Peter shrugged. “All the members are matched in secret duels. The person who wins the duel moves to the next level, and the one who loses must start all over again from the beginning level.”
“I see. Do you pay some sort of fee to join?”
Peter nodded. “And if you start all over, you have to pay again.”
Rome’s jaw clenched. “Greedy bastards, aren’t they? How did they threaten you?”
“The society is supposed to be completely secret.” Peter held up his hand. “We all wear these rings to identify us as members.”
Rome took the lad’s hand and studied the symbol with close interest. “Everyone wears these?”
“Yes. Though the members of the Triad have rubies in theirs where the rosebud should be.”
“What’s the Triad?” He released the boy’s hand.
“The top three duelists in the society. If you win against all your other matches, you have the chance to battle the members of the Triad. If you beat even one of them, you assume his position.”
“And these three men—they are the members in charge of the whole society?”
“Yes, and they are the judges at the matches.”
“I believe I am forming an accurate picture. Go on.”
“That night at Vauxhall, it was a member of the Triad who disrupted the party.” Peter dropped his gaze to the floor. “He was angry because we were all socializing together. We had betrayed the secrecy of the society.”
“And that is why they threatened you?”
Peter nodded. “The swordsman found me at Vauxhall after he had appeared at the dinner party and told me that if I ever betrayed the secrecy of the society again, it might mean my life.” He cast Rome a look of shame. “When you first asked where I went after Vauxhall, I lied about being with my friends. I hid alone at a tavern that night, like a scared child.”
“It seems to me like you exercised good sense.” Rome sat down in a comfortable chair. “And now that you’ve told me about it, you have no more reason to fear. I won’t let anything happen to you, Peter. Now tell me what else you know about this Black Rose Society.”
Peter sat back in his chair with a sigh of relief and told him.
Anna knocked on the door of the modest but attractive town house, accompanied by her maid, Lizzie. An elderly butler opened the door, studying them with somber eyes.
“I am paying a call on Mrs. Emberly,” Anna said, producing her calling card. “Is she at home?”
“Madame is indeed receiving this morning,” he said, accepting the card. “Do come in, and I will announce you.”
Anna stepped into the house and handed her bonnet and wrap to the butler. He stowed both hers and Lizzie’s belongings, then led them down the hall to a sunny parlor.
“Miss Rosewood,” he intoned, then stepped back and led her maid away to the servants’ kitchen.
As she entered the room, Anna took a moment to study the décor. Tidy, she decided. Nothing terribly expensive or ostentatious, but good solid furnishings that gleamed from meticulous care. Her hostess sat alone on the sofa, a teacup and some plain biscuits on the table beside her.
Mrs. Emberly stood. “Miss Rosewood, what a delightful surprise!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Emberly.” Anna blinked in astonishment as the vivacious lady clasped both her hands in greeting.
“Please, do call me Lavinia. Or Vin. Why, we are all but family, aren’t we?” Lavinia led her to the sofa. “Would you care for some tea? I keep the stuff nearby at all times since I discovered that I am increasing.”
“Ah…congratulations.” Uncertain how to react to such a candid statement—her mother would have been horrified that such a topic had been mentioned even in passing in the unwed Anna’s presence—she sat down on the sofa. “Yes, tea would be lovely.”
Lavinia rang for a servant. The same elderly man responded and was told to bring a tea tray. “And lots of biscuits,” Lavinia added as the butler turned away. She gave Anna a mischievous smile. “I do love biscuits.”
Anna smiled. “So do I.”
“Something in common!” Lavinia giggled and reached for her tea. “I’m sorry, Miss Rosewood. I must appear appallingly familiar with you, but I feel as if I have known you my entire life, what with your arrangement with Haverford and all.”
“If I am to call you Lavinia, then you must call me Anna. And the arrangement is yet informal.”
Lavinia waved a dismissive hand. “Never fear, dear Anna. Haverford is nothing if not honorable. He will fulfill his father’s promise.”
