Lady Killer

by Michele Jaffe

  “Clio!” he shouted with exaltation, panting and moaning her name. It was the sweetest sound she had ever heard.

  When he could move again, he pulled her up his body and held her against his chest and kissed her on the lips. Those lips.

  “Clio Thornton, what have you done to me?” Miles asked. His body was tingling, his mind was reeling, his ears were ringing, and he was lying in bed with the most beautiful woman in the world.

  “I’m not sure,” she answered candidly. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, experimenting with the slight ache in her cheeks. “I read about that once in a book, but I do not know what to call it.” She blushed slightly. “Did I do it right? Was it pleasant?”

  Miles shook his head. “It was most definitely not pleasant.”

  Clio looked alarmed. “I did it wrong. I am sorr—”

  “Definitely not pleasant,” Miles interrupted. “More like extraordinary. Sublime. Spectacular.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And a bit excruciating. As a matter of fact, I think it is time for me to retaliate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Miles did not answer, but used his body to tip her onto her side. He stretched himself out behind her, his chin resting on the top of her head, his chest pressed close to her back. Sliding one arm underneath her, he let the other trail along the curve of her waist, to her hip, then let it rest there. “Look in front of you,” he whispered in her ear.

  Clio’s eyes had been closed as she reveled in the sensation of his body pressed against her back, and when she opened them she inhaled sharply. In the mirror that had been propped against the wall, she could see herself, naked, extended to her full length, amidst the tangle of white linen sheets. Behind her rose the planes of Miles’s body, his cheek leaning now against her cheek, his arm possessively draped over her stomach. As she watched, he let his tongue slip out and trace the curve of her ear, then turned his eyes back to the mirror and held her gaze. She felt the heat of his hand moving down her stomach, the soft caresses of his fingers as they combed through the brown curls between her legs.

  “You are so beautiful, Clio,” he whispered to her, kissing her forehead, her cheekbones. “Look at how lovely you are.”

  Clio could not answer, could barely even moan, as, her eyes locked on his, she felt his fingers enter her. She sighed with awe as his thumb and pointer finger pulled her taut, while his middle finger snaked over the glistening surface of her rose-colored bud. Each move he made echoed wildly in the cavern of her body, and she felt as though inside of her a spring were being coiled tighter and tighter.

  “Put your hand over mine,” Miles commanded her, and she did, her fingers lying over his, over the fingers that were touching her. In the mirror she saw only his eyes, but she felt his hand on her, her hand on his. The rhythm of them both caressing and stroking her body, the feel of his fingers under hers, of her fingers touching herself, too, was driving her wild. Her fingers slipped off of his, so that she was touching herself while he held her open, but her glance never left his. She stroked herself tentatively at first, then more forcefully, stunned by the exciting feel of her fingers on her slick wetness. She grew hotter and bigger under her own touch and she felt her nipples turn to hard points. All the while his eyes did not leave hers in the mirror but watched from behind, incinerating her with their heated gaze. She could feel his body growing hard behind her, could tell that looking at her aroused him as much as having him look aroused her. This awareness of him observing her as, for the first time, she brought herself to a climax, wound the spring of her self-control to its limit. Looking only at him, only into his gaze, she felt herself let go, felt pleasure twist and curl in wild eddies through her body, springing along every sinew, filling her with warmth and joy and finally almost painful pleasure. Her release came not once but three times, first by her hand, then with the additional pressure of one of Miles’s fingers on her very tip, then with his whole hand pressed over hers, with their fingers twined together, together pressing and stroking and buffing at her until she hollered his name and shuddered against him.

  Miles held her tightly against him, waiting for whatever strange burst of insight she was going to share with him in the aftermath of her climax. He heard nothing but felt her lips move against his chest and strained to make out the words.

  “I love you,” he thought he saw her say. But of course, that was just his imagination.

  What she had really said, what she said again a few moments later, was “Food.”

  “Food?” Miles repeated. “What does that have to do with the vampire?”

  Clio tilted her head so she was looking at him upside down. “Nothing. I am hungry.” Her expression altered and she flipped onto her stomach so she was facing him. “But I am wrong. It does have something to do with the vampire. Because, you see, I feel fine. And if I were the vampire, and if I had not killed anyone since we found Flora, I would not feel fine at all. I would be ill.”

  “Does this mean that you will believe me now? Or rather, believe that you are not the vampire?”

  “Probably,” Clio answered cautiously. “It would be good to know if a body was found last night.”

  Miles slipped out of the bed. Without bothering to pull on a robe he crossed to the door, opened it, and summoned Corin. Clio meant to listen to their conversation, but she could not drag her eyes from his body, from the curve of his bottom, the muscles that rippled in his back as he leaned against the door frame, the way his thighs and calves looked like the models for an antique sculpture. He was spectacularly beautiful, and even more so when he turned around and sauntered back to the bed.

  “No new bodies have been found,” he reported, then, feeling her eyes on him, asked with amusement, “What are you looking at?”

  Clio swallowed hard. “I felt it last night, but I did not realize how big and thick it was.”

  “You really should not say things like that, Clio, not if you want me to stay sane,” Miles whispered, acutely aware of the fact that he was growing hard.

