by Zoë Archer
“It is the Christian—”
Leo held up a hand. “No homilies. They fall on deaf ears.”
The baron stared down at his feet. Leo had seen the paste buckles adorning his shoes, and knew Wansford looked at them now, chipped and dull.
“You have no reason to,” he said at last. “Only consider.” He looked up, and Leo saw age and weariness creasing the corners of his eyes, a life of genteel poverty slowly, slowly grinding him down. “Though I did little to help Anne, I am her father. She came from me. I cannot claim any of her virtues as my creation, yet there is a part of me that exists in her, however small. That must have some value.”
For a long time, Leo studied the baron. Wansford shifted and looked away, uncomfortable.
“For Anne’s sake,” Leo finally said. “She would take it very hard if her father went to the Marshalsea.”
Wansford became all effusion. “Thank you, Bailey. My eternal thanks.”
Leo waved off this rhapsody. “I need one thing from you.”
“Anything.”
“A coin.”
The baron furrowed his brow. “Coin?”
“A ha’penny, a farthing. Anything.” Usually, Leo obtained coins with more finesse, but he hadn’t the humor for that today. He simply needed to see Wansford’s financial future and be on with his business.
“I ... I have nothing.” The baron patted his pockets. “Buy everything on credit.”
Of course he did. Aristos lived on credit. If they could get credit for the air they breathed, they would, but fortunately, air happened to be free.
“The next time you see me,” said Leo, “bring me a coin.”
“What denomination?”
“It doesn’t bloody matter.”
Wansford appeared as if he was about to ask why Leo wanted a coin, but thought better of it. “Of course.”
“In the interim, I’ll do some investigating of this iron mine. See how it’s shaping up.” Leo did have abilities beyond his magic.
“Whatever guidance you can provide will be most appreciated.” The baron started to rise.
“One thing, Wansford. What do you intend to invest?”
The baron sank back down to his chair. “Pardon?”
“You cannot simply amble toward a venture and say, ‘I want to invest in you,’ and provide no funding. There has to be actual money involved, or some other form of capital. And offering your word as a gentleman won’t suffice.”
“Ah.”
“Yes. Ah.”
Silence descended.
“Supposing,” began Wansford, “supposing you lent me the funds.”
“On what security?”
“You know I shall pay you back. If all your investments succeed, then the money is as good as yours.”
Leo shook his head. “Unsound, to hold faith to something that doesn’t yet exist.”
The baron compressed his lips into a line. “You leave me little choice. I do have something to use as collateral.” He stared at Leo. “My estate.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Leo gazed at his father-in-law. The Wansford baronial estate did not amount to much—a leaky-roofed manor with poor yield on its crops—yet the significance of the place could not be discounted. Land was everything. Ancestral land held even more symbolic value. An aristocrat could not exist without his estate. He became as empty and fragile as a soap bubble.
For Wansford to offer up his estate to Leo ... The man had to be desperate. And Leo was just bastard enough to exploit his desperation.
He held out his hand. The baron stared at it as though it were a viper poised to strike.
“This is how gentlemen seal bargains,” Leo said.
Wansford shook his hand, but released it quickly. “You will not mention this to Anne?”
“Of course I’ll tell her about it.” Leo stood. “I don’t keep secrets from her.” As he said this, the irony of his words congealed in his chest.
The baron looked dubious, yet he saw that Leo wasn’t to be dissuaded. He rose from his chair. “I thank you.” He edged toward the door.
“Anne can join us again. You’ll stay for dinner.”
“Ah, no. I have ... engagements.”
What sort of engagements an impoverished nobleman might have, Leo could not hazard a guess. He did not care. A footman answered his summons, and escorted Wansford to the door.
Leaving Leo to contemplate the complicated knotwork of his life. Until now, he had kept Anne separate from the commerce that ruled his life. Yet now, they were tied together. Loops and twists irrevocably bound, with no beginning, and no end.
