Scoundrel

by Zoë Archer

  London did not wave to Fraser to alert him to her presence. If he was so determined to monitor her whereabouts, let him earn his duty. It would give her the opportunity to say good-bye to Mr. Drayton.

  But when London turned back to speak to him, she found only air. He had vanished.

  She blinked in confusion. “Where did he go?” she asked Sally.

  The maid shrugged, and sniffed, “I’m sure I don’t know, madam. One moment he was here, and the next, gone. Like some kind of phantom.”

  A chill trickled down London’s spine. Mr. Drayton’s exit had been positively eerie—soundless and immediate. What kind of man could disappear into the air itself? Certainly no one of good character. Perhaps it had been for the best that London had been so circumspect. Maybe he was a thief, or one of those men who preyed upon traveling women of fortune. Or…a mercenary? As she had suspected, a dangerous man. Yet one who attracted her powerfully. Not just for his seductive handsomeness, but the way he made her recognize the capability of herself. She had the feeling that if she had revealed to him her linguistic abilities, he would have accepted and perhaps even admired them. Or were those feelings of trust part of his nefarious arsenal?

  Feeling a lingering trace of unease, London turned and waved to Fraser. At once, he began to make his way toward her, showing his usual lack of concern for those around him. A big man, he jostled through the marketplace in his white linen suit, his mildly handsome face looking cross, his pale complexion flushed. Of course, he didn’t look cross when he reached her. She was his superior’s daughter. London was not unaware of the fact that, as soon as her mourning for Lawrence had been finished, Thomas Fraser had been one of a number of men who paid her particular attention. She did not think they were drawn by her personal charms, but rather by her being Joseph Edgeworth’s daughter.

  “There you are, Mrs. Harcourt.” He took off his hat and fanned himself, strands of wheat-colored hair sticking damply to his forehead. “What an awful din in this beastly market. And deuced hot, too.”

  “I find it rather comfortable, especially after a gloomy English spring.”

  “Ah, well.” He replaced his hat. “That’s a pretty sash you’ve got there. Quite dashing.”

  London had forgotten about the scarf Ben Drayton had tied around her waist. She started to untie it, but then stopped. She would keep it as a souvenir of the strange and exhilarating day. Reaching into her reticule, she found a silver fifty-lepta coin with which to pay the vendor, but not before her fingers brushed the pottery shard Drayton had urged upon her. A wicked man, she thought.

  After she paid, the very un-wicked Fraser asked, “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the hotel? Your father would like you to dress for dinner.”

  Of course he would, London thought. “Thank you, you’re very kind, Mr. Fraser.” She took Fraser’s offered arm, and they left the marketplace, with Sally behind them. London made herself look straight ahead, as much as she wanted to glance back and see what had become of the mysterious Mr. Drayton. It didn’t signify. She doubted she would ever see him again. But she wasn’t sure if that should raise or lower her spirits.

  That was bloody close. Fortunately, Fraser hadn’t spotted Bennett, or else the bastard would have set the usual thugs after him, and that wasn’t something Bennett particularly wanted to experience again. Heirs always hired local muscle to do their dirty work. Lucky for the Heirs, greed was universal, so they had a ready supply of desperate, amoral men wherever their searches took them.

  As Bennett slid into a nearby alley off the market square, an old enmity seethed back to life. Thomas bloody Fraser. Here in Greece. De-sodding-lightful. Bennett didn’t care for any of the Heirs, but Fraser was a particular bane. Especially after Fraser’s involvement with the Norway debacle years ago that cost Bennett a piece of his small toe, and nearly his life. Fraser’s appearance in the market had made Bennett pull his signature disappearing act. He didn’t know what Fraser was doing in the market. Probably the git was performing reconnaissance. Heirs traveled in packs of no less than two, so somewhere out in Athens was at least one other thieving Heir bastard. Who made up the rest of their raiding party, Bennett didn’t know.

  He would find out soon enough. He’d tail Fraser, maybe find out where he and the other Heirs were staying in Athens.

