One Week Earlier
The Second Evening with The Sun in Leo
“You’re not looking so good, you know.” Adam frowned, his words making Erasmus doubt his actions of the last two minutes, letting himself into his private office at The Den via his secret passageway.
On the other side of the locked door, where he’d paused only seconds ago…questioning…reliving…
* * *
He’d taken a harsh breath, gathering himself a moment before going through the door and making his presence known.
He hadn’t seen Francine in over twenty-three hours; no sexual release since then either.
Not since he’d stolen her away from her aunt and uncle’s small dinner party, snuck her outside to the garden wall bordering the mews. Shoved her face up against the wall and taken her hard and fast when the feral need struck between the pineapple ice and the gentleman’s port.
Slammed into him like a bolt of lightning, catching him off-guard for the first time in memory. Gave him no warning to fortify himself. Agonizing to the point that it was all he could do to slake his savage lust like the barbarian he was, straighten her gown, and then bruise her lips in a kiss meant to salvage whatever humanity still resided in him—while his flagellating conscience berated him beyond measure.
You reprehensible reprobate—not minding the calendar as though her life depends upon it? When it most certainly does!
Being caught unaware to the point that your teeth become pointy? That you don’t notice the impending thickening and sharpening of your nails? And every other sensation heralding The Change?
Pricking imbecile!
Immoral swine! To risk the most precious—
“Enough!” he’d roared, clamping his lips—and teeth—to her shoulder as he rode out the angst, ripping his body from hers at the last possible second to spend in the dirt.
Shaking. Vibrating. Lips and tongue damn-near quivering upon her flesh.
Disgust seething through him at his unrestrained, inexplicable behavior toward her—only compounded a thousand times over when the taste of her blood met his mouth.
He’d bitten her?
His Francy?
Even now, his nose twitched.
Fingernails felt heavy.
Teeth poked.
While his conscience waged a war: Find Francine and fuck till the insensible somehow made sense? Put her further at risk in the process…
Or chain himself up? Battle the curse as he never had, but knew his father had somehow managed?
Or—
The scents of sex wafted from the perimeter of the locked door in front of him.
Or…
You’re not looking so good.
* * *
But now, with Adam’s critical greeting ringing in his ear, he wished he’d halted—remained on the other side of the corridor, braced the ramparts of his will with anything possible and shut himself off. Sped the other direction, into the night. Where the monsters roamed.
Too late now…
Braving it out, he stalked out onto the main floor, giving Adam no choice but to follow. This early, a decent crowd milled about. Many simply occupying themselves with a stiff drink while they rubbed up a stiff stander, usually with the help of one of his “ladies”.
This close, the scents of sexual lubrication and release nearly felled him. Two couples finished up on the stage, and two more stepped forth to take their place. Turning his back on the scene, he shifted toward his office. Contemplating escape. Or the oblivion behind him?
Making the choice—for the moment—Adam came through the office, shutting the door behind him. He leaned heavily on his podium, evaluating Erasmus, from his cringing toes up past the unbuttoned tailcoat and haphazard hash of a neckcloth to the strands of his stinging hair. “Who am I to give you advice when it comes to proper English appearance?” he asked drolly. “But I sincerely doubt you’d let any new member join our ranks looking as you do now.”
Refusing to acknowledge what he didn’t want to hear, Erasmus foraged clumsily in his pocket before dropping a small package on the podium in front of his friend. Something he’d been meaning to give him for weeks. “Here. Compliments of Franklin and myself.”
Fighting against the fine trembling that had taken hold of his limbs, he clenched the muscles in his arms and legs and stood, as still as possible, while waiting for Adam to unwrap the plain brown paper and reveal the pamphlet, razor and strap within.
Giving a derisive snort, Adam lifted the pamphlet and waved it between them. “Are you joking? A Treatise on Razors?”
“No jest. Sixth edition. Read it.” Keeping his hand as steady as possible, Erasmus pointed to the fine-edged, heavy blade. “Since you refuse to let a barber tend to your beard, learn to use it. With that furry behemoth covering your lip, you draw too much attention otherwise. Cannot operate with the anonymity we both need at times.”
After interviewing half a score of men, professed investigators, and finding them all wanting, Adam had decreed he would look into their unknown patrons on his own.
“Fuck it. You’re right.” Catching himself brushing the mass of whiskers beneath his nose, Adam made a show of checking his timepiece—interestingly, he wore it on some sort of band strapped around his wrist instead of keeping it tucked in a pocket and secured by a fob. “Another twenty-four hours and you’re still squiring about the lovely—unharmed—Lady Francine?”
His jaw grew tight. “That I am.”
Adam gazed off toward the far wall of the main, cavernous room. “Not concerned about the time of year?”
More than you could fathom. “Aye. But more concerned about you poking that big nose of yours where it—”
“Hold up, E.” Adam’s gaze returned to his and he put his arm out between them, palm up. “Is not part of my job as your friend to look out for your interests?”
“Keeping Francine safe interests me greatly,” Erasmus said roughly.
Adam only stared. Quirked his lips in such a manner that the giant mustache took on a life of its own. “Safe?” Adam drew the word out in such a way that infused it with skepticism. “From yourself? Or others?”
