Debra Mullins

by Scandal of the Black Rose

  “You probably don’t need any more alcohol,” Rome said, folding his arms, “but it will steady you long enough to tell me the way of it.”

  Peter licked drops of brandy from his lips and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

  “You’re not the only man who’s come to me after his first killing,” Rome said quietly. “It’s quite common on the battlefield.”

  “Richard told me,” Peter agreed. Then his face crumpled. “I wish he were here. I wish he could tell me what to do.”

  “Easy, soldier.” Rome squeezed his shoulder once, then guided the glass back to his lips. “I’m here in his stead. Remember, he asked me to guide you since he couldn’t be here to do it himself.”

  The boy nodded, one tear escaping his welling eyes as he took another sniffling sip of the brandy. He lowered the glass and swiped a hand across his cheek to obliterate the telltale track of moisture. “What was I saying?”

  “You got called by the society.”

  “Yes. My first match.” He gave a hollow laugh. “I was excited. Yes, yes, I know. I was supposed to tell you when I got called. You didn’t trust the society.” He laughed again, higher pitched and tinged with hysteria. “You were right. Damn it, Roman, you were right.”

  Rome sighed. “I wish I hadn’t been.”

  “The note with the symbol arrived in the post three days before the match.”

  “With directions to the duel, I assume.”

  “Actually, no. When you receive the note with the symbol, you are to go to the agreed-upon place and wait for further instructions.”

  “What place is that?”

  “A posting house just outside London. They told me when I joined the society that when I received the symbol, I was to go there and wait for contact.”

  “And since there are no words on the note you receive, they do not betray themselves. Which posting house was it?”

  “The Vernon Crossing Inn.”

  “Do you still have the note?”

  “No.” At Rome’s exasperated look, the boy straightened defensively. “We have to bring it with us! It’s part of the instructions.”

  “Convenient.”

  Peter let out a weary sigh. “I heard that someone lost his letter once, and there was a big fuss about the secrecy of the society being compromised. So now we all have to bring them.”

  “Fine. So you received a letter with a symbol that meant you were to go to the Vernon Crossing Inn. I assume the duel was not at the posting house.”

  “No, one of the Triad picked me up in a carriage.”

  Rome nodded. “Clever. I take it the carriage took you to the site of the match.”

  Peter nodded. “He blindfolded me before we left so I wouldn’t know where we were going.”

  “Clever again, curse it! They make it impossible to retrace your steps.” Rome began to pace. “Continue your story, Peter.”

  “We arrived at the site—it was a clearing near some backcountry road. The other members of the Triad were there waiting for us, along with my opponent. I guess they picked him up at a different posting inn. Everyone wears masks, even the duelists.”

  “So there can be no accusations at Almack’s or Bond Street or anywhere else outside the battleground,” Rome said, shaking his head at the ingenuity of it. “The secret society remains utterly secret.”

  “Everything was fine at first,” Peter continued, staring down into the dregs of his drink. “It was a good duel. I drew first blood. I thought I had won.”

  He fell silent and rotated the glass in his hand as if it were his only world. Then he threw back the last mouthful of liquor in one, desperate swallow.

  Rome closed his eyes for a moment, knowing without hearing it what had happened next. But Peter needed to speak of it, needed to accept what he’d done. “And then?”

  “And then I killed him.” His voice broke, and he sagged forward as if unable to cope with the weight of his monstrous deed. He cradled the goblet to his chest like an infant. “God save me, but I killed him.”

  “Just like that?” Rome kept his voice steady, his tone practical. “You drew first blood, then you decided to kill him?”

  “No!” the boy gasped. He sat up, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that!”

  “So what happened then?”

  “The Triad. They said it wasn’t over, that we would fight to the death.”

  “Ah.” Rome nodded, unsurprised.

  “I refused! Roman, I swear by all that’s holy, I refused!”

  “And your opponent?”

  “He didn’t want to do it either, at first.” He slumped against the chair back, the empty glass nearly tipping from his fingers. “But then they said they would kill both of us if we didn’t do what they said.”

  “And they were three to your two.”

  “Plus the two carriage drivers. They had pistols.”

  “Five to two, then.”

  “Five to two,” Peter agreed. “The other fellow, he started at me like a madman. Guess he was afraid.” He frowned, as if working the situation out in his mind. “Nothing I said would stop him. I had to defend myself.”

  “Of course you did. You were outnumbered, and you were being attacked.”

  “We fought, but in the end I killed him.” He shook his head and placed his empty glass on the table. “I keep saying it, but it seems too fantastic to be true. I killed a man, Roman.”

  “I know.”

  “I stood there staring at him, bleeding on the ground. Even when they handed me the purse, I could barely believe—”

  “Wait.” Rome raised a hand, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “What purse?”

  “My winnings. Even with the society’s cut, I won quite a bit. But it wasn’t worth it. I took that purse to the nearest tavern and got stone drunk.”

  “You mentioned a membership fee. You never said that you were dueling for money.” Though his tone remained calm, anger clenched his gut and burned its way through his veins, boiling hotter than a blacksmith’s fire.

