His lips crashed down upon hers, their laughter fading as they delved into a joy sweeter still upon the downy-soft bed.
Chapter 18
Candles blazed in a dozen sconces, holding the night shadows at bay within the Blue Drawing Room. The rattle of dice being cast on the mahogany table to the accompaniment of curses that would have made a seafarer pause seemed an absolute blasphemy set against the chamber's staid majesty.
But Griffin delighted in the colorful phrases, and in the woman who sat opposite him, her slender body gowned in an open robe of pink silk damask, a stomacher of pink ribbon and silver lace accenting the creamy smoothness of her breasts.
Griffin lounged back in his chair watching the candlelight play across Isabeau's face as she shook the bits of ivory. Her lips compressed with concentration and her eyes snapped as she cast the dice onto the table.
She cursed. The soft, drowsy kitten of a woman who had lain curled beside him before dawn had vanished, leaving in her place an emerald-eyed hoyden who positively hated to lose.
And she was losing. Badly.
"I believe you have just sacrificed your horse, Mistress DeBurgh," he observed mildly, adoring the militant set of her jaw, the high flush upon her flawless cheeks.
"You've weighted these blasted things, Stone," she blustered, banging one fist upon the table. "Stake me if you haven't! And if you don't break them open, I shall—"
"Cleave out my gizzard? Blast me into eternity?"
"Nay." She seemed to be struggling to discover some threat dire enough to punish so heinous a crime. "If you don't, I—I shall never kiss you again."
Griff gave an eloquent shudder. "I surrender!" He rolled his eyes heavenward as though in supplication. "Of course, I've been attempting to do so for nearly an hour now. Believe me, nothing I could win from you is worth this much agony."
Her soft rose lips compressed into something very like a pout. "Don't be labeling me a spoilt babe, Stone, when you are the one who is cheating. You promised your infernal friend would be here over an hour ago to break up this game. Did you send out a bevy of brigands to delay him when you began to fleece me?"
Griff felt a twinge of conscience. His concerns about Charles and the purpose of Tom's visit should have held his attention. Instead, he'd been lost in the pleasure of Beau's company. But he suppressed the whisperings of unease, leaning over to capture her lips in a hard kiss.
"Never fear, love. I shall allow you to ride Macbeth whenever the spirit moves you. And as for Tom, I assure you he is quite safe traveling London's streets. He may appear bookish and quiet, but beneath it all"—Griff chuckled, recalling past episodes with his friend—"Southwood is the very devil of a fighter."
"He blasted well better be! I fully intend to call him out for my losses! I've not even met the man, and already I loathe—"
A discreet knock upon the door made Griff straighten. He gave permission to enter while Beau flung herself back against the cushions of her chair as though he had plotted the interruption of her tirade on purpose.
The door swung open, the butler entering. Though the old servant's eyes scanned the table, replete with its evidence of gaming, he did not so much as lift a brow, the redoubtable retainer merely clearing his throat. "My lord, the Honorable Mr. Thomas Southwood."
Griff leapt to his feet, his dice box clattering to the table as he rushed toward his friend. The man was swathed neck to knees in a flowing gray cape, his boots scuffed, his hat askew.
Ten years had done little to alter the fall of thick blond curls that tumbled over Tom's broad forehead, his studious face unmarred by lines except about the dreamy gray eyes that bore a shade of a squint, no doubt from spending too many late nights poring over thick tomes.
"Tom! God's feet," Griff cried, hastening across the room to capture his friend in a bluff embrace. "It is good to see you, man! It has been so bloody long—so much has happened!"
"Aye. Too much." There was a touch of strain in Southwood's voice. The arms that hugged Griffin seemed to tighten involuntarily.
Griff pulled away, peering into his friend's beloved, familiar face. "Tom..."
"So," a voice broke in. Beau confronted Southwood with a twinkling of mischievous accusation in her eyes. "You are the blackguard who has cost me my horse."
"Your—your... My most sincere apologies."
Griff's fingers clenched unconsciously. Tom, the ever easily ruffled Tom, had scarce blinked.