The sound that came from his throat sounded like that of a rabid dog; something no self-respecting man—feline cursed or not—would ever permit.
The pamphlet and blade disappeared in the leather satchel Adam squired about. He shot Erasmus an overly casual glance as he finished his task. “Why not just have her take care of you?”
Her? Francine? “I do not want her near me right—”
“E, sex appeases the urges, right? So have at it. The two of you have been going at it like rabbits based on that dopey grin of yours. Why not—”
This time his throat made a strangled hissing noise, one sufficient to halt Adam’s inopportune advice. “One, I am not sure what you mean by ‘dopey’, but I daresay that insipid word most certainly does not apply to me. Two, going at it like rabbits?” Sounded more like a snarl that time. “Do not speak of her in such a manner.”
Adam took a step away, hands raised in surrender. “Apologies, my lord. I—”
“Three,” Erasmus interrupted without compunction. Adam only ever my lorded him when he knew he’d blundered—and badly. “Sex lessens the urges. Does not erase them. I refuse—” He interrupted himself. “Three point five—do not even dare think of her and sex in the same sentence. I would hate to break your jaw.”
Adam bit his lips against a smile, damn him. He knew Erasmus too well. Knew he might threaten but would never harm his closest ally. “Never again, my lord.”
“Back to three. I refuse to sully her with the curse.” His friend wavered. Which meant either his sight was weak—an impossibility—or his legs were shaking. Trembling like a virgin’s on her wedding night, damn him. Fighting the urge to roar, to deride the weakness quivering through him, he hardened his resolve—and his voice. “We shall be apart for a few days. I will take care of things on my own and she will remain safe. All will
be well before she has time to miss me.”
“Take care of things on your own?” The smile was gone now, replaced with censure. “We both know that doesn’t work. You’ll need a woman.”
True. Palming his staff by himself wouldn’t mitigate the urges a shred. Only carnal attention from a female would do that.
Adam cleared his throat, then added, “Already need one, by the looks of things.”
Bracing one hand on the podium, Erasmus turned to survey the tables and stage area—currently occupied by several bodies in various states of dress and disarray. Lucie Mae caught his eye and waved before turning back to her energetic tonguing of the bagpipe before her. “Then ’tis a good thing I have plenty of women right here to satisfy my needs, is it not?”
12
Time to Brave the Night
Rum
totally out - look for whatever we can get
* * *
Gin
Gordons - 4 bottles
Plymouth - 3 bottles
* * *
Whiskey
Jameson – 0
Bushmills – 2 bottles
* * *
Port
Smiths - 4 bottles
Sandeman - 2
Morgan’s - 5
Ferreira - 2
Gould’s - out
Hunt - out
* * *
What I wouldn’t give for an ice-cold bottle of Budweiser
* * *
Brandy
Martell - ½ cask
Hine’s - out
Ranson - nada
RMartin - nearly full cask
Hennesey - 2
* * *
Ale
Another round of chaos burst through the main door, startling Adam from his current inventory, prepping for Monday’s order. He’d already seen two assholes ejected for drunk and douchebaggery conduct. Were they back—again—trying to force their way in?
“Lord Blakely!”
“Lord Blakely!”
Both high and low pitches voiced the loud cries.
“Mr. Adam!”
“Mr. Adam! Are you here?”
Before he could even begin to respond, the same two tones started yelling his name.
People shouting for him in voices he wouldn’t recognize if his life depended upon it. By the way they were hollering, you would think someone’s very well might.
Their doorkeeper was having a hell of a time keeping the two from shoving their way into the main room. Abandoning his scribbles, he hustled their direction, taking them in at a glance. Definitely never seen the pair before. A tall boy and his... Sister?
Girl? Doxy-for-the-evening? No, for she was barely out of the schoolroom, brandishing a leather duffle and looking as though she was ready to move in.
No way was he letting these two inside tonight—what was left of it. Or any other. Not even with hell raining down on him, given how incapacitated Erasmus had been these last few nights, leaving Adam jumping through hoops like a trained rabbit, trying to keep all the spinning plates circling his head from crashing down around his ears.
His bulk combined with Baywick’s easily pushed the two back into the foyer and he yanked the main door shut behind them.
The entry room was just that—a smallish space, no bigger than twelve feet square, with plain dark walls, no windows, and little furniture save a lone desk and chair in the corner facing toward the single narrow door that led out onto the street. Not much light either, just two lanterns, each on opposite walls, kept intentionally dim. The goal being that if anyone who didn’t rightly belong wandered in by accident, their doorkeeper of the night, already attune to the shadows, would usher them right back out.
Baywick, a former military man, took his sentinel duties seriously and had the brawn to back them up. Except, it appeared, when the intruders were wispy enough it looked as though one clout from him wouldn’t just send them packing, but might flatten them straight to the floor.
The man wore a floppy hat pulled low, shielding half his face. The lower half had certainly never seen the sharp side of a blade. Lad couldn’t be old enough to shave. Had a pudgy middle quite at odds with the slim jaw and long neck. Hmm.