  Someone was getting rich off the lives of unsuspecting innocents.

  He longed to vent his rage, punch something, fight someone, but the lad needed comfort and direction, not a demonstration of temper. He forced his wrath beneath iron control, knowing he would pay the price later for suppressing such consuming emotion.

  “It’s true that when you join the society, you have to pay a membership fee,” Peter was explaining. “But then you have to provide a stake. Every time you fight a match, you win half your opponent’s stake. The other half goes to the society.”

  “How much is this stake?”

  “Mine was three hundred pounds.”

  “Three hundred pounds! Good God, Peter, that’s nearly a month’s allowance!”

  “Allowance,” Peter sneered. “I’m two-and-twenty—a grown man! And yet I cannot control my own fortunes until I reach the age of twenty-five. Why Richard set such a ridiculous condition, I shall never understand.”

  “How can you not understand?” Rome cast him a look of disdain, fury pressing to escape the boundary of his will. “Look at the mess in which you have landed yourself. Richard was wise to set such a condition, else you would certainly have found yourself in Fleet prison by now!”

  “It’s because of the restriction that I joined the society!” Peter jumped to his feet. “I want to control my own money, not have it doled out to me as if I were still in short pants. The society promised me a sound return on my initial investment.”

  “Yes,” Rome snapped back. “And all you had to do was kill for it.”

  “I didn’t know that at the time!” Peter spun away, rubbing his head. “Damn, but I’m starting to feel that brandy.”

  Rome grabbed his arm and yanked him back around. “Be glad you won this time, boy,” he said, leaning in until their noses practically touched. “Or else I’d be planning your funeral right now.”

  Peter jerked away from Rome’s hold. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of that.”
/>
  “Yes, you did.” He waved an impatient hand to dismiss any further apologies. “Right now we need to decide what to do with you.”

  “What do you mean?” Panic sharpened his words. “You don’t expect me to go to the magistrate?”

  “And swing for a death you were forced to cause? Hardly. That would serve no purpose, especially since you have no way to prove your tale.”

  “Thank God.” Peter let out a long breath.

  “You’ll have to leave the country.”

  “What!” he squeaked.

  “There’s no other way.” Rome planted his feet and folded his arms. “You were foolish to become involved in this thing, Peter, but you must accept the facts. You killed a man. That’s a crime punishable by death.”

  “Perhaps the magistrate will listen to reason.”

  “I doubt it. Imagine the look on the judge’s face as you try to explain about a secret society of duelists. If they don’t hang you, they’ll cast you in Bedlam.”

  “Oh, my God.” Peter sank weakly into his chair. “You’re right, I must leave. If I stay, the society will expect me to do this again.”

  “True. Could you do it, Peter? Could you kill for money again?”

  Revulsion flickered across his face. “No. Never.”

  “Which means if you stay, you will die, for they will surely kill you if you refuse to fight to the death.”

  “I have to leave England.”

  “You have to leave England,” Rome agreed. “Under normal circumstances, I would insist you board the first ship out of the country, but these are not normal circumstances.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Usually duels take place in front of witnesses, forcing the victor to flee immediately if a death occurs. But this time the secret society works in our favor.”

  Understanding dawned on Peter’s face. “Oh, I see. No one knows about the match except the Triad.”

  “And they would hardly run to the magistrate,” Rome said with a curt nod. “Why don’t you go home and pack some belongings? Have a bag ready to go, then just go about your normal business until I contact you.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Arrange passage for you so we can slip you out of England safely and secretly.”

  Peter’s whole body sagged with relief. He grabbed Rome’s hand and shook it. “Thank you, Roman. You’ve arrived at the perfect answer.”

  “Just be careful, Peter. The society may have spies, and if they think you are getting ready to flee, they may try and stop you. Do nothing differently, and be ready to go at my word.”

  “I will.” Peter took a deep breath and let it out again. “Thank you again, Roman. Richard could not have come up with a better arrangement.

  Rome gave a tight-lipped smile. “I’m flattered. Now off with you.”

  “I’ll be waiting for your signal.”

  Rome rolled his eyes. “This isn’t espionage, just an escape plan.”

  Peter grinned, for an instant looking like the carefree young man he used to be, then headed for the door. “I’ll still wait to hear from you.”

  “Oh, Peter.”

  The boy paused with his hand on the door latch. “Yes?”

  “Take a bath, will you?”

  Peter chuckled, then ducked out the door, shutting it behind him.

  Left alone, Rome let the smile fade from his face.

  The Black Rose Society had changed in his estimation from merely a dangerous group of hotheaded young bloods to a most despicable sort of organization. Clearly this was no game of strategy created by students, but a manipulative deception controlled by adults whose greed fed off the lives and fortunes of gullible young men longing for adventure.

  The mere notion of it sickened him.

  How many times had he witnessed this sort of exploitation during the war? People stealing from the bodies of the dead, women abused by soldiers fevered by battle, brother betraying brother for the price of a few pounds. To find something so contemptible here, in England…

  The bastards. How dared they force a green youth like Peter to murder?

