Sensation

by Thea Devine

  "And what would that be, short of a picture of the training room. And even then—" Kyger broke off. "Shit—there's nothing to connect Venable to that, in any event."

  "That is the genius of Tony Venable. He's as slippery as an eel, even in death."

  "One of his women, then?" "Do you think you could coerce a confession?" Kyger flashed onto the scenes of two nights previously and shook his head. "Not likely."

  "We need either bring him down or bring in his murderer. Those are the options. Both of them impossible. Though I must hand it to you that you discovered the one thing that would blacken his reputation beyond redemption—but how can we do it with what we have?"

  "And what do we have?" Kyger said tiredly. "One eyewitness to his venery, a missing corpse, a murderer on the loose, and a house of diversion and distraction."

  "And deception," Wyland added dryly.

  Kyger grunted. "Not much there to grab hold of,"

  "And yet you have. You've been persistent, you've made this mission your own, and you've uncovered what we need. Now we just have to ... make it real. I don't even know how to tell you to doit."

  "No, Venable was too smart, too slick. Nothing connects him to that apartment except those who were there, and you can be certain they will be loyal to death. Why shouldn't they? They reap all the benefits, including the continuation of this unprece­dented service they will continue to provide to their spoiled, self-indulgent fellow men."

  God, he was feeling as let down as a lead weight. Slick was the word for Tony Venable. Like snakeskin. Slithering and writhing away before you could catch him. Speaking with a forked tongue, then striking in secret. Shedding his skin and leaving just the un-traceable remnants behind.

  "Find one of the women," Wyland said suddenly. "If you could find one of the women he trained . .. we'll find a way to in­duce her to testify to the truth of what you saw."

  He caught the tail end of that, he was so aborbed in his rumi­nating about the nature of Tony Venable. "Say again?" "Find one of the women."

  find one of the women? At first thought, it sounded impossi­ble. They had been so dominated and beaten down, they couldn't possibly have a thought or a mind of their own. And the men who owned them would hardly put them on public display. Where would one find them?

  Wyland went on, parceling his thoughts out loud: "You said— the Ancestor indicated the women had already been purchased, that they were honoring Venable's last contract with those clients. That the buyers were waiting for them. Buyers who could con­ceivably be among the wealthiest men in the land ..." "Or not.. ." Kyger interpolated.

  "Let us suppose some of them are. The women are here, either in London or the country, hidden away perhaps, somebody's dirty little well-kept secret, one can assume. But somebody knows who the purchasers are. Somebody knows where to find them. If you find that somebody, you'll find the woman we need to break this whole Tony Venable thing wide open. Just one wit­ness—that's all that's wanted."

  "Among a couple hundred horny marriage prospects."

  "Somebody sells the idea to those women somehow, wouldn't you think? Why would a woman give up marriage, security and legitimacy for that?"

  "Not enough men?" Kyger suggested. "Aren't the odds rather staggering—more women than men seeking marriages in any given Season?"

  "You might have a point there. If that's so, I feel we're in luck with things just getting into full swing. There must be a procurer of some sort trolling every event. The brethren are not going to relinquish this lucrative business, I can tell you that. We have a real chance to put paid to this cult of Tony Venable in the next month or two. Are you game, Galliard? It means more of the same—keep your eyes open, your senses tuned, your instincts honed. We'll get you into the various events. You see what else you can dig up."

  He rose from his chair and held out his hand. "You can access the funds you need in the usual way. Oh—and I wouldn't hesitate to try to get into the Bullhead again. There has to be more an­swers there. I know you'll find a way."

  "That would be a last resort," Kyger said, shaking'his hand. "They're on to me."

  "Your call, Galliard. Let's meet again next week."

  The Season was all about debutantes, heiresses, spinsters tak­ing one last shot at finding a husband, the morning see-and-be-seen rides in the Park, teas, picnics, theater, opera, also for the purpose of being seen and meeting and greeting, dinners, parties and balls, all cascading one after the other toward making the ad­vantageous marriage.

  The competition was now getting fierce after the initial sniff­ing out period. The dresses were fancier, more expensive, more Parisian, more revealing, more colorful. The possessiveness over certain of the more eligible of the prospects became more pro­nounced. The American heiresses became more aggressive; the English roses became more pliant to make contrast more acute.

  And Angilee became more determined. It just wasn't possible she would fail, even against the most persevering of her rivals.

  She wasn't without suitors, even this early in the game. Trevor Smythe, for one, was intrigued, and he had come to call.

  And that person, Hackford, who had been with the bull. He made her just a little uneasy, but his manners were as impeccable as Mrs. Geddes could have wished, even if the conversation was somewhat stilted.

  And then there was Wendham, who was very nice, but not particularly attractive, and Hairston, who just sat and stared at her wistfully.

  Each of them eligible, willing, wanting a wife, but not on a temporary basis. And she didn't want any of them permanently.

  And she must consider a permanent situation as well as her own desire for independence. Much as she hated to admit it, Mrs. Geddes might be right about that. A woman had to consider the future. And the constraints, which were always present. How the thing looked was every bit as important as how one obtained it.

