To Love a Dark Lord

by Anne Stuart

  “Life is seldom simple,” Emma said, giving up all pretense of eating.

  “Wise for your tender years, child,” Lady Seldane murmured approvingly. “If you were to disappear, it might make Killoran come to his senses a bit more quickly. He’s spent the past few days doing his damnedest to go straight to hell, and as long as he thinks you’re safe with me, he can carry on like that.”

  “I thought he was planning to take Lady Barbara to Paris.”

  “He said that? How absurd of him. They wouldn’t suit at all. She’s back in town, as is Killoran’s guest, but I’ve heard no word of assignations or new involvements. I gather Lady Barbara has been keeping her distance from the pair of them, and I make it my business to hear everything, even if I rarely leave my house.” Her eyes narrowed. “I do know that Killoran has done everything in his power to bring himself to ruin. He has gambled, far more wildly and excessively than is his wont—”

  “I thought he never lost.”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Emma,” Lady Seldane said. “Apparently Killoran has managed to rise to the challenge and lost a great deal since he’s been back. He’s drinking too much, he’s playing too deep, and on top of that, he’s made a perfectly idiotic wager that he can ride that monstrous black horse of his to Dover in five hours. Wagered that ornate mausoleum he lives in on the outcome, as well as a large amount of money. If it weren’t so pigheaded stubborn of him, I’d find it most promising.”

  “No one could make that ride in five hours. It’s not humanly possible,” Emma said. “He’ll break his neck.”

  “Oh, if anyone could do it, Killoran could. He has a rare gift with horseflesh. But I’m not certain anyone could do it, particularly someone in Killoran’s current state of mind.”

  “Then why do you consider it promising?”

  Lady Seldane just looked at her for a moment. “You’re very young, aren’t you, child? If the man didn’t care about you, he’d hardly be so set on destroying himself, would he? Now, where would you like to go?”

  “It would be better if I made my own arrangements. I’ve trespassed on your kindness enough as it is.”

  Lady Seldane’s reply was suitably coarse. “Don’t be absurd, child. I live a boring life, and you’ve brought color into it. Now, where shall we go?”

  “We?” Emma echoed, astonished. “But you never go anywhere.”

  “It’s been too damned long. I’ve a mind to see Ireland again. I have an estate near Sligo. What say we go there and rusticate for a bit?”

  Emma looked at her for a long moment. It sounded like heaven. Without Killoran, it sounded like hell. “Yes,” she said weakly, turning back to her soup.

  “You’ll cheer up,” Lady Seldane announced confidently. “Let’s forget about the past and concentrate on your future. We’ll find you a husband, my dear. A tall, handsome Irishman, with poetry in his soul. How does that sound?”

  Emma glanced at her across the broad expanse of table. “Killoran is Irish.”

  Lady Seldane smiled. “I know, dear. I know.”

  “They’re planning to go where?” Darnley thundered.

  Miriam DeWinter barely blinked. She despised Jasper Darnley to the bottom of her soul, but she was a practical woman. She needed the man. If she had any chance of succeeding without him, she would have done so. But now that Killoran knew who and what she was, it made things doubly difficult. Not, however, with this recent turn of events.

  “Ireland,” Miriam said again, in the patient tone of one trying to communicate with a mental incompetent. “I’ve had people watching her, and I just received word. I was afraid I was going to have to handle this myself.” She glanced around Darnley’s withdrawing room. It was stuffy, airless, and far too hot. In all, not a bad sort of room.

  “And Killoran? Is he going with her?”

  “I don’t believe so. As far as anyone can tell, he hasn’t seen her in more than a week. He’s severed all connection with her.”

  An unpleasant expression crossed Darnley’s pasty face, and he flicked a greasy crumb off his baby-blue satin waistcoat. “What makes you think I’m still interested in your little plot, woman? It’s Killoran I’m after. If he has no interest in your wretched cousin, why should I?”

  Miriam considered just how far to push him. Her informants were vastly knowledgeable, but to her experienced eye, Darnley was not quite sane. Since the last time she’d confronted him, he seemed to have deteriorated even more, both physically and mentally. His color was bad, his eyes were faintly glazed, and he moved like a man in constant, furious pain.