"We have been playing at dice, Isabeau and I." Griff attempted to jar his old friend into a smile. "Because you were late, she has gambled away her horse. Luckily for her, we are to be married, so she will be able to wheedle a ride astride him upon occasion."
Tom simply stared.
Griff forced a smile. "Tom, did you hear me? I am fair chafing to be leg-shackled as soon as the banns are cried."
Griff expected a reaction—disbelief, astonishment, laughter—anything except the quiet acceptance, the distracted restlessness that shadowed Southwood's face.
"Tom," he said, "I am presenting my betrothed to you. Mistress Isabeau DeBurgh. Isabeau, my best friend in the world, the Honorable Thomas Southwood."
"Oh... your betrothed. My heartiest felicitations." Southwood stammered. "I am most happy for you."
"You might dredge up a bit of enthusiasm," Beau teased. "I've seen cheerier countenances at bloody funerals."
Griffin forced a laugh, but the sound was suddenly, strangely hollow. He had seen Tom Southwood misted with daydreams, had seen him solemn, seen him smile, and had even been one of the few to see the quiet man whirl into one of his rare furies. But there was something, some emotion within Southwood's face now that Griff had never witnessed before. Something that made him want to glance over his shoulder into the consuming darkness beyond the glistening windowpanes.
"Isabeau," Griff said softly, "I think Tom and I need to talk."
"Grand," Beau said, sashaying up to Tom, taking his arm with that newfound ease that seemed to surround her, garbed as she was in woman's fripperies. "I would adore hearing tales of what a reprobate Griffin was before he was hustled off to the colonies. And you, my honorable Mr. Southwood, seem just the man to enlighten me."
"Tom and I have more important things to discuss than skinned knees and raucous nights," Griff interrupted. Unease made his voice harsh. "I need to speak with him alone."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said in a sugary voice, pressing her hand to her breast with dramatic flair. "I should not want to distract you with idle woman's chatter when you obviously have important matters to discuss—matters far beyond my meager powers of comprehension. I would not dream of encumbering you with my presence a moment longer."
Beau swept up to Southwood, smiling into the man's eyes. "Before I go, I think it only fair to warn you that you will not escape me so easily again, Mr. Southwood. I shall expect a full accounting of my lord's darkest secrets when next we meet."
As if suddenly startled from a bad dream, Tom seemed to shake himself, favoring her with an earnest smile. "You must forgive me for being a dullard, Mistress DeBurgh. I promise I will be more attentive another time. I am most—most happy for you and Griffin. He will need someone... after..."
Feeling an odd kinship with the studious young man, Beau stretched up on her tiptoes, brushing his cheek with a kiss. "I shall take good care of him for you," she said softly. "I promise."
Griffin watched Beau as she swept from the room, graceful as a wood sprite. Suddenly he wished she could weave some magic to dispel the sense of foreboding snarling around him.
"She is beautiful, Griffin. Charming. But I thank you for sending her away." Southwood's relieved sigh brought Griffin's attention back to his friend. "I fear she would have been most disconcerted when she saw..." His words trailed off, but the fingers of his left hand slipped the fastening of his cloak, letting that rich garment fall from his shoulders to reveal coat and waistcoat, as ever somewhat mussed, and a cravat, carelessly tied. But it was the lace that spilled abou
t Tom's wrist that snagged Griffin's gaze, held it—for it was stained bright crimson with blood.
"What the deuce?" Griff ripped the fine fabric aside to peer at the nasty cut that bisected Tom's surprisingly muscular forearm. "How the devil did this happen?"
"I fear I ran afoul of two most unsavory rogues upon my journey here."
"This is abominable," Griff said, digging a clean handkerchief from one pocket and binding it about the wound. "The very streets of London have become a menace. Anyone can be set upon by footpads at any hour."
"These men were not stalking just anyone." Tom's voice was gentle, fraught with that quiet urgency that had given Griff pause moments before. "The rogues who fell upon me—wherever they came from—had been searching most especially for me."
"Come, Tom. Who the devil would want to harm you? The irate proprietor of some lending library, afire for your blood because you forgot to bring back your books?" Griff cast out the uneasy jest, hoping to wring from Tom even a hint of a smile—anything...
