Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6

by Lynne Connolly

“Tomorrow, do not take chances,” he said to her. “I did not want to say this before your father, but you need to know this. Be very careful.”

  “Why?” Was there danger, real danger in the club? Her first thought was for her lover. Was he in danger too?

  “You saw the creatures, did you not?”

  “I saw one.” Lightfoot. She had already told her father, who had relayed the information to Patrick.

  He nodded. “The club is full of them, and their deformities are worse than you can imagine. Do not allow yourself to be alone in a room with any of them.”

  “How will I know?”

  “Their signs are not obvious, but they can be discovered. Witches did not go away, my dear, they merely grew more cunning.”

  “Witches?” Superstitions, she wanted to say, but how could she, when she had seen such sights?

  He touched a finger to her mouth. “They exist, and they are more powerful than you know. Only the weak and the inferior were ever caught by the witch finders. Did you never wonder why they allowed themselves to be caught? There is so much you do not know, but be sure I will keep you safe. In the government we are working to capture them, and the Pantheon Club is the largest collection. With the information we can get from them, we will dredge the others from their nests. This work is vital for our nation’s security. Otherwise I would not dream of asking you to return. But you are the only person in that place that I can trust. And I do, my sweet.” He held her close, his lips against her forehead. “I never expected to fall in love, but I have. Keep yourself safe.”

  Love? That was news to her. He had talked of convenience, and of expediency, but not love.

  He thought witches lived in the club? Were they living in the Dark Ages to think that?

  He drew back and gazed down at her face. He did not look lover like to her, but alert and hard, his eyes glittering. “I would like you to draw up a detailed plan of the club for me. I want to know where everything is situated.”

  “Why?”

  “For my agents. If we do arrest the rats, we do not want them escaping, do we?”

  “So you’ll arrest them and give them a proper trial?” Although the law was not infallible, it was better than summary judgment.

  He smiled, his expression soft and understanding. “Of course, dearest. Soon I will be able to take you away from all danger. We will live well, I promise. Wait just a few more days.”

  After pressing a kiss to her forehead, he made her swear to go straight to bed, and left.

  Despite her exhaustion, Joanna stayed awake far longer than she wanted to, staring at the soot-stained, cracked ceiling. With so many questions she worried like a dog over a bone, choosing first one side, then the other. She could not allow her personal emotions to rule her decision.

  Patrick offered marriage. But was he sincere, or would he use her and her father before abandoning them? Her father accepted him completely, and her father was no fool.

  But that piercing pain worried her. She needed to discuss that with somebody.

  And the other events today? The one that had sent her into such a fierce fever that she’d feared for her life? Amidei said that made her into a different person, that she would be disease resistant and long lived. But she had no proof. Only his word.

  Even though the second assumption was far more outlandish than the first, that was the one she tended to believe. He had not wanted the change, and had taken care of her. He’d only made love to her when she’d made it evident that she wanted it, and that she was once more back in her right mind. His behaviour persuaded her as much as the events.

  But could Patrick be right? Could the inmates of the Pantheon Club truly be witches and traitors?

  Chapter Eleven

  When the carriage came for her the next day, Joanna hesitated only slightly before stepping into it. On the way to the club, she leaned back against the squabs, thinking furiously and coming to no conclusion.

  Her morning went as it always did, with the welcome addition of an early repast before she set to work. When she mentioned to the cook that she was not a live-in servant, Mrs. Crantock said briskly, “There’s plenty and we don’t want you fainting clean away before you’ve served breakfast upstairs, do we?”

  Of such small kindnesses were Joanna’s decisions made. The carriage, the meal, all spoke to their generosity. As far as most of the inmates here knew she was a mere housemaid. They had nothing to gain by feeding her. Amidei could have used her, and left her to walk. He could have controlled her mind, if what he told her was true, and forced her to forget what she had seen and experienced.

  He had not. He had cared for her with great solicitude. He had explained everything to her, or what he thought she could absorb and promised to tell her the rest when she was ready.

  The only factor that remained was her instinct. She had to choose sides, and she needed to do it soon.

  Fortunately, she had a morning of laying fires, cleaning rooms, and serving breakfast in the ladies’ dining room before she saw either Lightfoot or Amidei. All mindless activities that gave her the time to think over the startling events of the last day. By that time the beautiful house and her routine had helped to settle her mind, and instill a sense of tranquility over the turmoil beneath.

  She was in a bedroom on the same floor as Amidei’s rooms, happily anticipating going to his chambers later that day when a pair of strong male arms circled her waist, drawing her against his powerfully aroused body.

  “Goodness!”

  “Or maybe not.” Gently, he turned her and kissed her, a sweet, closed-mouth kiss, although she was already prepared for more.

  “You should not be in a lady’s bedroom!” she protested faintly.

  “She left this morning,” he said. “She should not have been on this floor, but we made an allowance for her, since the other rooms are full. Do you like it?”

  She glanced at the cream and pale green upholstery, the soft, delicately patterned carpet on the floor, and the big, airy draped bed. “Of course. It’s lovely.”

  “You make it beautiful.”

  Laughing, she touched her cap. “How can I? I am dressed for work.”