“I’m certain he will.”
“And then we will be cousins.”
“So we will.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the tea tray. The few minutes necessary to pour and fix her tea allowed Anna a chance to think about how she should best broach the subject that had brought her here.
Once the butler left the room, Anna took a sip of her tea and began, “Did your mother enjoy the evening last night?”
“She did,” Lavinia confirmed. “Mama rarely goes out anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She took another careful sip of tea. “And your brother? How did he fare?”
“Rome is Rome.” Lavinia gave a sigh of sisterly exasperation. “He only found out about my condition just before we left for Haverford’s, and I swear he never took his eyes off me all night! As if I would shatter spontaneously or some such nonsense.”
“Perhaps he’s simply concerned for your health.”
“Perhaps. However, I cannot thank you enough for giving up your seat at the card table. I do believe that was the first time during the entire evening that I didn’t look up and find my brother glaring at me.”
“I am a terrible cardplayer,” Anna confessed. “It was a pleasure for me not to have to play.”
“Instead you were the sacrifice to my brother’s bad temper,” Lavinia said, with a grin that held no hint of regret. “I hope you can forgive me.”
“Of course.” Anna reached for a biscuit. “I do hope his ill humor doesn’t overly affect you as of late.”
“I just ignore him,” Lavinia said, with a shrug. “I know he means well, but I am a married woman now.”
Anna’s lips curved at the bittersweet memory of her own brother. “I do understand.”
“My goodness, do forgive me!” Lavinia’s face reflected her dismay. “You just lost your brother recently. What a clod pate I am!”
“Please don’t distress yourself. I take comfort in listening to you speak of your brother. It brings back good memories.”
“But still…” Lavinia took a biscuit from her plate and plunked it onto Anna’s. “There. Now you will understand how truly sorry I am.”
“Indeed.” Solemnly, Anna bit into the biscuit. “I do appreciate your sincere regret.”
Lavinia giggled. “Oh, you are too delightful, Anna! I do hope Haverford speaks to your father soon so that we may be cousins that much earlier. Are you attending the theater with Haverford on Thursday?”
“Yes, as are my parents. Lord Haverford has invited us to share his box.”
“I will be there, as well. I haven’t been to the theater in ages!”
“And will your husband be attending?”
“I do hope so. His political parties frequently take him away, so I would hate for him to miss it.” She reached for her last biscuit. “Mother does not enjoy the theater, and Roman may or may not attend, as the whim strikes him.”
Anna strived to keep her tone casual. “Does he not enjoy the theater either?”
“I expect that he does, but business keeps him from such pleasure. He has just resigned his commission and has turned his attention toward a diplomatic position in the government.”
“How exciting. I imagine he will travel frequently.”
“It all depends if Edgar Vaughn will grant him the position. But Rome is determined to win the post, and I do not doubt that he will do so. Once Rome sets his mind to something he is relentless
.”
Rome’s voice echoed through her mind. This isn’t over, Rose. I will find you, and we will finish what we’ve started.
Anna choked on her tea.
“Goodness, are you all right?”
Anna dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Yes, quite.”
A knock sounded at the front door, echoing to them even in the tiny parlor. Anna glanced at the clock on the mantel and realized she had spent more than the proper allotted amount of time chatting with Lavinia. She set down her teacup. “Goodness, is that the time? Mama will be livid if I am late to my fitting at the dressmaker’s.”
“Must you go so soon?”
“Unfortunately, I must. I expect I shall see you Thursday night at the theater?”
“Indeed.”
The butler appeared. “Mrs. Prudence Wentworth.”
Lavinia wrinkled her nose, and whispered, “Gossiping old prune. But she is one of Henry’s political allies.”
Both young ladies stood as an older woman entered the room. Mrs. Wentworth steamed forward like a ship at full sail, her impressive bosom leading the way. “Mrs. Emberly, how well you look.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wentworth. Have you met Miss Rosewood?”
