by Laurel McKee
But she wouldn’t be calmed. She stalked toward them, her eyes glittering. “You can’t fool me. And I know you are his brother.” She spat out the word “his,” gesturing toward the half-comatose James with her whip. “He began this mess.”
“I’m sure there was some misunderstanding,” Brendan said carefully. “Our brother is young and can be rash at times, but he doesn’t start trouble.”
Madame Brancusi shook her head. “I have a man in my office, one of my best customers, who says Monsieur James was drinking heavily and accused him of cheating. When he tried to talk with Monsieur James to calm him, Monsieur James hit him. I cannot have such behavior in my place. You see how one drunken cochon throwing a punch is like a domino. It becomes out of control in a second.”
James sagged against Dominic’s side, and Dominic scowled. He definitely did not need this right now—or ever. His own life was enough of a mess without James messing up his own in the bargain. “Tell that man to call on us tomorrow with his complaints,” he said brusquely.
“Non! You will tell him yourself, right now,” Madame Brancusi shouted with another crack of her whip. “In my office. Allez vous en.”
“I think we should take care of this right now,” Brendan muttered.
Dominic nodded, and between them they hauled James after her through the open doorway.
Where the rest of the house was plush and luxurious, covered with velvet and gilt, the office was small and utilitarian, with only the desk and a few straight-backed chairs. The only sign that the room belonged to a bawdy house was a series of framed prints on the walls—couples in vaguely classical draperies involved in coitus in various positions. It was obviously a place where patrons who had misbehaved were brought to be reprimanded, and not in a fun way.
Or there were those with a grievance. A man who sat in the shadows at the far end of the room rose to his feet as they entered.
Dominic’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man. He looked a bit familiar, as if he had seen him somewhere in London long ago, but Dominic couldn’t quite place him. He was tall, well-built, with graying dark hair and sharp dark eyes, obviously a man of breeding and confidence.
The man smiled, all polite and correct, perfectly calm. Yet there was something in his demeanor, in that very stillness, that Dominic instinctively did not like. Some watchful, chilly air. The man’s clothes and hair were not even mussed, as if he had not dirtied his hands in the business outside, as if the chaos had been created for some other purpose and he had merely watched it from afar.
“This is Lord Hammond,” Madame Brancusi said. “And these are Monsieur James’s brothers.”
She kicked out a chair, and Dominic carefully lowered James onto its wooden seat, never taking his attention from the cold-eyed Lord Hammond.
“Ah, yes. The famous St. Claire brothers,” Lord Hammond said, his smile widening. But it never reached his eyes. “I saw you perform at the Theatre Nationale last week. Very entertaining.”
“Not as entertaining as tonight, it would seem,” Dominic said.
Lord Hammond laughed. “Indeed not. It appears your brother cannot hold his drink. You should keep a better eye on him, a poor little cub like that.”
At these seemingly sympathetic, affable words, James suddenly lunged up from his chair. Dominic was caught by surprise at the quick move—his attention had not been on his brother, but on this strange man who suddenly seemed to have some sort of problem with the St. Claires.
“You bastard! You know it wasn’t like that,” James shouted. He clumsily lurched toward Lord Hammond, but Dominic caught him by the back of his collar and shoved him toward Brendan, who caught and held him neatly. “He put something in my drink. I’m sure of it.”
Lord Hammond shook his head sadly. “I see the theatrics are not confined to the stage. I fear your brother was in his cups and attempted to cheat at cards. Rather clumsily, I might add.”
“So that’s how that brawl outside started?” Dominic said. That was a serious charge indeed, and if Hammond had something to back those words up, James was surely in trouble. “When you accused James of cheating?”
“I’m afraid that was something of an unfortunate accident,” Lord Hammond answered, still infuriatingly calm. A small smile hovered around his lips, as if these proceedings pleased him very much. As if they were all acting according to some hidden script of his own. Dominic didn’t care to be manipulated, not by anyone.
