The Thorndykes 1: Dispossessed

by Lynne Connolly

  “I have a Picasso.”

  She stopped, turned to face him. “You do?”

  “Up at the house. You should come see it.”

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “Nope.” Damn, this Texas accent was catching. “I have other pieces there too. Maybe Lawrence interests you.” Would she recognize the portrait Lawrence had done of him in full Regency rig? Breeches so tight the observer could tell if he was aroused or not, crisp white waistcoat, a neckcloth he’d tied in elaborate folds each day, never deigning to allot the task to his valet. He gave her an apologetic shrug. “You don’t get to my age without collecting a few bits and pieces.”

  “I guess not.” She stared at him in fascination, blue eyes sparkling. “I’d love to see them. So would Drew.”

  “Pardon me?” Nothing she’d said about her brother indicated that.

  “He’s bright. Real bright. Sometimes when he wanders, it’s because he’s found something new to learn. He delayed university to help me get the bar revamp working, but he wants to study.” She gave a short laugh. “He could live in a library. The other half of the time, it’s the usual stuff, nightclubs and girls.”

  Shit, the kid should think more of her than to abandon her when the mood took him, and dump his dog on her.

  Big as a fucking wolf, this beast, though shaggier with lighter-colored fur broken by patches of tan. The floppy ears and sweeping tail hinted at some spaniel ancestry. He jerked the animal’s chain. Digger gave him a reproachful look, his gaze softly pleading, and instantly Jay felt guilty. It wasn’t the dog whose chain he wanted to jerk, but his owner. The boy didn’t think enough of his sister’s concern to use his own cell or borrow one to give her a call. When he met Drew Parker, Jay planned to deliver a lecture he wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

  “Come to my party tonight.” He waved his hand at a man in the distance. One of his. The man waved back. Jay sent him soothing waves, calming the jittery nervousness of someone who didn’t yet know the terrain he was patrolling. “It’s a themed affair.”

  “What theme?”

  She was probably thinking of cookouts and hoedowns, or maybe a dance with a band that played both kinds of music. “Do you know much about the Regency?”

  “The period between 1811 and 1820 when the Prince Regent ruled Britain.”

  That description made his time sound dry as dust. “How about the Cyprians’ Ball? Heard of it?”

  She frowned and gave a slight shake of her head.

  “It’s not in many history books. But you know about Almack’s, the marriage mart, all that shit.” He sighed. “Every April after Easter, young girls debuted into society. Pastel dresses, parading in front of men they hoped would propose. Sex for sale. Not as blatant, of course, nothing so vulgar. But we decided to echo it. Only with the sex.”

  He ignored the widening of her eyes at that we. “We parodied the grisly parades at Almack’s by inviting the other side of society to a ball. The Cyprians, the demimondaine. Whores. They’d arrive in full rig—or almost full rig. We called it a masquerade, but in a lot of cases their faces were all they hid.”

  Heat flushed through him at the mental vision of the woman next to him dressed in a skimpy silk gown, the neckline undone and shoved to her waist. It took an effort of will to get his cock back under control. No doubt about it; he wanted her.

  He went on hastily. “We’d engage in whatever we pleased. The idea of the redoubtable ladies of society witnessing us using their daughters in such a way added spice to what we were doing.” That wasn’t much better.

  “Orgies?”

  “Naturally. Would you enjoy it?” God, he hoped so.

  Her careless pout failed to conceal her interest. “I don’t know. Never tried anything like that.”

  He wanted to help her find out. Enjoying her attempt at worldly nonchalance, he grinned at her. “You could try tonight. I’ll send you an invitation. You can just watch if you want to, no obligation to join in. Dress appropriately, by which I mean the kind of gowns ladies wore in the years between 1811 and 1820. Or an approximation.” He shot her a grin. “I might show you my Lawrence.”

  She swallowed, her color heightened. Lord help him, he wanted to run his tongue over those cheekbones before tasting her mouth again. He badly needed her to come tonight. In any sense of the word she cared to name, but if he pushed her, she’d back off. Her nervous excitement was palpable, but he was too old a hand at this game to say more.