  If only there were someone who was even remotely attractive to her.

  There is.

  No. She constantly shoved the solution of the bull away, al­though seeing him at these two successive events had been nerve-wracking. By comparison, her other possible suitors were diminished by him, by her knowledge of him, the memory of his possession of her, and the pleasure of their coupling.

  How could that knowledge not be an undercurrent in her every consideration of a husband? She knew more than she ought now, and he had spoiled her for anyone else in more ways than one.

  It wasn't fair to have stumbled on someone like that and to have him completely disregard her. She hated it. She hated him. And time was running out, and she was certain to see him again somewhere else, as well as her father, as well as Wroth, and the half dozen men who had been encouraged to call and discour­aged by her in the process.

  Trevor Smythe, however, seemed not to be disheartened by her cool disinterest. His pursuit was dogged, steady, consistent, kind. She hated him. No, she didn't hate him; she just could not con­ceive of being in bed with him doing the things she had done with the bull, things she had let him do with his hired penis.

  Hired—bought and paid for. She had to keep reminding her­self about that, because if she didn't, she fell into the swampy speculation of what if, and why hadn't he. She romanticized the whole situation when, in fact, the reality was she had paid a man, a penis, to have sex with her. In a brothel.

  For whatever motives and reasons. They made sense at the time. And they ruined her forever for anyone else.

  It was done. Asked and refused. She had paid him. There had been no affection, no caring, some little consideration, but no connection between them, none. She just wanted it because it was familiar. Twice familiar.

  And she thought that maybe there was something there that could underpin a temporary marriage.

  But she'd hired him ..,

  Stop thinking about him.

  She hated him. She hated Trevor Smythe. And Wendham. And Hairston. And she felt just plain leery of Hackford. She had the distinct feeling his tepid pursuit was for s
ome other reason en­tirely. And she really wasn't interested enough to try to find out.

  But he was nowhere in consideration. It only wanted that she be polite to him when next they met. Forget him.

  This whole scheme just wasn't working, and she didn't know what she was going to do. There was no other plan.

  She should just go back to her father, marry Wroth and for­get it.

  She shuddered at the thought. The hell with it. Forget them all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  She kept going that week—to lectures and musicales, to polo matches and on late afternoon rides in the Park, all with Mrs. Geddes properly pinned to her side—but she kept wondering to what avail.

  The round of activities was beginning to feel repetitious. She saw the same faces, the same gentlemen, the same dresses, ex­changed the same pleasantries daily with the same people as she had seen the night before, the day before, the hour before.

  No one appealed to her. No one came out of the shadows to present himself as a likely candidate to marry her, and she felt the terror of the trapped. Zabel was stalking her like a cat, letting her have her bit of a leash and waiting to yank her back when her ef­forts failed.

  And they would fail, miserably. At none of the amusements had she seen the bull. At all of them, Trevor Smythe had ap­peared, certain of his welcome, the worth of his name, and his quiet persistent pursuit.

  He was fascinated by her beauty, her accent, her flirtatious ways, by her subtle aggressiveness, her curiously American plain-speaking, the fact she was educated, she had done things, and

  been places that girls of his acquaintance had not. And her open purse.

  He was one of the ones, Mrs. Geddes finally made her aware, who needed an infusion of vigor into his situation by someone from abroad. It was tidier that way.

  "Well, you see how that works," Mrs. Geddes said at one point as they made their way to a polo match at the Burlston Club on a particularly damp day. "All interest must be focused on the one who can do the most for the legacy. And no one has to know. Of course, they all know, but it's neatly tied up, and he's the envy of his friends for the coup of having married an American heiress. Your father, from what you tell me, was not far wrong about that."

  "I don't like it," Angilee said crossly.

  "And yet it is exactly what you said you wanted. Someone who needs money, who's willing to marry you .. . the catch is, he might not want to divorce you. But how can that be so bad when you will have all the amenities and stature his name and his estate can provide?"

  "I don't know. It just is." But she did know. Trevor Smythe was not the bull. He didn't look as though he had anything of the bull about him anywhere on his person, and she despaired of how she could convince herself to both marry him and share his bed. It was inconceivable.

  But time was growing short. It must be considered.

  She gave herself two more weeks to find a more likely candi­date, and then she would—she must—listen to Trevor Smythe's proposal. Which he had already come too close to uttering the day before when he had come to call.

  He was almost on one knee before she stopped him, using every ounce of grace and diplomacy at her command to divert him from his purpose and still make it seem natural and as if she hadn't comprehended what he'd been about to do.

  Very draining, dealing with a gentleman's finer feelings. And she had to face that she might have to do that her entire married life with him, if she accepted him. Just another kind of discipline forced on her, no different from Wroth's desire to dominate and constrain her.

  Damn. Marriage was a quagmire, and only the woman got sucked into the muck.

  And she was already in over her head, and she didn't know what she was going to do.

  The next evening, everyone turned out for the garden party at Haverdene House. Mrs. Geddes dressed Angilee in a tulle-draped ivory silk gown sewn with sparkling crystal beads around the bodice and hem, discreet diamond earrings, and matching shoes, gloves and wrap.

