His hand was large, the texture of his skin rough, and she felt fragile almost to the point of breaking in his grasp.
It wasn’t an entirely pleasant sensation.
Distracted as she was by Leo’s touch, she found herself nearing a trio of men she had read about many times, but never met.
Strange. As Anne approached them, she felt a odd humming sensation, as if passing through a spider’s web made of dark, almost sinister energy. She fought the shudder that ran through her, and dismissed the thought as the product of nervous humors, or bridal trepidation.
Sinister energy, indeed. I’m merely hungry. Couldn’t even finish my chocolate this morning.
She shook off her peculiar mood, and made herself smile politely as Leo performed the introductions.
“Anne, let me give you the questionable privilege of introducing my friends. This is the Honorable John Godfrey.”
“My felicitations, Mrs. Bailey.” Thin and gingery, Mr. Godfrey bowed over her hand, and it surprised Anne that a man with a scandalous reputation could look so scholarly. In snatches of overheard conversations, she had heard her brothers and father make mention of him, that he was a figure of considerable influence within the government. There had been undercurrents of something tight and edged in the voices of her family, something she might identify as fear, but it had been more tone than actual words spoken.
How could such a bookish man also be a profligate and a political threat? Surely she must have misheard, and the reports in the papers were scurrilous.
She curtsied her greeting, murmuring pleasantries.
“Here we have Sir Edmund Fawley-Smith,” continued Leo.
“You illuminate the room, Mrs. Bailey.” Sir Edmund offered her a very charming bow, and she could not help but smile at him. He was a very pleasant young gentleman, of shorter stature than the other Hellraisers, with kindly eyes and a rather rumpled appearance. Certainly he could not be a rake.
“And lastly, this is the extremely dishonorable Abraham Stirling, Lord Rothwell.”
Anne turned to the final member of the group, fully anticipating that she would find him as undeserving of a rake’s reputation as the other men. But that was not the case at all. She had actually seen caricatures of Baron Rothwell in a few news sheets, usually depicting him with his arms around whole seraglios of women, and Anne had believed the illustrator to be exercising a good deal of artistic license when it came to Lord Rothwell’s appearance. Surely no actual man could be so darkly handsome, with a blade-sharp profile, black hair, and vivid blue eyes. Yet the illustrator had not exaggerated. With the exception of Leo, Anne had never beheld a man so physically arresting.
The only thing marring his masculine beauty was the large, ugly scar that traced from just beneath his right ear to disappear beneath the folds of his stock. It looked as though someone long ago had tried to cut Lord Rothwell’s throat, and very nearly succeeded.
That Lord Rothwell stood before her now, bowing, proved that not only had the attacker not succeeded, but it was highly likely that Lord Rothwell had dispatched the assailant. Killed him. Looking into his glacial eyes, Anne could easily believe him capable of violence.
Violence, or seduction. Doubtless both.
“You have done England a great service, Mrs. Bailey,” he said, straightening from his bow. Anne had to tilt her head back to look at him, for he was even taller than Leo.
“How so, Lord Rothwell?”
“By marrying this villain, you have removed a great danger from the London streets.”
Leo scowled as Mr. Godfrey and Sir Edmund laughed. “I’m no more a danger than you, Bram.”
Lord Rothwell spread his hands. “Thus you prove my thesis.”
“Quod erat demonstrandum,” said Mr. Godfrey, grinning.
Anne made herself smile, for though she did not understand precisely what the men discussed, she knew it would serve her well in married life to ingratiate herself as best she could with her husband’s friends.
Still, something, or rather, someone seemed missing.
“Is Lord Whitney here?” she asked. The scandal sheets had been very specific in naming five men as Hellraisers: the four who stood before her now, and James Sherbourne, the Earl of Whitney, or Lord W—y. Wherever one of the Hellraisers went, the others were certain to follow.
She may as well have dropped a moldering carcass in the middle of the room. Whatever lightheartedness the men might have been feeling disappeared immediately. Everyone looked grim, and something very like grief flashed in Lord Rothwell’s eyes.
“Oh, dear,” Anne stammered. “He isn’t ... that is, I didn’t know ... has Lord Whitney passed on?” Mortified, she wanted to sink into the ground. “I’m so ... sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Leo patted her hand, but the gesture did not soothe her. “Whit ... Lord Whitney is alive. Last I heard.”
“Have you seen him lately?” Lord Rothwell put the question to her with surprising keenness, verging on an interrogation.
Four pairs of eyes fixed on her, all of them sharp and demanding. And her husband’s gaze was hardest of all. Anne had to physically restrain herself from cringing.
“No,” she answered at once. “I have seen Lord Whitney but a handful of times, the last of which was likely a year ago.” She wished she could remember the specifics of the day, if only as an appeasement, but to be the object of such intense scrutiny rather unnerved her.
