Olivia and the Masked Duke

by Grace Callaway

  “Hadleigh?” a girlish voice called.

  Devil take it. He’d forgotten about Livy.

  He made his way back to her, the water swirling in agitated waves around him. She was still standing on the rock, and she looked down at him with child-like curiosity.

  “Why did Her Grace leave? Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine,” he said curtly. “We should return to the house.”

  “No…I want to swim.”

  “You don’t have to.” He dragged a wet hand through his hair. He knew it wasn’t fair of him to be impatient with her, a mere girl, but his mood was ruined. “You’re scared, and it’s not my place to push you—”

  Before he could finish, she took a running start off the boulder, landing with a loud splash several yards away in the deepest part of the swimming hole. Panic thudded in his chest when she did not surface, and he rushed toward the frothing spot where she’d hit the water…

  Her head popped up, hair plastered over her eyes.

  “Hadleigh,” she gasped.

  “Right here, I’ve got you.” He caught her against his chest, where his heart was still hammering. With his other hand, he brushed the wet hair from her eyes. “Bloody hell, you could have given me some warning.”

  She grinned at him. “I knew you would be there to catch me...if I needed it.”

  The knot in his chest loosened a little, and he couldn’t help but smile.

  “Are you saying you don’t need my help?” he asked.

  When she nodded, he let her go. She began treading water like she’d been born doing it.

  “I just remembered,” she said with an infectious smile, “that I am an excellent swimmer.”

  “In that case.” Reaching out, he placed his palm on the top of her head and dunked her.

  She broke the surface seconds later, sputtering. A playful yet unholy gleam lit her eyes.

  “You,” she said cheerfully, “are going to pay for that.”

  After spending the afternoon splashing around with Livy, Ben returned to his bedchamber to get ready for supper. His valet helped him to bathe and dress, and when there was no more delaying the inevitable, he went and knocked on the door of the adjoining chamber. While he was still simmering over his and Arabella’s latest row, he didn’t want it to color the rest of the evening. The other guests were bound to notice the Siberian state of affairs between them, and the last thing he wished was to cause an unpleasant scene at his sister’s party.

  Luckily, he knew how to appease his wife. He’d brought along several pieces of jewelry, including the diamond bracelet he had in his pocket, precisely for this purpose. While he did not like to resort to bribes, he’d become a pragmatist where his duchess was concerned.

  The door opened to reveal Arabella’s maid.

  “Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy.

  “Where is my wife?” he asked.

  “She has not returned, Your Grace.”

  His anger, already smoldering, burst into flame. “Bloody hell, supper is in fifteen minutes.”

  “I-I am sorry, Your Grace.”

  Seeing the fear in the maid’s eyes, he dismissed her with a curt wave. He stalked through Arabella’s chamber, trying to calm his temper, his thoughts whirling like a dervish.

  Where in the devil is she? Is she still gallivanting with the Horsemen? What will the other guests say—is she determined to humiliate me and lay waste to our marriage?

  A roar left him, and he swept his arm across her dressing table, sending the pieces of her vanity flying onto the floor. Her cloying perfume assailed his nostrils as he gripped the edges of the table, trying to regain his control. He looked in the mirror and hated what he saw: a worthless bastard capable of nothing but destruction.

  Why does everything I touch turn to shite?

  Anguish roiled in him as he took stock of his handiwork, smashed up bottles and broken bits everywhere. Then something caught his eye: Arabella’s vinaigrette. Going over, he picked up the globe-shaped locket. The body was constructed of pure gold mesh to diffuse the perfume it was designed to hold within. Exquisite enamelwork in the shape of peacock feathers adorned the sphere, diamonds glittering among the swirls of cobalt and turquoise.

  A pretty piece, for which he’d probably paid a bloody fortune.

  Bringing the vinaigrette to his nose, he smelled nothing. He released the latch, and the two halves split open, revealing a small pouch. He dumped the contents into his palm: opium.

  He’d known Arabella would not go without it.

  Despair and dark craving overcame him.

  And tonight, damn my own eyes, neither will I.

