by Diana Bold
“Of course,” Adrian said lazily, sauntering over and taking the girl by the hand. “Come with me, princess.”
The girl stared up at him, her gaze fixing upon his scars with obvious horror. “Not this one, ma’am,” she sobbed, digging in her heels. “He’s all burned—”
Madame Mamie slapped the girl hard across the face, stopping her flow of words. The woman towered over the girl, staring her down until the girl bit her lip and forced herself to look back at Adrian. “Begging your pardon, sir.”
Forcing his face into a mask of disinterest, Adrian turned and headed toward the upper floor, trusting that the girl would follow. Shame burned through him, incinerating the pleasure he’d felt with Vanessa. He’d foolishly allowed himself to believe that perhaps next time he would go to her without the mask, that they’d established enough trust and attraction between them that she might be able to see more than his scars.
The girl’s reaction had shaken him to the core. It wasn’t the first time a woman had turned away from him in disgust. It was, however, the first time someone he’d paid had done so.
“Third door to the left, sir,” the girl said tentatively from behind him as they reached the second-story landing.
He strode down the dimly lit hall, trying to commit the house’s layout to memory, forcing himself to push away the girl’s words. She didn’t know he was here to help her. The poor little thing was obviously terrified.
When he reached the door she’d indicated, he pushed it open, taking in the rumpled bed and smell of sex in the air.
“What’s your name?” he asked, as the door clicked quietly shut behind him.
“Bridget,” she answered reluctantly.
“How old are you?” He finally turned to look at her, careful to keep the scarred side of his face turned away.
She stared at her feet, refusing to look at him. “Ten.”
He sucked in a breath, but something sly in the curve of her mouth made him suddenly doubt her words. “Twelve is more like,” he told her. “But they told you to say ten, didn’t they? And that you are a virgin.”
Her cheeks stained red, but she didn’t deny it. The panic inside him subsided somewhat. When he’d thought she’d really arrived that morning, he’d considered stealing her away tonight, even though that would jeopardize everything. If she disappeared after having spent the night with him, Roger would certainly put the pieces together, if he hadn’t already.
He walked over to the lone dirty window and stared down at the street below, carefully orienting himself to the location of Bridget’s room within the house.
Then, with a tired sigh, he sat down at a small table beside the bed and pulled a deck of cards from his pocket. “Do you play hearts?”
She shook her head slowly, obviously confused.
“Well, if you promise not to tell that this is all we did, I’ll teach you.”
* * * *
Roger stared down at the cowering young girl who sat in the chair in front of his desk, anger churning within him. He’d had Bridget brought to him the moment after his stepbrother left, but so far, the chit had refused to answer his questions about what had transpired between her and that scarred monster.
“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said quietly. “If you don’t tell me what I need to know, things will go very badly for you.” He moved behind her and leaned down, grabbing her small breasts and squeezing tightly.
She cried out and clenched her hands tighter in her lap. “I don’t know what you want me to say, sir. He was just a regular bloke, ’cept for the scars.”
Now they were getting somewhere. He released her and strode back behind his desk. “Did he ask you questions? Did he request any specific sexual act? Answers, girl! I need answers.”
In the past year, the masked bandit Prometheus had grown more and more brazen, targeting Roger’s establishments far more frequently than any others. It had taken a while for Roger to see the pattern, but once he had, he’d become certain one of his stepbrothers was to blame.
At first, he’d been certain Lucien was behind it all, but the earl spent a lot of his time at his country seat, and the attacks had happened multiple times when reliable sources had claimed he was not in the city.
Morgan, with his wife and family, did not seem plausible either. Morgan had far too much to lose to risk himself so recklessly.
Which only left Adrian.
So Roger had started tracking his brother’s visits to his establishments, and what he’d found had further convinced him.
“Did he play cards with you?” he asked, watching her closely. “Dice perhaps?”
Bridget flinched, and for the first time her wide dark eyes locked with his. The truth was easy to see.
Adrian did not fuck these girls, which had made no sense to him at first, until he’d realized Adrian only visited the whore houses to find likely candidates to rescue.
Well, he wasn’t getting this one.
Disgusted with this girl for trying to protect Adrian, he bellowed for one of his enforcers. “Take her to my house on Bloomsbury Square,” he instructed.
Tonight he’d go to her and show her where her loyalties should lie. And then he’d set a trap for Adrian.
Chapter Seven
A week after Prometheus’s last visit, Vanessa’s gaze returned repeatedly to the Earl of Hawkesmere’s private box while she performed. The Strathmores were out in force tonight. Both her admirer’s brothers were in attendance, along with Morgan’s wife, Anne, and their younger half-sister, Lady Allison. She could not tell whether Adrian had chosen to join them. If he had, he was still hanging back in the shadows. His self-imposed loneliness called to something deep inside her. In fact, she found him every bit as fascinating as her masked midnight visitor.
Intrigued, she sent a page to extend his family a backstage invitation. Since she’d invited the whole family, her marked interest in Adrian might not be noticed.
