She blinked the moisture back, not wanting to attract her mother’s attention. Anthony was dead. He would not come to rescue her as he had so many times in the past. She was utterly alone, with only her wits and instinct to guide her.
And she didn’t want to die.
She could stop her search for the truth, marry Haverford, and retire to the country to bear babies. She could pretend that she believed the Banbury tale of Anthony’s death at the hands of footpads. She could act as if she had never met Rome Devereaux.
She could do all that to remain safe—and she would betray Anthony in the process. To remain safe, all she need do was bury suspicions with her murdered brother. All she need do was leave his death unpunished.
Or she could keep going and uncover the secrets of the Black Rose society at the risk of her own life. And she might save others. She would find a way around her mother’s strictures and do what needed to be done. There would be no more bodies found in alleyways, no more mysterious deaths by sword, unexplainable to shocked families. She would finally be able to properly grieve for her brother.
Or she would join him.
Either way, she knew she could not give up. Walking away took more courage than she had.
Rome slipped through the throng clogging the doorway to the lending library. The crowd hummed with an appalling excitement that he had seen over and over again on the battlefield— and never been able to explain.
The ton—indeed, people in general—treated death as one more act in a macabre circus that equally outraged and titillated.
And now Robert Chambers graced the center ring.
“Dead—”
“Found him at the side of the road—”
“—bloody footpads! A man’s not safe in his own carriage—”
“His mother took to her bed—”
Leaving the buzzing crowd behind, Rome slipped into the relative quiet of the lending library, but the gossip had already taken hold. Through the tangle of bonnets and skirts, he saw Mrs. Rosewood deep in conversation with three other ladies and, behind her, Anna, her dark eyes wide and stricken in her pale face.
She saw him.
He froze, struck into immobility by the sheer destitution of her expression.
She held his gaze, accusation and devastation warring in her eyes. Her lips quivered, but she pressed them together firmly and stood tall, as if daring anyone to put a name to her obvious suffering. With an imperceptible tilt of her head, she indicated a row of bookshelves to her left. Then she inched away from her oblivious parent, eventually slipping out of sight between the huge wooden cases.
Rome went in the opposite direction and worked his way around the back aisle of the shelves until he came upon Anna in the far corner, behind a rack of ancient history texts. A stack of the thick, dusty tomes rested on a table in front of her, rendering her nearly invisible to anyone passing. As he stepped into the cozy niche of table and shelves, she stood with neck bowed, a lacy handkerchief clutched in her hand. Her exposed nape lent a vulnerability that made his heart ache. Her head came up as she became aware of his presence, and she quickly crumpled the dainty bit of cloth in her fist and faced him.
“Anna.” He reached out a hand, but she flinched away.
“Don’t.”
“Sorry.” He dropped his hand to his side. “I had forgotten where we were.”
“I suppose you’ve heard the news already.” Her misty, reddened eyes broke his heart. “Robert Chambers was found dead on a country road. Killed by a sword.”
“I know. I wanted to tell you myself. I just missed you at home.”
“So you followed me here?”
“Yes. I was hoping the news had not yet spread.”
“I knew him, you know.” She stretched out the wrinkled bit of lace again. Twisting it in her fingers, she murmured, “He declared his undying love to me when we were nine.”
“Oh, Anna.” Heart aching for her, he had to glance away for a moment. “I’m so sorry.”
“Did you kill him?”
Her whisper jerked his head back around. “What did you say?”
“Did you kill him?” Pale as a marble statue, she waited, utterly still, for his answer.
“Of course not.” He scrambled for rational thought. “How could you think that?”
“You told me that night in Vauxhall that you had killed men.”
He nodded slowly. “It’s true. But I was a soldier, Anna. I killed men in battle, not in cold blood.”
“Are you part of the society?”
“No.”
“How can I believe you?” Her agitation brought color back to her cheeks, flags of red signaling a bull about to charge. “How can I take your word when men are being murdered all around us?”
“I can only tell you the truth, Anna. I can’t force you to believe me.”
“I thought I was brave. I thought I knew what path to take, whom to trust. But I don’t know anything.”
“You can trust me.”
“Can I?” The longing in her voice conflicted with the wariness of her expression. “I still don’t understand your part in all this. You have not confided in me, though you expect my confidence. Are you even conducting an investigation? Or was this all an elaborate ruse to find out what I know?”
“Of course there’s an investigation.” He held her gaze, desperate to chase that haunted look from her eyes. “Someone I care about is involved in the society. I want to keep him safe.”
“Who?”
“The brother of a friend.”
“I meant, what is his name? I want to talk to him.”
“No.”
“No?” The word jumped an octave in volume, but luckily not loudly enough to be heard over the steady rumble of gossip at the front of the room. She dropped to a whisper again. “If we are on the same side in this, you must tell me.”
“We are on the same side, but I’ll not put you in danger.”
Her mouth fell open. “How can you keep so vital a piece of information from me?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I will not endanger him or you by speaking his name.”