  27

  Present Day

  Entering the exclusive club, Ben headed for the private chamber where he knew he would find his former cronies. The establishment was the premier domain of scoundrels and rakehells, and he hadn’t set foot inside for years. He saw the lifted eyebrows as he strode through the opulent surroundings toward the room at the back.

  Several acquaintances called out greetings.

  “The prodigal son returns,” one said drunkenly. “Good to have you back, old boy.”

  Misery always loved company. Ben gave a terse nod and continued to his destination. He didn’t bother knocking, opening the door with the key he had never returned. The men in the four wing chairs swung their heads in his direction: Thorne, Bollinger, Edgecombe, and Stamford.

  Perfect. All the bastards are here.

  “Your Grace.” Edgecombe rose, concealing his initial surprise with a smirk. His brows rose toward his pomaded auburn hair. “To what do we owe the honor?”

  Ben closed the door behind him. Faced the men who were all standing now.

  “I want in,” he stated.

  “M-membership in our group is by invitation only, old boy,” Thorne said. “And you forfeited your right to be h-here when you abandoned the Horsemen years ago.”

  Ben fought the distaste that rose like bile in his throat. Thorne hadn’t changed a whit. With his artfully mussed blond curls and brooding gaze, he had a Byronic magnetism that drew females to him like moths to a flame. It didn’t matter that he was famed for his cruelty and inconstancy, discarding his lovers like last season’s fashions.

  “I concur with my brother.” Bollinger stood next to Thorne, striking a belligerent pose. “You are not welcome back.”

  Back in the day, Bollinger had been the follower in the pack, content to take the others’ orders and leftover scraps. Apparently not much had changed. The brown-haired viscount retained his boyish looks, although he’d gone softer in the middle and the line of his chin.

  “Your position has been taken,” Stamford said.

  Although Stamford had been recruited after Ben’s time, Ben was acquainted with the other, who’d been a year behind him at Eton. Back then, Stamford had been a runty, sniveling sort, his bony nose shoved up the arse of the popular boys.

  Ben sauntered toward the refreshment-laden table close to the men. Aware of the gazes fixed upon him, he took his time selecting a ripe berry. He made a show of eating it slowly.

  “I am not asking to be reinstated, gentlemen,” he said. “I am telling you that I want Longmere’s cut in your venture.”

  The men exchanged startled glances, with the exception of Edgecombe. The earl was too clever to betray his reaction.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Edgecombe drawled.

  “Perhaps this will clarify matters.”

  Ben withdrew the red snuffbox he’d found clutched in Pete’s lifeless hand. As he placed it on the table, the enamel gleamed like blood, a reminder of what was at stake.

  I have failed at so many things. I will not fail in this, Ben silently vowed.

  “Longmere told me about the Devil’s Bliss and your supplier,” he said coolly. “Mr. Fong, is it?”

  In that instant, it was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Fear burgeoned in its place. Radiated from the Horsemen’s paling
faces and dilated eyes.

  These bastards are terrified of their so-called partner, Ben mused.

  “For G-God’s sake, do not say his name aloud.” Thorne darted his gaze around the room as if he feared the Chinese man might emerge from the shadows. “He has eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “Then he will hear me when I say that I want Longmere’s place in the enterprise,” Ben said.

  “You’re bluffing.” Edgecombe’s eyes slitted. “Why would Longmere tell you anything? As far as I know, he and you were acquaintances at best.”

  “The sod owed me money.” Ben had prepared his story, the lies rolling smoothly off his tongue. “That was why I was the one to discover his dead body. I’d gone to his studio to collect the two thousand pounds I’d lent him and instead found him with his toes cocked up. Longmere could never hold his drink…nor his laudanum, it seems.”

  He added the quip to appeal to the cold-blooded bastards. His instincts proved correct when Edgecombe’s mouth edged into a smirk.

  “Longmere’s constitution was rather delicate.” The earl studied Ben with a calculating expression. “Unlike yours. You had the heartiest appetite for sin amongst us…that is, before you succumbed to abstinence. Rumor has it that when you parted ways with us, you also gave up your vices.”