But Tom only raised the fingers of his good hand, kneading the flesh at his temple. "I wish it were that simple. Unfortunately, I believe that someone was eager to stop me from coming here. From seeing you."
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I—not the whole of it, at least. Brace yourself, old fellow," Southwood said. "The news I bear—I fear it is terrible."
Griffin’s mind flashed back to the cryptic note he had received at Darkling Moor and his nephew's reaction to it. "Is it Charles? If that boy has been stirring up mischief, I vow I'll—"
"Nay, it is nothing to do with the boy, though with the company he's been keeping it is a miracle he's not neck-deep in some calamity. I fear... fear it is about William."
All thought, all breath seemed driven from Griffin's body. "What the devil?"
Southwood's hand came up to curve in a strong grasp about Griff’s shoulder as if to steady him while delivering some hideous blow. "Griff, William... William's death... I fear it was no an accident."
"No accident? He fell off his horse."
"Aye, but it was not the fall that killed him."
"Tom, for God's sake, what are you saying?"
"William was murdered."
Griffin reeled. "Murdered? I don't believe it. Someone would have told me. By God's blood, a duke's murder would have been splashed across every pamphleteer's wares in England. Even in the colonies I would have heard something."
"No one knows save me and the man who tended him before the burial. And I threatened to cut out his tongue if he should he betray the truth. Charles, if you'll pardon me for saying so, has not the sense of a three-year-old. I feared that he would race off and do something foolish, and that you would return to find two new additions to the Stone crypt instead of only one.
"And you, loving William the way you did"—Tom fidgeted with his neckcloth—"dash it all, Griff, I didn't want you finding out such gruesome tidings from some ghoulish letter or an accounting some scandalmonger here in England had sent you. I was certain you would be returning to England to deal with William's affairs. I knew I could speak with you then."
"But why the blazes didn't you tell me the instant I was in England? I would have been clawing through every hellhole on this island to track the cursed murderer to his lair."
"I was in France with Mary Beth. I returned as soon as I knew you were in London. Yet as for that other difficulty... I believe I have taken care of that for you."
"The other? What?"
"Discovering who murdered your brother."
Tom's face was pale, his eyes reflecting a horror long past, yet still haunting enough to turn his stomach. "There was... an initial slashed into William's chest. A mark carved there with a knife or sword."
"A mark." Griff’s stomach pitched, sweat beading his brow. "Cut into... oh, my God."
Tom turned away, his face tinged with the same sickness. "I made some inquiries, did some searching on my own," he continued. "And what I discovered was that a slash like the one upon William is a signature of sorts."
"A signature? Who? By God's blood, what twisted whoreson would do such a hideous thing?"
Tom reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing a pamphlet. The printing was so fresh the ink was smeared. Griff could scarcely force his numb fingers to close about it, his gaze fixing on the image inked upon the page.
"It is a famed brigand that raids hereabouts," Tom said quietly. "A highwayman by the name of Gentleman Jack."
* * *
Beau sat on an embroidered stool, sticking out her tongue at her reflection in the mirror. "I look like I'm wearing sausages on my head!" she complained to Molly, who was attempting to tame her wild curls into the latest fashion. "My hair is so stuffed up with pincushions and pillows, my neck aches!"
"This style is the height of elegance, I assure you," Molly said as she attempted to fix a particularly troublesome curl in place. "My lord Stone will love it."
"Then let him bloody well wear it himself," Beau groused. "My lord and I have already come to an understanding regarding coiffures, Mistress Maguire. And just because you are my dearest friend in the whole world doesn't mean you will be able to cajole me into looking like a jackanapes on the streets of London."
Beau screwed up her face with such effect that Molly dissolved into fits of giggles. "You had best not let your betrothed see you looking that way, or he might cry off the engagement."
"He could bloody well try," Beau said with great relish. "If he dared attempt it, it would be pistols at dawn for him, m'girl. And I am a much better shot than he is."