  He pulled off her glasses and pocketed them. “There. Now you are beautiful.”

  They were her last pair. “That is just foolish. It appears men flock to me like pigeons to a kitchen door all of a sudden. I have no idea what I have done to deserve it.” How could she fear this man? Of all the things Patrick had told her, that was the least believable.

  His brow creased into a frown. “What other men?”

  “Ah.” She had not meant to tell him so abruptly. “I have a suitor.”

  “This is very sudden.”

  “Not so much. Yes, that part might be, but he has been my father’s patron for some time. It is how we could afford the house and to keep the press. A journal is hard to keep up when there are so many competitors. London is full of presses and people with stories, and we have not made our name as some others have. Even fame has not kept some from bankruptcy.” She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s a way of life.”

  “The suitor?” he prompted. While he did not release her, he loosened his hold and leaned back, staring down at her.

  “My father’s patron? Patrick Gough is his name. He’s respectable and—” she bit her lip, “—he has offered me marriage.”

  His expression turned dark. “Why have I not heard of this man before?”

  “I mentioned our patron. You didn’t ask any more. So much has happened…” Her voice trailed off when she felt his anger. Not hot and passionate, but cold. It chilled her, seeping into her bones and freezing her from the inside out.

  Sunlight poured through the window behind her, the muslin drapes that ensured privacy filtering the light, but not the hardness of his features. “Tell me about him now.”

  “He proposed earlier this week, but I thought it a ruse,” she said hastily. “Then last night—he made matters clearer. He has asked my father
and he considers the marriage a done deed.”

  Releasing her abruptly, Amidei turned around, the skirts of his deep red coat whirling, nearly knocking a porcelain shepherdess off a nearby table. She hurried to catch the poor creature and restore it to its upright position. His face was white and his hands shaking. He turned to face her at the door.

  “Then I will keep this brief, since you are a betrothed woman.” He seared her with contempt. “I wonder why you would give yourself to me when you knew a man waited for you. That is not fair on either him or me. If you were hoping to play us off against each other, then you are fated to be disappointed. I will not fight another man for a claim on you, and I will not be hurried into proposing what I have avoided for years. When you come to my apartment later, expect to meet Lightfoot, who will give you your next lesson. He knows as much as I do about the world you inadvertently entered by your meddling. That cannot be reversed. Expect no more from me, madam—I will not be played.”

  Clenching one fist, he strode to the door, opened it, and went out, leaving Joanna open mouthed with shock, tears starting in her eyes.

  *

  Alarm and shock struck Amidei with the power of Jupiter’s thunderbolt. How dare she? He had known women in the past, accredited flirts, and watched the way they played off one man against another, eventually claiming the one with the best prospects, be he twice as old as his rival and twice as ugly. Also, twice as rich.

  He refused to play those games, but to find Joanna doing it sent grief and fury surging through him. If he had not left the room he might have completely lost his head.

  Slamming into his bedroom, he halted and glared at the painting of Adora on the wall.

  Fury, disappointment, and disillusionment warred within him for control. Adora was dead. She couldn’t help him. She never could. He strode to the window and glared at the red brick palace opposite. He could strike it down with a few well-judged bolts. Although Jupiter controlled them best, he didn’t own every damned bolt in the world. Or he could strike them down with an attack of some deadly, unknown disease. Unknown because he had just invented it.

  She was a woman, a damned female, and she’d tied him into knots with her lying, cheating behaviour.

  Amidei picked up a china figurine, part of a monkey band that had amused him. It amused him more when he hurled it to the floor. The other members of the orchestra followed, nothing but shattered pieces on the carpet. Then he found the decanters. The tumblers and glasses made a pretty pattern on the wall. Shards caught him on his face and neck, but he made no attempt to shield himself from the vicious slices they cut into his skin. Blood? They could have it. Such was his passion that he did not bother to hide the true colour of his blood. It poured from his face and hands, crystal bright, refracting all the colours of the rainbow, glittering on his skin and dripping to the floor.

  He’d destroyed the clock, the ornaments on the mantelpiece, and he was just eyeing the furniture, wondering which of the delicate, French pieces he should start with when the door opened to admit Lord Wickhampton. In stark contrast to Amidei’s surroundings, the man was pin neat, his bottle green coat crisply pressed, his white embroidered waistcoat pristine, his wig a vision of snowy perfection. Amidei would soon see about that.

  The peer held up a staying hand. “She’s gone.”

  “Out!”

  Wickhampton bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. “No. Kill me if you want, but it’s time you stopped your battle. Or destroyed the club completely. Never do anything by halves, dear boy.”

  Amidei paused, his hand on the back of a spindle-legged chair, ready to smash it into little pieces and savour the splinters driving into his skin. “She’s gone?”

  “It’s just as well. Lightfoot sent her home. She won’t be back.”

  “What do you mean, it’s just as well?” He advanced, fists clenched. If Wickhampton insisted on staying here, he might as well perform a decent service, like letting Amidei pound him into the ground.

  Wickhampton bent his arms in preparation to fight or defend, but his hands remained relaxed. “Have you seen yourself?”

