Lord Libertine

by Gail Ranstrom

  “There!” Nancy pronounced. “You look fresh as a spring morn, Miss Bella. Hurry on down to the parlor. Lady Vandecamp said she’d join you all there when she and Mrs. O’Rourke are caught up.”

  And, true to her word, Bella had barely arrived in the parlor when Lady Vandecamp swept in. “Oh, my dears! I have just heard everything. Your poor mama! Well, never mind. I am here now and I will take over her duties.”

  “Thank you, madam, but there is little to be done.”

  Lady Vandecamp looked down her nose at Bella. “Isabella, is it not? You were all just tots when Martha last brought you to visit. All of you.” Her gaze swept the other girls and she gave a satisfied nod. “Well, you are all presentable, which will make my duty easier.”

  Bella lifted her chin. She did not like Lady Vandecamp’s officious tone. “Madam, we are in mourning. And Mama has said that we are to leave for Belfast the moment she is strong enough.”

  “That has changed, Isabella. I have talked sense into her. ’Twould be even more scandalous to squander this trip. And wrong to turn tail and run. The clock is ticking, my dears, and none of you is growing younger.”

  “Mourning,” Bella said again for emphasis. How could Lady Vandecamp refute such a reasonable argument?

  “My dears, it has been nearly six weeks. In London, mourning for a sister extends three months, but half mourning begins at six weeks. You can shed the blacks. This afternoon, we shall go to my dressmaker and order more becoming things.”

  “But—” Gina began.

  “No, it has been decided. Your mother is most insistent.” The woman took a place on the settee between Gina and Lilly and took charge of the teapot, just as she’d taken charge of everything else. After she served herself, she gazed at each of the girls in turn. “Isabella, you shall wear a dark grayish plum. Eugenia, you shall wear a dark grayish mauve, and Lillian, you will dress in…puce, I think. Yes, the deep browns will bring your color up and set off your blond curls.”

  “But what is the point, Lady Vandecamp, if we are not going out in society?”

  “Well, yes. That would be unseemly. But in half mourning it is quite proper to attend private affairs—small dinner parties, musicales and teas. No dancing, of course, nor theater attendance. And you cannot be presented at court in mourning, so that will have to wait another six weeks. But I insist, and your dear mama concurs, that we cannot afford to waste this opportunity. It is past time you girls were introduced, albeit quietly, to society. You must make contacts and begin to create a ‘presence’ in the correct circles, which will serve you well in the future. You cannot run back to Belfast. Next year will be too late. Some of you,” she paused to look pointedly at Bella, “will be quite upon the shelf by then.”

  “Oh, yes!” Lilly sat forward, alive with interest. “It would be a pity to come all the way to London and not meet a single soul. And I believe we are sufficiently recovered for small gatherings, are we not, Bella?”

  “Well, I—”

  “So does your mother, dear.” Lady Vandecamp patted Lilly’s hand with an indulgent smile. Lilly had that effect on men and women alike—they always wanted to cosset her.

  Bella glanced at Gina for support but found none. Her sisters were bored, and Gina had already declared her intention to assist Bella in her investigation. She sighed in resignation. “Very small gatherings, please. Did Mama say whether she would be accompanying us?”

  Lady Vandecamp frowned. “She is much too devastated to go out in public, Isabella. Now, shall we make our plans?”

  Bella poured tea for her sisters and sat back while her mother’s friend assumed the reins. According to her, they were to select one gown each for her to take home to her laundress to dye an appropriate shade of half mourning. Then, tomorrow, she would call for them and take them to her dressmaker’s shop for measurements, and to select fabrics and look at styles in a fashion catalogue. The following evening, she would hostess a small dinner party at her town home for their first introductions and would expect the girls to arrive early to help her greet the guests. Thereafter, they could expect the arrival of like invitations, which Lady Vandecamp would go through to determine suitability. With her tutelage and guidance, she was certain they could salvage the season. By September all restraints would be lifted, and they could go about unfettered in society.

