‘Two o’clock,’ she said, then lowered her lashes and made her way to the front door that stood open for her entry. She did not look back at him, just let Albert close the door and kept on walking all the way up to her bedchamber where she stripped off her gloves and moved to the shadowed edge of the window. Linwood had climbed back into his landau, but it had not yet drawn away.
Even from here she could feel the danger that exuded from him...and the attraction. As if sensing her focus, Linwood glanced up at the window and, even though she was hidden, his eyes seemed to meet hers, as if he could see her as clearly as if she stood in full brazen view. Her heart stumbled. She held her breath until he turned away and gave the order to drive on.
She watched the landau and the dark figure within until she could see it no more, wondering at how much she had told Linwood, she who normally told little of the truth. This was turning out to be a game like no other she had played. A game of higher stakes and one in which she must reveal more of herself that she was used to. But sometimes to breach an opponent’s defences it was necessary to lower a few of your own. A very dangerous game indeed. And one she knew she had to win.
* * *
Linwood dreamed of the charred remains of Rotherham’s house that night. And of the fires that had transformed it from a fine mansion to the black skeleton it now was; flames that had illuminated the London night sky for miles around and generated a heat that had smouldered for a week. It was a dream that had haunted him often, but this time it was different. This time, the dark figure by the window, the figure that he always willed in his heart to be Rotherham, seemed to shimmer and morph amidst the golden roar of the fire. He strained forwards, his eyes stinging and raw from both the smoke and the heat, desperate to see Rotherham burn, but it was not the duke he saw standing there, but a woman, a woman with dark hair and a white slender neck, a woman whose lips had so often teased and enticed with the hint of a smile, and whose eyes, so pale and so beautiful, only hinted at the woman within. The woman was Venetia Fox.
She stood there calm and still as if she accepted her fate was to burn, but in her eyes he saw fear. He was running towards her, running to save her, running so hard that his lungs were bursting and the coppery taste of blood was in his throat and on his lips. But it was too late and, as he watched, the flames exploded to consume all around them and he knew with a terrible certainty that he had destroyed her. And in his chest were the same feelings of anger and worry and loss that he could not rid himself of.
He woke with a start, the sheets and bedclothes twisted around his legs, his skin beaded with sweat even though the room was chilled. He was breathing hard and his stomach was balled with dread and with fear. The dream had felt too real and more disturbing than those that usually troubled his nights. He threw the covers aside, climbed from the bed and moved to the window, where he opened the curtains, staring out over the darkened street. The street lamps had guttered to nothing and the moon had long since set. He stood watching until the frenzied thump of his heart had slowed to its normal pace and the sweat dried cold upon his skin. Venetia’s appearance in the dream was no doubt due to their being stopped outside the burnt remains of Rotherham’s house that day, and the subsequent conversation that had ensued. He supposed that her interest in Rotherham was only natural, but that knowledge did not make him feel any better. Linwood did not return to bed, only found the bottle of brandy and poured a stiff measure, then sipped it until the dawn light crept across the sky.
* * *
When Venetia came off-stage the next night a flurry of flowers were delivered to her dressing room. There was an enormous bunch of lilies, large and trumpeted, their centres laden heavy with vibrant orange pollen and a perfume so overpowering that it lay heavy in the small dressing room. A lengthy love poem was contained within Devlin’s note that accompanied the flowers. Venetia knew that he had no interest in love, only sex, and that he thought she was his for the buying. She folded the note over and left it where it lay without reading the poem. In addition to the lilies were four bouquets of roses and two of chrysanthemums, all from different admirers. And, on its own, a single spray of small cream-coloured flowers that she did not recognise amidst some glossy green leaves. The card was merely signed L. The flowers stood out amongst all the others because they were not showy or beautiful or colourful. She bowed her head and sniffed their perfume, then she understood.
‘You’re smiling, so I’m thinking they must be from Linwood,’ said Alice.
‘Indeed, they are.’
‘Not exactly flowers to woo a woman.’
