Dicing With the Dangerous Lord

by Margaret McPhee

  ‘Let us seal our agreement.’

  ‘And do you have a suggestion for how we might do that?’ They were words designed to torture him. She was a woman who knew her power. Images of her naked and beneath him, of his mouth upon hers, of him riding her, swam in his mind. He thrust the imaginings aside with the ruthless hand of a master.

  ‘In the conventional way...for now.’ He took her right hand in his, a handshake in all except that they were standing so close it looked like the touch of two lovers. ‘Since it binds us in honour.’

  She said nothing but beneath his hand he felt the tiny shiver go through her as she understood that she was, in truth, honour-bound.

  And only then did he smile.

  Chapter Seven

  It was a little after three the next afternoon when Linwood learned something of what lay behind Venetia Fox’s dislike of Mrs Silver. The sun shone bright through the window of White’s Gentleman’s Club, lighting the elegant large room in pale white light, bleaching the colour from the dark-mahogany wood panels that lined the walls and the deep rich blue of the curtains and warming the room in such contrast to the icy temperatures outside. The room was almost empty. A few elderly peers were dozing in the line of high-back leather-wing chairs. Old Lord Soames was reading his newspaper, hard of hearing and oblivious to the loud snores of one of his neighbours. The ticking of the grandfather clock was slow and steady and comfortable. Linwood and Razeby were drinking coffee at the far end of the room, discreet and away from the famous bow show-window.

  ‘Alice worries over her friend’s association with you.’ Razeby sipped at his coffee.

  ‘That does not surprise me. Miss Sweetly thinks me the very devil.’

  ‘Ah, but I learned a few things about your Miss Fox that might.’ Razeby smiled.

  ‘Go on.’ Linwood was careful not to sound too eager.

  ‘I understand from Alice that you know of her secret—that she was in the employment of Mrs Silver.’

  ‘I hope she made it clear to you the nature of our dealings. That we did not...’

  ‘She did.’ Razeby smiled. ‘She is the sweetest little thing.’

  ‘You were telling me of Miss Fox,’ Linwood prompted.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Razeby collected himself from his thoughts of his new mistress. ‘I thought you would be interested to learn that it was Miss Fox who persuaded Alice to leave Mrs Silver’s and join the theatre. She took her under her wing, made her her protégée. Alice is eternally loyal and grateful, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Old news, Razeby.’

  ‘But Miss Fox’s offer to Miss Vert on the night of my little dinner gathering is not.’

  Linwood stilled and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘To help her “escape” Mrs Silver’s establishment. Little wonder Mrs Silver is outraged, even if Miss Vert declined the offer.’

  Linwood thought of the barely concealed dislike he had witnessed between the two women and he knew exactly what Razeby was insinuating. ‘Miss Fox is poaching Mrs Silver’s girls.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  Linwood remembered the night the green-masked courtesan had been the table decoration at Razeby’s. He remembered, too, the fierceness of Venetia Fox’s reaction on seeing Miss Vert’s display.

  ‘Alice let slip one other interesting little titbit.’ Razeby looked like the cat that had got the cream. ‘Did you know that all of the maids in Miss Fox’s employ were once ladies of the night? All rescued by Miss Fox.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘According to Alice, Miss Fox has very strong feelings when it comes to prostitution.’ He paused. ‘It does make one wonder as to why.’ And to Venetia Fox’s personal history. Razeby was too diplomatic to say it.

  ‘Indeed, it does.’ Linwood met his friend’s eyes. ‘How much do you think Miss Sweetly knows?’

  ‘Ah, there is the rub,’ said Razeby. ‘Very little, I am sure. It seems Miss Fox keeps her secrets all to herself.’

  But she would reveal them to him. One by one. Until he knew all that there was to know of her.

  * * *

  Venetia Fox sat opposite Linwood in the town coach that night. The lantern within had not been lit. The bright silver moonlight and the dull fiery glow of the street lamps that spilled in through the coach’s windows were enough to see each other by. The roads were busy already with carriages that queued to take their occupants into Covent Garden and the theatres that lined it.