Anxiety coursed through her. This was a test, and she must pass it.
Anne gazed down the length of the dining table. Her first foray into the realm of hosting guests for dinner, and she wanted everything to succeed. For her sake, and that of her husband.
She might have spared herself some apprehension, as the guests were Leo’s closest friends and perhaps less likely to judge harshly. Or that made her every action doubly scrutinized. If she said that she did not care about these men’s opinions, she would speak false.
Flickering candlelight gleamed on platters of roast venison, pheasant with chestnuts, fricassee of mushrooms. Dark wine filled the glasses.
Masculine voices and laughter ringed the table. Anne had brothers, yet she never felt so fully immersed in male company as she was this night.
The Hellraisers sat at her table. They all insisted she call them by their Christian names, yet it did not make them any less intimidating or foreign, visitors from a nighttime realm, bearing shadows and an air of wildness. Even the substantial dining room could barely contain the dark, vivid energy that radiated from all of them—including her husband.
Lord Whitney’s words burned at the back of her mind, acrid and scorching. The men at her table were the Devil’s legion. Or so one madman would have her believe. She did not want to view the Hellraisers through the mist of Lord Whitney’s insanity—yet it clung to her like plague-bearing vapor.
“Missed you at the boxing match the other night.” John chided Leo.
Her husband lounged like an indolent pasha in his chair, his fingers draped over the rim of his glass. “I was busy.”
John’s gaze flicked to Anne, then back to Leo. “I’ve a strong suspicion of what occupied you.”
Her cheeks warmed, and she sipped her wine. She was not so sophisticated as to discuss such private matters so publicly, even with her husband’s close friends. Friends who almost certainly led lives of utter dissipation. Would it shock these men to learn that much of the time Leo spent with her was in conversation? Oh, they made good use of their nuptial bed. Very good use. Yet they shared an intimacy that went beyond their bodies—something she doubted his friends appreciated, let alone understood.
“Shame, though,” continued John. “The match was spectacular. It went forty-one rounds, and ended only when McGill could no longer see, from all the blood in his eyes.”
“This hardly seems an appropriate topic,” said Edmund. “With ladies present.”
The woman sitting beside him merely smiled. Several times over the course of the evening, Anne simply forgot that Rosalind was in attendance. The pretty, fair-haired woman spoke but a handful of words, and these only when addressed directly. Perhaps she was shy. Yet Edmund’s wife kept a bright, wide smile on her face the whole of the night, her gaze cheerful but vacant.
Anne had met Rosalind before, during her previous marriage. She had been witty, given to wordplay, and a respected hostess of levees. But now ... Rosalind seemed empty, as if whatever had animated her before had drained away.
Lord Whitney’s letter was still inscribed in Anne’s memory. Edmund was given Rosalind. Like a child given a doll on Christmas. A pretty doll with no life of its own, merely propped up at the table and fed imaginary pudding.
Ridiculous. One cannot use magic to effect such a transformation. There is no magic.
“The subject of pugili
sm doesn’t trouble me,” Anne said. “Leo has been telling me all about it, and it sounds fascinating.”
“Violent,” said Edmund, “and bloody.”
Anne noted the wine in their glasses. “Most ancient traditions are.”
“Like marriage.” This, from Bram, sprawled at the farther end of the table. He took what light there was in the room, seeming to draw it into himself so that surrounding him was the absence of light, a palpable darkness.
“Spoken as one with no experience in the matter,” said Leo wryly.
Bram’s chuckle held little warmth. “To the contrary, I know much of married life.”
“Married women,” said John.
“Which provides me with an ample survey. Faithlessness is not reserved for men. Few women hold true to their vows.”
“Where you are concerned.” John smirked. “You are, indeed, very persuasive.”
When Bram’s arctic, calculating gaze fell on Anne, she made herself return the look, though she felt a cold shrinking inside her. “Perhaps, Mrs. Bailey, you might like to—”
“No.” Leo’s voice was no more than a growl. He sat forward, his fists braced against the table. His eyes blazed.