  Bennett took a step from the alley, but a familiar Teutonic voice stopped him. “English dog! Now I break your neck!”

  Bennett groaned in exasperation. The captain was awake and untied. And headed straight for him.

  No help for it. As soon as the German came within striking distance, Bennett threw out a left jab, connecting solidly with the captain’s face and snapping the man’s head back from the impact. Quick and sharp, Bennett followed with a hard straight right to the chin. The captain hadn’t even the time to make a sound. He collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

  Confident that the captain would stay down this time, Bennett ducked back into the marketplace. And swore in several languages. Fraser was gone. With no way to know where he’d gone. The labyrinth of Athens had swallowed up the Heir.

  The lady was gone, too.

  A damned shame that Bennett hadn’t been able to spend more time with that delicious woman. It wasn’t a boast that Bennett considered himself something of an expert and a gourmet where females were concerned. And the nameless English lady was indeed a fine specimen that he wished he could explore at leisure. She was beautiful, of that there could be no debate. Thick hair the color of golden brown silk, and eyes the kind of rich chocolate in which a man could lose himself. A wide mouth, ripe and rosy. Her modish light blue day gown set off her slim figure. Not exactly voluptuous, but her curves were honest, her waist small—he knew this from tying the scarf there. He had no trouble picturing his hands at that waist, holding her to a wall as he plunged into her, her moans in his ear. The picture was so vivid, he clenched his jaw and forced himself to walk slowly through the market to cool his heated blood.

  The sun began to set. Time to head back to his home base and reconnoiter with his fellow Blade. There was still the manifest to study. Bennett headed north, away from the market, but his thoughts remained behind, lingering over the Englishwoman.

  She’d been more than beautiful to look upon. She had a sharp mind, and that was something Bennett truly appreciated in a lover. There wasn’t anything more arousing than a woman applying her intelligence to lovemaking. Such mouth-watering possibility. He’d known many other intelligent women, but something more than her intellect kept Bennett thinking of his unnamed Englishwoman in Monastiraki. Many clever females were satisfied with only their books, preferring a path of the mind.

  Lady Troublemaker wanted life, she hungered for it, embraced its messiness and chaos. The world was new to her, and she stood ready to receive it.

  How many men had she known? How many lovers? Not many, he’d wager. She had an air of untapped carnal potential, an eager student of sensuality. She could, with the proper guidance, surpass her teacher. And then, what a better world this would be, with such a woman in it.

  His cock, disappointed by the interruption at Elena’s, appreciated these images and stirred. Go back to your napping, Bennett ordered. Still, it was hard to forget her, even harder to ignore that strange, vivid moment when his fingers had touched her hand. In all his years, after countless encounters with a vast array of women, Bennett couldn’t recall ever having so visceral, so immediate a reaction to touching a woman. And it had gone beyond the physical, too. A sudden, profound connection with no known origin other than something in his body that recognized her, knew and needed her.

  Rot. He simply wanted a fuck, but he wasn’t going to get one. Not for a while. He was there for the Blades, which meant carnal appetites would have to go unsatisfied until the mission was complete. That clumsy bull Fraser showing in the marketplace proved that the Heirs were truly in Greece.

  Bennett reached into a hidden pocket in his jacket. He pulled out a heavy, old compa
ss and considered its face, four blades marking each direction, a rose at the center. More than a means of finding direction, it resonated with ancient secrets and sacred promises. All Blades knew one another by this Compass. He used it to guide him back to his home base in Athens. It was time to get down to business. There was dangerous work to be done.

  Chapter 2

  Unexpected Connections

  “I expected you a half an hour ago,” Athena Galanos said as Bennett entered the study. She sat at a heavy table, books and papers strewn about in an abstruse system only she could understand. A servant entered the room with Bennett, lighting lamps against the oncoming dusk.