  She looked as tall, proud and elegant as she ever had felt. She could conquer the world dressed like that. There just wasn't any world to conquer.

  "Once again," Mrs. Geddes said, "I warn you, your father may be in attendance, and you must exercise even greater caution and restraint if you must deal with him at all."

  "Then I'll try not to," Angilee said, although she didn't hold out much hope for that, the way she was feeling right now. Zabel was going to win, it was simple as that. And she was looking at a lifetime of servitude with a venal viscount.

  And all for her father's ambition to be included among men of influence and power. What on earth had Wroth offered him that he was so willing to sell his only daughter to him?

  She had been so consumed with circumventing him and get­ting herself set up correctly and with every propriety and concern covered, she hadn't really given this component of the equation as much thought as she should have.

  What was it that Wroth had that her father wanted so badly?

  What had Mrs. Geddes said about his connections? That they spoke well for him in the short time they'd been there? But they'd only arrived perhaps two, two and a half months ago, and the news of her upcoming marriage to Wroth had been waiting for her. Contracted before they arrived.

  She had been so outraged by that, she hadn't thought clearly about the logistics of it, not least, where or when her father had met, or had contacted Wroth. Perhaps there had been some back and forth before they'd even left New York, but if so, Zabel hadn't said a word to her.

  As she remembered it, all their focus had been on the trip to England, the upcoming Season, the opportunity to make an at­tractive alliance with a titled aristocrat.

  And so here was the end result of that: a prearranged marriage she didn't want, her decision to give away her virginity which did not deter her would-be husband, and then her desperate flight from her father while stealing his money, and going to great lengths to hire a social dragon to protect her and guide her, while she yearned for a man whose penis she had hired for a night as the solution to her problem.

  Oh, there was no redemption for her in heaven. All she had done thus far had sunk her deeper into the quagmire, with not a prospective husband in sight to pull her to ground. And there was no other possibility at the moment but the one at hand: Trevor Smythe.

  She would let him propose, she thought, panicking wildly. She would accept him. Tomorrow, when he called.

  But meantime, there was a party. On a warm city night when the fog didn't hover oppressively, and everyone was dressed in bright luscious colors, and so happy to be outdoors with music playing and waiters passing food and champagne, while they milled and strutted around a huge swath of lantern-lit gardens that seemed like a fairyland.

  Somehow in the soft diffused light, everything looked different and every man looked like a prince.

  The Haverdenes had done it up beautifully. Tables scattered around for sitting and talking, an army of attentive waiters and footmen. A string quartet playing softly in the background. A floor set up at the far end of the garden for dancing later.

  Everything the same, but something was different. Angilee felt it in her bones as she wandered through the crowd, nodding to acquaintances, stopping to chat now and again with people to whose dinners or parties she had been invited.

  The Beddingtons were there and greeted her warmly. Trevor Smythe materialized out of nowhere and took up his usual posi­tion at her elbow.

  Mrs. Geddes nodded her approbation. Angilee's heart sank a little lower. Into the quagmire. Into the muck. No sign of the bull.

  Feeling as if she were being sucked deeper and deeper into the void.

  A swarm of debutantes and her rival heiresses entered to­gether arm in arm, talking and laughing together like the best of friends. Pretending they weren't in competition for the same men, the same titles, the same money.

  Was she the only one who was out to buy a marriage? Some­times it seemed like it.

  But
then, her father had thought he'd bought one, too .. .

  She went on doggedly, mingling with the crowd, letting Trevor Smythe guide her, hand her a goblet of water, pretending to listen attentively as he whispered in her ear.

  And then she turned to set the goblet back on a passing tray, and caught her breath. Worse and worse. Wroth had just entered the garden, and a step behind him, she could just see her father.

  This was the first time she'd seen Wroth at any of the social events she'd attended. She had been so hoping he'd gone back to his home, wherever that might be, hopefully hours, days, away from London. But there he was, surveying the scene, his cold gaze resting now and again on a passing woman, with a hard assessing look that made Angilee shudder even as far away as she was from him.

  Zabel said something to him. He shook his head, and the two of them proceeded down the steps into the garden.

  Angilee just wanted to flee. She was shocked by her reaction. Her emotions boiled into pure fear, and a kind of loathing that seeped up from her bones. She had to get out of there because if Wroth found her, he would not observe the social niceties, she was certain of it.

  He just was not that kind of man. And he was looking for her. She felt it in her heart, in her gut.

  Mrs. Geddes murmured, "Your father has arrived."

  "I know."

  "And the man with him?"

  "Wroth."

  "I see." Mrs. Geddes threw him a covert glance. "Yes, I see."

  "Exactly."

  "Stay calm."

  That was impossible. Zabel trailing her around a card room was one thing, but Zabel and Wroth together, cornering her, each from one side, was something altogether devastating.

  They were coming at her. Not after her. At her. As if they would attack her and hold her up to the multitude as some kind of example. And they wouldn't hesitate to do it either, because Wroth didn't care, and her father was so single-minded about ful­filling their contract that he'd endure any humiliation, especially if it was hers, after all she had put him through.