‘Quite the contrary,’ said Venetia quietly.
Alice’s expression showed her disbelief. ‘What are they?’
‘They are the flowers of the Spanish Orange tree.’ Venetia passed the spray to her friend.
Alice gave the flowers a cautious sniff. ‘Oh!’ Her eyes widened. ‘They smell exactly like you.’
‘My perfume is made from their blossom.’
‘He’s a clever one, all right.’
Not so clever to see through her, Venetia hoped. But, as the subtle bittersweet scent of the flowers drifted up to her nose, she could not help feeling a pang of worry.
* * *
Linwood did not come to the green room that night and Venetia was relieved. She knew that Robert would be waiting for her. And she knew that the game with Linwood was heading in a direction she had not foreseen.
She hesitated by the small stage door of the theatre that night, her eyes scanning the darkness for her half-brother.
‘I am here, Venetia.’ Her name was a whispered hiss.
‘Robert.’
He climbed into the carriage after her. The door closed with a thud and then they were off.
* * *
The carriage had long since disappeared into the darkness when the shadow finally moved from the periphery of Hart Street into which the stage door of the Covent Garden theatre exited. A figure stepped out from where it had stood, hidden by the darkness, poised still and silent beside the damp stones of the opposite wall. He watched for a moment longer before he turned and walked away, retracing his steps silently back down the road towards the busy throng of Bow Street. There was no one to witness his progress, none to know he had ever even been there, and, even had there been, the man remained faceless in the dark moonless sky. When he reached the street he disappeared into the straggle of the crowd, just one more theatre-goer who had lingered to talk or for other more licentious pursuits. But beneath the glow of the street lamps two tiny sparks of green fire glowed within the head of his walking cane.
Chapter Six
‘Good idea of yours to come for an early morning ride, Linwood.’ Razeby smiled and sat easily as the two horses walked around Hyde Park. ‘Told you a bit of distraction would do you the world of good.’
‘More than you can know.’ Linwood’s mouth gave a cynical smile.
‘So how is the mysterious Miss Fox?’
‘Mysterious,’ said Linwood, and thought of how he had waited in the shadows of Hart Street to surprise her after the play, only to find himself the one surprised by her clandestine meeting with Rotherham’s bastard son—Robert Clandon. He wondered just what the hell Venetia Fox was up to—bedding Clandon while she played him? Or perhaps, given her significant interest in Rotherham the previous day, something rather more daring and dangerous. Either way, Linwood meant to discover more.
Razeby laughed.
The morning air held a slight mist, through which the sun filtered in pale white beams. The horses beneath them snorted, their breaths puffing white and smoky as Trevithick’s ‘Catch Me If You Can’ locomotive had been in his steam circus.
‘What is mysterious is how the hell you have managed to secure her interest when all others have failed. She turned down Hawick and rumour has it he offered her twenty thousand a year. And Devlin, who I know for a fact offered her ten. And I know that you have not the blunt to surpass that.’
‘Maybe Miss F
ox is not for sale.’ He had thought the words she uttered in Fallingham’s antiquities room were the truth. But now, in light of Clandon, he was not so sure of anything about her any more.
‘That little spat with Hawick the other night. It was you, was it not?’
‘I do not know what you are talking about.’ Linwood kept his mouth shut. Just as he always did. He was not a man given to revealing secrets—his own, or anyone else’s.
But Razeby was not fooled.
‘You are as secretive as her.’
Linwood said nothing.
‘Well matched, I would say.’
Linwood gave a smile. ‘Perhaps we are,’ he conceded.
‘I knew you liked her.’
‘I have never denied it.’ Even now, he did not. For he was attracted to her. He did want her. Her double dealing did not change that. Only made him more careful, more cautious. Indeed, given Clandon’s relationship to Rotherham, and Venetia’s questions on the duke, he had a positive duty to discover her more fully.
Razeby gave a quiet laugh and shook his head.
‘What do you know of her?’ Linwood asked the question behind his suggestion for the morning ride.