Later, in the green room, Marcus strode toward her, with one of Adrian’s brothers and his wife in tow. He raised a curious brow as he performed the introductions. She never extended personal invitations to come backstage. “Mr. Morgan Strathmore, Mrs. Strathmore, may I introduce Miss Vanessa Bourke?”
Though she’d seen the Strathmore men from afar, this was the closest she’d ever been to one. Morgan Strathmore was mesmerizingly attractive, with thick, dark hair and uncanny blue eyes. “You were fabulous tonight, Miss Bourke,” he murmured, as he bent over her hand. His deep, velvety voice resonated inside her mind, shocking her to the core.
She’d heard that voice before…in her bedroom…in her dreams…
Was he her masked visitor? Her gaze darted between him and his lovely blonde pregnant wife in rising dismay, remembering how it had felt to be in his arms. How could he? She’d thought him a hero.
Something of what she was feeling must have shown in her eyes, because his beautiful face darkened in concern. “Is something the matter, Miss Bourke?”
She met his gaze and found none of the familiarity or fear of discovery she’d expected to find. He looked at her as though she were merely a new acquaintance, and not someone who could destroy his marriage and reputation with a word. Either that, or he was an even better actor than she was.
The answer came to her in a blinding flash. Morgan Strathmore was not Prometheus, though of course he sounded like him. Her secret admirer and her masked visitor were one and the same—Adrian Strathmore, this man’s twin.
“No,” she answered weakly as all the pieces fell into place. Both men had hidden themselves from her in one way or another. Dear Lord, how her heart ached for him. “I had just hoped your brother would join you tonight.”
His eyes narrowed, and he gestured behind him, to the earl, who was just entering the room with Lady Allison on his arm. “My brother did join me.”
“Your other brother,” she said softly. “Adrian.” Heat crept up her cheeks as he continued to stare at her, obviously trying to figure out w
hy she was acting so strangely. “I only ask because he often comes to the show, and I was hoping to meet him.”
“You must be mistaken.” Morgan grew suddenly cold. “Adrian never goes out in public unless absolutely forced. He’d rather be hung over hot coals than attend the theater.”
She would have argued the point, but he seemed so certain, and she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself. She wondered if Adrian’s brothers knew about his exploits as Prometheus, or if she was completely wrong about her late-night visitor’s identity.
* * * *
Later, Vanessa lay awake deep into the night, wondering if Prometheus would come to her, and what she’d say to him if he did.
When he did not come, she found herself deeply disappointed. Now that she knew his identity, she found him even more intriguing. His fierce intensity both thrilled and frightened her.
They said Adrian Strathmore was brilliant, but a little mad. An inventor. A poet… Suddenly she realized the bits of poetry he’d tossed her had probably been original.
How extensive were his scars? Having met his beautiful twin brother, she couldn’t imagine the travesty of any of those features distorted. What must it have been like for Adrian, to have spent his whole life with a constant reminder of what he’d have looked like if the accident had never happened?
The next time he came to her as Prometheus, she would try to coax him once more into taking off the mask. She didn’t want him to hide from her anymore. What did a few scars matter? Surely she was not so shallow as to let a few physical imperfections stand in the way of what she’d found in his arms. She’d grown to care deeply for the man in the mask. She wouldn’t care any less once he took it off.
* * * *
Adrian stood beside Vanessa’s bed, staring down at her with such need and longing he was surprised the heat of his gaze didn’t wake her. She’d left the window invitingly open for him. When he’d seen that foolish implied invitation, he’d felt a surge of emotion so intense he’d had to pause to catch his breath.
Even so, he meant to have a stern talk with her about leaving her window open. If he could steal inside her room, so could someone else, and he couldn’t bear the thought of any harm coming to her.
He wanted to wake her, to sit upon the sofa with her and tell her about his horrible week, while sipping cocoa and staring into her beautiful, perceptive eyes. He sensed she’d know exactly the right things to say to make him feel better, and for the first time in his life he wanted nothing more than to converse with another human being. He wanted to share his heart and soul with her, and that scared the hell out of him.
But as the moments crept on, she still didn’t wake, and he realized she must be sleeping very soundly. As he stared at her, exhaustion began to weigh on him as well. How wonderful it would be to lie down beside her, pull her into his arms, and close his eyes, if only for a few moments.
Before he could think better of the rash idea, he’d stripped off his cloak, jacket, and cravat. He even took off his mask, leaving only the black silk undermask he wore beneath it. Lifting back the covers on the nearest side of the bed, he slid carefully between them and gathered Vanessa close against him, his front to her back, burying his face in the crook of her neck and breathing her in.
He’d never simply lain beside a woman in bed. Though he was hardly a virgin, he’d never had sex that wasn’t paid for, a fact which shamed him to the depth of his soul. But with Vanessa, he had something that had become so precious to him. There was attraction, but also a tentative friendship, and he longed to strengthen and deepen it. If only he dared trust her with his scars… Maybe Lucien was right…maybe he didn’t give her enough credit.
The anger and frustration that had driven him here slowly faded, replaced by a pleasant state of aroused lethargy. She calmed him like nothing else he’d ever known. When he was with her, he didn’t feel the rage and restlessness that usually filled his days.