  ‘Traffic jams at theatre opening and closing times. It is the disadvantage of living so close to Covent Garden, although they do not usually affect me,’ she said.

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because I am in the theatre hours before the curtain goes up.’

  ‘And hours afterwards?’

  ‘Not quite so long, but enough time for the jam of coaches to have disappeared.’

  ‘Along with the gentlemen waiting for you.’

  She held his gaze boldly. ‘It is the occupational hazard for any actress.’ And so it was. But not whatever was between her and Clandon.

  ‘You could always leave by the stage door.’ He was testing if she was adhering to their oath of speaking the truth.

  There was a small pause before she admitted it. ‘I do,’ she said.

  ‘I will remember.’

  Her eyes met his across the carriage. ‘Are you planning to surprise me one of these nights?’

  He smiled, and did not tell her he had already done that. ‘If I told you, it would not be a surprise.’

  ‘You do not need to wait in the darkness and cold of Hart Street...when there is the warmth and comfort of a dressing room within.’ She would not want him chancing upon her liaison with Clandon.

  ‘Then I will come to your dressing room...should I wish to surprise you.’

  There was a small silence.

  ‘I would like you to come.’ She glanced away. ‘But I confess that I do not like surprises.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ he said. ‘But sometimes they are worth the discomfort.’ Ambiguous words—that could be interpreted in many ways.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed. But her eyes held his too boldly, in that way he was coming to recognise as her defence against a threat.

  The tension notched a little tighter. Two people engaged in a duel of truths and deception...and desire.

  He backed off a little, easing the pressure, changing the subject. ‘So how do you find being in the audience instead of upon the stage?’

  She gave a shrug. ‘In truth, I cannot enjoy it. I analyse the actors, I watch for the cues and the shifts in scenery. For me the theatre is always work, whether I am on the stage or seated in the plushest of boxes within the auditorium.’

  ‘Then why are you coming to the theatre tonight?’

  She looked at him, and the moonlight emphasised the darkness of her brows and hair, and the pale smooth beauty of her face. ‘Do you really need me to tell you?’

  ‘I could hazard a guess. But given our recent...agreement, I thought I would just ask you.’

  ‘Very well.’ Her eyes held his. ‘I accepted your invitation to the theatre tonight so that I might spend the evening in your company.’ She paused. ‘Why did you invite me?’

  ‘Because I wanted to be with you, Venetia.’ He was not lying. Even were it not for Rotherham he would not have turned away from this game. He enjoyed her company, even knowing that there was so much she was hiding. In a way he did not blame her, for was not he just the same? Hiding greater secrets than she would ever guess.

  She smiled.

  ‘We do not need to go to the theatre to be together,’ he said.

  ‘But you have bought the tickets. Our seats will remain empty. And I would not inflict that upon any performer.’

  He tapped his walking cane on the roof of the coach, stepping down from the carriage when it came to a halt. A couple of ragged prostitutes approached him. He gave them the tickets and more money than they could earn if they lay on their backs for a week before climbing back insi
de.

  She was watching him with a strange expression on her face. ‘You surprise me.’

  ‘And you do not like surprises.’

  ‘I like that one. It was a kind gesture.’ He remembered then what Razeby had told him of Venetia Fox’s strong feelings on prostitution.

  ‘Perhaps they can lose themselves in a different world tonight.’

  ‘More likely they will sell the tickets and spend it with the rest of the money on gin.’ She sounded saddened, yet resigned to the fact.

  ‘At least they have the choice. Either way, the seats shall not go empty.’

  She was silent and it seemed that she was studying his face through the shadows and the moonlight. ‘If not to the theatre, where shall we go?’

  ‘Anywhere that you desire. The choice is yours to make. Where in all the world would you most like to be right now, on this clear starlit night?’