  Bennett went to the large pedestal globe in the corner of the room and spun it on its axis. Continents and countries whirled. When the servant came forward with a glass of Muscat, he murmured his thanks and sipped at the wine. Dry and clear, it slid down his throat. Athena always had a fine cellar, but it was to be expected. Her family was one of the oldest and most esteemed in Athens, with a large and elegant house at the base of the southern slope of Lycabettus Hill. The Galanos women had been active as Blades in Greece, well before the country won its independence, in a tradition of honor that passed from mother to daughter. The name Galanos was passed on the female side, since they never gave birth to sons, and saw men merely as means by which the line could continue. Their lovers seldom lasted more than the time it took for the getting of a child. A sophisticated, matriarchal coven on the shores of the Aegean, which Bennett appreciated, being enamored of the whole female race.

  “Got a little caught up in something,” he said.

  Athena raised one dark brow. “And how did the husband feel about that?”

  “The usual histrionics. Had a nice little chase through Plaka. Very bracing.”

  She peered closer at him. “I don’t see any wounds.”

  Bennett placed a hand over his chest. “Just my heart, dear lady.”

  “Of all your organs,” she said, “it is perhaps the most resilient.”

  “But I did get this,” he continued, taking the manifest from his pocket and tossing it to her.

  Athena grabbed it from the air, and began to rifle through the pages. “So your appetite for information was satisfied, at least.”

  He grinned, but decided not to mention the English lady from the marketplace. He wasn’t sure what he would tell Athena, anyway. That he’d met an exceptionally pretty, intelligent woman whose simple touch affected him, in more ways than the physical? Athena knew Bennett well and would likely laugh at his description of the encounter. He did give his heart easily—though it was nothing compared to the freedom with which he gave his body—yet his heart was boundless and nigh incapable of tapping its supply of affection and desire. He never feared exhausting himself on one woman. True, this meant that he hadn’t the capacity for longer, more serious commitments, but this proved no impediment. His lovers always knew he would leave. He was open about this, and they accepted him as he was. Would the English lady from Monastiraki feel the same way?

  He found himself revisiting the delicate precision of her face, her musical, slightly husky voice, the combination of freshness and experience that shone in her coffee-colored eyes. Mostly, he was struck by her intense hunger for experience. She was probably a widow, and, if so, then her poor, dead husband was to be pitied for leaving behind so delicious a wife who wanted to devour the banquet of the world.

  He grew serious as he focused on more immediate concerns. “Saw Fraser in Monastiraki.”

  Athena looked up from the manifest. “Who was with him?”

  “He was alone, or so it seemed.” He leaned against the bookshelves, one booted foot over the other. His and Athena’s work as Blades was to protect magic and keep it safe from those sodding Heirs of Albion, who thieved magical Sources from around the world for a nefarious, empire-building agenda. Blades were always vigilant where Heirs were concerned, always dogging their steps to keep the Sources safe.

  “And did he see you?”

  “No, I got out before he spotted me.” Bennett held his glass of wine up to the light, watched it shimmer and glow, before draining it and setting it on a shelf. The spine of one book read, in Greek, The Practical Art of Spellcasting, or, a Woman’s Guide to Thaumaturgy. Typical reading for Athena.

  She nodded. “That is fortunate. We need to keep our presence from the Heirs hidden for as long as possible.”

  “Wasn’t able to follow him, though. The owner of the manifest popped by for a chat.”

  “And?”

  “I let my fist do the talking. That shut him up. But by then, Fraser was gone.” And the delectable Englishwoman was gone, as well.

  Taking the manifest, Athena pushed back from the table and walked toward the window, with its magnificent view of the Parthenon and the city that shared her name. All women in the Galanos family were named Athena, possessing an aristocratic and dark Greek beauty that rivaled the Caryatides, but to Bennett and the other Blades, this Athena was foremost a capable colleague that should never be underestimated.

  “Divine for us, goddess,” he said to her. “Urgent matters are afoot.”

  She peered at the manifest. “I see Fraser’s name here. And Joseph Edgeworth.”

  Bennett swore softly as his eyes met Athena’s. “Joseph Edgeworth isn’t a field man. He’s too high up, too important.”

