Oh, that much, at least, was clear. She could only hope he thought she was a courtesan rather than a common whore. “I understand, sir, but I fear you have misread me. I am not for sale. Not at any price.”
“Then you are looking for a husband.”
“No.”
“Just as well, my sweet, since no respectable man would marry a woman who’d kissed half his friends and more.”
She gave him a self-deprecating laugh and looked away, wondering if there was another abandoned glass of liquor nearby. “Perhaps the man I am seeking is not respectable.”
“Then you and I are ideally suited, madam, since I am not the least bit respectable.”
She might have thought he was teasing or cajoling, if his tone had not been completely serious. Oh, she could believe him. One could not kiss like that without years of practice and miles of experience. But there was something darker in his voice, something frightening. She glanced back to find him uncomfortably close. She raised one hand to hold him apart.
“No words of affection? No declaration of fidelity or undying love? No pretty manners or promises? What sort of courtship is this, sir?”
“Have I not said you’ve bewitched me? I could tell you lies, Lace, but I hoped you were not the sort to require such twaddle. How could I love you when I barely know you? How could I swear fidelity when we will both be on to the next lover as soon as our affair palls? But if that is what you need, I shall give it to you, though be warned—I won’t mean a word of it, and I won’t have you crying ‘foul’ afterward.”
He was honest, at least. Of the four similar proposals she’d garnered, not one of them had been honest enough to tell the truth. “N-nevertheless, Mr. Hunter. I am not for sale.”
“If not money or marriage, name your terms.”
Searching for words, she shrugged. “When…when I know them, sir, I shall tell you.”
“Please do. When I want something, I am not a very patient man.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
He grinned, bowed and took his leave. When he was halfway across the ballroom, he turned to look at her again. She could feel his gaze sweep her from head to toe. His admiration was clear, but the open sexuality of his gaze unnerved her.
She glanced at her domino on the console table. How would she ever hold him at bay? She had better find her quarry soon.
Lady Lace. Ah, yes. This was going to be interesting. How long had it been since a woman had denied him? Well, that sort of woman, at any rate.
Andrew took his hat and walking stick from the footman at the door and stepped into the darkened street. The distance to Whitcombe Cemetery was scarcely twenty minutes, and he waved a coach away, deciding the exercise would expend a measure of his restless energy.
And banish the memory of the most remarkable kiss he’d ever indulged.
To be kissed in so sudden and forward a manner, to be consumed by that kiss to the point of instant and painful arousal, was unprecedented for him.
Lady Lace was definitely a witch. That kiss—how had she known the very thing that would set him back on his heels and make him lose his self-possession? And how had she managed to accomplish the very thing no woman ever had—meet him on his own terms, without demurring or pretense?
How had he thought her drab at first sight? Lace definitely improved with proximity. At close hand, she was perfectly proportioned. Her breasts were soft and ample enough to burn their impression against his chest. And her hair was not dull at all, but alive with multicolored strands of chocolate, chestnut, caramel and copper. And her eyes—the most soulful greenish hazel he’d ever seen. But her mouth—dear Lord—that mouth! It was all his favorites wrapped into one. The hint of a saucy lilt in her voice and the soft, lush lips accented by a small mole above one corner beckoned him. Straight, even teeth and a sweet, almost shy, tongue replete with intoxicating brew completed the spell.
Ah, but what could he do about her? Clearly, she had her own plan. Just as clearly, he was not a part of it. But that knowledge did not satisfy his lust for her or engender any soft romantic notions in him. He wanted her, and he fully intended to have her.
He felt his blood rising again and quickened his pace. He hadn’t intended to go to the witches’ Sabbath tonight, but now he felt the need to slake an indefinable thirst for excitement and fulfillment. Aye, he’d go to meet Henley and the others and they’d find sin of some sort.
Isabella closed the door of the rented town house on James Street and braced herself. As awful as the night had been, coming home to the guilt and pain was worse. She dropped her cloak where she stood, kicked her slippers off and tiptoed into the salon. A soft sigh from the sofa told her that Eugenia had waited up for her.