  “I’d gathered you had a weakness for young women with red hair,” she said delicately.

  “Why should I want Killoran’s discards?”

  “Because if you went after her, Killoran would be forced to interfere.”

  “I can’t imagine why. Killoran has never been the sort for heroic gestures. When my—when a young woman turned to him for help, he ignored her pleas, and she ended up killing herself. It was his fault,” Darnley said fiercely. “He’s hardly likely to bestir himself for a chance-met trollop.”

  Miriam shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps he’s content to let her go. You’re a gamester, Lord Darnley, experienced in playing the odds. As for me, I’m certain Killoran will go after her. He deserves to be punished for murdering my father in cold blood, for luring my innocent niece away from the bosom of her family, for despoiling and then abandoning her. I mean to see they both pay. Killoran for his evil, Emma for her licentiousness. I can do it without your help.” She rose, her stays creaking, and started toward the door.

  “I haven’t dismissed you yet!” Darnley snapped at her.

  “I am neither your servant nor your subject.” Miriam paused, glaring at him. He was petty and evil, and she knew she could make him do as she wanted, needed, him to do.

  “Ireland, eh?” Darnley said, appearing to deliberate. “We can’t have that, now, can we? I still have some unfinished business with the young lady. I’m not the squeamish sort, after all. Perhaps Killoran taught her a few pleasing tricks before dismissing her.”

  “You’ll have to do something quickly,” Miriam said. “They’re planning to leave within a few days.”

  Darnley glared at her. “I never liked taking orders from women. Particularly from the bourgeoisie.”

  “But you want Killoran dead, do you not? And you want my cousin as your whore? I’m showing you how to get those two things. I only ask one thing in return—that when you’re finished with her, you kill her. Either here or in Ireland, it does not matter to me.”

  “You’d hardly want to miss your chance at being in at the kill, would you?” Darnley moved closer to her. He smelled of drugs and sickness and evil, but Miriam didn’t flinch. “I might even blood you,” he said, touching an iron-gray curl.

  She turned the full force of her baleful gaze upon him. And Darnley dropped his hand, backing away as if he’d touched an adder. “Kill her,” she said again. “It’s all I ask.”

  And Darnley nodded, a faint smile on his rouged mouth.

  “This wager is madness.” Killoran glanced up at Nathaniel’s troubled face. He’d already drunk far too much brandy, though few people would have been able to tell. He had every intention of drinking a great deal more, and the only question in his mind was whether to wait until he arrived at his club or simply continue here alone.

  He shuffled the cards lazily in his hands, staring at them without seeing. “I don’t believe I asked for your opinion, dear boy. But then, that’s never stopped you before. You are the most tediously judgmental soul. Perhaps it’s time for you to return to the bosom of your family. Surely you’ve seen enough of the wickedness of the city to last a lifetime.”

  “You’ll kill yourself,” Nathaniel persevered.

  “I don’t really give a bloody damn.” Killoran dealt swiftly, then scooped up the cards once more. “You shouldn’t either. If I break my neck, then I won’t be taking Lady Barbara to the Continent. Which
will leave her available. I doubt she’ll take you, though. She’s solidly determined to go to hell, and you’re just a bit too good for her.”

  Nathaniel took a menacing step toward him, and Killoran raised a weary hand. “Not again, dear boy. If you don’t stop wanting to trounce me for insulting your lady love, you’ll end up dead. I’m a forbearing man, but recently my sanguine temper has been sorely tried.”

  “You’re not taking Barbara to Paris.”

  Killoran shrugged. “I offered. She agreed. There’s not much I can do about it at this point. It’s a matter of honor.”

  “Honor?” Nathaniel said. “I would say that’s the one thing missing in this whole sordid mess.”

  “You should know. You positively reek of honor and rectitude and moral perfection,” Killoran said with a faint sneer. “I’m surprised you can even bring yourself to keep company with two sinners such as Barbara and I.”

