To Love a Dark Lord

by Anne Stuart

  The house was cold and dark, the shades and curtains pulled tight. The smell of old cabbage drifted from the spotless kitchens, and in the front salon came the sound of footsteps, pacing, pacing.

  Miriam DeWinter moved slowly, deliberately, back and forth across the room. Mourning made no change in her apparel—she always dressed in black. She had put off colors when she was a plain, thin twenty-three-year-old, mourning her mother’s death, and when the year was over, she decided black suited her very well indeed. It gave her a maturity, a sense of power she craved, and by the time she was thirty she had the bearing of a matriarch.

  She hadn’t wanted to bring that little brat into her household, but she hoped she knew her Christian duty. Besides, Uncle Roderick had turned a small foundry into an obscenely profitable armament business, and Miriam had a passionate devotion to money that almost rivaled her passionate devotion to the jealous and vengeful God she worshipped. As long as Emma grew up in the confines of Miriam’s household, there would be no distractions, no temptations, no young men to marry her and lure her fortune away. Miriam would teach her everything she knew, to love and fear her God, to live chastely and humbly. To leave the tawdry business of finances in her cousin’s capable hands.

  If only Horace had managed to control his ungovernable lust. If only Emma hadn’t looked like a whore, with her disgustingly feminine body and her sinful hair. Miriam had prayed, but God hadn’t been disposed to obey. And now she had to live with the consequences.

  He was supposed to have killed her. The plan had been simple, but her father, much as she’d adored him, had never been one to listen to her teachings. The lure of fornication and strong drink had weakened his mind, that and the presence of Emma in their household.

  She needed to die, Miriam’s father had had no quarrel with that. They were running out of time; sooner or later Emma would run off, or some young man would steal her away, and all that lovely money would be out of reach. It would be a simple enough matter, a fall down the wide, bare, highly polished stairs, or a runaway carriage mowing her down and no one ever discovering the hapless culprit of such an unfortunate occurrence.

  But Horace hadn’t listened. He didn’t want accomplices, he’d said. Other people involved, people they’d have to pay, people who could take it into their heads to demand more and more. He was a man; he could do it himself.

  But Miriam hadn’t been fooled. She’d seen the damp bog of lust in his eyes, and she’d known. There was nothing she could say, however. She was a righteous daughter, and obedient. She’d remained silent when he’d taken Emma off for the day, knowing it would soon be over. Knowing it would be none of her concern, what Horace did with Emma before he cut her throat.

  But Horace was the one who had died. By his own sword, at the hand of some decadent Irish lord. And Emma had disappeared, beyond Miriam’s reach.

  If only she could find Emma. The slut would pay for her sins, her crimes. She had to be responsible for Horace’s shameful death. She must have encouraged that Irishman to kill him, and then run away.

  They’d brought her father’s body back to her. She’d mourned, loud and long. And then she’d stiffened her poker-straight back, and turned to revenge with a prayerful intensity.

  Emma would pay for her crimes. Spectacularly. And there would be no one left to inherit her considerable fortune. Except her dear, devout cousin Miriam.

  If only she could find her.

  “I have the most amusing story to tell you, Killoran.”

  He looked up from the book he was perusing. It wasn’t something he was particularly interested in—a treatise on agriculture he’d purchased more than a decade ago, when he still thought he might return to Ireland. He used it more as a tool with which to bother his companion, and as such it was very effective.

  “Do you?” he murmured lazily.

  Lady Barbara’s delicate mouth thinned for a moment, and then she smiled. It was a good thing Nathaniel was nowhere to be seen. He was already absurdly smitten with Lady Barbara, and there was no denying that she had a truly enchanting smile. If one cared to be enchanted.

  “You recall my neighbors? That dreadfully common Varienne family?”