He almost believed that with her he could be…happy.
Just as he began to drift off, she stirred beside him. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, brushing a few strands of silky black hair from her face. “I just wanted to lie here with you awhile.”
She stiffened against him but then went suddenly pliant as her tired brain must have recognized him. “You came back,” she breathed.
Her obvious pleasure at finding him in her bed touched something deep inside him. He couldn’t remember a time when anyone had ever given him such a welcome. Warmth spread through him, centering with pulsing urgency in his groin. “I told you I would.”
She smiled sleepily and turned to face him. He saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes when she realized he still wore a mask, even though it revealed more of him than she’d seen so far. She didn’t comment however, just reached up and stroked her fingertips along the line of his jaw.
“You looked so beautiful lying here, so peaceful… I just wanted to hold you for a while.” He eased his hips back a bit, hoping she couldn’t tell how aroused he already was.
She bit her lip and gazed into his eyes. “You look troubled,” she said after a moment. “What’s wrong, my love?”
My love. The casual endearment broke through the last of his defenses. “I fear someone is on to me,” he admitted in a rush. “I think I’ve been too cocky, taken too many chances, and now a young girl is paying the price for my mistakes.”
“What happened?” she asked softly.
“In order to find children to save, I have to first go to those horrid places and seek them out,” he began haltingly. “I learn the layout of the building, and where the child sleeps, so that I can come back at a later date and steal them away.”
“You go to the brothels as yourself?” she asked encouragingly.
He nodded and rolled to his back, pressing his forearm over his eyes. “I hate doing it. Those places sicken me. And I hate that people think that’s the kind of man I am, that I’d find pleasure with children… The masks I don in real life are far harder to wear than this one.”
She put her hand upon his heart, rubbing small circles on his chest as he talked. “It must be very difficult. How do you choose which children to help, once you’ve entered one of those places? There must be so many, I’d imagine it would be overwhelming, but you can’t save them all. You’re only one man.”
He lowered his arm to look at her, grateful for her easy understanding. “It is. My God, you can’t imagine how much it haunts me, how the faces of those I couldn’t help fill my nightmares…” He swallowed roughly and shook his head. “But this time, I found a girl named Bridget, just twelve years old… Still, she was older than most of them. When I bought her services, I played cards with her all night. I went back a few days later, but she wasn’t in her room. Instead, there were three henchmen hiding in wait for me.”
She pushed herself up on one elbow and stared down at him in alarm. “How did you get away?”
“They lunged for me too quickly. I was only halfway through the window, and I managed to escape across the rooftops. But something similar happened the night I stole Gabriel, so I think the bastard who owns those places has made the connection between who I am in real life and Prometheus. From now on, I fear that any time I visit one of these unfortunate children as myself, they’ll be waiting for me.”
She leaned down and brushed her lips softly against his. “You’ve done more than anyone could possibly ask of you. Perhaps it’s time for you to lie low for a while.”
“You don’t understand.” He stared up into her lovely eyes, fighting his impatience, willing her to see how important this was to him. “I can’t find Bridget. I’ve gone back there every night, hiding in the shadows, peering through the windows, asking questions of everyone who will talk to me. I fear they’ve hurt her, sent her somewhere else, somewhere even worse, all because I singled her out.”
“It’s not your fault,” she insisted. “She was already lost.”
“I’ve got to find her,” he r
eplied stubbornly.
She stared at him for a long moment, and then nodded. “All right. I’ll help you. We’ll find her.”
“Vanessa,” he murmured on a choked laugh. “The last thing I want is to drag you into this. But thank you. Thank you for listening.” He scooped her into his arms, tumbling her across him and surprising a small squeal out of her as he directed her to straddle his waist and brace her hands on his shoulders. “Kiss me,” he urged. “I don’t want to think about it anymore, and I’m dying for a taste of you.”
She smiled naughtily and leaned forward, pressing her mouth to his.
Pure passion. He was starving for her, and nothing separated them but a few wisps of fabric. He could think of nothing but getting inside her, of burying himself in her sweetness.
He cupped her breasts through the sheer fabric of her nightgown, and she moaned into his mouth, shifting against him in obvious pleasure. He broke away and stared up at her, his breath hitching in his chest. “I want to make love to you, Vanessa.”
She gazed at him for an endless moment and then hesitantly moved her hand toward his face. “Yes,” she whispered. “But only if you let me take off your mask.”
Her words sent an icy rush through his body, freezing all the heat away. Numb with disappointment, he caught her hand just as she would have ripped his mask away.
“No,” he growled. “No, Vanessa.”
Hurt filled her dark eyes. “You expect me to trust you, to open myself to you completely, and yet you still won’t tell me your name or let me see your face?” She shook her head sadly. “I want to know you. I want you to trust me the way I trust you.”
Sheer terror filled him at the very thought. He wasn’t ready for this. He couldn’t bear to see the admiration in her eyes turn to disgust. Perhaps it was better to keep the fantasy of the last month and never ruin it with the reality of her finding out who he was.