The daunting matron pulled out a quizzing glass and inspected Anna. “Admiral Rosewood’s daughter, I presume?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wentworth.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Ah, tea! Just the thing!”
“Allow me to pour you a cup,” Lavinia said, doing so at once.
Mrs. Wentworth sank her substantial body into a chair. “Are you joining us, Miss Rosewood?”
“Unfortunately, no. I have an appointment I must keep.”
“Good day to you then,” Mrs. Wentworth said, then took the cup and saucer handed to her by Lavinia.
“Thank you for calling,” Lavinia said. “Bagsley will see you out.”
“Until Thursday.” With a gracious nod at Mrs. Wentworth, Anna left the room, shutting the doors behind her. She paused for a moment to gather her composure.
The Devereaux family was strangely lacking in pretense—or was it subtlety? Such candor, such open affection. These things didn’t exist in Anna’s world.
She glanced around for Bagsley. Finding the hallway deserted, she wondered if he might be fetching Lizzie.
“Bagsley?” she called. Footsteps sounded down the hallway, and she walked toward them. “Are you there?”
Silence. She gave a small huff of exasperation. She didn’t fancy going back into the parlor and facing Mrs. Wentworth just so Lavinia could ring for the butler, but what choice did she have? She turned back toward the parlor, but something caught her eye in the room directly across the hall. Glancing about one more time for a servant and seeing none, she walked over and stepped into what looked to be Henry Emberly’s office.
The painting that had so attracted her hung in a place of honor above the mantel. At first glimpse, she’d thought it was Rome, but now that she studied it more closely, she could see the differences between the man in the portrait and Roman Devereaux. She walked all the way into the room, her attention completely captured by the likeness. The striking, dark-haired man in the portrait had the same sharply attractive features as the man she knew, but he also had dark brown eyes—very different from Rome’s piercing green—and a beauty mark near his ear.
Definitely a close relative.
“Good morning, Miss Rosewood.”
Anna spun about with a squeak of surprise to find Rome himself standing behind her. “What are you doing here?”
He chuckled. “I came to call on my sister, but Mrs. Wentworth’s presence inspired me to examine the library. What about you?” Amusement lurked in those mesmerizing eyes of his, as if he knew perfectly well she’d been indulging her curiosity.
She cleared her throat. “I’ve gotten a bit turned around,” she fibbed.
“If you’ve come to call on Vin, I will be happy to escort you to the parlor.”
“No!” She took a breath, willing her heart to stop its thundering. “That is, I was just leaving.”
“The doorway to the street is not located in the library.”
She blushed, caught. “I wanted to look more closely at this portrait. Who is he?”
Rome cast a hard glance at the painting. “My father.”
“You look very like him.”
“Unfortunately, there is nothing to be done about that.” He took her arm and guided her away from the picture. “Vin hardly knew our father. Perhaps that is why she keeps his portrait when my mother demanded it be removed from her household.”
The edge in his voice warned her not to trespass further.
“I shouldn’t have intruded,” Anna apologized. “I was simply drawn by the resemblance.”
“Don’t give it another thought. I find the situation much in my favor, as we did not have the opportunity to converse at Haverford’s dinner party.” He met her gaze for one, long, meaningful moment. “I thought we could renew our acquaintance beyond the masks of society.”
Masks? Heaven help her, did he know?
Impossible. Shaken, she pulled her arm from his grasp. “I’m afraid I am late for an appointment. Some other time, perhaps.”
“Surely you can spare me a moment. After all, we are practically family.”
“I don’t know—” She glanced toward the open door.
“Come now, Miss Rosewood,” he coaxed. “I assure you we will leave the door ajar.”
“Very well.” Afraid that protesting further might arouse his suspicions, she ignored the instinct that urged her to flee and instead edged just out of touching range. “But only a moment, Mr. Devereaux. My mother expects me directly.”
He gave a nod. “Message received, Miss Rosewood. I will do nothing to inconvenience your mama.”