  “Not particularly.” He set the book down, surveying Lady Barbara with a bored expression. In truth, she didn’t bore him. Her determined pursuit, combined with a complete lack of sincere interest in his innumerable attractions, fascinated him, almost as much as Nathaniel’s instant, passionate devotion to her. The menage they had formed continued to enliven his days, what with Lady Barbara as usual throwing decorum to the wind and arriving on his doorstep morning, noon, and night, thereby convincing the polite world, erroneously, that she was his latest mistress. He gave her very little encouragement, which only seemed to fire her determination all the more. She wouldn’t rest until she had managed to entice him into bed, and he couldn’t imagine why. He knew women very well indeed, and there was no real sensuality in her practiced gaze, no lush longing in her full lips. She had as much honest interest in the delights of the flesh as she had in the agriculture tomes which he used to ignore her, and he was almost tempted to take up the challenge. The men she had bedded were legion, including most of his acquaintances and those who were misguided enough to call themselves his friend. None of them seemed to have noticed she was playing a game. A game he wasn’t particularly interested in learning.

  Ah, but young Nathaniel made it so much more interesting. When he looked at Lady Barbara with all the fierce passion that Killoran doubted he’d ever felt in his entire, jaded life, Nathaniel even managed to startle such a practiced flirt. She tried to keep away from him, albeit subtly, which amused Killoran greatly. Young Hepburn, studiously correct in all of his dealings, made the manipulative Lady Barbara extremely nervous. It was enough to cause Killoran to tolerate both of them.

  “They’re a family of cits,” Lady Barbara said, rising and drifting toward him. It was half past four of a Friday afternoon. Lady Barbara had arrived for lunch, and despite Killoran’s complete lack of hospitality, she had refused to leave. “One of their spotty young sons kept sending me flowers.” She shuddered extravagantly.

  “Not that you aren’t deserving of all floral tributes,” Killoran said idly, “but why?”

  “You’ve never sent me flowers,” she said in a surprisingly soft voice.

  “You aren’t interested in flowers from me, my sweet,” he replied.

  Her smile was bright, bold, never reaching her china-blue eyes. “True enough. And the young man was most appreciative of my charms. He would watch me from his bedroom window. It looked directly into mine.”

  “Fascinating,” he remarked. “And did you do anything to merit his adoration?”

  “The poor lad was so furtive about it. Always snuffing the light and lurking just out of sight, but I could see him from behind the awful lace curtains with which his mother festoons everything. Night after night he would watch, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. I thought such devotion deserved some reward.”

  “I’m certain you did.”

  “In a way, I’m afraid it might have provoked the current contretemps.”

  “I’m expecting you to amuse me with the eventual conclusion of this convoluted tale,” Killoran murmured. “Or I shall return to my agriculture text.”

  She crossed the room to the settee beside him, perching close to him on her knees. Her dress was far too low-cut for day wear, exposing her small, undeniably lovely breasts, and she smelled like violets. He’d never cared for violets. “For a week, Killoran, I had my maid undress me in front of that window. I always left the candles brightly burning, and I made certain Clothilde stood behind me so as not to obstruct the boy’s view.” She sighed. “Wicked of me, wasn’t it?”

  “Indeed,” he said. “Though not unexpected.”

  “You never find wickedness unexpected, Killoran. That’s why I find you so interesting. I did it for a week. And then I stopped, abruptly. The poor boy would never leave his room. He was
distraught, waiting for one more chance to view me. I have quite a lovely body, you know, Killoran. Many men have told me so.”

  “I’ve seen it,” he said blandly.

  “But you haven’t taken it.”

  He smiled into the lost depths of her eyes. “Finish your tale, Scheherazade.”

  “I decided to watch him. I was much more adept than he was, and he had no idea I would come up in the darkness and sit behind my curtains. He had a very strong body. A spotty face, but that wasn’t visible across the mews.”

  “You are a lustful wench,” he said dryly, knowing it to be a lie. “I trust you enjoyed yourself.”

  She smiled, running her tongue over her full lips in a gesture as practiced as it was meaningless. “This morning I saw something far more interesting than a naked male body.”

  “I pray you, don’t tell me you watched him tumble the upstairs maid. I would think a woman of your experience would have long ago tired of voyeurism. There are, after all, only a limited number of variations, and I imagine you’ve tried most of them. Certainly more than a spotty adolescent could think of.”