Her sister sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Bella?”
“Gina, I told you not to wait up. Go along to bed, dear. Mama will need you in the morning.” She went to the sideboard and poured herself a small glass of port to help her sleep.
“She’s had a bad night, Bella. She’ll sleep late. But she may want to see you tomorrow.”
Isabella gave her sister a sad smile. How dear of Gina to hold out that hope. In truth, their mother was the sort who needed to fix the blame for any disaster on anyone but herself. This time it was Bella’s turn to be the scapegoat.
And the awful truth was that Bella blamed herself, too. If only she’d paid more attention to Cora’s absences. A short walk in the park, indeed! Her sister had been meeting a murderer. If only she’d gone with Cora. If only she’d raised an alarm sooner when Cora had been late coming home.
“Mr. Franklin came by at suppertime,” Gina said. “He wants to know if we intend to honor the lease through September. I did not know what to tell him.”
A lump formed in Isabella’s throat and she sighed. “If I am gone next time he comes, tell him yes. We cannot leave London until Mama is well enough to travel, but that may not be for a while. Nevertheless, we shall pay, even if we leave the place vacant. Mama signed the contract, and we shall honor it. ’Tisn’t as if we are destitute.”
Gina nodded. “The sooner we leave, the better, say I. Not only has London killed Cora, but it is stealing you away, too.”
“Hush, sweet,” Bella soothed. “London is not stealing me away. I am simply seeking Cora’s murderer. He shan’t get away with it. I promised.”
“But, Bella, you have changed. You…you are drinking too much strong spirits, you are going out without a chaperone and staying out late. You will be ruined.”
She gave a choked laugh. Will be? If Eugenia found out about the kisses…“Cora is dead. Dead. The scandal will ruin us all—you, Lilly and me. I only hope we can leave London before the news filters to the ton, which it is sure to do when Lord and Lady Vandecamp arrive in London. They will withdraw their sponsorship in quick order. When Mama is well enough, we will return to Belfast, likely never to return.” She sighed. “So, do you really think I care what a bunch of London popinjays think of me? We are already ruined.”
“That isn’t fair. It wasn’t our fault. And, no matter what society will think, it was not Cora’s fault, either.”
“That will not matter. ’Tis always the girl who is blamed. What fast behavior! Why was she unescorted? What was she doing there? Somehow it will be twisted to be Cora’s fault. Now go on to bed, dear. I am home safe now, and I shall come up presently. I just want to look in on Mama and Lilly.”
Gina stood and gathered her robe around her. “Do not fall asleep on the sofa again. Cook will find you when she comes down to prepare breakfast. She’ll tell Nancy, and Nancy will tell Mama.”
Bella nodded absently. Nothing was secret from the servants. When Gina was gone, she returned to the bottle on the sideboard. A sip? Just a tiny dram? Enough to let her sleep without dreaming? Or was Nancy reporting her drinking habits, too? Measuring the level of liquid in the bottles?
What was wrong with her? She’d never even tasted anything stronger than watered wine before Cora died, and now she was us
ing it liberally and undiluted. To forget the pain. To sleep without dreams. To wash away her self-loathing and the taste of too many kisses, too many strange men.
She went back to the sofa, leaving the decanter untouched. She just needed a moment to close her eyes and make plans for tomorrow, and to rest.
First, she’d rise early, with her sisters. With Mama unable to cope with even the slightest unpleasantness, Lilly and Gina needed guidance. She could not have them wandering off alone as Cora had done.
Cora. Tragic, beautiful Cora.
How she wished she could remember Cora beautiful now—with her honey-blond hair and blue eyes so like Lilly’s, and so unlike Gina and Bella in coloring and temperament. But she could only remember Cora as she’d last seen her in Middlesex Hospital—a grotesque parody of what she had been. And, dear Lord, how could she ever forget Cora’s sightless eyes entreating her beyond death? Be brave. Avenge me, Bella.