“And you want me to trust you?” Her eyes flashed fire. “I will do better alone, I think.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” He stepped closer, both to make his point and to inhale the forbidden scent of her. “You need me, remember?”
She narrowed her eyes and held her ground. “Rome, learning the truth about Anthony’s death is the only thing that kept me from Bedlam this past year.”
“Our deal was that I will do the actual investigating, and I will keep you apprised.”
“And I haven’t heard from you in three days!”
“Because there is nothing to report. I was going down your list and validating the facts.”
“Validating!”
“Yes,” he said. “You admitted that much of your information came from gossip, and I am verifying all the facts. Hearsay can be misconstrued.”
“I’ve done a fine job of investigating,” she hissed.
“And taken your reputation in your hands with each escapade. For both our sakes, allow me to be the one to travel to the more unsavory parts of town while you turn your clever brain to untangling the new clues I uncover.”
Her angry posture relaxed. “Clues like the name of the member you refuse to tell me?”
“See? Clever.”
Her lips curved just a bit at the edges, as if her high dudgeon disallowed a true expression of pleasure. “I shall take that as a compliment, though I doubt you meant it that way.”
“Believe me, this whole situation would be easier if you weren’t so intelligent.” He touched a curl peeping from her bonnet. “Or so beautiful.”
“No.” She leaned away from him, smile fading and caution flickering across her face. “Ours is a business partnership, Mr. Devereaux.”
He took a step back. “You are correct, of course.”
“We must remember ourselves at all times,” she
whispered, “and forget the night at Vauxhall.”
“I will never forget that night.” Just the memory stirred his blood.
“Then if you cannot forget, take the incident to the grave with you. But in any circumstance, it must not happen again.”
“I know.” He wanted to touch her again, but instead stroked the heavy leather binding of a tome on the table. “You belong to Marc.”
“Indeed.” She frowned. “Though Mama fears he has lost interest.”
If only that were true.
“He returned from Leicestershire just today,” Rome said. “I imagine he will call on you soon.”
“Mama will be relieved.”
“Are you?” Even as he said the words, he wanted to call them back.
“I must return to my mother,” she said quickly, ignoring the question.
He noted the tremble in her voice. “Yes, I suppose you must. I will contact you when I have information to relay.”
“I want to talk to your friend.”
“I cannot allow that.”
She arched her brows in haughty command. “I suggest you reconsider.”
“And I suggest you return to your mama before she calls Bow Street.”
“Very well, but I have not given up.”
“Neither have I.”
She threw him a look of exasperation before she swept past him to return to the front of the library.
He stayed where he was a few moments longer, both to prevent gossip and to give his body the chance to settle down. Another few minutes, and he might have taken her right there on top of— what was it? He glanced at the book on the table. Philosophers of Ancient Greece.
He traced the embossed letters of the title, reliving the past few minutes in his mind. His heart had melted at the tears in her eyes, and he’d wanted nothing more than to console her. But taking her in his arms, even in comfort, was not his right. Better to focus on the mystery and treat her as a colleague.
But no colleague of his had ever smelled of attar of roses.
Damn, damn, damn! He slapped his hand against the book, struggling to push aside the vision of her big dark eyes and seductive mouth. The woman tied him in knots. His hunger for her grew every time he saw her, and though she had directed him to forget the incident at Vauxhall, he could not.
But neither could he afford to forget that she belonged to Haverford.
The Black Rose Society deserved his full attention, women be damned. The best course of action was to continue the investigation and forget about Anna Rosewood except in the most peripheral sense.
The sooner Haverford offered for her, the safer they would all be.
Anna shut the door to her bedroom and leaned back against it, sagging with relief at finally being alone.
She had returned home from the lending library without a single book to justify her visit. Her mother had fussed about Robert Chambers’s death the entire way home, and her constant reminders of the tragedy only served to keep Anna’s already precarious emotions on edge. Claiming distress over the incident, Anna had escaped to her room upon their return, waving aside her mother’s suggestions for comfort.
All she wanted now was silence to calm the chaos within her.
She took a deep breath and let it out, then moved away from the door with the slow steps of an elderly woman. Her entire body ached as if she’d been run over by a carriage, but the bruising existed on the inside, not the outside. The events of today had pummeled her like the physical blows of Fate.
Robert Chambers, dead.
Rome, still a nearly irresistible temptation.
She sank down on the chair before her vanity mirror. Death and desire, all in one day. And of the two, desire grabbed her by the throat and shook her until she could barely breathe.
How could she possibly be so attracted to a man who might be using her?
Because she was an imprudent, bedazzled country mouse. The man was handsome, certainly, and charming, and sophisticated beyond anyone else of her acquaintance. She wanted to believe him when he claimed that he wasn’t a member of the society, that he was trying to help a friend. But who was this friend? Where was he? Did he even exist?
Despite the doubts, her body longed for his touch.