  “I want you to rescind your invitation, Killoran.”

  “Do you indeed? And why should I? Barbara is intelligent, beautiful, and experienced. A jewel for any man’s bed.” .

  “Then why didn’t you take her before?”

  “Perverse of me, I know. I found Emma a bit…. distracting. But now that she’s safely away, I can concentrate on things better suited to my nature. Such as Barbara Fitzhugh.”

  “How do you know Emma’s safe?”

  Killoran glanced at him lazily. “You do think badly of me, don’t you? With just cause. However, on this occasion I was uncharacteristically sentimental. I made certain Willie delivered her someplace safe.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Still pining for her? You really should make up your mind—you can’t save every woman from my depredations. I thought you lusted after Lady Barbara.”

  “I’m in love with her,” Nathaniel said in a quiet voice.

  Killoran stifled his momentary irritation, though he wasn’t sure why he made the effort. “I’m certain she’ll find that extremely gratifying. Half the men in London have considered themselves in love with her, and she’s rewarded them for their devotion. Just so long as your father doesn’t hear about it...”

  “You don’t understand. I intend to marry her.”

  Killoran lay the cards facedown. “Don’t be absurd. She’s the daughter of an earl, and you’re nothing more than a landholder. She’s way above your touch—you’re English enough to understand these things. You’re a tediously decent, boring, honorable young man, and she’s a dedicated whore. You’re way above her touch. It’s an impossible match.”

  “Nevertheless, I mean to marry her.”

  “Before or after I take her to Paris?” Killoran inquired lazily.

  “You’re not taking her to Paris.”

  “To be sure, I might break my neck during the run to Dover. You could always hope for that. But assuming I survive, then I have every intention of taking her with me.”

  “You don’t want to.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I make it a practice never to do anything I don’t wish to do.”

  “It’s not Barbara you want in your bed, and we both know it.”

  “You’re annoying me again,” Killoran said pleasantly. “I may have to kill you, after all.”

  “If need be. That’s the only way you’ll take her.”

  Killoran stared at him out of slitted eyes. “There’s another way,” he murmured, refilling his wineglass with a deceptively steady hand and pouring one for Nathaniel as well. “You can play me for her.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. We’ll game for the fair lady’s favors. Whoever wins takes her. The loser retires gracefully with no more complaint.”

  “You are a savage!”

  Killoran gave him his most beguiling smile. “I’m Irish, remember? A nation of savages. Shall we say piquet? Simple enough even for an inexperienced gamester such as you to stand a fighting chance.”

  “I would never—”

  “It’s your only chance,” Killoran interrupted smoothly.

  He was teaching the boy to hate. Surely if he had only an ounce of decent feeling, he should regret that. But decent feeling seemed to be a conspicuous lack in his life. He sat waiting patiently for Nathaniel to take the bait.

  And Nathaniel did, pulling out the chair opposite Killoran and reaching for the cards. “You’re a man without decency or honor, Killoran,” he said coldly.

  “And you have more than your fair share. Suppose I strip just a little bit of that righteousness away from you, dear boy? All in the name of a proper education.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Ah, a challenge. We shall see, dear boy.” He pushed the second glass of wine across the green baize table. “We shall see.”

  At first Nathaniel’s skill was unexceptional. He played with the same steady intelligence and reason with which he conducted his life, and Killoran matched it, toying with him. By the time they’d opened the third bottle of claret, Nathaniel was down a bit, but not enough to signify. And that was when Killoran went on the attack.

  He played with reckless abandon, with the wild instinct that always served him well. By the time Jeffries had brought and uncorked the fourth bottle, Nathaniel was more deeply in debt than his father’s estate could handle, and there was a look of glazed desperation in his eyes.

  Killoran watched, considered, and set the trap most carefully. He didn’t stop to consider why he was doing it. As long as Nathaniel remained in London, living at Curzon Street, he would be a constant, infuriating reminder of all that Killoran could never be. The only way to be free of him, truly free, was to bring him down to his own level. He couldn’t do it by taking the boy to a brothel or encouraging drunkenness; Nathaniel was too stalwart to succumb. But he could do something far worse.