  “I made a mistake. After Arabella’s passing, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “The duchess’s passing would befuddle any man,” Edgecombe said grudgingly. “She was exceptional.”

  “God rest her soul,” Thorne murmured.

  Not to be left out, Bollinger blustered, “She was a fine lady. Splendid hostess.”

  For once, Ben did not doubt the bastards’ sincerity. When it had suited her purposes, Arabella could be vivacious and charming, and she had enjoyed entertaining the Horsemen, flirting with them to rile Ben up. She’d hung on Edgecombe’s every word, stroking the bastard’s vanity. With Thorne, she’d discussed poetry and exchanged innuendos. She’d even indulged Bollinger, taking part in his amateur theatre evenings.

  Whereas these memories would have once sucked Ben into a tar pit of bitterness and anger, he now felt only twinges of regret over his failed marriage. He credited his improved state of mind to Livy. He hadn’t wanted to let her go this morning. The way she’d clung to him in the carriage had conveyed that the feeling was mutual. And if he’d been too stupid to realize that, then her words had left no doubt.

  I love you, Ben. Be careful and come back to me swiftly.

  He had wanted to give her the words burning in his heart. But he didn’t. Not because he didn’t love her—because God knew he did—but because when he offered her his love, he wanted it to be worthy of her.

  He was a man who’d done too much damage. Even though Livy accepted his sins, he yearned to go to her with a clean slate. While he did not know if absolution was possible, he did know that Fate had put him in the present situation for a reason: he had the power to stop the Devil’s Bliss from taking more lives. This was his shot at redemption, and for Livy, for their future together, he had to see this plan through.

  “I will admit the loss of Arabella clouded my judgement.” Ben kept his manner nonchalant. “I thought I needed a change, something different. Since the grief has passed, I see that what I truly need is more stimulation, not less.” He twisted his lips into a derisive smile. “Life is too short as it is, and I have no wish to be bored to death.”

  A pause. Edgecombe gave a bark of laughter, the others joining in.

  Edgecombe waved him to a chair. “Have a seat, Hadleigh.”

  “But that’s my chair,” Stamford whined.

  “Find yourself another. We have a guest,” Edgecombe said sharply.

  Ben did not miss Stamford’s fulminating glance, nor Edgecombe’s emphasis on the word guest. He knew he had other hurdles to pass before he would be allowed back into the group and given access to the secrets that would bring down their operation once and for all.

  Knowing the dog-eat-dog nature of the men in the room, he took Stamford’s chair with deliberate arrogance. “It is good to be sitting amongst old friends. Especially ones so enterprising.”

  Edgecombe handed him a whisky, which he had no choice but to take.

  “To old friends,” the earl said silkily.

  Ben raised his glass and took a sip, his first taste of spirits in nearly two years. The seductive burn clenched his gut. Yet he had to play the part of the rakehell to win the group’s trust.

  He took another sip. “As Longmere’s replacement, I believe I have much to offer.”

  “First of all, we haven’t agreed upon anything.” Bollinger moistened his lips. “Secondly, what could you have to offer?”

  “I am a duke. My title affords me many connections,” he said. “All of which may be used to promote the circulation of the Devil’s Bliss.”

  “We all know you’re as rich as Croesus,” Thorne said suspiciously. “Why d-do you want a part of this h-hypothetical venture?”

  “A man can never be too rich. Money, however, accounts for only part of my interest.”

  Stamford’s close-set eyes were skeptical. He’d dragged a wooden chair to the circle. It looked uncomfortable, the seat putting him at a lower level than the rest of the men.

  “Why else would you want to poke your nose in our business?” he said in nasally syllables.

  “Because, dear fellow, I can.” Ben gave him a condescending smile. “This is before your time with the Horsemen, but the other gentlemen know that I am a man who enjoys diversions with an element of danger. Nothing works better for ennui than the forbidden.”

  “You always were the w-wildest of us,” Thorne admitted reluctantly.