Anne expected him to launch himself across the table and beat his friend into a pile of bones and viscera.
Though Bram continued to sprawl in his chair, his whole body tensed, gathering strength. Anne had felt the hard, hewn muscles of her husband’s body; he would fight with brutal, efficient power. Few men could best him. She understood this with intrinsic knowledge. Yet she also understood that, if anyone could match Leo’s strength, it would be Bram.
They were wolves, circling each other. Ready to pounce and rip out each other’s throats.
Good God. Her very first dinner party was about to erupt into a brawl. The influence of dark magic?
“With such an abundance of opportunity,” said Edmund, “Bram may cast his net further afield.”
The thick tension in the room untangled. Both Leo and Bram eased their postures. Minutely. But enough.
Bram shrugged. “There are some who find the condition of marriage tolerable. Like Edmund, or young Leo. Far be it for me to disrupt such a happy state of affairs.”
“Which reminds me,” said John, “Ancroft announced his engagement.”
“Again?” Leo shook his head. “This will be his third.”
“His future brides have a habit of eloping with other men.”
“Perhaps he owns an inn in Gretna Green,” suggested Bram, “and can profit from the jilting.”
Good-humored banter resumed amongst the men. As they talked, Anne could only wonder. What had Bram been about to suggest to her? And why had Leo been so adamant that Bram not make that suggestion?
Bram received the power to persuade anyone to do his bidding.
Surely not. One could not force another to obey their will. That would exist in the unreal realm of the Otherworldly.
If Lord Whitney had spoken the truth, that meant that John could read others’ minds. And Leo ... could see the future.
She stared at her husband. In the candlelight, he was beautiful and gleaming, and whenever his gaze caught hers, she felt the tug of connection. A shared understanding, for not only did their bodies know each other now and the pleasure they gave each other, but their attachment went beyond the physical. They spent drowsing hours talking of many things, both fanciful and weighty.
He had told her of her father’s request, and his agreement to serve as broker. He even disclosed that her father had offered the estate as collateral. A shocking turn of events, and yet, not so shocking, for every day creditors came dunning. She was, in truth, more surprised that Leo had agreed to help. Instinct told her that it was not concern for her father that motivated Leo. She had been the motivation.
For a man who positioned himself in continual combat with the world, with her, his generosity knew no limit.
Yet still, some part of himself he kept locked away. She could not fathom what—if she had any questions about himself, he answered. No evasions or half-truths. Not that she could sense. Beneath it all, though, he still seemed as much a stranger as he had been on their wedding day. And the more intimacy they shared, the greater this discrepancy felt.
She might be able to discover more about him through knowing his friends. As the conversation fell into an amiable lull, Anne directed her words at John. “Leo tells me you are active in politics.”
“Rather a passion of mine,” he answered. “The era wherein the king held all the power is long over. This country is controlled by ministers and secretaries.”
“God help us all,” muttered Leo.
John’s mouth curled. “God is not part of the process.”
“Not with your hands in everyone’s dealings.”
Anne asked, “What lies on the horizon? Peace, I hope.” The war with France had been costly, both in terms of money and human lives. As she spoke, she saw Bram absently rub at the scar along his throat, and she recalled that he had been a soldier in the Colonies, fighting in that very war. He had paid a price, as well.
“There’s to be a treaty, and an exchange of territories in the coming months. Some secretly oppose the treaty, but they shan’t provide an obstacle, for all their cabals to prevent it.”
“Secretly? You must be kept in confidence, to know this.”
“In a manner,” he drawled.
Bram gave an amused snort but, at her questioning look, merely drank his wine.
She felt as though two conversations occurred simultaneously, yet she could understand only one of them, the other spoken in a language too subtle to be grasped.