In the weeks following Cora’s death, she’d made daily visits to the Home Office and begged for information. But in the end, there had been no leads, and the case had been put aside. Lord Wycliffe had been too busy, she’d been told, and was working on “other things.” They’d sworn they had done all they could, but admitted that Cora’s killer might never be brought to justice.
But Bella couldn’t accept that. His kiss, Cora had said. Always…always wets his lips after his kiss. As if tasting…and he tastes of…something bitter. So, for the last week, she’d gone out in society, found men who matched Cora’s description and urged a kiss—the only avenue the authorities had not pursued. The only one left to her.
That man tonight—Mr. Hunter—had turned away after their kiss. Had that quirk simply been a reaction to her catching him by surprise? But she couldn’t recall if he tasted bitter.
The mere thought propelled her to her feet and sent her back to the sideboard. No small dram would do, but a full half-glass. She drank it standing there, and did not move until the little trails of fire tingled all the way to her toes.
Which dream did she most dread? Those of Cora, or a new one of that one impossible kiss?
Chapter Two
Garish sunbeams pierced the heavy draperies around Andrew’s bed. It must be afternoon. He winced, his head throbbing in concert with his heartbeat. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth and he could not rid himself of the foul taste. What had he partaken of last night? Sulfur?
Ah, yes. The witches’ Sabbath, sans witches. A chalice containing wine laced with brimstone had been passed from hand to hand as the robed and hooded group stood around the altar where Lady Elwood had lain naked in voluntary submission. She’d giggled when Throckmorton poured wine in her navel and proceeded to lap it away. Rather than finding the scene arousing, Andrew had only wondered where Lord Elwood was.
He sat up and rubbed the grit from his eyes, trying to remember the rest of last night. Henley, Throckmorton and Booth had abandoned themselves to the sexual excess of the orgy following the Sabbath, and Andrew had left them in favor of prowling the taverns, looking for carousing friends. He hadn’t wanted to go home after all. His encounter with Lady Lace had left him restless and unsettled. He was not ready for sleep, and neither his valet nor his cook were particularly good company in the wee hours.
He snapped the bed curtains back and stumbled to his washstand. The cold water he splashed on his face brought him fully awake. This business of being a libertine was rather more taxing than he’d first imagined, but he’d thrown himself into it with enthusiasm.
As the second son of an earl, he was not heir to the title, had few familial responsibilities and had enough wealth to render him independent. After Oxford, when he’d still been trying to find his way, he’d bought a commission in the Light Dragoons, been sent to Spain to rout Boney, been decorated for bravery and then been spit out again on the shores of Britain.
By the time he’d returned to England, there was no corner of his soul left untouched, unsullied. He’d tried to drown his memories at first, then realized they’d always be a part of him. He should have changed, should have recognized his debauchery and stopped. Ah, but it was years and years too late to turn back now. There was no redemption for Andrew Hunter, Lord Libertine.
He dried his face, threw his towel down and dragged his fingers through his hair. He’d go to a barber today and then to his fencing master for exercise. And tonight, one more time, he’d go through the motions of polite society. At least the arrival of Lady Lace on the scene had broken the monotony. Yes, she’d be a fine, if temporary, distraction.
Bella slipped into the midst of a large group of revelers entering Marlborough House for a ball, wrapping her paisley shawl more closely around her. She edged closer as the men presented engraved invitations, knowing it would be assumed that she was included in the group, then followed them into the hallowed halls.
As unobtrusively as possible, she separated herself from the group and wandered away. She returned a hesitant wave from Mr. McPherson. He would not come talk to her tonight. He was in the midst of a group of women, and she knew full well that her behavior had put her beyond the pale of polite introductions.
