by Sharon Page
“Just for a while,” she lied. She remembered what he’d said, in the children’s nursery, no less. Sinful, dastardly, unforgivable as it is—I have to have you. Yet according to Lady Winterhaven, he did not pursue women like her. Greybrooke tied her in knots. She had thought him a simple rake. He was far more complex.
She couldn’t help it. She hoped, prayed, yearned he was innocent. She must be impartial, but how could she be?
“I am confident I will get my brother married off,” Lady Winterhaven was saying. “But it will have to be a plan worthy of Wellington.”
At the reference to war plans, Helena went pale. Lady Winterhaven said the words as a joke. Was that a clue she knew nothing about treason?
“Good night, Miss Winsome.”
Helena’s thoughts went to the duke as she curtsied to her ladyship.
Greybrooke did not want to kiss. He did not “make love” but had a special club where he went and did wicked things. Was that why he was so determined to not marry?
Cool night air enveloped her, and Helena began her walk toward the door in the rear stone wall as a casual stroll, as if she had no other plan than to enjoy the black velvet of the sky, the whisper of the breeze, the lingering fragrance of a spring garden. A few yards from the house, she lifted her hems and ran. She must get to Hyde Park and watch Greybrooke.
But as she neared the gate, a soft sound stopped her.
Sobs—soft sobs floated through the dark. Her first instinct was to ask who was there, but almost at once she knew how pointless that was. She followed the sound to the corner of the walled-in back garden. A pale statue gleamed in the moonlight, but it was the dark figure in front of the statue who was crying.
“Lady Maryanne?”
Helena’s foot bumped something hard. Lady Maryanne’s stick, discarded on the ground. She bent and picked it up, then put her arm around the young woman. “Oh, my dear, what is it? Whatever is wrong?” She was certain she knew—the girl must be crying over her lost sight. When Helena first came, she was told that Maryanne used to do it almost all the time. Now, it was much less infrequent.
Lady Maryanne lifted her head. Her green eyes were huge, luminous, her blond hair loose and framing her beautiful, oval face. “Be quiet, Winnie! I don’t want my sister to find me out here. As for what’s wrong? I’m in love! That’s the truth—the terrible, terrible truth.” She wiped at her cheeks angrily.
“It can’t be so terrible to be in love—”
“It is for me! I can’t have him. Do you know what that is like, Miss Winsome? To love someone desperately—to have found one’s true love, your only love—yet you can’t have him.”
Helena’s heart twisted. She had hoped Maryanne would find love. She knew it would be the best for the girl. She had feared it would bring heartbreak, but she’d hoped a gentleman would fall in love with Maryanne’s breathtaking beauty. “Does he love you in return? If so, nothing should matter—”
“Everything matters!” the girl gasped. “Oh, it’s not because I’m blind. That’s what you think, isn’t it? That’s what everyone thinks—that no one would have me because I’m blind. But this man doesn’t care about that. It’s not even because Uncle Grey would never, never allow it. That’s not why it hurts so much. It’s because I don’t want to keep secrets from him. I don’t want to lie to him. But if he knew the truth . . . if he knew about what happened . . . Oh God, I would lose his love forever.”
Helena hated to do this, hated to take advantage of Maryanne’s pain and vulnerability. But she must do it—for her family’s sake. “What truth, Maryanne? Is it something that your uncle did? Is it something terrible that Greybrooke did?”
“I can’t speak of it. I promised I would never speak of it. I kept my word and I lost my sight.” Maryanne laughed—a twisted, choking laugh.
No, she must stop now and calm Maryanne. “I won’t ask you anything more. I’m sorry. But I don’t believe your love is impossible. Have faith and hope, Lady Maryanne—” She stepped forward, to hug the girl, to use touch to soothe her.
But Maryanne fled. Hands out, she stumbled toward the house. Fearing the girl would fall, Helena ran after her and caught up. “Let me help you to bed,” she said firmly.
It was only later, when she had Lady Maryanne safely in bed, when she’d solemnly promised she would say nothing of finding the girl crying outside, that she knew it was too late to go to Hyde Park.