  “Oh, it was far more interesting than fucking, Killoran,” she said, using the word deliberately, as if to prove she could say it without flinching. It sounded sad and absurd on her lips. “I got the chance to watch murder being done.”

  He closed the book. “Indeed,” he murmured. “And who was murdered? The spotty little voyeur?”

  “Presumably. She bashed him over the head with a fire poker, and even from my vantage point I could see the blood.”

  “She? The upstairs maid, I presume. This loses interest, darling. It’s far too predictable.”

  “I was hoping it was his sister,” Lady Barbara said, “but I gather that young lady is still in leading strings. I’m guessing it was the governess, though I’ve yet to find out.”

  “Why should the governess kill him?”

  “He was trying to rape her. Ripping at her clothes, tearing at her. I’m afraid it’s my fault. I must have driven him to a frenzy.”

  Killoran managed a faint snort. “A flattering notion, beloved,” he said. “So what happened?”

  “She hit him with the fire poker, he went down in a bloody heap, and she stood there staring at him, frozen, for what must have been minutes. I kept waiting for someone to burst into the room, but nothing happened. Eventually she set the poker down and went about tidying herself. Even from that distance I could see her hands were shaking.”

  “Not everyone has your sangfroid, my dear.”

  “And then she leaned down, and was out of sight for a while. I don’t know whether she was finishing him off or trying to help him. After a bit she rose, repinned her hair, and left the room.”

  “And?”

  “And I waited for an hour, to see whether there’d be a hue and cry, but no one seemed to have realized what happened. No one entered the young man’s bedroom, and I assume his body wasn’t discovered. So I came here for lunch. You don’t mind, do you, darling? After all that excitement, I needed some companionship.”

  “You’ve probably missed all the fun. By the time you return, your murdering governess will have been hauled off to jail, the young man’s corpse removed, and the shutters to his room closed. Your entertainment is at an end. If I were you, I’d hurry back home in case it hasn’t quite concluded.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me, Killoran?”

  “Yes.”

  “You prefer a treatise on the growing of corn to the delights I could offer you?” She dropped her voice to a husky note, and her slim hand rested on his thigh.

  “The delights you are so eager to offer are nothing that I haven’t already experienced in abundance. I doubt you could provide me with anything novel.”

  “Why are you so cruel to me, Killoran? Don’t you want me? I assure you, I would dedicate myself to pleasing you. I’m very... inventive.”

  “I’m certain you are, Babs. But the fact remains that your inventiveness is mental, not sensual. You have no desire for the men you bed, and no real desire for me. Therefore I have no intention of boring myself by tumbling a cold, lying, aristocratic slut. If you’re going to be a well-bred whore, Babs, you might at least be more convincing.”

  She snatched her hand back. “You are a blackhearted bastard,” she said bitterly. “If I were that strapping, red-haired governess, I’d be tempted to kill you myself.”

  He was about to abandon her, but he stilled for a moment. “Strapping, red-haired governess?” he echoed. “Now, that I find a great deal more interesting than spotty adolescent males. You forgot to mention that part.”

  “You have a streak of the voyeur in you as well, Killoran?” she mocked him. “Young Varienne didn’t manage to rip all her clothes off. I imagine she was taller than he, and strappingly built. Quite an armful—it was no wonder the young lad was overcome with lust. He was able to rip the front of her dress and yank down her hair. It was a fiery red color—very Irish. That was probably why she killed him. They say that fiery color eats into the brain and makes one mad.”

  “Had the governess been there a long time?”

  “How would I know?” Lady Barbara said crossly. “The domestic staff of an upstart family such as the Variennes is hardly of interest to me.”

  “Only their sex lives.”

  She made a face at him. “As a matter of fact, I don’t believe she’d been there long. No more than a fortnight. They tend to go through servants rather quickly. The older boys are lustful and the mother’s a tyrant.”