  Taking a life sank into a man’s heart and soul, marred it like a rotted spot on an apple. Some people were made of stern stuff, able to handle the bone-deep changes that came about after such an experience. Others could never honestly cope with such an invasion of self, and they lived day after day with misery and guilt as their constant companions.

  Peter would never be the same.

  That knowledge, certain and irreversible, burned like hot coals in his gut. He couldn’t turn back time for Peter and undo his heinous act. He couldn’t fight the villain who had lured the unsuspecting lad into the trap. He couldn’t change the law so that Peter could stay in England.

  But he could track down the leaders of the Black Rose Society and ensure that they paid for their crimes.

  And he would start with his only living lead— Edgar Vaughn.

  Anna would want to know about this. She would want to be with him every step of the way to watch the society crumble.

  He couldn’t allow that. Peter’s tale had convinced him that these were ruthless men who killed without mercy, and he would do everything in his power to protect her from that.

  No matter what it cost him.

  Chapter 13

  Days later, Anna stood with her mother at the Severley ball, searching the crowd for a familiar tall figure. She had expected to hear from Rome before now. Surely he had been able to uncover some sort of clue about the Robert Chambers murder. Rome’s conduct confirmed her fear that his promise to include her was merely a way to keep her from exposing his involvement

  “Anna,” her mother murmured, “I know you are excited to see the earl, but do not make a cake of yourself by appearing too eager.”

  Anna flushed and came down from her tiptoes. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  “I appreciate your enthusiasm, dear, but we must not give the impression you are fast.”

  “Of course not.” She fluttered her fan near her heated cheeks. If her mother only knew!

  Henrietta took her by the arm and guided her behind a potted palm for a moment of privacy. “Listen to me,” she whispered. “You must charm an offer from his lordship very soon. The Season is nearly finished, and we cannot afford another. This is your only chance, Anna.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Henrietta smiled and adjusted the lace on Anna’s sleeve. “You are a good daughter, Anna. You do the family proud.”

  Anna’s stomach clenched with a healthy dose of guilt. What would her mother’s reaction be if she knew about Rome?

  Henrietta stepped out from behind the palm tree. Anna followed, then halted as she caught sight of Rome entering the ballroom with his sister and her husband. His tall, lean figure looked absolutely dashing in black evening clothes, and his dangerous attractiveness drew the gaze of every female in the room. The air of scandal about him only added to his appeal.

  He glanced her way. Her breath caught in her lungs; her heart skipped wildly, then steadied into a strong, rapid beat. She held his gaze, heat curling low in her belly as they communicated in hot, hungry silence.

  Then he broke contact and walked in the opposite direction, as if he hadn’t seen her at all.

  What in the world…? For a long moment, she stared at his back, willing him to turn back to her. They were supposed to be partners, weren’t they? Why hadn’t he so much as said hello?

  “Anna,” her mother whispered. “Lord Haverford has just emerged from the card room.”

  Haverford. Yes. Anna forced her gaze away from Rome’s retreating back and focused on Haverford wending his way through the crowd. This was the man who should have her attention. This was the man who held her future in his hands.

  But Rome held the key to the truth.

  “Good evening, my lord,” Henrietta said.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Rosewood. Miss Rosewood.” Haverford bowed, then turned a polite smile on Anna. “Miss Rosew
ood, I would be honored if you would save me the waltz.”

  Anna colored. “I cannot, my lord.”

  “Anna has not yet been given license to dance the waltz by the patronesses of Almack’s,” her mother hurried to say. “Perhaps the minuet?”

  “Of course.” Haverford took Anna’s dance card and scribbled his name for the first minuet. “Until then, Miss Rosewood.”

  “Until then, my lord.”

  As Haverford took his leave, Henrietta snapped open her fan. “We must obtain permission for you to waltz,” she hissed. “I do not understand why you have not been granted it. Many other ladies are allowed to waltz.”

  “Calm yourself, Mama. Lord Haverford has secured a minuet. It would have been much worse if he had not asked at all.”

  “Bite your tongue, daughter!” Henrietta fanned even faster. “Of course he asked. You have an understanding.”

  “Then we must be content.”

  “Do not be content, Anna, until the Devereaux sapphire is on your finger.” She snapped the fan closed and pointed it at her daughter. “You must charm the earl into declaring himself. We are running out of time.”

  With this pronouncement, she turned away to engage a crony in conversation.

  Anna let out a deep sigh. She was indeed running out of time. Haverford aside, it seemed nearly impossible that she could discover the secret behind her brother’s murder in the few weeks she had left. Her only chance lay with the man who moments ago had acted as if she were invisible.

  It looked as if she would be tasked with charming two Devereaux men tonight.

  “Rome, do try to enjoy yourself,” Lavinia pleaded.

  Rome continued to scowl at the crowd. “I am enjoying myself,” he lied.

  “Yes, I have always been partial to the way your eyebrows come together when you smile,” Vin said, with sweet sarcasm. “I understand you are upset that your second appointment with Mr. Vaughn was rescheduled, but I am certain it is not personal.”