Wicked, wicked girl. One evening in his embrace, and you can think of nothing else! What about Anthony? What about poor Robert? Men are dying, and all you can think about is the sinful pleasure to be found in the arms of a man you cannot have!
She looked at her reflection. The young woman in the mirror appeared to be a true English lady, gently bred and proper in every way, but inside a hunger roared that shocked even her. That night at Vauxhall, she had gotten a brief glimpse of heaven, and every time Rome Devereaux came near her, she could think of nothing else.
He’d called her clever. “Foolish” would be a better word. Shameless, even. Her parents had secured her an excellent future with Haverford, and she couldn’t seem to dredge up the fortitude to forgo the joy of Rome’s attentions in order to preserve it.
She wished things had remained simple. She wished she had never heard of the Black Rose Society, that she had never gone to Vauxhall that night.
That Anthony was still alive.
She touched her locket, shoulders slumping as grief pressed down on her. How many more young men would die? How many would she know personally? And would she be able to stop it?
Her actions to uncover the mystery of the society certainly put her relationship with Haverford in jeopardy, especially with the added complication of Rome. But ceasing the investigation now was not an option. She would simply hope that Rome was telling her the truth, that he would indeed help her. As a man, he could go places she could not. Once he brought his findings to her, they could combine forces to unlock the puzzle.
And such an arrangement would assure that they remained separated for extended amounts of time, leaving her to do her duty by Haverford. There would be no chance for unexpected encounters.
She had risen above her parents’ patronizing disbelief in her theories about Anthony’s death. She had managed to conquer her grief and do what needed to be done. Now she simply must gather the strength to resist the seductive lure of Rome Devereaux long enough to accomplish her goal.
She met her own eyes in the mirror. She had always accomplished every task she set out to do.
Resisting Rome Devereaux’s rakish charm would be no different.
Rome returned to his rooms, his feet dragging as if bound in iron. He had thought that staying away from Anna would soothe the ache in his heart, but today’s encounter had proven him completely wrong. The attraction hadn’t dimmed a whit; if anything, it had only grown stronger in the short time he hadn’t seen her. He couldn’t forget her taste or the feel of her in his arms. Curse him for a fool, but he wanted her even though she belonged to another man.
The best thing to do was to stick to their new bargain. Her notes had proven invaluable, and he was starting to get a good picture of the Black Rose Society by using them as the basis for his own investigation. He would have to share some of his findings with her, he decided, stopping before the door to his rooms. Certainly not everything, but definitely enough that she felt he was keeping her involved.
He would keep her safe, no matter what.
The matter of Edgar Vaughn, for instance. How could a man so steeped in honor and tradition turn colors so quickly? His second appointment with Vaughn was scheduled for tomorrow, and he would use that time to discover what he could about Vaughn’s connection to the society.
He entered his rooms. She had been right earlier when she’d said the attraction between them must not be encouraged. He was not his father, to be sniffing after another man’s woman. The first time had been an accident; he hadn’t known her true identity. Anything after that, however, he could not excuse.
He slammed the door, both the physical one to his rooms and the mental one marked “Anna Rosewood.”
A movement in the darkness claimed
his attention. He froze, already formulating how to get to the desk drawer where his pistol lay. “Who’s there?”
“It is I. Peter.”
His tense muscles relaxed. “Peter, what are you doing sitting here in the dark?” He moved to the table to light the lamp.
“I need your help, Roman.”
Hearing the tremble in the boy’s voice, Rome quickly lit the lamp and turned to look at him. “Dear God, Peter, what happened?”
His clothes stained and dirty, his hair uncombed, Peter watched him with the eyes of a condemned man. “I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?” As Rome came closer, the stench of the lad hit him like a board in the face. “Bloody hell, boy! What the devil have you been about?”
“I haven’t been home.” He swiped a hand over his unshaven cheeks. “Apparently I spent the night asleep on the table in a taproom.”
“Or inside a wine bottle.”
“Roman, please.” He spread shaking hands in supplication. “I need help. I don’t know what to do.”
“Just tell me what the problem is.”
Peter gazed at him with torment in his bloodshot eyes. “I killed a man last night.”
Chapter 12
“What did you say?”
“I killed a man. Oh, God.” Peter stumbled back a step, fell back into his seat. His pale face resembled a Greek mask, eyes huge and dark with the shock of truth. “I didn’t want to. It was supposed to be a game.”
Cold to his bones, Rome sank down on the edge of a chair. “Tell me what happened.”
“I didn’t expect it. I thought it was a game.”
“Peter!”
The young man flinched. “Sorry. Sorry. What was the question?”
Rome jerked to his feet and went to his brandy decanter. “What happened?”
“I got called.”
“Called? By the society?” Sloshing a healthy amount into a glass, Rome turned back to Peter and pressed the drink into his lax fingers.
The boy wrapped both hands around the goblet, as if he didn’t trust his own grip. “Yes. I got called.” He lifted the glass to his lips, teeth chattering against the rim as he managed a swallow.
Debra Mullins Page 14