He glanced over at Brendan, who still held James as he watched the scene. His gaze flicked to Dominic, and Dominic saw that his brother felt the same way. Something strange was going on here, something beyond a simple brawl.
“I merely pointed out to your brother his error,” Lord Hammond continued, “and he attempted to hit me. His fist went astray and landed on some other poor fellow’s jaw, and—well, forgive me, chère madame.” He gave Madame Brancusi a bow. “I am sorry to have marred a most pleasant evening at your exemplary establishment.”
“Never mind all that,” Madame Brancusi said shrilly. “I want to know who will pay for the repairs. I can’t be closed to business very long, you know.”
“James will,” Brendan said. James turned red and opened his mouth as if to protest, only to fall silent at a cold glance from Brendan.
“I would be within my rights to call him out, of course,” Lord Hammond said. “Such a slur on my honor should not be allowed to pass unchallenged.”
“This isn’t 1750,” Brendan said. “Dueling is illegal.”
“Ah, but what is such a trifle as the law to men like us?” Lord Hammond stepped closer, a muscle ticking in his lean jaw the only flaw in his cold demeanor. Dominic could clearly see that the man’s smooth, polished facade was just that—a wall put up to obscure a deep well of primitive violence.
Dominic knew such a feeling because it was in him as well, far too often. That dark, wild anger that needed a place to go or it would explode. He poured it into stage villains, Iago, Don Juan, dark dukes and princes, but often it felt as if it had nowhere to go but into a storm of violence and passion. He hoped he hid it as well as this man, but that darkness still lurked there, just as it seemed to for Lord Hammond.
But what he did not understand was why Hammond’s fury would be turned on James at all. James, who fumbled through life never hurting anyone but himself. It was like a Renaissance revenge tragedy, played out on the innocent, but surely a man who didn’t even know them could have no quarrel with them.
“I have heard of your family,” Lord Hammond said. “The famous St. Claires, fallen from grace so long ago.”
“I am sorry to say we can’t return the favor,” Brendan said. “We have never heard of you.”
“Ah, well, unlike you and your relations, I live quietly. I have been gone from England for many months, on work for my uncle,” Hammond said. “The Duke of Pendrake. Perhaps you have heard of him?”
Everyone knew of the Duke of Pendrake. He was one of the wealthiest, and most ruthless, men in England and was said to have a hand in almost every business endeavor in the Empire.
“I see you have,” Hammond said, smiling again. “Perhaps then you could see why a duel would be easily overlooked, even here in France. But I see no need for such extreme action at present. It seems clear your brother is just a young pup on a spree. I hope this has taught him a small lesson.”
Hammond stepped closer to Dominic and, still smiling, said quietly, “I am a good friend, but a terrible enemy, Mr. St. Claire. I don’t care to be thwarted when there is something I want. You would do well to remember that, should we ever meet in the future.”
Before Dominic could answer, Hammond moved away and made his farewell to the slightly appeased Madame Brancusi. After leaving a hefty payment, Dominic and Brendan hauled James out of the now-silent house and bundled him into a cab.
“How did you manage to run afoul of a man like that?” Brendan demanded. “We leave you alone for one night…”
James groaned and buried his face in his hands. “I do
n’t know! He was the one who sat down at my table, sought me out. I have never seen him before. I didn’t know he was a relative of the Duke of Pendrake.”
A relation of the Duke of Pendrake—and he seemed to have a grudge against the St. Claires. Dominic frowned as he stared out the window at the dark streets flashing by. He was sure he had never met Hammond before, yet that glint in the man’s eyes, the hard note to his strange words, said that he knew them. And he had something against them.
Dominic resolved to find out as much as he could about this Hammond. The man would discover that the St. Claires were not without resources of their own. Resources those in polite Society didn’t have.
That was the one advantage of living on the shadowy margins. Of being, as Hammond had put it, “fallen from grace so long ago.”
“Perhaps it would be best if you went home soon, James,” Dominic said.
“No!” James cried. “I can’t go home alone. Our parents would think I disgraced myself.”