The female at his side, a few inches shorter, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, was eagerly inspecting everything in the room, from Baywick…to him.
Both stopped their caterwauling long enough to finally take a breath now that they’d gained attention.
Seeing the tall gentleman readying himself to do battle again, Adam waved the hired man down. “I’ve got it from here, Baywick.”
Knowing better than to keep the Inner Sanctum unguarded—sound from upstairs didn’t travel well through the thick walls into this room—he jerked one thumb over his shoulder pointing the way he’d just come. “Keep an eye on things in there for a minute, will you?”
“Aye, sir.”
The second the door was secured behind the other man, he turned to the two invaders.
He didn’t have time for this shit. Maybe he could intimidate them out?
Glaring at them equally, he led with, “Who the devil are you and why the hell are you trying to barge in?”
As though they really were related, their eyes bugged in unison. It wasn’t until seeing the twin expressions on their faces that he realized, man’s clothes or not, he was facing two females. Likely ladies, judging by the tasteful, no doubt expensive, gown on the shorter, younger one. And he’d more than blundered, speaking as he would have in front of males. Or common folk. His folk.
The “man” of the pair stepped right up to him. “Are you Mr. Adam? I need to see Lord Blakely. Immediately. The matter is of the utmost importance.”
“Please,” the younger one added, transferring the bag to one hand and snaking an arm out to halt the forward progress of her companion. Leading him to realize she was a bit older than he’d thought at first. Definitely more forthright than he’d expected, given her assuredly sheltered upbringing.
In all the time he’d worked with Erasmus, a true young lady—of the innocent, ingénue sort—never set foot in The Den. His friend and boss would have laughed their asses right out the way they came.
Sure, toffs sometimes brought their women with them. Mistresses, street workers who made their living on their backs—or on their knees. Not well-bred, virginal ladies.
Had he even met one before? A virgin? Not in two decades for sure.
Don’t you mean two decades and 200 years? part of him snickered.
A part he’d become accomplished at ignoring.
Erasmus might have run what basically amounted to a gentleman’s club with hookers, but he did it in style. With class. If that could be applied to doxies and strumpets. Regardless, these two had no business, absolutely no business—
“If you could only help my cousin. She needs to find her betrothed and we are lost as to what other avenues might be open to us.”
Wrenching his gaze from the wide-eyed lady whose confident nature tugged at him, he swung back to the one in gentlemen’s clothing. “You’re Francine? Blakely’s Francy?” Yeah, E had let that pet name slip once and Adam hadn’t let him hear the end of it since.
But…
Oh God. Of all the rotten timing. Of all the completely insane possibilities. His boss’s woman. Here? Now? In the dead of night—with the curse in full fledge? Lord have mercy.
“Aye. The very one.” As though to confirm it, she tugged off the floppy cap. Hair of spun gold cascaded down, soft ringlets bouncing into place along her neck and ears. She was lovely—even with the paunchy middle he knew had to be part of her disguise.
And looked much like the younger one, who was also bouncing, just on her feet not with her hair. No springy ringlets in sight, her smooth, fair hair coiled demurely atop her head with a few straight strands pulled down in front of her ears from her temples. Even he knew that wasn’t the style, just a small something to set the bouncing beauty apart from the others he’d glimpsed from afar. Had he ever ha
d that much energy?
“I need to see him.” The serene, non-bouncing one spoke again. “Right now, if you will, Mr. Adam. Lord Blakely, that is.”
“It’s just plain Adam, no mister. He’s not here. He’s—”
“Is he away—to his estate again? Nay.” She answered herself almost instantly. “He would have written that—”
“He’s written you?”
“Daily. Here.” She fished a small purse from a baggy pocket and thrust a packet of letters under his nose. “I know he still cares, else he would not have bothered. And if he no longer wanted to be betrothed, I have no doubt he would come right out and state that as well. Will you help me, please?” Pale eyes beseeched. “Take me to him, Mr. Adam…”
Her gaze drifted overhead. “Whether he really is here, dallying with others or—” She looked back at him, unshed tears turning her eyes lustrous. “If he has set up a brothel in his bedchamber at home, take me to him regardless.”
“I can see why he loves you.” Damn. Not what he meant to say. But she was remarkably composed, this woman his friend had claimed, even in her distress.
The other stepped sideways, placing the duffle on the floor and putting an arm around Lady Francine’s waist. “Please, Mr. Adam, sir, Lord Blakely made Francine promise to not traipse through London on her own—and yet, she was willing to do so. I had to force her to let me accompany her. She only wants to help him.” She lifted the small stack of notes from his loose possession and returned them to her cousin.
But not before running a finger over the ink smeared on what he surmised was the latest one. “You see how his writing has deteriorated? We are not fabricating his distress, I assure you.”
Distress? “That’s one word for it.” Adam had only witnessed the beast once, the night they’d met. A here-today, gone-yesterday mirage that wreaked havoc with his already stunned senses. Causing him to doubt what he’d seen for a full eleven months—until witnessing the extreme change in his new friend’s behavior the following year.
Ensnared by Innocence: Steamy Regency Shapeshifter Page 19