  And all Bella could think was that everything had just become more complicated. And much more dangerous. What if Andrew Hunter or one of his friends was one of Lady Vandecamp’s guests?

  “Good to see you, Hunter,” Lord Wycliffe said, looking up from the papers scattered across his desk. “Sit down.”

  Andrew took the chair opposite Wycliffe. “I know why you asked to see me, sir.”

  “Ah, then you have heard?”

  “Conrad McPherson? Aye, I’ve heard. The funeral is tomorrow. I just came from paying my respects to his parents.”

  Wycliffe blinked. “What? McPherson is dead? I cannot believe it. His parents are good friends of mine. I just went to a dinner party at their house last week. Conrad was there and looked well. Seemed in good spirits. What happened?”

  Andrew thought of the note now tucked safely in his waistcoat pocket. The truth? Or the whitewashed version? “Accident, sir. He was in his cups. Evidently his pistol misfired when he was undressing. Tragic.”

  “Good God! Just between us, I never thought Conrad was especially, well, shall we say, brilliant? But I never thought he’d end this way.”

  Andrew was a little surprised about the guilt he felt for lying. It could not make a difference, but his instinct to protect McPherson’s reputation and spare his family shame was stronger than his scruples.

  “If this wasn’t about McPherson, sir, why did you ask me to come by?”

  “I was wondering if you have anything to report. Any progress?” Wycliffe asked.

  Andrew hadn’t made progress, but he was acutely aware that he’d promised to listen for any whispers of cult activities. “Afraid not. It’s not the sort of thing one would overhear at a ball, and you’d mentioned that you wanted me to be discreet. I’ve been nosing around, but have nothing to give you at the moment.”

  Wycliffe sighed and sat back in his chair. “There was another incident night before last. Another young girl, same markings. She died before she was found. That makes five, Hunter. And they’re coming closer together.”

  Andrew experienced another twinge of guilt. His problems paled to insignificance when compared to this. He’d seen violence escalate in the war, and it was never a pretty thing. “I wish I had news, but I don’t,” he murmured. “But sooner or later, I am bound to hear something.”

  Wycliffe nodded. “I’ve never had a case that troubled me more than this one. I’ve put my best men on it again, and we’re still stalled. I had hoped by calling you in, we could tap a source of hearsay normally unavailable to us. Now I fear I am in the unenviable position of asking you to risk more than just keeping an ear out. Could you…would you consider taking a more active role? Whoever is doing this is damned clever.”

  Andrew wanted to refuse. He wasn’t a coward, but he did not like having anyone depend upon him. But the mutilation and sacrifice of young women had to stop. “I’ve been somewhat distracted the last few days, but my head is clearer now. Believe me, sir, if there is something to be found, I will find it.”

  “Be careful. These monsters have no conscience. They do not recognize the rules of society. If they get wind of someone asking questions…well, I wouldn’t give a farthing for your life.”

  “Probably not worth a farthing,” he muttered. “But I will be careful.”

  “Hunter, if you do not want to do this, tell me now and I will find someone else. But I cannot sit on this or ignore it.”

  “I said I’d do it, sir, and I will. I’ll bring you something within the week.”

  “I am counting on it.” Wycliffe sighed deeply and looked down at his papers, muttering under his breath, “And so is the Home Office.”
>
  Bella could not bring herself to go back to Belmonde’s. She suspected Andrew Hunter would be waiting for her there. But last night, she’d overheard a conversation discussing a gambling hell called Thackery’s. She summoned a coach once she reached Ranelagh Street and simply gave the name, hoping it would not be too far.

  Surprisingly close to Belmonde’s, Thackery’s turned out to have less stringent requirements for admission. In fact, Bella gathered that if one could walk through the doors, one could qualify. The premises were, nonetheless, grand. The decor had been taken beyond the point of quiet good taste and bordered on opulent.

  The main salon was large and boasted a wide, curved stairway leading up to a mezzanine with a brass railing that circled the entire salon. A massive chandelier was suspended in the center at the same level as the mezzanine. The effect was dazzling.

