Sensation

by Thea Devine

Down the hall, around the corner, down this endless walled-in hallway, he ran until he rammed hard, shoulder-first into the wall at the end of the corridor, and it folded in and fell over. He ran through that room to the fury of howling occupants, and he rammed down the next wall, and he ran ... to the next wall, and the next and the next.. .

  And he ran .. . leaving everything in chaos behind him, in the precisely ordered world of the debauched and profane.

  And now Wyland wanted Kyger to go out for an evening of dinner and cards. Hellfire. Fun and games after what he'd just come through? Light badinage and social chatter after a night of bondage and sadism? No.

  Hell. He was dead on his feet; there was no time to seek out Wyland today in any event. Maybe he'd go. Maybe he wouldn't. He crawled into his bed, he told Cryder to wake him at five o'clock, and he slept. He was in such pain and so exhausted he just couldn't do anything else.

  At five o'clock, he was in no better shape than he had been when he arrived home, but he forced himself to awaken and to contemplate if he had enough energy to attend the event.

  There was no way to pretend his hand wasn't useless.

  Hell, he felt useless. What had he got after all this rooting around among the slick and the salacious? Nothing. Bearing wit­ness was not the same as providing proof.

  He was no farther along than when he'd started this quest, ex­cept that now he knew exactly what Tony Venable had been about, he knew where to find proof, and he knew his life was on the line.

  And there was nothing he could do about any of it. Tonight.

  Given all that, he was still on duty for Wyland. They wouldn't try anything in a social situation. He could still troll for conver­sational clues and information. He wasn't done just because he'd come away empty.

  This time.

  The thing wasn't over. He felt it in his gut. Hell, the thing was just beginning. The thing was explosive.

  And he was just the man to set the detonator.

  And he would.

  But now—it was time to dress for a party ...

  Angilee in the bronze gown with the passamenterie embroi­dery was a sight to behold. Just beautiful. Mrs. Geddes wasn't loath to say so either: she felt as if she'd discovered her, invented her. Angilee could hold her own anywhere, in beauty, in style, in graciousness. She was born and bred to graciousness, but she had a very unfeminine will of iron, as Mrs. Geddes was very well coming to know.

  They were arguing about the jewelry. Angilee insisted on the gold beaded choker. Mrs. Geddes felt it was too much against the ornate swirls of the embroidery.

  Angilee won. She simply put the necklace on and that was that. Diamond earrings the size of dots in her lobes. Nothing in her hair this time. The gloves, the wrap. She was ready. ' "Excellent." Mrs. Geddes was in her usual black silk, a differ­ent design this time, simpler. Elegant. "They will swarm around you. Trevor Smythe will be there. Perhaps he—"

  "I'll be so happy to see him again," Angilee said.

  "You did that so well, Miss Rosslyn."

  Down they went to the carriage, rented again for the occasion,

  and off they went to the Beddington house. No crush here. Everything stately, ordered, calm. Footmen opening the carriage door. Velvet carpet on which to walk so as not to soil a hem, a pretty shoe. A helping hand to step up into the house. Respectful bows. Sincere sounding welcomes from the staff who took wraps, directed them to the dressing room to tidy up their hair. Perfection.

  Just what she would want, Angilee thought. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to think about marrying forever, if she could have a life like this.

  A life with a man like Trevor Smythe, who almost immedi­ately came to greet her. Almost as if he had been waiting for her. "After we greet the host and hostess," Mrs. Geddes said gen­tly but pointedly, "I should be happy for Miss Rosslyn to renew her acquaintance with you."

  The Beddingtons were not at all as stuffy and stiff as Angilee imagined. They were a couple of a certain age, but they had a cer­tain youthfulness, humor and vigor about them that was very ap­pealing.

  They were enjoying themselves hugely because they were such congenial and convivial people, and their sole concern was the comfort of their guests.

  They greeted Angilee as if she were an old friend, asked about her father, how she was rinding life in London thus far, com­manded her to tell them if there was anything they could do that would make things more enjoyable for her, and directed her, on Trevor Smythe's arm, to the refreshment table.