At her answer, the tension from the men lessened. Marginally.
Leo gave a tight nod. “It seems Lord Whitney is gone from here.”
Gone from here could mean any number of things, yet Anne knew better than to press for an explanation. Whatever had happened, wherever Lord Whitney was, it left a cold shadow over the four men with her now. Including her husband. At his last mention of Lord Whitney’s name, Leo absently rubbed at his shoulder, and frowned at the floor. What he saw was not the Axminster carpet, but dark, ominous scenes. Scenes from his past, shared with the other Hellraisers—but not her.
She had thought it before, but she truly believed it now: her husband was a stranger. A stranger with secrets.
“She’s a bit undersized,” said Bram. He and Leo stood off to the side of the drawing room, watching as dancers made their figures. As the day had worn on, and the sun had set, musicians had arrived. Footmen had moved the table, the carpets had been
rolled up, the candles were lit, and dancing had begun.
A fine tension ran through Leo. He felt it in Bram, and the other Hellraisers, yet none of them wanted to speak of it on this day. Anne, unknowing, had spoken of the very issue—the very person—none wanted to discuss. The one who had been their closest ally and now threatened everything.
“Delicate,” Leo corrected, forcing his mind toward less troubling subjects.
“I would have thought you might favor a more robust girl.”
Over the rim of his glass, Leo watched his new wife move through the patterns of a dance. It was the Friar and the Nun. Or maybe Gathering Peascods. He could never remember all the names of the dances, nor their figures. It mattered little—he never stayed at assemblies and balls long enough to dance, and other, more important thoughts filled his brain. The cost of transporting pepper from Sumatra. The profitability of shipping English ale to India.
Today, he’d done his duty and danced one figure with Anne, then quickly retired to the side of the chamber, leaving the celebrating to others, including his wife.
She was a delicate thing. When Leo had first seen Anne Hartfield at an assembly, she’d made little impression on him. Small of stature, her hair somewhere between blond and brunette, eyes more distinctive for their liveliness than their hazel color. There were other girls, girls of more vivid beauty and sparkling dispositions, who giggled and artfully fanned themselves whenever he made mildly flirtatious remarks. Anne had only smiled and looked away, as if uncertain how to respond.
Even now, partnered with one of her elder brothers, she moved tentatively through the steps of the dance, though it was part of every genteel girl’s education to have a dancing master and learn to make pretty figures at assemblies. Her family’s reduced circumstances were no secret, however, so perhaps she never had a dancing master.
“I’ll own,” he said lowly, “that when I decided it was time to wed, there had been other girls that first attracted my notice. But I came to see that Anne was perfect.”
Bram looked skeptical. “Some of your Exchange logic?”
“I’m never without it. It was simply a matter of the best return for my investment.”
“An aristocratic bride—I see the reasoning behind that decision.”
As one of Leo’s closest friends, Bram could read his heart well. Nor did Leo make much secret of his demands. He burned for entry into a world long denied him. That could only be achieved by marrying a peer’s daughter rather than a daughter of one of the wealthy ironmongers or heads of a trade corporation. Such a marriage might net him wealth, and valuable business connections. But he already had wealth. He had connections. What he wanted, demanded, could only be gained through blood ties.
He would not gain a title, but by the Devil’s fire, he would have what his father had been denied: a place in Society.
And he refused to let Whit endanger that.
“Yet why not pick a bride with a fortune?” Bram asked. “Why the daughter of a baron treading the waters of genteel poverty?”
“For that very reason.” When Bram continued to look unconvinced, Leo continued. “Had she come with a fortune of her own, one that matched or was greater than the one I possess, it would serve only to divide us. She would hold it over my head as proof of her superiority.”
“I had no idea you were so mercenary, young Leopold.”
Leo looked askance at Bram. “A lecture? From the man who has debauched most of the female populace of London?”
His friend chuckled, though the sound was more a shadowed representation of laughter rather than the thing itself. “No lecture. All of us Hellraisers live in glass houses.”
“Damned drafty, those houses.” Leo shrugged. “Yet they’re better than dull, dense piles of stone.”
Bram patted an ornate plaster embellishment on the wall behind him. Everything in Leo’s home was new, this portion of Bloomsbury having been developed within the past few years. He had considered purchasing a townhome in Mayfair or Saint James’s. He had the money. Yet he wanted his own place, something entirely his.
“Now you have your house and your aristocratic bride. What more could you want?”
Now it was Leo’s turn to laugh. “There is always more. You, of all people, should know that.”
Understanding darkened Bram’s face. “Perhaps that is why Mr. Holliday picked us to be recipients of his gifts.”
The mention of the Hellraisers’ benefactor reminded Leo that the threat could no longer be ignored. “Find John. I’ll collect Edmund, then we shall all meet in my study.”
“Leave your wedding celebration?”