Brendan snorted. “And you surely will if you keep going on this way. Would you rather explain to our parents—or to Isabel?”
James sank back against the seat. It was clear he wouldn’t want to talk about tonight’s debacle with his twin sister. “Why does this keep happening to me?”
“Because you are young and green,” Brendan said in a hard voice. “You will learn soon enough, as we’ve all had to.”
Dominic almost laughed aloud. Once he would have agreed with Brendan; life was a stern teacher indeed, and no one in their position could afford to remain innocent for long. But some lessons it seemed would never be learned.
Why else would he keep going back to Sophia Westman, when she was the last woman in the world he should want?
Chapter Fourteen
Sophia leaned her hands back on the grass and gazed up into the pure blue sky above her. She had been reluctant to go with Camille and her friends to this picnic in the hilly village of Montmartre, but now she was glad she had. A lazy afternoon was just what she needed, and this was a most unexpectedly pretty spot. A pastoral little place high above Paris, dotted with windmills and an abandoned shepherd’s hut at the foot of the hill. An afternoon of laughter and good conversation—and watching Dominic.
Now they were all content with languor, resting on the picnic blankets as the afternoon slowly waned away.
“I say, you are all being far too quiet now,” Camille’s Russian count said, his voice slurred due to the wine they had been consuming. “I suggest we play a game.”
Sophia laughed to think of anyone in the party being “quiet,” especially after all the wine and brandy, the oysters and music. She felt dizzy with the sunshine and the alcohol, almost reckless—which was never a good sign. That was always when she got into the most trouble. But if she was able to return to her family there wouldn’t be many more days like this one.
She leaned back against the rough trunk of the tree and looked across the clearing to where Dominic lolled on the grass. His face was turned up to the sunshine, his hair burning in the light, and a faint smile touched his lips. How very handsome he was. She wanted to be closer to him, to let some of that warmth into herself.
“Charades, maybe?” Camille suggested as she collapsed onto the blanket next to Count Danilov, her pale green skirts puffed out around her like a flower.
“Or cards?” someone else suggested. “We could play whist.”
“We play cards all the time,” Camille protested.
Count Danilov laughed. “And we are not a group of creaky old ladies waiting on your English queen, are we? No, I propose something much more fun. A way for everyone to get to know each other better.”
Camille laughed and leaned on Danilov’s arm. “I think we all know each other too well already,” she said. “And as hostess today, I really should discourage your mischief, mon cher comte.”
“Are you going to discourage me?” Danilov said with a teasing grin, plucking at the ruffles of Camille’s skirt.
Camille giggled. “Certainly not! Mischief is what this party is all about, non? So what game do you suggest?”
“Blindman’s buff!” one tipsy lady cried.
“No, better.” Danilov paused to sweep an arch glance over the lazy company. “A game that is quite popular at house parties in St. Petersburg. Hide and seek.”
A wave of laughter swept over the group, like a small breath of life in their laziness. “What fun!” the tipsy lady cried, then shrieked as someone secretly pinched her.
“A nursery game?” someone else protested.
Sophia laughed. She had the feeling this would not be quite like the games of nursery days. She peeked over at Dominic and saw that he still lay in the sun, his eyes closed. Something in her wanted to wake him up. “Who shall hide and who shall seek?” she said.
“The ladies shall hide, and the gentlemen seek,” Danilov declared.
“Ah, isn’t that how it always is?” another man said ruefully.
Sophia scrambled to her feet with the other ladies, all of them giggling as they gathered at the edge of the clearing. She gathered up her hem as Danilov began counting. “And—now!” he shouted, and there was a burst of chaos as the women dashed away and scattered in all directions down the hill and into the clusters of trees. For an instant, Sophia spun around, disoriented and unsure where to go, then she remembered the abandoned-looking hut she had seen when they arrived. She lifted her skirts and ran as fast as she could down the hill, sliding a bit on the grass.
The shrieks and laughter of the others faded behind her as she kept running, gasping for breath in her tight bodice. She turned at the base of the hill and dashed to the gates. The hut loomed just beyond in the shade of a windmill, silent and dark.