“What are you planning to do, Grey? Shoot him?”
Grey frowned at Caradon, who walked at his side along the Rotten Row, into the shadowy expanse of Hyde Park. He carried two pistols in the deep pockets of his greatcoat, and they bumped heavily against his legs. In his boot was a secreted blade. “Unfortunately I can’t,” he growled. He explained the blackmailer’s threat. “If I kill him, his knowledge will be published in the newssheets. However, if I can make him believe I’m angry enough to shoot him anyway, I may get the upper hand.”
“Where’s the meeting to take place?”
“Just beyond the trees, near the Grosvenor Gate. Keep to the shadows. I want you to hide when we get close. I’m supposed to arrive alone.”
They approached the spot, which was deserted. Moonlight fell on the ground between long shadows cast by the trees. A wind flicked their coats around them. Caradon let out a breath. “So where the hell is he?” he asked softly.
“Not here yet. We’re early. Take a position behind the trees over there,” Grey directed. Then he went to the arranged meeting spot and stood with arms crossed over his chest. After a while, he began pacing. He was certain the blackmailer would show. He had the two thousand pounds, and the man had appeared smugly confident. But while he waited, his thoughts went back to the moment last night where he’d drawn Miss Winsome into his kiss. He didn’t kiss. Ironically, in sex, he liked to keep his distance.
She’d kissed with such innocence, but she had parted her lips to take his tongue into her warm mouth. She’d touched her tongue to his. Every sensual move he’d made to pleasure her, to devour her lush mouth, she had countered.
Kissing her had been sizzling and had given him an agonizing erection. But he’d been cautious through it. Careful. He knew the danger of letting his guard down, of giving in to a woman’s touch. He wanted her, but on his terms. Her eager kiss had been a sensual treat, making him think of lush, hot, sweaty sex. But he couldn’t let himself be vulnerable with her. Not in any way—
Something moved in the shadows. He had to stop thinking about Miss Winsome. Grey eased his right hand toward his pocket, curling his fingers around the pistol grip. “Show yourself.”
Moonlight fell on a stooped figure that shuffled out from behind the trees. The bluish light revealed a lined face and glinted on silvery hair. The elderly man moved slowly, limping on his right leg. “Are ye the Duke of Greybrooke?” he croaked. The voice was weak, raspy, as if the man spoke through a lungful of smoke.
“I am. Who are you?”
“Messenger for the man ye were to meet tonight. I were told to pick up what ye’ve got and take it to ’im.”
Hades, he’d been tricked. His pistols were useless—he had no intention of shooting a lackey. Unless this man was more than that. “Give me your name.”
“Don’t see as ’ow ye need to know it, Yer Grace.”
“Are you this man’s accomplice?” At the blank look, he clarified, “His partner.”
“I were paid just to be messenger.”
“Do you know the man who paid you?”
“Never seen ’im before. In fact, I never saw ’im. ’E met me outside me favorite tavern and ’e wore a cloak and a mask.”
“All right, I’ll make you an offer,” Grey said. “You help me in this and I will help you.”
“ ’Ow would ye do that?”
“Payment. I could give you enough money to live comfortably. Perhaps you have family to take care of.”
“I do, and they will be taken care of, Yer Grace. If I don’t do as I’ve been told, it’ll b
e me daughter and her brand-new babby who’ll be ’urt. Please, Yer Grace, just give me the message I’m to get, and let me be on me way.”
“This man threatened your family.”
The elderly man had blanched white. “Aye. ’E knew me name and told me ’e knows where me daughter and her new babby live. If I don’t ’elp ’im, the fiend will ’urt them. Kill them.”
A crunching sound came from behind the thick trunk of an oak.
The old man looked terrified. Then glared angrily at Grey. “Ye were supposed to be alone, Yer Grace.”
Caradon appeared from behind the tree. “He did come alone. I took it upon myself to follow my friend. Now, enough of your tales. Tell us the name of the man who hired you. I believe you recognized him—you wouldn’t be so afraid of his threats if you didn’t know who he was.”