  The main floor of the house was lit to a warm soft glow by hundreds of candles. The refreshment table was in the center of the anteroom, beyond that, to the left, was the card room and to the right, the dining room.

  There were musicians playing a light air from a balcony in the dining room, and there was a most festive atmosphere among the arrivals.

  "I'm cautioning you again," Mrs. Geddes whispered to Angilee as she sipped some punch, "your father most assuredly will be among the guests. You must maintain your composure; you must not let personal matters interfere with your duties as a guest."

  "I understand."

  "They're pairing off in the card room," Trevor Smythe said. "Would you care to play a hand?"

  "I'd love to watch," Angilee said, "if you're quite certain it won't bore you to tears to just observe for a while."

  "Delighted," Trevor Smythe said, adroitly concealing what­ever his real feelings were. "Miss Rosslyn ..." He offered his arm. "Mrs. Geddes."

  She took the other. He was a gentleman, for all his awkward­ness.

  She slanted a look at Angilee. Angilee nodded imperceptibly, not a little irritated that Mrs, Geddes might be right.

  But she didn't have to make a decision tonight. Just soon.

  And then her heart sank. Sooner than soon.

  As they left the reception room, she saw him. It was only a fast glimpse, but it was enough to ruin her evening, because Zabel had just entered the room.

  Bright lights and happy people—there was an antidote to the festering morass that was the menu for a night at the Bullhead.

  Coming here, he had decided, was a statement: he wasn't run­ning scared, because for certain, some of the habitues of the Bull­head would be in attendance. Hackford might be in attendance. Billington. Armitage.

  Them. The them that ruled this world hiding behind rituals and robes.

  He came up into the reception area slowly and cautiously. He had had no little trouble dressing this evening because of his hand, which he held stiffly at his side. There was nothing to do for the pain, and he wasn't sure just how convivial he was going to be as the Beddingtons greeted him with the same warmth they displayed to all their guests.

  He was impressed with how kind they were, and how accessi­ble, how cordial to their guests, even the ones who were new to their circle, which they made a point of expanding every Season.

  They were the kind of people you wanted to know better, and to be included among those they considered friends.

  Immediately he headed for the refreshments. Instantly he saw

  Angilee, on the arm of Trevor Smythe—oh, he did remember Trevor Smythe—entering the card room.

  He veered to the left to follow. This was a calculated risk_ Hackford, if he were here, would most certainly be at a table. The gauntlet would be thrown.

  Not yet. He surveyed the room from the threshold, and there were just the usual avid cardplayers setting up the usual four­somes. Some were already engaged, hot and heavy; others were standing around talking, greeting newcomers.

  Angilee and Trevor Smythe paced around the room, talking to his acquaintances, making small talk. But Angilee was looking around in a most furtive way. Perhaps only he noticed, but he could swear there was a sheeny wariness in her expression. As if she fully expected to see someone she did not wish to encounter.

  He watched for a moment or two more, and then he saw him—a stout, determined-looking older gentlemen covertly fol­lowing her ... not a suitor—he had to be the wi
cked warlock of a father who wanted to sell her to the vicious viscount.

  He eased his way into the card room. The father, if it were he, was not going to accost her—he could see that—he wanted to, but he comprehended it would be bad form to make a scene here.

  But he wanted to; his expression was strained, and he kept moving forward as if he were thinking to go ahead and talk to her, and then restraining himself because she was in the company of a gentleman.

  And then the dragon moved in.

  And that point, Kyger saw Hackford enter the room, and Hackford knew he was there, and as if he was at magnetic north, he was coming toward him, homing in on him. And he couldn't get away from him if he tried without calling attention to the sit­uation.

  Hackford's social expression turned menacing for just the beat of a second as he grasped Kyger's arm and propelled him, with what looked like congenial friendship, to a secluded corner.