  The narrow road loomed ahead, and parked by the side, half run on to the grass verge to allow other vehicles to pass stood a dusty green pickup. “This yours?”

  “Sure is.” She reached for the dog’s chain, but he held it away from her.

  “I’m serious, you shouldn’t handle this dog. He’ll hurt you if you try to control him with your body alone.”

  He suppressed his inner animal, the one demanding he jump her bones here and now, and damn the consequences as long as she was into it too. This enchanting woman intrigued him. “We both know at night you’re more than a match for Digger, but during the day you’re mortal, with a mortal’s strength.” The vampire’s curse. They could only call on their superior powers at night.

  “You’re handling him.”

  “I’m bigger, I have better experience—with big dogs,” he added, acknowledging the innuendo, “and I’m using a touch of telepathy. If you need to use that, then do it, but don’t let him fight back. Scare him, then he’ll do what you want.”

  “Or I could do this this.”

  When she mentally tickled the dog behind the ears, persuaded his doggy sensibilities she was in reality touching him, the animal whimpered and twitched. Jay wanted to do the same.

  He half laughed, half groaned. “Nice.”

  Nevertheless, when she opened the door of the vehicle, he ushered the dog into the backseat himself. “Will you come tonight?”

  “No.”

  A shame, but he wouldn’t leave the area without seeing her again. “I’ll send you an invitation anyway. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  “I doubt it. You’ll go away soon, won’t you?”

  Usually he would. Not this time. The restless feeling he’d had for the past few months coalesced. He’d been looking for something he couldn’t name for a long time.

  Maybe he’d just found it.

  Chapter Two

  James, Earl of Trevithick, has the honour of inviting

  Miss Lucille Parker and companion

  to a masquerade to be held at his house

  tonight, 16th May.

  Missy glanced at the gilt-edged and embossed card before turning her attention back to the road. “He can’t spell.”

  “It’s English English.” To Lucille’s mind, the spelling gave the invitation more class. Missy had whirlwinded her into this just like she always pushed Lucille into doing things she wasn’t sure about.

  Lucille had gotten cold feet on the way, but Missy was driving and refused to turn back. “This is an adventure. It’s fate. You bumping into Lord Trevithick himself”—she sniggered at the title—”and then finding that old dress, and getting Joe to work on his night off. You can’t argue with fate once it’s pointing you in a direction. It ain’t right.”

  Lucille’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen and sighed. She might have guessed Ryan would call.

  “Joe told me you’re going to the shindig at the ranch tonight,” he said.

  “Yes, Ryan, I’m going.”

  “Not a good idea, darlin’.” He sounded pissed. It figured. Ryan assumed he had ownership over her, and had appointed himself her protector. She didn’t need that.

  His attitude only strengthened her resolve. “I can’t miss this chance, Ryan. I’ve always wanted to know what goes on there. And he has some important guests who could be looking for local places to visit.”

  “You don’t want that kind of clientele, Lucille.” He’d quelled his anger, and worse, he spoke in the tones of patient endurance she hated mor
e. “Debauchery goes on there.”

  Debauchery? She snorted. “Why do you think I want to go?” Until he’d informed her she didn’t want to go, she hadn’t been sure. Now more than anything else, she wanted to visit the Trevino ranch on party night.

  “Ladies shouldn’t attend those functions. Trust me, you won’t enjoy it.”

  Was he the ancient vampire, or Jay Trevino? At the moment, with his old-fashioned ideas, Ryan could be the Victorian.

  “I guess I’ll find out, wont’ I?” She didn’t wait for his answer. She cut the call and switched off her phone, because as sure as the world went around the sun, he’d try to call back. When she turned her glare on Missy, her friend glanced at her. “Not a word,” Lucille warned her, but as usual, Missy took no notice.

  “I swear that man was born old. He might be good-looking and all, but he ain’t the kind of man you need.”

  Unfortunately Missy was right. Ryan’d be even more persistent about trying to change her mind on settling down.

  She grimaced. “He thinks our marriage is a done deal. I haven’t said yes, and I won’t if he believes he owns me.”