“The man’s frightened, Cary,” Grey growled. To the elderly man, he softened his tones. “I understand you’ve been forced into this. I give you one more opportunity to give me your name. I can help you, your daughter, and her child. This I promise you. I will give no sign you’ve helped me—you will be allowed to leave here unobstructed, and I will not interfere with your meeting with this man. But give me your name and I will help you.”
The man hesitated. Grey had to admire him for wanting to protect his daughter and her babe. A tenderhearted parent would have been a foreign thing for him, if he’d never seen Jacinta and her husband with their children.
“You’ll let him walk out of here with two thousand pounds,” Cary spluttered quietly.
“I will.” He turned again to the old man. “I can provide handsomely for your daughter and your grandchild. I can ensure their safety and their futures.”
The man finally nodded. “I trust ye, Yer Grace. I go by the name of Orley.”
“You can leave here tonight and finish your errand. I will meet you tomorrow.”
“Aye, Yer Grace. I can be found in the Old Nichol.”
Grey knew the place. Orley meant the Old Nichol Rookery, between Shoreditch in the north and the silk weaving industry of Spitalfields in the south. He gave the old man the package he was to deliver to the blackmailer. “Then go. I’ll find you tomorrow,” he promised.
Caradon glared as Orley hobbled off, moving slowly over the sand of the Rotten Row. “Aren’t we at least going to follow him?”
Grey watched the old man reach the Grosvenor Gate, then limp along Park Lane. “No, he might be being watched by the blackmailer. I can’t take that chance.”
“You do realize that tale of his was probably a pack of horse dung and you just let him walk out of here with a couple of thousand pounds. The sight of your pistols might have had him spouting the truth.”
“I think it was the truth,” Grey said thoughtfully. “Though I have to wonder about a villain who sends an old man, essentially a stranger, to collect two thousand pounds.”
Caradon frowned. “What are you being blackmailed over, Grey? You didn’t tell me.”
“I’m not the victim. I’m doing this to help a lady.” Grey began walking toward the gate, boot soles sinking into the grass.
Cary fell in stride with him. “A lady? Dear God, you don’t mean Jacinta, do you?” Cary’s face rarely showed pain, but it was stark now. “I would lay down my life for her. I lost her to Winterhaven, but I’ve never gotten over her.”
“It’s not my sister.”
“What other woman would you do it for?”
“Unfortunately that is something I can’t tell you, Cary.”
“Once you’ve found this Orley tomorrow, how are you going to find the blackmailer?”
“That I don’t yet know,” Grey admitted.
“Should we hunt together tomorrow night?”
“Not at night—tomorrow night I have an arrangement. I’m escorting an innocent into the world of whips, ropes, and riding crops.”
Cary stared at him as if he were insane. “Not your governess?”
“Yes, as sinful as it is, I intend to introduce the pretty governess to my dark world.”
“Grey, you should not do this.”
“Afraid I’m behaving like my demon of a father? Maybe I am like him after all. I can’t seem to resist her, even if it means corrupting her into darkness.”
The house stood at the end of a row of gleaming, new white townhouses in a respectable street on the fringe of Mayfair. Elegant carriages stood along the curb. Gentleman moved through the discreet darkness—the street flare here was not lit—swarming to the house like bees to the hive. Through the carriage window, Helena watched these peers of the realm stride up to the door and disappear inside. Greybrooke sat at her side, his presence truly filling the carriage. He didn’t touch her, but his long legs stretched out, his arm rested along the back of the velvet seat. Her quick breaths took in his sensual scent.
“What is this place? A b-brothel?” The word came out shakily.
“A private club.” In Greybrooke’s deep voice, the words sounded sinful.
The carriage stopped. “Come,” he said simply. He handed her down, and in mere moments they were admitted to the inside of the club—the place in which things happened that he wanted her to do but that he would not describe.