  “What do you—oooh,” Clio said as the direction of her gaze changed. “I was talking about your scar.”

  “My scar,” Miles repeated as if the words had no meaning. “Oh. My scar. On my stomach.”

  “You got that three years ago. In pursuit of the vampire,” Clio said. “When you caught him sucking that woman’s blood. You almost died.”

  “Yes,” Miles nodded.

  “I am glad you didn’t.”

  She had sounded so sincere when she said it, as if it really made an important difference to her whether he lived or died, and Miles had been thrilled. But that had been seven hours ago. Now, seven hours and five carafes of wine later, Miles knew better. Now, thanks to Justin Greeley’s kind visit to him, he saw it all with piercing clarity.

  Late that morning, when he had come back from reassuring his cousins that he was fine, he had found her pacing his room, brimming with excitement. She had shown him the news sheet that reported her arrest, assuming the vampire had planted the story and seeing it as evidence that the fiend was getting desperate to get rid of her.

  He should have gone along with it. He never should have told her the truth. But he had been convinced that she would see his plan was the best. He had been positive she would understand that faking her arrest and having every person who came to the jail to see her watched was the best way to identify the vampire. Surely the vampire would come, just to be certain. And surely he would give himself away by some look, some sign, when he found that the person in the cell was not Clio Thornton at all.

  But she had not understood. All she had understood was that it meant she was confined to his house, to his room. And that he had kept a secret from her. Well damn her, who the hell was she to berate him for having secrets? She had secrets, too. Such as the name of that man she was in love with. Who the hell was he?

  Of course, he had learned that soon enough. Miles dragged the sixth decanter of wine toward him and, n
ot bothering with a glass, emptied it directly into his mouth. He was glad he had given Corin the night off so he would not have to tolerate his subtle, calculating glance at the pile of empty wine bottles that told the story of his debauch. He had already endured it once, when he asked Corin to bring in twelve decanters, and he did not think he could stomach it again.

  He had given the order immediately after Justin Greeley’s charming call on him. Justin had gained access to him by saying that he came at Clio’s behest. Silly foolish Clio, he explained as Miles’s guards unhanded him, had asked him to visit the viscount, and tell him that she wanted no more to do with him. She had just used the viscount for retaliation when her lover ran off to France, but with Justin back her need for revenge was at an end. Personally, Justin confided, if he had been a woman he would have preferred the viscount, but there was no accounting for taste, and Clio was adamant on the fact that she loved Justin. Justin averred as how women like Clio might be interesting at the beginning but palled in time, and wondered aloud if he would be clever enough to evade her watchful eye. He sighed and said he envied the viscount’s near escape from Clio’s snares, and was glad to be the instrument of his deliverance. Miles had nodded to everything Greeley had said, and kept nodding until the hateful house-hound excused himself and left. Measured, steady nodding, like the regular rotation of the gears on a timed bomb.

  Justin’s story had not felt quite right, but Miles realized he no longer knew what right was. Clio had felt right. So right it hurt.

  Miles gulped the contents of decanter number seven and turned to assess his untapped supply. Five decanters left. Five days until his wedding. Five days he intended to spend well and truly drunk.

  Damn Clio Thornton.

  The messenger came just after midnight. He was more a boy than a messenger, scraggly and underfed, but he refused to take any food.

  “Give the message to the lady and leave, them’s my orders,” he told Snug four times, and finally if unwillingly, Snug showed him into the study where Clio was working.

  Or rather, fuming. Toast and Inigo were sitting at the far end, away from her, instinctively avoiding the waves of rage that were emanating from her without her realizing it. Even the puppy, who lay curled at Toast’s feet staring up at him adoringly, was strangely subdued by her mood. She had been poring over her version of A Compendium all night, into which she had copied all the strange underlining from Miles’s copy earlier that day, but the words ‘E’en rises and die else young fatter is every moon hide can then and comely’ refused to resolve themselves into any reasonable sentiment no matter how hard she glowered at them. She did not know why she had bothered; Miles had disclaimed any knowledge of how the underlinings got into his book, and they could be as old as the text itself, but at least it was something to do. Or not do, since her eyes kept wandering from the page. The truth was that her mind was distracted, which made her glower harder. As Snug and the boy entered, she looked up and transferred her glower to them.

  “He insisted on seeing you, Lady Thornton,” Snug said apologetically.

  “What is it?” Clio snapped, then was sorry. “I beg your pardon. What can I do for you?”

  “Here,” the boy said, extending a folded packet. Then, he quickly backed out of the study and ran through the door.

  Clio opened the packet, scanned its contents, and yelled, “Wait!” But the boy, following orders, was long gone.

  ‘I must meet you,’ the message read. ‘Tomorrow, at ten o’clock in the morning, be at the west crypt of Saint Paul’s. It is of the greatest importance that you come alone.’

  Under normal circumstances Clio would have disregarded the message entirely. She had alienated enough people—besides the Special Commissioner—in the course of her investigations to know better than to attend secret rendezvous. Particularly those held in deserted parts of popular meeting places perfectly designed to let people slip in and out without being seen, a category that might have been invented especially for the crypt of Saint Paul’s. But she knew without question that she would attend this meeting, knew she would do whatever the message said as soon as she had seen it. There was no mistaking that the hand which had requested the meeting was the same as the one that had told her You do not know what you are three days earlier. It would be a relief, if not a pleasure, finally to find out.