She took her bearings, feeling a bit like a country mouse surrounded by such splendor. Marlborough House literally glittered with crystal and candlelight. The richness of the furnishings and decor took her breath away. Before she could turn around, she had a glass of champagne in her hand and was caught in a stream of guests entering the ballroom.
All the gaily colored gowns she and her sisters had ordered would remain in their boxes, and Bella, the most reserved of the sisters, was wending her way through the ton as a wanton. Not precisely the figure the O’Rourke girls had hoped to cut.
She put her melancholy aside and tried to look serene and approachable. If she looked helpless enough, some gentleman was bound to take pity on her. And once that was done, she could manage a few introductions.
She gazed quickly over the sea of people. So many dark-haired men! Before she could take another step forward, she was struck by the sudden, crushing realization that she’d never kiss them all. She had to find a better way to narrow the possibilities.
Bile rose in her throat and she whirled back toward the foyer, her instinct to flee nearly overwhelming her. She needed a moment alone to control her racing heart. She could not think what was behind these sudden bouts of panic, but she could not allow them to control her.
Finding her way blocked by the flow of arriving guests, she turned down a corridor, praying there would be a ladies’ retiring room or private sitting room where she could collect herself.
Arriving at Marlborough House, Andrew caught a glimpse of his quarry. Fortune had favored him quickly. Lady Lace. Again, she had dressed in black. A black silk sheath with a black lace overdress and a décolletage that dipped scandalously low. Stunning. He glanced toward the reception line and back down the corridor where she’d disappeared. He’d pay his respects to his host later. But first…
He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he was brought around by a hand on his shoulder. Lord Wycliffe, his former commanding officer and a close friend of his older brother, gave him a canny smile.
“You have the look of a man on the prowl, Hunter. Is some luckless lass in for a run?”
Andrew grinned. “How did I give myself away?”
“The eagerness in your step,” Wycliffe told him. “I hoped I would see you here tonight, though it would have been easy to miss you in the crush. I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you. No time like the present, eh?”
“Actually—”
Wycliffe shook his head and turned Andrew toward the library, where men were clustered in low conversation. “She will not get away from you, Hunter.” He went to a tea table where bottles of liquor were waiting, poured them both a small draught and handed one glass to Andrew.
He took the glass and narrowed his eyes. What had he done to put Wycliffe in a mood? “Make it quick, sir. I wouldn’t want to give her to
o much of a lead.”
Lord Wycliffe laughed. He edged toward the far side of the room, nearer the fireplace and away from the possibility of being overheard. “Now then, when your brother retired from the Home Office, it left a bit of a hole. And I thought—”
“I’m not Home Office material, Wycliffe. I might have helped Lockwood out once or twice, but if you think I can fill the hole he left, you are mistaken.”
“Come, now. Do you forget that I know just how well you work and how discreet you can be? Your service in Spain proved that. It is, in fact, because I know you so well that your name came to mind. After all, who better to catch a scoundrel than another scoundrel?”
Andrew grinned in spite of the veiled insult. “Scoundrel, eh? How are you thinking I can help?”
“We have a case that is rather troubling. We are stymied at the moment and thought you might have an insight.”
“You mean, I gather, that you wonder if I know anything.”
“It is not a stretch, Hunter, to think that you might have knowledge of a crime. Not that you committed it, mind you, but that you might have heard or seen something. This particular case is the sort of thing that is in keeping with your…er, wide range of interests.”
A polite way of saying that he had a reputation for wallowing in the dregs of London society? A fair enough assessment, he supposed. He took a long drink from his glass before answering. “Which particular interest are you speaking of, Wycliffe?”
The man glanced over his shoulder, ostensibly to make certain they were not being overheard. “The religious underworld, so to speak.”
Andrew blinked. What interest could the Home Office have in religion—underworld or otherwise? His doubt must have shown, because Wycliffe leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“Black Sabbaths, witches’ Sabbaths, covens, satanic rituals. That sort of thing.”
“They are absolute hogwash. Frivolity. Grown men looking for an excuse to behave like naughty lads.”
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