His persuasive smile shook her to her bones and spurred her to move immediately to the opposite side of the room, where two great leather chairs sat beneath the window overlooking the tiny garden. She smoothed one hand over the dark leather chair back and gazed out the window.
It was all she could do to maintain a calm expression. Inside, her intuition demanded that she run. But she didn’t dare. If she left too quickly, it would only feed his suspicions. Yet if she lingered, she took the chance of betraying herself.
Watching her, Rome struggled to sort out his tangled emotions. When he’d seen her alone in the library, he hadn’t been able to resist joining her. He told himself he just wanted to find out if she was toying with his family. That he needed to make certain she was not trying to play Marc for a fool. But her resemblance to the woman he had met at Vauxhall—and the possibility that they could be one and the same—stirred other, more disturbing feelings.
Her lush mouth haunted him, and the husky timbre of her voice played along his nerve endings just like the one in his memories. His body stirred just at the remembrance of holding that sweet female body in his arms, and he couldn’t stop himself from taking a brief, frank appraisal of her physical charms.
She turned an inquiring glance his way, and he stifled his passionate thoughts with the choke-hold of strong will.
Marc’s intended. Forbidden.
He lingered near Henry’s desk. Better to keep space between them, especially since his wits all but failed him in her presence. None of the usual social niceties came as easily to his normally glib tongue. He knew he wanted to find out the truth about her, but the delicate situation called for all his diplomatic skills.
If he was right, he might very well save Marc from marrying the wrong woman. And if he was mistaken, he would have deeply offended a lady who would soon be a member of his family. That was an insult even Marc would not overlook.
“What lovely roses,” she said, sending him a nervous smile.
Roses? Was she mocking him? Or was she testing him?
“Roses are my favorite,” he replied, watching her carefully. “No scent is sweeter.”
Her eyes widened and her lip
s parted as if startled, but then she looked quickly away. Guilt? Or modesty?
The late-morning sunlight brought out the gold highlights in her brown hair and silhouetted her fair profile in orange, like a halo for the angel she appeared to be. Her dress was a pale green, quite appropriate for a young lady of her age and station, and yet he couldn’t forget another green dress he had recently admired, a soft verdant satin that had adorned the slim body of the mysterious Rose.
Were the women one and the same? His intellect argued that such a thing was impossible, and yet he couldn’t deny the evidence before his eyes. Anna Rosewood bore a certain remarkable resemblance to his Rose. If only he could kiss her, he might know for sure.
But one generally did not go about accusing gently born young ladies of masquerading as prostitutes.
She glanced at him again as the silence stretched on, her dark eyes wary. “Mr. Devereaux, you said you wanted to speak to me, and yet you say nothing. I should go.”
She turned to do just that, and he stepped forward, cutting off her escape before she could move more than a pace. “Please wait.”
“What do you want of me?” She took a step backward and gripped the top of the chair, her fingers creasing the leather.
“To get to know you better.” He attempted a charming smile, but his head spun with the scent of her, the nearness of her. “Marc is my favorite cousin, and I am curious about his future bride.”
“Not quite his bride,” she corrected. “Nothing has been formalized.”
“Does that mean you do not consider yourself betrothed to my cousin?” Drawn closer despite his resolution to remain aloof, he rested his hand on the back of the chair beside hers.
“There is an understanding between our two families.” She inched her hand away from his. “However, no formal settlements have been signed. Until that happens, I would not presume to call Lord Haverford my betrothed.”
Did that mean she considered herself fair game for any available man? Was she the flirt he suspected? Or worse, was she the sort of woman who would pretend to be a doxy?
He moved a bit closer to her. Attar of roses teased his senses, bringing back the Vauxhall incident with vivid clarity. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself back there. She resembled Rose; she even appeared to be the same height. And heaven help him, she smelled the same. But that was still not enough to prove his outlandish theory. Many young ladies of quality wore the same scent.
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