  “On paper, you could do worse. He’s rich, considerate, and respected.” Missy shrugged. “He’s also boring as a plank. Dump him.”

  They drew up before the big gates to the ranch, which were for a change open.

  Two guards stood waiting, both dressed in smart blue-and-gold uniforms like doormen at a swanky hotel. One examined the invitation, passed an ultraviolet light over it. For heaven’s sake. Then he produced a clipboard with two pieces of paper fastened to it and a pen. “The usual disclaimer.”

  Lucille couldn’t believe her eyes, but she scanned the short form. It said the signatories wouldn’t talk about what happened at the party tonight to anyone. A bit fancier language, but the request sounded reasonable. She signed and pushed the board at Missy so she could scrawl her signature. Only then did the guards allow them through.

  Missy chuckled. “Great way to build the excitement. Now we’re thinking, who will we meet? What will they be doing?”

  They carried on to the main house.

  Since the first person they saw outside the front door was a man starring in one of the juiciest soaps on TV, Lucille guessed the security was anything but exaggeration.

  The man was sex on a stick, long hair caught back, devilish face, dark eyes, but something about him warned Lucille away.

  The man—and when she worked really hard, she recalled his name was David something—glanced in their direction. He did a theatrical double take before he tossed his cigarette butt carelessly aside, narrowly missing a budding magnolia, and strode down the steps leading to the entrance.

  This place was a cross between a plantation house and an ancient English country mansion, two wings either side of a huge portico supported by white Corinthian columns. Appropriate for tonight’s theme.

  “Good evening, ladies.” David bestowed a broad smile on them and crooked his arms. “May I escort you inside?” His cod-British accent wasn’t working properly, or perhaps Lucille’s exposure to the real thing earlier had spoiled her for the fake.

  If he had articulated it aloud, he couldn’t have said Fresh meat any better. Reluctantly Lucille accepted his arm. Not so unwillingly, Missy did the same.

  “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” she murmured in her best Regency style, and David tilted his head as if sharing a confidence with her.

  Once up the steps and in the main hall, David gave Lucille a vague grin and bore Missy off. She glanced back at Lucille, made a “look at me, Ma” face, eyes and mouth wide, before she disappeared through one of the doors in the big hall.

  The space held at least half a dozen doors and one of the sweeping staircases Lucille had only ever seen in movies before. It should have Scarlett O’Hara or Bette Davis swanning up them. Instead, they had to make do with her. The least she could do was have a look around.

  Maybe she’d sneak off home then. Call a cab. She had her cell phone tucked in the pocket of her dress together with some cash, her keys, and a lipstick. A quick tour of the premises and then an equally quick getaway seemed in order.

  JAY STROLLED THROUGH the rooms, careful not to stop for too long, or someone would trap him. Some had their own Regency costumes, and some had taken advantage of the wardrobes he offered for their convenience. Nobody got in here without at least making the effort to dress in period.

  He’d had his own clothes created by a tailor who knew what he was doing. His skintight pantaloons were topped by an ivory-toned waistcoat embroidered delicately with gold thread, and a formfitting collarless coat in dead black, the shade that cost so much to produce before chemical dyes made colors more vivid. He’d brushed his hair a la Brutus, the short, choppy style he’d favored back then, and tied his neckcloth himself into the elaborate confection of folds called the Waterfall. A diamond solitaire pin nestled lovingly at his throat, and he wore a gold watch and chain with a quizzing glass hanging from a loop at his waist—one he knew how to use, if anyone dared challenge him. He completed the outfit with the obligatory mask, but his was a black silk bandage executioner-style with slits for his eyes, in startling contrast to the elegant, expensive clothes.

  He wanted to remind people, even the ones who didn’t know about his Talent, what he could do, who he was. He strode through the crowd, people staring at him, trying to catch his attention. Deadly ennui crept through his veins, insidiously pressing at him. By the time he’d walked through the rooms set aside for the affair, he let it take its usual grip on his senses. One of the worst emotions because of his inability to fight it. Horror, terror, disgust—he could combat those, but not the paralyzing flatness of boredom, always his deepest enemy. One of his reasons for throwing these elaborate parties was to try to ease the emotion, but even that distraction had stopped working recently.