  Ah, the mirror. That would shatter well. Amidei turned to the pier-glass set above the side table where the as-yet-untouched decanters stood. He had plans for that brandy. Then the decanters could go the way of the matching glasses.

  His hair hung around his face in silver tails, and crystal clear blood, or rather, ichor, glittered and shone every time he moved his head. He lifted his hands. They were in a worse state, the flesh shredded, but even as he looked, the cuts started to knit together, healing under his eyes. If he carried on, could he bleed to death before he healed? That would be an interesting experiment.

  At the back of his mind, reason returned in the form of Mercury, the god of physicians. If he cut himself and kept cutting, shallow cuts, nothing deep because that would be cheating, he could probably do it. He’d make a mess anyone this side of hell had rarely seen.

  His eyes were pure silver, gleaming, as if molten metal had replaced the irises. Very little of the mortal remained.

  As he watched, the clear ichor became blood, the colour seeping in, and staining his clothes, marking his face. Now he looked mortal and it was a tragic sight, a person defiled rather than a god in fury. His anger ebbed away, which was a pity, because he’d only just started on his path of destruction.

  Both were him. Amidei, Mercury, they were the same.

  He crunched across the floor and examined the cuts and marks dispassionately. They healed as he touched them. He turned around, himself once more, much to his regret. “She said she was betrothed. All along she was betrothed to someone else.”

  Wickhampton folded his arms, stood, and faced him where many, even other immortals, would have run shrieking in terror. “A year ago I was bedding damsels in the ruins of Rome. I should go back. This country doesn’t suit me at all.”

  Amidei’s mood still simmered, but the destruction had done something. It had restored his reason. “Joanna is not the only woman in the world. Tell a maid to come up here. A pox on that, tell three. They’ll be well paid.” It was time he resumed his normal life. So what if one woman had betrayed him? Others had done it before. He could work his mood off another way. His edict on maids? Dead, the way the rest of him felt.

  Wickhampton unfolded his arms, pulled a paper from his pocket, and gave it to Amidei. “Here. Read this and then you can finish off the rest of the room.” He nodded at the as-yet-untouched portrait of Adora. “Do you want me to take that out before you start?”

  Amidei glanced at her face. “No.” He should have rid himself of his last memory of her a long time ago. Keeping memories around could drive an immortal mad. He returned his attention to the paper. The Argus. Of course it had to be the Argus.

  Evil doings in the heart of London

  The P— Club, well known as a scandalous haunt of the rich and the influential, is not a place we would advise anyone with any loyalty to this great country to set foot. Investigations by Peter Pepper have shown it to be a meeting place for the worst in society. Into its elegant and graceful reception rooms walk a number of people, all of whom come straight to the club from abroad. Not only do they admit women to disport themselves with the men in these halls, they laugh and gamble away the country’s riches.

  They carry secrets as well as abundant gold to pay the worst kind of person. They seek traitors, so all you treasonous wretches, you may go there to sell your country’s secrets.

  They thumb their noses at the great Palace built by Good King Harry to support and succour the realm. They will stop at nothing until this great land is trodden under their French—and Italian—feet.

  Before we know it we will be a Catholic race once more, ruled by people who care nothing for good roast beef.

  More to come.

  Amidei’s soul died. Who had invented this farrago of nonsense? But, on scanning it again, he read only innuendo, no definite facts. It was like fighting a chimera that kept changing
its form, impossible to grasp and kill.

  “This is her paper,” he said dully. “All the time she was here, she was collecting information. She told me she was gathering scandal for a gossip-sheet, but this was her true aim.” Numbness invaded him, far worse than the passion of a few minutes ago. If she’d wanted to destroy him completely, she had achieved it. He tried to pass it off. “It’s only stupid chatter.”

  “It will be all around London by nightfall. I bought this from a boy outside the club. He said the new owner of the Argus had employed fifty boys just to distribute this journal.”

  Amidei’s head went up. “The last I heard they were destitute. They couldn’t even afford to pay informers, which was why Joanna ended up working here.”

  “So the new proprietor has money.” Apollo touched his chin thoughtfully. “Interesting. And the name of the journal?” Apollo glanced at it, then paused. “The hundred-eyed monster. One of our predecessors’ natural enemies, I believe. Should we take that as a sign?” He’d already considered that and dismissed it as fanciful. Perhaps it was not so fanciful after all.

  Amidei nodded. “Oh yes, I think so. Considering that article, most definitely. That is hearsay, but it indicates that we have more. Perhaps we should have detained the sweet maid after all.” Amidei wanted to do that, but not to question her. Even though the thought of the way she had used him filled him with fury, certain aspects of their time together struck him as odd. Decidedly odd. He’d read her, skimmed her mind. Considering she had only just turned immortal, her skills in that area would be decidedly limited. She certainly would not have been able to lie to him. When she’d told him her story he’d lingered in her mind because doing so had pleased him. He’d found no false notes.

  The suspicion entered his mind. Had she been fooled too? Was someone using her?

  The response came immediately. “She was not as sweet as you might think. She was betrothed, and yet she came to my bed.”

  Wickhampton raised his brows, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Did she, now? I daresay she could not resist your godly advances.”