More courses followed, more talk. The cook had been eager to display his talents, and Anne felt some comfort that her guests would not leave her table hungry. There were French ragoos, and beef collops, cakes, and fruits out of season, and Anne could only pick at her food. A fine tension tangled in her belly. Something hung over the table, something billowing and shadowed, that drew its strength from the four men who ate and laughed with hard animal gleams in their eyes. Was it only fancy? Or was it more?
Surely Lord Whitney had written his letter with a branding iron rather than a quill, for his words seared her, even now. Bargains with the Devil. Sinister magic. Phenomena reserved for sermons and lurid tales.
When, at last, it came time for the women to adjourn to the parlor, Anne did so with an inward sigh of relief. The men got to their feet as she stood. Rosalind watched with that same overbright smile, yet she did not rise.
“Beloved,” murmured Edmund. “Go with Mrs. Bailey.”
“Of course, my dearest.” Rosalind stood and glided after Anne.
As Anne crossed to the door, Leo never took his gaze from her. She felt it like a trail of fire between her shoulders as she left the room. A new sensation, and an uncanny one.
Tea and ratafia awaited them in the parlor. The room felt hot and small, confining where the dining room had been a chill cavern. Rosalind sat placidly on a settee and stared off at nothing.
“May I offer you something to drink?” Anne desperately wanted some of Leo’s potent brandy, but it must wait until later. When Rosalind did not answer, only continued to gaze into the air, Anne asked louder, “Tea? Spirits?”
“Oh ... tea, I suppose. Do you think that’s what Edmund would want me to have?”
“I’m sure he wants you to have whatever it is you want.” Yet Rosalind stared at her, blank as snow. So Anne poured her a dish of tea. For herself, she took the ratafia.
Moments went by as she and Rosalind sat together silently. The other woman took sips at regular intervals, like a wound-up automaton that mirrored human movement, yet without thought.
“How are your writing endeavors?”
Rosalind blinked. “Writing?”
“Some time ago, you hosted a levee. You were gracious enough to invite me. I remember you read an original composition, some verses about the war between the sexes. It was much admire
d amongst the company for its acuity and imagination.”
“I do not remember.”
“This was ... before. During your ... other marriage.”
Yet Rosalind merely shook her head. “I do not remember anything, really, before Edmund.” She smiled.
Anne attempted to return the smile, but her efforts did not succeed. Fortunately, Rosalind did not notice. She merely returned to drinking her congou, placid.
This, from a woman renowned for her wit? Again, Lord Whitney’s letter reverberated through her, its many assertions that she had been so quick to dismiss as the work of a faulty or devious mind. How could Anne possibly believe him? How could she trust him?
Nearby candles guttered, the flames turning to smoke.
Valeria Livia Corva. The name wove into her thoughts. A Roman woman’s name.
Anne had burned Lord Whitney’s letter, but rather than destroying it, the contents of the missive became stronger, more potent. Like an offering to a dark god.
How could Lord Whitney possibly know about Anne’s dream of the Roman woman?
The parlor tilted as her head spun, the air thick and close. She needed fresh, cool wind. Outside, in the garden. Yes—to go outside, that would clear her head and help make sense of the morass in which she’d sunk.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?”
Rosalind merely smiled, and so Anne quickly left the chamber on unsteady legs. She tottered down the stairs, then moved through the darkened corridor that led to the garden. As she walked, she passed the closed door of the dining room, hearing the rumble of male voices. The Hellraisers in private discussion.
She hesitated. No footmen stood in attendance in the hallway. Rosalind remained upstairs. Anne was alone.
She pressed her ear to the door. Thick wood muted sound, and she had more a general sense of different men speaking than their actual words. The low rumble of Bram. Edmund’s measured pace. And Leo—his voice she knew now almost as well as her own. In the depths of night, she had heard him speak words both tender and demanding, had heard him hoarse with passion, and drowsy with satiation. In a room crowded with a hundred men’s voices, she would find his, unerring.