  "Well, old son. Aren't you the clever one. Or are you? Let me make you aware of this: we are all around you, we don't like trai­tors, and we make certain they pose no threat. You don't know who we are or when we'll attack. I'd be very, very careful, if I were you, who you speak to and what you say because we'll be watching, and we don't forget."

  He relinquished Kyger's arm, saying in a louder voice, "There you go, Galliard, that's what I needed to tell you. So good to see you."

  And he walked off toward one of the card tables as if he had just delivered a message from a friend instead of a dire warning. Well, hell.

  Kyger strolled around the periphery of the room toward where Angilee, Trevor Smythe, and several of his friends were watching a card game in progress, all the while keeping an eye on Hackford as he was dealt into a game, and on the father, who had grudgingly settled himself at another table.

  He almost didn't speak to her. He had to speak to her. She was pure melted chocolate in that gown, a pure luscious memory that tantalized him every time he saw her, no more so than now.

  Someone ought to have snapped her up already. But he didn't want anyone to want her, to touch her, to ... do the things they had done together in the name of her thwarting her father.

  The sin was, he still couldn't do anything for her, about her, or protect her. So to come two feet near her, and to presume any right to know anything about what was happening, was sheer gall on his part. He did it anyway. "MissRosslyn."

  Angilee looked up at him from under the veil of her eyelashes as Mrs. Geddes swooped down on them. "Mr. Galliard, how nice to see you, I do believe you've previously met Mr. Trevor Smythe." They nodded at each other like opponents in a boxing match. "Mr. Galliard." Mrs. Geddes now. "How nice to see you." "How unexpected," Angilee put in a little maliciously. This was wearing—first her father, now him. Thank God, Zabel had chosen the wiser of two courses and was now immersed in a heated game of whist.

  But now to have to deal with the bull when Trevor Smythe was evincing such particular interest. .. "Can we have a moment?" The bull.

  We've had too many moments, she wanted to say. You've wasted too much of my time, and you want more? She looked at

  Mrs. Geddes instead. Mrs. Geddes was parceling out the worth of a fortune in diamonds and a house on Belgrave Square. Mrs. Geddes nodded yes.

  She wished she hadn't. But Mrs. Geddes didn't know they had met before or under what circumstances.

  Under him. Forget about that. It never happened. She had to pretend none of it ever happened and that she had just only met the bull at the ball and he was renewing his acquaintance.

  Except she didn't have the patience for it. Unless he had changed his mind .. . ?

  She shot him a longing look as they moved to a more private corner. But when he turned to face her, she made certain her ex­pression was cool, calm, disdainful and a bit removed.

  "Mr. Galliard. You must know you're taking up valuable time in which I could be speaking with someone more eligible and more willing to marry me."

  "Ah, Hackford didn't rush into the breach?"

  "Hackford—? Oh, the gentleman whom you were with that night? He's here, is he not? No, he hasn't made an offer. Nor have you. So exactly what do you want now?"

  "To kiss you." He was shocked he said it, stunned he wanted it so ferociously, especially in the midst of this crowd, while he was steeped in pain, and on the heels of Hackford's threats.

  "I'm afraid not, Mr. Galliard." She slanted a look at him. "Is there anything else?"

  "Is that your father at the table over there?"

  She threw him a speaking look. "How perceptive of you. Yes, that is my father."

  "And the gentleman in question—?"

  "Not in attendance." Please marry me—it would make things so simple. We could deal well together for the time I need to pro­vide my father with proof that we are wed ... "Is there anything else?"

  He didn't know. He needed to know everything, even though he knew everything that mattered already: her scent, her taste, her nakedness, her response, the way she enfolded him, fit him, rode him, came for him ...

  He could offer her nothing when he wanted to give her every­thing, and he hated it that he could only stand by and watch her

  careen into the hazardous world of advantageous alliances and mercenary matrimony and nothing to help her, to stop her.

  What could she buy with the bribe she was flashing around? Who could she buy?

  Him...