  She noted that a number of women stood at the railing to watch the activity below, and she concluded that female presence was more common than it was at Belmonde’s. She did not feel nearly as out of place until she realized she was drawing a fair amount of attention, and she was not altogether comfortable with the appraising glances that were directed her way.

  A footman noted her discomfort and, with a small bow, said, “Perhaps you would be more comfortable above, madam.”

  Ah, the only women she noted downstairs were escorted. And yet there were a fair number of men visible on the mezzanine, too. She gave the footman a smile and began to climb the stairs.

  From her vantage point as she climbed, she could view the salon below. She saw a few faces she recognized from various balls and parties she’d attended. She thought she saw Mr. James Hunter, but he disappeared into the crowd. Just as well. Though James and Charles were both dark-haired, they were also blue-eyed. They did not meet Cora’s description.

  At the head of the stairs was a large salon with glass doors open to the landing. The sound of raised voices and laughter carried to her and she wondered if this was where she’d find refreshment and a place to change her coins into counters. With all the self-assurance she could muster, she passed through the open doors.

  The light was dimmer here, the smoke thicker and the atmosphere…more close. Murals lined the walls, and cushioned benches were placed at intervals, almost as if for better viewing of the murals. A refreshment table stood at the far end of the salon, and a few gambling tables were scattered throughout. But there was something vaguely disquieting about the mood pervading the salon. Was the gaiety too forced? Was the laughter too brittle? Were the men…too familiar?

  She watched as one man ran his hand up and down one woman’s bare arm, and another’s attention seemed riveted on his companion’s daring décolletage. Yet another leaned close to his companion’s ear and whispered something, which caused her to giggle uncontrollably. She’d never seen such behavior in polite company.

  Polite company? Clearly, that was not the case. These women were prostitutes! Courtesans, at best! And worse—the footman had mistaken her for one! She took a deep breath as a stranger headed her way.

  “I do not believe I have seen you here before. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss…?”

  “I…I believe I have made a mistake. I do not think I should be here.”

  “I can see you’re a cut above the ordinary, miss, but—”

  “No, I mean…” But he was dark haired and dark-eyed, and it would be a shame to waste the night. With Lady Vandecamp breathing down her back, she did not know how many more nights she would be able to sneak away. “Lace,” she said. “Lady Lace.”

  “Madam,” he acknowledged with a grin and a bow. “I am Mr. Johnson. Shall we sit and become better acquainted?” He gestured to one of the benches along the wall.

  “As you please, sir.”

  She allowed him to guide her to the bench farthest from any groups, which was also in the dimmest corner. She could not help but cringe inwardly at her lie. Now she was pretending to be a prostitute in the name of justice. What had happened to her scruples? Her morals? Where had the shy young lady from Belfast gone? Oh, surely there would be a special place in hell for her. She sat facing the wall, a shabby subterfuge but the only one available to her.

  Mr. Johnson sat beside her, facing the room and enabling him to face her, as well. “How have I missed you in the crowds, Lady Lace?”

  “I have not been here before, sir.”

  “Ah, then I count myself fortunate to have found you first. Do you have a protector, madam, or are you at liberty for the evening?”

  She could feel the heat creep up her cheeks and prayed that would not give her away. “I am at liberty, sir.”

  “Shall I arrange for a room here? Or would you rather go to yours?”

  “I…I do not make arrangements so quickly, sir. I must know if there is true compatibility.”

  “Ah, you are selective. I can appreciate that, madam. But how shall we know if we are compatible? That could take weeks.”

  She forced a coy smile and said, “Perhaps…with a kiss?”

  “With pleasure, madam,” Mr. Johnson said.

  With pleasure, madam. Was that not what Mr. McPherson had said? Was Mr. Hunter right? Did she have the right to kiss men and let them think there could be more? Doubt clouded her mind and she fastened her gaze on the mural. She could not look Mr. Johnson in the eyes and say these things.