  “But now the Heirs have the Primal Source,” Athena noted. “With it in their power, all other Sources will be under their control.”

  “So they’re pulling out all the stops. They’re even sending one of their most valuable and respected men out in search of more Sources.” He shook his head at the implications.

  Athena looked back down at the manifest. “I see here that Edgeworth and Fraser are not alone here in Greece. There is another name listed with theirs. L. Harcourt.”

  “Harcourt,” Bennett repeated in surprise, straightening. Harcourt was most definitely dead. Bennett knew that for an indisputable fact.

  Athena met his gaze over the top of the manifest. “His brother, perhaps?”

  “Better watch my back.”

  “I think we can find out more.” Athena returned to her desk and shoved some books and papers aside to clear some room. From a drawer, she pulled a purple silk scarf, then laid it across the top of the desk. She opened the manifest to the page with the Heirs’ names and set it onto the scarf. Then she closed her eyes.

  “Need me to do anything?” Bennett asked.

  “Just keep quiet.”

  “Impossible.”

  She opened one eye to let him know that his humor was not appreciated. Closing her eye, she held her hands above the manifest. “Virgin Mother,” she chanted, hushed, “gray-eyed bringer of wisdom and war. Grant your daughter eyes to see and lips to speak. Give life to words, so humbly asks your namesake child.”

  At first, nothing happened. Then the writing upon the pages of the manifest began to shimmer and sway upon the page. The words twisted like tiny vines. Bennett stepped closer to watch. As a Blade, he had seen much magic, yet it never failed to make his breath hitch with the wonder of it.

  He stepped back as the words shivered, then danced up from the page, snaking into the air to hover in the middle of the room. In the lamplight, the writing cast spidery shadows, pulsing, waiting.

  Opening her eyes, her hands still outstretched, Athena said in a high, clear voice, “Words, giver of knowledge, we seek your guidance. These men mean to steal magic, and we stand to defy them. What do they seek? Where shall they proceed?”

  The writing trembled, then broke apart like a host of moths, fluttering. Bennett kept his arms at his sides as letters flitted across his face and through the room. He could hear them softly beating against each other and the fabric of the curtains. Then they found order, rearranging themselves into sentences in Greek that floated in midair.

  The Source is hidden in riddles. To the birthplace of the Sun and Moon, the Heirs advance. Words they possess yet ca
nnot read. One amongst their number shall play Oracle. The words will have meaning.

  No sooner had Bennett read this than the words shivered and fell in a cascade back into the manifest. Bennett blinked, and the writing was as it had appeared minutes earlier in some clerk’s careful hand.

  “My boundless thanks, Chaste Mother,” Athena chanted before lowering her hands. The magic-working had drained her, and she sat down heavily in a chair.

  Bennett poured her a glass of wine. Handing it to her, he said, “I’ve a birthday coming up. Will you provide the entertainment at the party?”

  “You need a muzzle,” Athena replied after taking a sip. She repeated the words, mulling them over. “So, the Heirs are going to Delos.”

  “An island in the Cyclades.”

  “Just so.” Athena waved a refined hand toward the table. A scroll of paper rose up from it, unrolling itself and revealing it was an ancient map of the Cyclades Islands, which lay past Cape Sounion to the east.

  Bennett leaned forward to examine the map as it floated before him. It was true that Blades could not use magic, but only if it was not theirs by right or gift. The Galanos women were not only one of Athens’s finest families, they were also witches by birth. Family legend held that the first Athena Galanos, centuries earlier, wielded tremendous power, enough to safeguard the family against the occupying Turks. The centuries, however, had worn gently away at this power, as the city of Athens became more modern and turned from the old ways, leaving the Galanos witches capable of small parlor spells but not much else. The current Athena spent much of her time researching how she and her future descendants might reclaim that which time had taken from them. One had only to look at Athena’s library to see her dedication to this cause. Bennett doubted a larger collection of magical texts existed anywhere.