  She smiled, knowing that he could not realise just how his description of the night touched her. Memories of the past, both happy and sad, whispered from the corners of her mind. She wondered if she dare reveal so much, by telling him. But one had to be daring when one diced with the devil. ‘You will be disappointed.’

  ‘With you, Venetia, that is not possible.’

  ‘Very well.’ She paused. ‘I should like to be in the glasshouse in my garden.’

  If he were surprised, he did not show it. ‘Then to your glasshouse we shall go.’

  She hesitated, looking across into his face, wondering at the man he was. ‘We could walk to escape the traffic jam.’

  He reached through the darkness and took her hand in his. ‘Then, Miss Fox, please allow me the honour of accompanying you to your glasshouse...on foot.’

  ‘I would like that very much, Lord Linwood.’

  They smiled at one another, a warm genuine smile that seemed to bind them together, before he slipped outside and spoke to his coachman.

  Linwood did not put the step in place, but lifted her down onto the ground, sliding her close so that she could feel his body against hers, all hard, strong muscle, making her feel that she had never been more conscious of him as a man. She breathed in the scent of him and felt her blood stir in response. It was with reluctance that she stepped away to accept the arm that he offered, resting her fingers lightly in the crook of his elbow as if they were a respectable couple. Together they walked off down the street gridlocked with carriages, away from the theatre and the hubbub of busyness.

  They spoke little as they walked, and yet that same feeling was there between them, that same parry and thrust of attraction in this strange duel she was dancing with him. The excitement, and the thrill of walking the knife edge of revelation. Telling truths that she had not revealed to anyone else. Tempting the same from him. Together in a game of intimacy and passion, of trust and deceit. Her reveal. His reveal. Turn and turn about. But his arm was solid and real and warm beneath her gloved fingers, and she held on to him a little more tightly against the chill of the night.

  * * *

  It did not take long to reach her house. Albert’s face registered surprise to see her, and even more so to see Linwood step out of the shadows behind her.

  ‘Please come in, Lord Linwood.’ She was very conscious of the door closing behind them and of the fact that this was the first time she had invited a man, any man, into her home.

  Albert moved to take her cloak, but she shook her head. ‘Thank you, Albert, but no. Lord Linwood and I will be in the glasshouse.’ The butler’s eyes slid to Linwood before coming back to her.

  ‘Very good, ma’am,’ was all he said, but she knew what he was thinking, knew what all her staff would think. Not that she could let their opinion or anyone else’s stop her. Her heart was tripping a little too fast and she could feel the warmth of a blush touching to her cheeks.

  Linwood followed her downstairs and into the kitchen at the back of the house. Neither of them spoke as Albert lit her a lantern and passed it to her.

  ‘Will you be requiring anything else, ma’am?’

  ‘No, thank you, that will be all.’ She lifted the heavy key from the peg on the wall beside the door, feeling the comfort and familiarity of the metal within her hand.

  He opened the back door for her and she walked through it just as she had done a thousand times before. Except this time it was different.

  The moonlight was so bright that there was no need for the lantern. She held it out before her regardless, tracing her steps along a path she knew so well she could have walked it blindfold. It was a narrow path, bordered by bushes and flower beds in which the blooms had faded and died with the summer. Behind her the tread of Linwood’s shoes made no noise, but she was acutely aware of his presence. She could feel him there, even though there was no contact between them. Sense him as if all of her senses were sharper, more sensitive than usual.

  In the centre of the garden, largely hidden from view from her house and those surrounding, the glasshouse stood, dark and silent and inviting. The key turned easily within the lock, and as the door swung open the moonlight rippled and shimmered upon the glass of its panes.

  She hesitated, that moment seeming to stretch. The wind whispered through the branches of the trees and the few leaves that still lingered on their witch-finger branches. And across her mind crept a tiny doubt, that she was making a mistake in bringing the enemy within her castle walls, and to this secret place above all others.