  “A fortnight,” he echoed lazily.

  “Almost as long as your guest has been here. How much longer is he staying, Killoran?”

  “Don’t you care for Nathaniel, my dear? He’s a most devoted admirer of yours.”

  “I don’t care for devoted admirers,” she said flatly.

  “So I’ve noticed.” He rose abruptly, moving away from her clinging, scented presence. “I’ll escort you home, Babs.”

  He’d managed to surprise her. “You’re coming to my house?” she said, wariness and triumph warring in her eyes. With absolutely no anticipation.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve refused all my invitations, Killoran. Why have you suddenly changed your mind?”

  He held out his hand, and she placed her smaller one in his pale, hard grip. “I have a pronounced weakness for red-haired murderesses.”

  Emma sat in the stillness of her attic room, waiting. It was very cold up there, and she hadn’t gotten used to the chill during her two-week tenure at the house of the Variennes, any more than she’d grown accustomed to the pawings of Master Frederick.

  Mrs. Varienne’s eagle eye and pinch-penny behavior were nothing new; compared with Cousin Miriam, she was almost the soul of amiability. And indeed, Master Frederick had seemed no more than a minor irritation, like an errant flea, to be brushed away with a polite laugh and careful avoidance.

  But now he lay in a welter of blood on his bedroom floor, dead, and Emma knew herself for the murdering wretch that she was. One man’s death at her hands was a simple matter. It had been her life or Uncle Horace, and she hadn’t thought twice about it. But killing a second man within a month went beyond the level of what was acceptable in polite society. She was a monster, deserving of whatever harsh justice was meted out.

  So she sat in her room, and waited.

  It was growing dark, and the night air was chilly in the room. Mrs. Varienne didn’t hold with fires for the servants, and on the best of nights the most Emma could hope for was a call to join the family for dinner. That happened more often than not when the family was entertaining, and it hadn’t taken Emma long to understand the reason behind the intermittent affability.

  The Variennes were wealthy and indisputably vulgar—they made her uncle Horace seem positively genteel. Whenever guests arrived, Miss Brown was brought downstairs and treated with the most astonishing toadying, and Emma realized she must resemble her aristocratic mother more than
she had ever realized. There could be no other reason behind the Variennes’ desire to show her off to their various guests.

  There was a price to pay for those warm, well-fed evenings. For each flattering occasion, Mrs. Varienne followed it up with an even greater degree of condescending hostility. And then there was Frederick.

  Mrs. Withersedge had warned her. Indeed, Frederick’s younger brother, Theodore, had been far too busy bedding the scullery maid even to notice Emma’s presence in the house. But Frederick, who had a habit of spending far too much time immured in his room, had taken one look at Emma and begun to pursue her, much to his mama’s displeasure.

  He had kissed her once, a great, wet, slobbery attempt that had convinced her she was not cut out to be either a doxy or a wife. He had pinched her buttocks and pawed at her breasts one evening when he knew she wouldn’t dare cry out, and she had done her best to keep herself away from him, locked in the nursery with little Amalia and young Master Edward, a budding roué of eleven who looked to surpass his elder brothers in lechery once he attained a few more years.

  But Mrs. Varienne had called Emma into her bedroom for a morning diatribe. And on her way back up the stairs, the door to Master Frederick’s room had opened and he’d dragged her inside, his soft, cruel hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream.

  He was stronger than she would have thought, stronger than Uncle Horace. She’d fought wildly, silently, only longing to get away. She’d grabbed the first thing her flailing hand could reach, and it wasn’t until she’d heard the sickening thud, and watched him collapse on the floor, that she realized what she’d done. Again.

  She’d stared down at him in mounting horror. So very much blood from the wound on his spotty forehead, and he’d lain lifeless on the carpet, his eyes closed. Her body still felt bruised, mauled, by his hands.

  Instinct had taken over. She’d caught those hands and dragged him out of the way, hiding his motionless body behind the bed. And then, she’d run up the flight of stairs to her small, cramped room on the third floor, locking the door and waiting.