‘It is serious, then?’
‘I think perhaps it is.’ In a way that Razeby could not appreciate.
Razeby raised his eyebrows at his friend’s admission. ‘Well, in that case...’ He rubbed a buff-coloured gloved hand against his mount’s mane and the horse blew an appreciative wicker. ‘Her name has been linked with a number of high-profile men of the ton over the years, Hawick and Devlin being just the latest two. Never takes a man home from what I hear.’
‘Who are the other names on the list?’
‘Arlesford, Hunter, Monteith, and even York himself.’
‘Robert Clandon?’
‘No.’ Razeby frowned his perplexity. ‘Unless you have heard something that I have not.’
Linwood shook his head. ‘I must have been mistaken.’
‘I would not have had Clandon down as her type.’
‘What is her type?’
‘You, seemingly.’ Razeby smiled.
Linwood ignored the remark. He was too aware that Venetia Fox’s interest in him might not be all that it seemed. ‘Which of the men on your list was she mistress to?’
‘Ah,’ Razeby said. ‘That is not clear. She plays her cards very close to her chest does our Miss Fox, and a very nice chest it is, too.’ Razeby grinned at his own jest. ‘Also insists that the men in her life follow suit. The slightest indiscretion and she turns to ice. Come to think of it, maybe that is why she likes you.’
Maybe, but Linwood was not entirely convinced. ‘And her background?’
‘Truth be told, no one knows much about Venetia Fox before she was famous, except that she came up under Kemble’s wing at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden and has stayed loyal to him and his theatre ever since. They say she comes from respectable stock—that her father was a younger son gone into the church, and that Miss Fox was the only daughter of him and his good lady wife. It certainly adds to the mystique that surrounds her—there is something titillating about a priest’s daughter who should be so very good, but turns out to be so enticingly wicked and wanton. But whether there is any truth in the story...’ Razeby gave a shrug ‘...your guess is as good as mine.’ He paused. ‘If you are so interested, I’m sure the Order of the Wolf could find out all about her for you.’
‘The Order has better things to do.’ This was not a matter to be taken to the secret society of which both he and Razeby were members. The society existed for bigger, more important things, to see that right was done. Its members included some of the most powerful and influential men in the country, politicians, nobility, even royalty, whom he could not risk drawing more of their interest to Rotherham’s death.
‘It has, but matters are quiet for now, and I am sure if you were to mention it in the right ear...’
But Linwood shook his head. ‘I will deal with it myself.’
‘As you wish,’ Razeby said. ‘I would not look too hard if I were you, Linwood. She is an actress. And no actress gets to where she is without having a past that is less than lily white. But then you are planning on bedding her, not marrying her. And in that, experience in the bedchamber is no bad thing.’
‘No doubt,’ said Linwood ambiguously.
‘But enough talk of Miss Fox. The mist is lifting and Monty’s growing impatient.’ Razeby’s horse gave a little twitch as if to demonstrate his master’s words. ‘A monkey that I will reach Hyde Park Corner before you.’
Linwood gave a nod, accepting the wager, and the two of them spurred their horses to a canter through the drifting sunlit mist.
* * *
As arranged Linwood called for Venetia the next day at two. Although the day was fine he was travelling in his town coach rather than the landau. Although the curtains were open and the sun shone in through both windows, the atmosphere within it held an intimacy.
He had arranged for a hot brick for her feet and a sheepskin rug should she need it. The day held an autumn chill, but with her legs so close beside Linwood’s Venetia felt nothing of the cold. She was too conscious of his presence, of the intimacy of the situation, of the role she was playing. Yet the strange tension that was between them, that had been between them from the very start, was nothing of play acting. It was as real as the shiver that swept over her skin at his mere proximity and the somersault of her stomach every time he touched her. She was playing a woman in lust, when in fact that’s precisely what she was, no matter how distasteful, or how much she did not want to admit it.