Molly tugged at a curl, and Beau yelped. But she had no time to think of an appropriate epithet before she heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. Hoping it was Griffin, she leapt up from the seat to the sound of Molly's exasperated cry.
"Now look what you have done!" the girl wailed as the thick mass of Beau's hair tumbled down, the pads Molly had so tediously worked into her coiffure bouncing on the floor. "You've ruined it, you ungrateful—"
But Molly's accusations were shattered into silence. The chamber door crashed open, revealing within its wooden frame a man so changed from the rogue who had bested Beau at dicing he seemed a total stranger.
His skin was deathly gray, every muscle in his throat standing out like knotted cords, every plane of his face raked with a harshness that made Beau's breath snag in her chest. He was shaking. Shaking. His eyes were like blue flame, burning, yet filled with such agony, such torment, Beau hastened toward him.
"Griff? Love, what—"
"Where is he?" His words were so cold, they seemed to freeze Beau's very soul.
"He? Who? Southwood? I've not seen—"
"Southwood is belowstairs, ordering up my horses, dispatching a footman to Bow Street with a message from me. Nay, it is this"—he waved a sheet of parchment at her—"this blood-hungry bastard I want—need—so I can slit his accursed throat."
Beau took a step back, stunned by the savagery in Griffin’s voice as he thrust the pamphlet toward her. She whipped her hands behind her back, suddenly more frightened than she had ever been in her life.
"Griffin, what in God's name is amiss?"
"He murdered my brother! Murdered him, damn it. And carved his initial in Will's chest."
Beau stared into his pain-racked features, wishing she could do something, anything to ease his anguish. "Sit, love," she said, attempting to soothe him. "Molly, bring some brandy."
"I don't want any accursed brandy. I want to know where the devil this monster dwells. This sick, twisted animal you call your friend."
Beau reeled as if he had slapped her, panic rising in her veins. "Blast it, Griff, you're making no sense. How would I know—"
"Where Gentleman Jack Ramsey makes his home?" The words were a brutal sneer, laced with such loathing, such rage, Beau's hands began to tremble.
"J-Jack..." Beau stammered, Molly's cry of denial seeming to whirl at her through some nightmarish mist. "Don't be ab
surd! Even if your brother was murdered, Jack would never—"
"Never have cut someone down upon the highroads? Never have slashed them, left scars on their faces to feed his cursed arrogance?"
"The ton bucks beg him to do it!" Beau cried. "It is some—some sort of game with them to prove their courage to the aristocratic witches they court. Jack—he would never kill—never be so mad as to carve anything upon a corpse! For the love of God, Griff, he was my protector from the time I was a child. I know him as well as I know my own soul. And I vow to you on our love, upon my very life, that Jack Ramsey did not kill your brother!"
"And the others? I suppose he had nothing to do with their deaths either."
"Wh-what others?" Molly's voice was sick, quavering. "Oh, my lord Stone, please..."
"The women—young girls butchered by his hand. Look you here. This friend—this man whom you know as well as your own soul—look at the atrocities he stands accused of."
Rage, anguish, confusion warred within Beau as Griffin's fist closed in the fall of her hair. He jabbed the piece of parchment toward her yet again, his knotted fingers making certain that she could not wrench away but would have to look upon the sheet in his grasp.
Her horrified gaze fixed upon the smeared image, a crude mockery of the merry Jack Ramsey who had taught her to ride the highroads, the Jack who had taken her to country fairs, who had taught her to ride, to shoot. An evil satyr stared out lasciviously from the page, his hooded eyes dark with evil, his smile a cruel leer. There was so much raw physical similarity that Beau did not even have to lower her gaze to read the inscription below it. Yet with a near-crazed fascination she scanned downward, claws seaming to tear at her stomach as she read the accusations levied against her mentor.
There were accounts of the murdered women from Blowsy Nell's. Each was listed in gut-wrenching detail. Countless other atrocities were laid at Jack's feet. Betrayer, the pamphleteer had labeled him—an animal whom the common folk had adored as a hero, and who had suddenly turned mad, crazed, so brutal that a traitor's death would be too easy a passing for him into the gates of hell.
To Catch a Flame Page 23