“For a few moments only. We must discuss Whit.”
Bram’s expression tightened. Of all of the Hellraisers, Bram had been closest to Whit. The betrayal had cut Bram deeply. Even months later, Leo saw the pain was still fresh.
Bram strode away in search of John, while Leo went to find Edmund. As he strolled through the chamber, guests continued to come up and wish him joy of his marriage. He accepted their felicitations, and felt a hard, sharp thrill to see his noble guests’ silken finery strewn with crumbs and stained with wine from his table.
Eat and drink, you bastards. Stuff yourselves stupid, drink yourselves senseless. You’ll be too fat and drunk to notice me tearing you to pieces.
He found Edmund watching the dancers and clapping along with the music.
“You aren’t dancing,” Leo noted. “You always dance.”
“Now my dances are reserved for Rosalind.”
“Dancing only with your wife? How provincial.”
Edmund merely smiled. “With her, I am content to be the most unfashionable of men.”
“You should have brought her.”
At this, Edmund’s usually cheerful expression dimmed. “Having her attend a social function such as this so soon ...”
Leo nodded in understanding. Rosalind’s first husband had died in a carriage accident not two months earlier. A month after that, she and Edmund had wed. There had been scandalized murmurs about how quickly the marriage had taken place. A few had even suspected that Edmund had somehow engineered the accident in order to finally gain the hand of the woman denied him years ago. The rumors never took seed—nobody could believe such an amiable man as Edmund could possibly do something so brutal and calculating.
But Leo knew the truth. As did Bram and John. And they would tell no one. For it was their truth, too. One far beyond the understanding of ordinary folk.
Whit also knew the truth. Yet he could do much worse than damage their reputations.
“Join me and Bram and John in the study,” Leo said now. “We need to discuss the traitor.”
Edmund nodded tightly, determination writ plain on his face. As Leo and Edmund skirted the edge of the chamber, the dance ended. Anne glided toward him with an anxious frown.
“Is everything well?” she asked.
“Private business, my dear. Between old friends,” he added, with a glance toward Edmund.
“Of course.” She was quick to make herself amenable, which oddly disturbed him. He supposed most men desired an acquiescent wife. Yet he found just then that a display of spine might suit Anne. He admired strength and determination in others—his wife would be no exception.
Hell, he hoped his choice in a bride hadn’t been a mistake, guided by his own sense of retribution.
“Only,” she added, “there is talk of putting us to bed soon, and it would be rather awkward if there was no groom to join me in the bedchamber.” Pink flooded her cheeks, yet he was pleased to see that she did not look away, but held his gaze. Tremulously.
“You will find me at the head of the procession.”
She smiled, relieved, and dipped into a curtsy. “I shall see you then.”
“A very sweet girl,” Edmund said after Anne moved away. He raised a brow. “How very unlike you.”
Leo scowled. “I desire sweetness, too.”
“Have a care with her.” Edmund
’s normally genial expression grew serious. “Women are not trade routes to be aggressively negotiated.”
“And my brutish peasant hands might crush her.”
“Don’t be an ass.” Even affable Edmund could lose his temper. “Only, use that clever brain of yours to see your wife. What she thinks. What she feels. You will find it a better path to happiness.”
Leo laughed. “I’m married now. Happiness has nothing to do with it.”
Edmund shook his head, yet he followed as Leo led him from the chamber and down the corridor to his study. Sounds of music and merriment faded the deeper he went into his house. The sounds of an unknowing, innocent world, beholden to no one, subject only to reason and scientific principles. But Leo and the other Hellraisers knew differently.
A thought leapt into Leo’s mind: What if Anne learned the truth about him? About the nature of the meeting he was about to have? What might she do?
He shrugged. If Anne ever discovered his secret, she could do nothing. He was the one with the power. Even if someone believed her allegations—which they never would—she had no leverage and could not harm him. No, the bigger threat came from Whit.
Within the book-lined room, he found Bram and John already there, illuminated by a single candle on his desk. Full night had fallen, and shadows were thick in the room, so that in the light of the candle, Leo and his friends appeared to be shades emerging from the Underworld.
Leo locked the door, and made sure all the windows were closed, the curtains drawn. With actions deliberate and ceremonial, he poured five glasses of brandy and handed them to his fellow Hellraisers.
“There’s only four of us now,” John said, eyeing the remaining glass.
As if Leo, or any of their company, could forget. That was what this private meeting was about. Whit’s absence, and its tacit condemnation, howled like a cavern. Three months had passed since Whit had severed his ties with the Hellraisers, had urged Leo and John and Edmund to turn their backs on the source of their power. But Whit had been troubled, and misled. Especially by that Gypsy girl.
Leo had the scar on his shoulder as proof of his erstwhile friend’s perfidy. Whit had made his choice, and no one had seen him these past months. Running scared, Leo supposed.