  Linwood, the wind seemed to whisper. Linwood, calling his name.

  She turned to him, looking up into the face of the handsome man standing so silently behind her. She knew the risk she was taking in bringing him here, the even bigger risk of their being alone. Dicing with the devil, indeed. Taking his hand in her own, she led him across the threshold into the glasshouse.

  Chapter Eight

  Venetia set the lantern down on an old oak work bench. Contrary to Linwood’s expectation there were no flower pots, no trowels or gardening implements. Only the work bench, a heating stove and a broad day bed, in dark leather, that would not have looked out of place in an upmarket drawing room.

  ‘No gardening,’ he said.

  ‘No gardening at all,’ she confirmed with a secret smile. ‘I come here most nights that I am not working, although I have been rather remiss of late...due to other distractions.’

  He smiled at that. ‘I have been a little distracted recently myself.’

  ‘Only a little?’ she asked.

  He smiled again. ‘I concede it is very much more than a little.’

  She leaned back against the potting bench, watching him. ‘I have never brought anyone here before. Not even Alice.’

  The lantern was behind her so that her face was in shadow. The smell of night was in the air all around them—damp and cold and fresh.

  ‘Then I am honoured, Venetia.’

  The silence stretched between them but it felt natural and comfortable.

  ‘This glasshouse is the reason that I took the house.’ She surveyed the place with obvious tenderness. ‘I think I fell in love with it from the very first moment I saw it.’ She smiled, an inward smile, almost as if she had forgotten he was there. But then she returned her gaze to him. ‘Have you worked it out yet? What I come here to do?’

  ‘Escape?’ he offered.

  She smiled, more fully this time. ‘I suppose there is something of that in it. But there is more. Take another guess.’

  ‘Learn your lines.’

  ‘You are not trying, my lord.’

  He stepped closer. ‘You truly wish me to guess your secrets?’

  The tension and hints of darkness suddenly whispered between them.

  She did not answer his question, only told him another truth. ‘Many men have tried. None have succeeded.’

  He smiled at the challenge. ‘You have told me that you come here only at night and that it is always alone. There are no books or scripts, no candles or lanterns save the one you have brought to light our path. Therefore, you
do not read or learn your lines here. And when I look around the key piece of furniture is a day bed on which you might lie in comfort.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘You come here to...’

  ‘To...?’

  Their eyes met and held.

  ‘To stargaze.’

  She gasped her astonishment and then laughed. ‘You are quite correct!’

  ‘You are a secret astronomer, Miss Fox.’

  ‘Hardly. I am ill educated, but I like to look at the stars, at their wonder and beauty and brightness.’ She glanced up to the roof as she spoke and he found his gaze following, but all he saw was the reflection of the lantern and their own faces.

  He leaned across and closed the lantern shutters, blinding its light, and rendering them in a darkness that was almost complete.

  She did not move and neither did he. Just stood motionless and close while their eyes adjusted to the blackness that enveloped them together. And when they looked up again, the glass was not there, only the black velvet of the night sky and the brilliance of the diamond jewels studded within it.

  He heard the sudden release of her breath, but whether it was in awe of the stars or that she had been holding it, he did not know.

  ‘Is it not a wonder?’ she asked with an innocence that was contrary to all of her usual polished sophistication.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ he said, and he was telling the truth, although it was not the stars to which he was referring. It was a wonder to see her like this. See the real woman beneath the mask she presented to the world. ‘Look over there in the southern part of the sky—that is Pegasus.’

  She tilted her head and he felt the brush of her hair against his with the movement and smelled her perfume. ‘I cannot see it.’

  ‘See the square shape of the four stars at the bottom?’ He pointed.

  ‘Oh, yes...’ He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I have looked at those stars all these years and never knew what they were before.’

  They stood silent and watching. And then she dropped her gaze to his, as if she were weighing him up, and massaging a hand lightly against the nape of her neck as she did so. ‘There is a more comfortable way to do this.’