  And then she realized what the mural depicted! Satyrs chasing nude virgins through the countryside! Men overtaking partially clad women! And everywhere she looked, couples copulating in a variety of positions! Good heavens! Before she could voice her amazement, Mr. Johnson lifted her chin on the edge of his hand and lowered his mouth to hers. She blinked and held her breath.

  He met her lips in a nice but unremarkable manner as his hand slipped from her chin down to her throat. But he did not moisten his lips. His hand slipped lower still, to find the curve of her breasts. Before she could protest, an angry voice broke the embrace.

  “Here you are, madam, the first time I turn my back.”

  She did not have to look to recognize Andrew Hunter’s voice. How had he found her? And with her back to the room?

  “You do not own me, Mr. Hunter.”

  “I believe I do, Bella.”

  Her blood turned to ice. Clearly, he was not protecting her name any longer. Was he going to expose her here and now? How much had he discovered about her?

  “Excuse me, Johnson, but apparently my…friend has neglected to mention that we have a previous agreement.”

  “I—of course, Hunter.” Mr. Johnson stood, gave Bella a puzzled bow and went back to his friends.

  Mr. Hunter took the place on the bench that Mr. Johnson had vacated. “I warned you not to play your game in London, madam. That you do so openly is a taunt, is it not? You are daring me to carry out my threat?”

  “I came here tonight trying to avoid you, sir.”

  “Do not think you can escape me, Bella. I have friends everywhere. Friends who know I want to be informed of where you are and what you are up to. So you see, wherever you go, whatever you do, I will know. You can’t escape me, Bella, unless you leave London.”

  Ah, yes. She’d seen Mr. Hunter’s brother in the main salon when she’d entered. He must have gone straight to Belmonde’s to tattle on her. “I could save you the trouble, sir, and give you a report of my doings every morning. Would that satisfy you?”

  “You are a brazen wench,” he murmured. “I saw you kissing Johnson. I saw your reaction. Be warned, madam. I had better not find you doing so again.”

  Her reaction? Relief? What had he thought she felt? She glanced down at the toes of her slippers, then at the mural in front of her. Two could play his game. She was safe from his attentions, at least, since he’d declared his intention not to be one of her “fools.”

  “No kisses, Mr. Hunter? Then what shall I do instead? This?” She pointed to the mural where a couple was engaged in the act of sex. “Or this?” She indicated a scene where
a satyr had brought a woman down and was entering her from behind. “What is to your taste, sir?”

  He turned to see what she was pointing to and he flinched. “You tempt me to teach you a lesson, Bella. You can be certain that if I did such things to you, you would not soon forget them.”

  She gave him a scornful laugh. “Someone thinks well of himself, does he not? How would you know what I would or would not find memorable?”

  He leaned against her, their shoulders in intimate contact. “Shall we find out, Bella?”

  He was calling her bluff! Ah, but then he would become one of her fools—and he would never do that. She was safe enough. With utter confidence, she smiled. “If you wish.”

  “Very well.” He stood, took her hand to pull her to her feet and spun her toward the door. “Thackery’s keeps rooms for just such occasions.”

  Chapter Eight

  The temptress! Bella had more audacity than sense if she thought she could taunt him with impunity. Andrew could not decide if he was angrier at her for demonstrating how damned much he did care what she did, or for offering herself to another man.

  He ignored her little gasp as he tugged her upward and toward the glass doors. Paying no heed to the startled looks of those milling about the upper lobby and around the mezzanine, he turned down the nearest corridor, looking for an open door. When he found one safely away from prying ears or eyes, he propelled her through the door and slammed it behind them.

  Only one lamp burned on a console table beneath a looking glass. He turned the bolt with a loud click, signaling to Bella that she would now have to pay for her taunt.

  She turned and looked at him, her eyes as round as saucers. Her face registered surprise and something else. Fear? No. Not his Bella. She had no lack of courage. Then it must be excitement. Could she really want him? As much as he wanted her— and hated himself for it?

  “What…what are you going to do?”

  His gaze shifted to the bed, and he let a little smile curve his lips. He could not wait to see what she would do next.