They spoke little. No inconsequential talk. Nothing to break the ice of the tension that was between them. When they reached Gunter’s he helped her down from the carriage. Taking his arm, she walked with him towards the tea room. But as they would have entered a man was leaving. An elderly gentleman, well dressed, walking with a cane in his right hand, while his left arm hung at an unnatural stiff angle by his side. The grey of his hair was peppered with its original black. A neat trimmed silver beard did not disguise the haggard, ravaged face, the lines etched there or the suffering within those dark secretive eyes that seemed so familiar.
Beneath her hand she felt the muscles of Linwood’s arm tense, and the stiffening of his whole stance.
‘Francis,’ the man breathed softly. Venetia knew without being told who he was. The years had not been kind to the Earl of Misbourne, yet she could see in his face the man he had once been, a man that in his youth would have looked very like the one standing by her side.
‘Sir.’ Linwood’s voice was cold and formal with nothing of affection or the respect she had expected for his father. Indeed, his expression was harsher than ever she had seen it.
‘We have not seen you in a while.’
‘I have been busy,’ replied Linwood.
She could sense the strain between the two men, the unwieldy awkwardness that lay between them.
She saw Misbourne’s eyes flick over her.
‘May I introduce Miss Venetia Fox. Miss Fox, the Earl of Misbourne...’ the slightest of pauses before adding ‘...my father.’ There was an unmistakable bitterness to that last word.
Misbourne and Venetia made their devoirs before Misbourne turned his attention back to his son. ‘You will come for lunch on Sunday?’
‘I am busy that day.’
‘Then a brief visit whenever you can manage...for your mother’s sake. You know how she worries over you.’
Linwood gave a stiff nod before saying, ‘If you will excuse me, sir.’
‘Of course.’ She saw something of pain flicker in Misbourne’s eyes.
A small dip of the head in acknowledgement and the moment was over, Misbourne walking away, while inside Gunter’s tearoom Linwood and Venetia were shown to their table, but she saw Linwood’s eyes follow the figure that receded into the distance along the street. And she felt like she had had a glimpse into something very private, an ang
er and vulnerability that Linwood did not want the world to see.
He caught her watching. The look in his eyes was poised, waiting, defensive almost. But then the waiter was there, pencil and paper in hand, ready to take their order. Venetia turned her gaze to him, and, with a smile, asked him to list the choice of cakes for the day, giving Linwood the dignity of the space to regroup himself, even though Linwood’s proximity robbed her of her hunger and the scene that had just played outside Gunter’s front door seemed to echo between them.
‘So,’ she said softly when the waiter left.
She saw Linwood tense slightly.
‘Do you come to the theatre tonight?’
‘I do,’ he said, and there was a peculiar look in his eyes—was it relief or gratitude? ‘There is a certain actress I have a mind to see.’
‘You did not tell me you were a fan of Miss Sweetly.’
He smiled. His hand moved to lie flat upon the table, close to hers but not touching in this so public and respectable place. Yet she could feel the pull of their fingers, the sensation as if he had stroked his over hers. She turned her palm over and saw his gaze drop to where the buttons of her glove gaped to reveal the soft white skin of her inner wrist. And when his eyes met hers again it was as if something passed between them, something shared, something that she did not quite understand.
‘You know my interest is not in Miss Sweetly.’ His voice was low, intimate, velvet.
She held his gaze and kept her words as quiet as his. ‘And yet you recognise her from her days before she came to the theatre.’
He did not pretend to misunderstand. ‘I do.’
She had heard it from Alice’s mouth. She wanted to hear what Linwood would say. ‘Were you her client?’
He raised an eyebrow at her bluntness, then gave her back as good as he got. ‘I have no need to frequent brothels, Miss Fox.’
‘That is not what I asked you.’ It was nothing to do with what she was supposed to be gleaning from him, nothing to do with Rotherham. It should not have mattered to her in the slightest. But in a perverse sort of way it did. Very much so. She found she was holding her breath for his answer.
Dicing With the Dangerous Lord Page 7