  Edgecombe’s mouth formed a sly curve. “You and your duchess.”

  Ignoring the bait, Ben said, “Arabella was always one for an unusual adventure. She would have found the Devil’s Bliss delightful, no doubt.”

  “You cannot just barge in and claim a share of something that isn’t yours,” Stamford burst out.

  “Can’t I?” Ben crossed an ankle over his knee, his posture relaxed and gaze challenging. “Longmere told me that men have died because of your goods.” He took a calculated risk. “Baron Winford and John Hagan, for instance.”

  A heavy silence fell.

  “There is no proof that their deaths had anything to do with our product,” Edgecombe said defensively. “Countless people have taken the Devil’s Bliss with no harmful effects.”

  “Our clients have reported nothing but the purest pleasure.” Bollinger crossed his arms over his chest, his jowls reddening above his cravat. “To accuse us of harming anyone is slanderous—”

  “No need to get up in the boughs, old boys. As far as I am concerned, no risk, no pleasure, and anyone who partakes of Devil’s Bliss is making their own choice.” Ben paused, just long enough for the others to let their guards down. “However, the authorities might have a differing viewpoint of your enterprise. And they would undoubtedly frown upon your connection with a Chinese mastermind whose product is killing Englishmen.”

  “Are you b-blackmailing us, Hadleigh?” Thorne’s tone was icy.

  “On the contrary. I do not betray my friends. Which is why you would rather have me on your side than against it.”

  In the wake of his threat, the crackle of the fire seemed to grow louder. Ben kept his expression neutral. Take the bait, you bastards…

  “In that case.” Edgecombe raised his glass, his tone sardonic. “Allow me to be the first to welcome you back, old friend.”

  28

  Since parting from Ben a week ago, Livy had been consumed by thoughts of him. She worried about his welfare and the progress he was making with his villainous former cronies. He had succeeded in getting back into their fold; stories were emerging in drawing rooms across London about Hadleigh’s reunion with the Horsemen.

  While attending a luncheon with Fiona and Glory, Livy had overheard two ladies gossiping loudly about a certain duke who’d fa
llen back into his old ways. Tittering, they’d sipped tea and savored the tidbits about tavern brawls, drunken wagers, and visits to houses of ill repute. Livy’s hands had fisted around her silverware, her stomach too knotted for her to eat.

  Although Ben had warned her about the possibility of gossip, she hadn’t realized how painful it would be to hear such dreadful tales told about him. To witness Society’s glee at the Duke of Hadleigh’s apparent relapse into degeneracy. Knowing his true reasons yet being unable to defend him frustrated her to no end. She’d wanted to tell the clucking hens to shut their beaks and mind their own business.

  How she yearned to see Ben. Yet she could not: he had made it abundantly clear that contacting him during his covert undertaking could compromise her safety and his own. In the case of an emergency, she could relay a message through Mr. Chen, who had ways of getting in touch with Ben.

  Even if Livy couldn’t be with Ben, she was determined to help him. She and the other Angels had spent the week conducting their own investigation into Longmere’s killer. They’d spoken with the earl’s housekeeper, Mrs. Ingerson. The good lady had provided a list of models who had posed for her employer in recent weeks. When Fiona had delicately inquired if the deceased had seemed friendly with any of the women, Mrs. Ingerson had denied it.

  “The master, God rest his soul, had eyes only for his wife,” she’d said.

  For what it was worth, Livy was relieved at Longmere’s apparent fidelity. Since the funeral, Pippa had spiraled deeper into grief, and the last thing Livy wanted was to add to her friend’s burdens. She, Fiona, and Glory had interviewed various models, who’d all confirmed that Longmere’s behavior had grown increasingly agitated leading up to his demise but had little new information to share.

  At present, the Angels were en route to visit Miss Alicia Hoskins, one of Longmere’s favorite muses who’d just returned from the countryside where she’d been tending to a sick relative. The carriage ride gave the trio a chance to chat. Glory and Fi shared the opposite bench, their pastel skirts overlapping like petals.