  He could, by simple manipulation, make Nathaniel betray the most solemn point of honor in all of England. He could make him cheat at cards.

  He set it up so carefully. Despite the fact that he was one bottle ahead of his young protégé, he was far more in control of his faculties. He recognized the desperation in Nathaniel’s eyes, in the faint tremble of his hands; he’d seen it often enough, in the young men who were fool enough to try to break his unnatural luck. He hadn’t taken pity on them. He wouldn’t take pity on Nathaniel.

  “You’re thirty thousand pounds down, my boy,” he observed, dealing with careless dexterity. “Perhaps now might be the time to quit.”

  “Thirty thousand pounds,” Nathaniel echoed in a hollow voice.

  “Not to mention Lady Barbara’s favors. I’m afraid you’re not much of a challenge to a player of my skill. I’ll have to see if I can find better sport at my club.”

  “One more hand,” the young man said.

  “Very well. I’m disposed to be generous. We’ll play for the thirty thousand pounds. If you win this hand, your debt is canceled.”

  “If I lose?” he demanded hoarsely.

  “Then I expect your father will be most displeased.”

  “We don’t have that kind of money.”

  “That is a great deal too bad. A lesson in gaming, my boy. Never wager more than you can afford to lose.”

  “What about Lady Barbara?”

  “We can throw her in as well. I won’t lose, you know.” Killoran pushed the cards across the table. “Your deal.”

  He rose, left the table, and applied himself to the bottle of claret. He could see Nathaniel’s desperate countenance reflected in the mirror, the faint beading of sweat on his brow. He stalled as long as he could, then nearly snarled.

  Nathaniel dealt clumsily, but fairly. Missing his chance.

  Killoran took his seat once more, picking up the cards. Nathaniel, in all his unwitting honesty, had dealt him a winning hand.

  He could see from the way Nathaniel clutched his hand that his own was very bad indeed. And he had yet to cheat.

  Obviously the boy needed stronger temptation. Killoran rose again, knocking the table with his leg, just eno
ugh to overturn the cards, exposing aces, kings, and queens. He turned his back, ostensibly missing his own clumsy move, and wandered to the window.

  He was even worse a cheat than he was a card player, Killoran thought wearily when he regained his seat, a cigarillo between his teeth. It would take more than his clumsy efforts to win the game.

  Killoran stared down at his hand. Even by cheating, Nathaniel could not win against the devil’s own luck. There was only one thing for it, then. Killoran must cheat as well.

  He didn’t stop to consider the ramifications of what he was doing. “Sorry, old man. I’ve lost track of the cards. Could we play this hand over?”

  And Nathaniel, flushed, miserable, and guilty, nodded, pushing his cheating, losing cards away from him.

  It was over in a trice. Although Killoran had never cheated in his life, he knew cards far better than he knew his own soul. The proper cards were dealt, swiftly, to the proper players. The light of triumph wiped the anxiety from Nathaniel’s face, at least for the moment.

  “Amazing,” Killoran said lazily when Nathaniel lay down his cards. “You must have the devil’s own luck as well. I thought you were under the hatches for sure.”

  “You’ll tear up my vouchers?”

  Killoran smiled faintly. “Indeed. Shall I write you one for Lady Barbara, or are you going to inform her yourself?”

  Nathaniel’s momentary triumph vanished in utter panic. “What do you mean?”

  “She’ll need to know you’ve won her favors in a game of cards. She’ll hardly accept the fact that I’ve changed my mind. My sins are great, but I neither lie nor cheat at cards.”

  The color in Nathaniel’s face deepened. “Are you suggesting I won that last hand by cheating?”

  “I know that you didn’t,” Killoran said calmly.

  It was small comfort to Nathaniel. Killoran watched him leave the room, and he told himself he could count one more disillusioned soul to his credit.

  He sat alone in the room as the candles guttered and went out, the fire died into embers. He had no idea where Nathaniel had disappeared to, but he doubted he’d gone in search of his lady love. He had demons to exorcise now, placed there by Killoran’s wicked hands.