She ducked through the door and let it squeak closed behind her on its rusted hinges. Suddenly she was wrapped in a blanket of silence and dusty darkness. The only light was the chalky-yellow rays of sun through the cracks in the old wooden walls, illuminating old cabinets lining one wall and broken crockery littering the corners. Her shoes skidded on the cracked floor, and she could smell old woodsmoke and the heat from the day outside, as well as the pungent odor of gin. It seemed someone still used the hut for something, if only for drinking.
The quiet after all the wine and laughter made her feel dizzy. She found a small space behind one of the cabinets and slipped between it and the wall to wait out the game. Her foot nudged a pile of old blankets, and she leaned back against it as she closed her eyes and let the silence wrap around her. But even there, in that solitude, she saw Dominic. She thought about the way she had tried not to watch him during the picnic, the way she would peek at him only to find him watching her, that unreadable intensity in his eyes.
The soft squeak of the door opening made her eyes fly open. Holding her breath, she peeked around the cabinet. For an instant, she saw a man’s tall figure silhouetted against the light outside. Then he stepped inside, and the door shut behind him.
“I know you’re here,” he called quietly, too quietly for her to recognize his voice. She could only tell he was English. “I can smell your perfume.”
Suddenly, Sophia had a sharp memory of Lord Hammond, how he followed her, stalked her. How he made her feel trapped, as if she couldn’t breathe. She knew it was foolish, that Lord Hammond couldn’t be at their party, yet still that choking fear remained. She pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out and tried to make herself breathe. She could hear the man moving around the small room, steadily, stealthily. Any moment he would find her.
The darkness around her was disorienting, making those memories rush over her even more. Even stronger. She ducked out from behind the cabinet and dashed for the door.
Suddenly hard, muscled arms closed around her waist like iron bands, and she was caught. For a second, the panic that had been growing within her broke free, cold and paralyzing. She twisted in the man’s arms and kicked back at his legs, wishing she wore something sturdier than her kid shoes
.
The man grunted when her foot connected with his shin, and his arms closed even harder around her. Then she smelled him, that scent of expensive, lemony cologne and clean linen that she remembered from when he lay in her bed. It was Dominic who had caught her, not some nightmare stranger. The warm relief that washed away her panic made her laugh, at herself and her old fears, at the strange tension the drinking and the game had created. Memories of Dominic overcame the old memories of Baden-Baden, stronger and brighter.
But no less frightening.
He drew her back tighter against his chest, until she felt the softness of his fine wool coat slide against her body through the thin muslin of her gown. His lips touched the side of her neck, open and hot, trailing slowly over her skin until her eyes closed, and she sighed at the heated rush of pleasure.
“Damn it all, Dominic, you scared me,” she gasped.
She felt him smile against her, just before he bit down lightly on the soft curve of her shoulder. “Cursing, Lady Sophia? So unladylike. Shocking.”
Sophia slapped at his hand where it lay on her waist, but that only made him pull her closer. She felt the length of his tall, hard body all along hers. His erection was hard against her backside, and it made her desire flare even hotter.
Had she been drinking too much of the wine? Had she been overcome by the party atmosphere, the Frenchness of her Parisian life? Was that what made her wild spirit beat against the prison of good sense all over again? Or was it just Dominic who made her feel this way? As if she would burst from all the emotions and needs swirling inside of her.
“I wouldn’t have to curse if you weren’t so maddening, Dominic St. Claire,” she said. She traced her fingertips over his hand, the bare skin of his knuckles, and his long, elegant fingers, and she wondered at the scrapes and calluses she felt there. A man who was an actor and a gamester should surely have soft hands, not ones that felt as if they had been doing hard labor.
But she had no time to ponder that intriguing puzzle. He touched the tip of his tongue to her bare shoulder and then blew on it lightly until she shivered. That wild, yearning feeling inside her expanded until she thought she might burst out of her skin. He did that to her, Dominic. He drew out the dark recklessness that had always been her undoing.