  The words left a bitter taste in her mouth. Not at all like the taste of Miles. She shuddered as she remembered the morning, his arms, his hands, his smell. Had it all been a lie? All a ploy to get her to acquiesce easily to his plans. Had he seduced her to ensure her compliance?

  When, that morning, she had learned the news that “Clio Thornton” had been arrested and was being held at Newgate as the vampire, she was thrilled. This, at last, was proof that she was not the fiend. Only the vampire himself would have orchestrated such a ploy. She was free of the taint, innocent of the crimes she had feared.

  And then Miles had explained it to her. Explained it in calm, measured tones. Explained without apology, as if he could not understand why she would be mad that he had lied to her, that he really had been holding her prisoner, that he had given her false hope. That he had made love to her just to keep her in his house. Although, he had said in an icy tone, he did not know why he was bothering to explain anything to a woman even the Special Commissioner had deemed unfit to investigate.

  How could he do this? How could he have acted the way he did. Were all his words false? Had he been forced to struggle through their time together, forced to pretend she was someone else? His voice rang in her ears, saying I can see fireworks anytime but I will only have you for a few days, saying You are spectacular Clio Thornton, saying happy birthday, and suddenly Clio had to know. Had to know if it had all been fake. Had to know before her meeting the next day, had to know before she learned what she really was. Had to know if he had been lying to her the entire time.

  She ran to Dearbourn Hall, almost invisible in the feeble light of the quarter moon, slinking around the side of the stables and into the servant’s corridor next to the kitchen. She forced herself to stop when she was inside, and catch her breath. She would be reasoned. Logical. Coherent. When she was only vaguely panting, she continued down the corridor, finally stopping at the door that led to his bedroom. It slid open soundlessly.

  The place was dark and, as best she could make out by the light seeping in from around the entrance to the outer chamber, empty. Hearing a whisper of voices, she tiptoed toward the door through which the light was coming and pressed her eye against it.

  Miles was sitting in a chair, his head back, his eyes closed. He looked like he was sleeping, but that seemed unlikely given that the elegant form of Lady Starrat sat astride his lap. As Clio watched, Lady Starrat deliberately dragged Miles’s shirt from his breeches and bent over. Miles gave a low sigh.

  “Ahh, Miles, aren’t we dangerous,” Lady Starrat whispered to him in a heady voice, running her hands over his stomach. “My dearest wasp. I will leave you so you can never sting anyone again.” Miles murmured something Clio could not make out, and she did not bother to try. Calmly, silently, she backed away, crossed the room, and left.

  As she closed the door of the service corridor behind her she heard Lady Starrat begin to hum The first time I did see you dear. “A very good friend used to sing that song often,” Clio remembered Miles saying at the Jubilee Fair, remembered his wistful tone and expression. A very good friend indeed.

  Clio’s calmness abandoned her then. She stumbled blindly through the corridors, rushing out into the deserted street, running without direction.

  The footsteps behind her were inaudible to her over the clanging confusion of her thoughts.

  4 hours after midnight: Moon—three degrees less than half-full. Waning.

  “Darling, wake up,” a voice, much too close to Miles’s ear, implored.

  Miles blinked at the sunlight flooding into the outer chamber of his apartment, then at the woman before him. He staggered to his feet.


  “What has happened?” he asked, trying to sort out why he felt like a hundred horses had pounded through his head, as well as why he was sleeping in a chair in the outer room of his apartment, and where Clio was. The pile of decanters he spied behind the back of the blonde woman in a nightgown suggested the answers to the first two and reminded him of the answer to the third one, but did nothing to explain why the woman was wailing.

  “I know she only did this to hurt me, to hurt us,” Mariana began without preamble, sobbing. “She wanted to force us to postpone the wedding.”

  “What are you talking about?” Miles growled.

  “My cousin. My horrible cousin Clio. She has always been jealous. I knew she would try to ruin everything, Viscount, and now she has.”

  “What has she done?”

  Mariana just looked at him. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “You mean about her being arrested?” Miles asked. “I do not see—”

  “No. Oh dear, I thought you would have heard. Everyone has heard.”

  Miles’s mouth suddenly went dry in a way that had nothing to do with having drunk three quarts of wine. “Heard what?”

  “That she is dead. My cousin Clio is dead. They found her body this morning.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  YOU FAILED!

  The floor lurched and swayed under Miles’s legs. “How did she die,” he asked, white knuckles on the back of his chair the only thing keeping him standing.

  “Poison they say. I do not know. But I really think we should not put off the wedding.”

  YOU FAILED!

  “Who told you about this?”

  “Grandmother. She heard this morning that Clio was in jail and she was just dressing so she could go visit her, with Saunders in case anything disturbed her—you know how he positively dotes on her, for my sake—when they received the news. Saunders says I shall need a new set of pearls to wear with my mourning clothes. That will be all right, won’t it, Viscount darling?”