  No. Except when she looked at him like that, like she wanted him, wanted their sex, their connection, their coupling, their pleasure in spite of the means by which it had happened—then he wanted to throw everything away, and he wanted to give what she—what they—most wanted.

  Except—they could kill him. They might go after her. They might know everything about what happened between them, and he couldn't risk that, risk her, risk them.

  "Mr. Galliard?" He looked as if he were someplace else, thinking about someone else, and Angilee did not like that one whit. Especially when Mr. Trevor Smythe was waiting, especially when there were so many possible connections she could make tonight.

  "Yes, Miss Rosslyn."

  And then he looked at her—marry me, she willed it, prayed for it; she yearned for it—really looked at her. Help me ...

  And he said, "No, there's nothing else. I just wanted to be cer­tain all was well with you."

  His words were humiliating, washing over her like hot water.

  "As you see, Mr. Galliard, I'm perfectly fine. So you need not concern yourself with my well-being in the future."

  "Can't guarantee that, Miss Rosslyn."

  "Well, / will, Mr. Galliard. I'll guarantee that." She sketched a curtsey. "A pleasure to see you again. For the last time, I hope."

  He watched her move away, back to Trevor Smythe, back to the dragon who was looking puzzled and a little irritated. Back to pretending to watch the card game, which he'd have wagered she didn't even know what game it was.

  Back to the pretense she really had some control of her life when she'd chosen a course where she had no control. She was fooling herself if she thought a wealthy father and her flaunting the rules of propriety guaranteed anything but trouble.

  And he'd just put her into further danger by just speaking with her.

  They were watching.

  And now they'd be watching her.

  The card pockets were still filled when he made his way through the streets the following morning to Wyland's office. It was another edgy foggy morning that refused to burn off as the sun rose, almost as if it had a will to oppress everything beneath it. Kyger pulled a card from one pocket, another from a pocket three streets beyond. They were all the same, all different: believe faith live accept return ...

  The five-point petition in a handy carry-away form that incor­porated Venable's precepts and the resurrecting message of the seance. He lived. He would return. Believe, have faith, wait, ac­cept.

  Hellfire.

  But it also seemed to him that the keening signs of mourning had dim
inished. The fury over the disappearance of the body. There were no angry knots of people demanding justice, explana­tions and revenge. There was an air of resigned acceptance; there was stillness about the crowds in the streets now that was just as disquieting as their grief. As if they were waiting. Waiting for what?

  For the new Tony Venable. The one who would return, the one who would take his place and take them to the place that Venable had always promised. God, no. But—

  —when he thought about it... the card pockets. The mes­sages. The seance, the manipulation, the Bullhead, the sevens, the death mark—everybody knows . .. and the salacious under­ground life of Tony Venable, secret, sacred and profane.

  There was connective tissue in there somewhere, he just hadn't found it yet. Soon. He felt it coming. He was racing toward it— all the answers to all the mysteries—and if Wyland could get into that secret apartment, the thing would be over. The revelations

  would come.

  Wyland listened in silence, sitting there with his fingers steepled and a deep troubled expression on his countenance.

  "They indicated he'd sold the women, you say," he said finally when Kyger had finished outlining everything he'd seen and the things he'd deduced. "Trained them as slaves and sold them? Venable?" As if it were inconceivable. As if this were the last thing he expected to hear.

  "Isn't it? Isn't it the very kind of thing you need to take him down?"

  "It's exactly what we need, if we could show it. If we could prove it. Can we prove it?"

  "What if we raided the Bullhead? There's just no other way to get into that secret apartment again now."

  Wyland gave it a moment's thought. "I see some immediate drawbacks. If what you say is true, they have mechanisms to pre­vent discovery of anything they want to hide. They've made cer­tain of it. They've made provisions for it. That means we'd probably find nothing if we go in there out of hand. Which means an embarrassment for the department which, in the wake of this whole Venable debacle, we frankly can't afford. We need some­thing up front and immediate that we can show the grieving pub­lic that will prove everything you say."