He had spoken little since he had let her into his carriage at the end of the mews. For most of the journey, he’d stared out of his window, his eyes troubled, his hand stroking his jaw. It didn’t reassure her that he looked as if he were about to face hell.
Finally she’d said, “Your Grace, you look as if you are about to face an executioner.”
“It’s not about you, tonight, or us, my dear. There was a man I had promised to protect and I was unable to do so. I found him in his rooms this morning, badly beaten and almost dead.”
She’d gasped. “But why?”
“That is my private affair. But it represents a failure on my part. A misjudgment. My mistake almost cost a man his life. I do not like it when that happens.”
He had spoken so strangely. Distantly, even though he was obviously deeply troubled. Was this related to treason? “But how could you have protected him? Who attacked him?”
“I don’t know who did it. But I knew he was in danger and I did not take the right steps. Thus I am to blame.”
Goodness, could a man who felt such regret have committed treason? “I should think the blame should be attached to the man who hurt him! Perhaps we shouldn’t go tonight—”
“No, this gives me more reason to go,” he’d said. “I don’t want to be left alone with my thoughts tonight. Imagining the look in your eyes tonight is giving me something to look forward to.”
She’d gulped.
Now they stood inside the foyer, which had walls of crimson silk and patterned lamps that gave an eastern, exotic look.
“The décor is hell,” he said casually. “But the sex in here will astound you.”
Astound? Helena wasn’t certain that was quite the word.
His hands came toward her. She pulled back by instinct—then cursed herself. This was it. Whatever he wanted to do, she must let him. But his fingers captured the sides of the black mask she wore, and he adjusted it over her face until he nodded with satisfaction.
For her introduction to this place, Greybrooke had sent her a package discreetly by one of his footmen. It had contained a slender dress of crimson velvet and a mask of papier-mâché painted black and dusted with gold. Actual gold, that glimmered in the light.
“The black is sensual and exotic against your golden curls,” he mused. “It emphasizes how beautiful, full, and tempting your mouth is. There is only one thing missing.”
From his pocket he drew a black velvet ribbon, then lifted it and let it stroke across her lower lip. Fireworks shot through her once more, making her gasp. Then a large, cool stone bumped her mouth. The ribbon was actually a choker of black velvet from which one ice-white stone dangled.
Greybrooke drew it around her neck, the velvet tickling her, and he fastened it at her nape. A
tiny chain dangled from the clasp, teasing the skin of her neck.
“This is not a diamond,” she gasped. “Not a real one. It can’t be. It’s too large.”
“I am a duke,” he murmured.
“I cannot accept a gift like this.”
“It’s part of your disguise, Miss Winsome. No one will believe you are my mistress unless you wear jewels, and they will wonder why I’ve brought you otherwise. Questions would be asked. The ton will be like a hound on a scent to learn your identity. And I do not want to cause scandal for Jacinta.”
“I know. I don’t want to be a part of a scandal either,” she whispered.
A strange sound floated down the corridor. Goodness, it was a moan of agony. She blinked. “Is someone in pain?”
“It is quite likely.”
She gaped at his profile.
“What?” Green eyes twinkling, he faced her.
“Why in heaven’s name do you come to a place like this? Why do you want to do such odd things if they hurt?”
“The truth?”
“I guess I would like to know the truth.”
“The truth is that I don’t know. This is what I like, what I enjoy. In here, this is sex at its most addictive. Gentlemen like me are taught to be noble and proper for our whole lives, to watch our language around females, curtail our drinking, control our gambling. A certain amount of vice is acceptable, but only if we stay true to our two vows—noblesse oblige or our unwritten promise to never crack our sangfroid. A place like this, unfettered and raw, where you break rules, where sex is a knife’s edge between pleasure and pain, has its appeal.”
The duke stopped in front of a set of double doors and opened one. “This is one of the voyeurs’ rooms. One intended for group play.” Crooking his finger, he coaxed her to look.
A woman had her hands tied to a bar suspended by two ropes. She was naked, but Helena couldn’t see much of her figure since she was sandwiched tight between two naked men.