  She wasn’t there, the woman who’d piqued his interest earlier today.

  He nodded to some of the people sitting or lying on the sofas he’d provided, broad, heavy affairs with cylinder-shaped pillows, so useful for sexual invention. He watched a man position a woman over one, her ass in the air, legs wide apart, and waited until the man rammed inside her. Jay observed them for a minute or two, wondering if it was worth joining in. She had plump breasts made fuller by her position, sweet treats for anyone who felt so inclined to lend a hand.

  Something tingled his nerves, but not the sight of the woman clearly preparing to take all comers. A dish of condoms lay close to hand. One of his few rules was that everyone should use them—a definite improvement on his day.

  That tingle— The woman screamed, sidetracking him for a bare second, then sensation flashed across his mind, and his senses went on high alert.

  He knew every Talent he’d invited here tonight—their sigils, their mental signatures—but not this one. The presence too fleeting for him to properly identify, only the sex—male—and the Talent, shape-shifter. That was all.

  Why would a Talent arrive and not announce himself to the others who’d attended? Jay didn’t know this person. But the scream had distracted the unknown Talent for a brief fraction of a second longer than it had him. Then the shield had snapped shut.

  Fuck. He had to assume the enemy had found a way in. Not all Talents worked on the same side.

  Until a moment ago, deep disappointment had filled him that Lucille hadn’t showed, but now he was glad. Someone as young as Lucille was best staying away from possible danger. She could fuzz her thoughts to the curious, no question, but he didn’t know the strength of her powers. Or how well she could fight a hostile mind.

  He lingered, watching the play, spreading his senses to detect some trace of the Talent who’d hidden his presence so effectively until that one swift reveal. Nothing. He scanned again.

  A man straddled a pile of cushions, spread-eagled, only his hands on the floor. The rest of him lay open to anyone who wanted to use him. Cyprians came in both sexes. A woman shoved a dildo up h
is ass, showing no mercy, and the man obligingly cried out, his shivering shriek dramatically loud.

  Jay brushed the man’s mind. The only pain the guy was suffering was what he desired, but sharing the man’s thrill didn’t have its usual invigorating effect on Jay. Spectators resting from their labors watched, sipping wine or brandy from their crystal glasses and munching the treats his cook made especially for this gathering. With a slash of amusement, Jay saw the shapes his cook had fashioned them into. Every cookie a phallus, every cake a breast.

  Shit, what he’d give for an unwilling white throat pulsing with life, a tracery of veins beneath, fresh and untouched. Her unwilling white throat. Just like the pretty throat belonging to the woman sitting at the edge of the room. He focused his attention on her, and shock shivered through him, sensitizing every nerve. Her mental disguise was better than he’d thought.

  She’d come after all. Lucille.

  She sat scrunched up untidily in a big brocade chair. She wore a lilac silk gown that had a vague resemblance to one someone from his time would have worn. And probably sneered at, he had to admit. Not that it disappointed Jay, because she’d come. Avid fascination marked her gaze as she watched the man getting fucked.

  Jay crossed the floor to sit next to her, aware of the attention he was attracting from the regulars. He ignored them.

  He favored her with a curt nod. “Good to see you. Dance with me.”

  “Fuck off,” she said.

  A sharp intake of breath, not from her, from the people sitting nearby. He heard it over the delicate music of the string quartet he’d engaged. He couldn’t contact her telepathically. She wouldn’t respond. She’d thrown up her barriers, blocking him.

  She didn’t try to ingratiate herself with him, but turned her back as much as she could while seated. Intriguing. Slightly concerning because she radiated more than nervousness, almost fear.

  “Why did you come? Or is it not for me? Do you want to dance with somebody else?” He kept his voice deliberately soft and unthreatening, and he refrained from reading her mind deeper, forcing the fragile barrier open. That would spoil the fun, remove the tension, and he badly needed some fun in his life. He needed her. Needed to show her what he could do, and why she shouldn’t come here as a tourist as so many did. Of course she wanted to see his house and his art. Not.