Pride & Passion

by Charlotte Featherstone

  “Now, my dear, you go on and enjoy yourself, and I will see you later this afternoon.”

  “Papa, wait. Where were you when you received this?” She pointed to the letter in his hand.

  “Home, girl, where else?”

  “You were not home when I left this morning. In fact, you never came home last night.” And she should know, she hadn’t been to bed all night.

  “You…you aren’t questioning me, are you?” he thundered. “A grown man, which I am, Lucille, has no obligation to inform his daughter of anything, much less his whereabouts in the evenings.”

  He was angry. Lucy couldn’t understand why. “I only mean…well…” How could she say it. That she had received a summons to the duke’s home and that she was uneasy, for both of them.

  “Ah, Stonebrook. Lady Lucy, is all well?” Sussex appeared at the door.

  “Just fine, your grace.” Her father beamed. “Just fine. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m meeting some gents in a few moments.”

  “Yes, Fenshaw and…” The duke rubbed his eyes, trying to recall, when her father helped him out.

  “Lasseter. Nigel Lasseter.”

  “Is he new to town? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “He’s been about for a half a year or so. He’s a philanthropic. Was instrumental in financing Wendell Knighton’s expedition to Jerusalem.”

  “Really?”

  Lucy’s skin prickled with a chill, and she shivered at the mention of Isabella’s dead suitor—the one who Sussex claimed Thomas murdered in cold blood. Thomas’s name was creeping up too often for her comfort.

  “Seems that Lasseter and I have a common interest. The Templars. Fascinating band of men, aren’t they?”

  Sussex didn’t agree one way or another, but her father didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve recently begun a study with him, you know. A learned man. Quite brilliant, actually. Well, then, I must be off. I’m to pick up Fenshaw and we’ll meet Lasseter at the Ceylon Inn.”

  “The coffeehouse in Southwark?”

  “Aye.” With a nod, Stonebrook removed himself from their company and headed to the front door where the butler awaited him, top hat and greatcoat at the ready.

  “We need to talk,” Sussex whispered to her. “In my study. It cannot wait.”

  When she looked up, she saw how turbulent his eyes were, troubled, with ghosts flickering in them. She had seen many things in his eyes, but never this—never stark fear. It reminded her of… No. She was mistaken. It reminded her of nothing, and no one.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PLANS, ONCE LAID, should not be changed. That was the way of revenge, but as Orpheus stood at the window, listening to the sounds of the street below, he reconciled himself with the fact that his plans had changed. He silently admired the brilliance with which he’d keep his revenge thirsty and strong.

  He’d been a fool not to have noticed her before. He was slipping, becoming too anxious. She had seen him—too late—her gasp of surprise had shocked him, for he hadn’t heard her enter his chamber. He’d been amused at first, their reunion so delightful. She’d fought hard, the little bitch, just like the little rookery whores who frequented the alley behind the theater. She’d fought, but lost.

  It hadn’t been his plan to kill her, but in the end, he had to. He couldn’t allow her to tell the Brethren of her discovery. So, he had used her death to send a message to Sussex, to make him realize that someone out there knew of his connection with the whore.

  He knew it all—that sordid secret Sussex wanted kept buried forever.

  Make him sweat, he thought with laughter. The bastard deserved no less than that.

  His revenge, when it came, would be so sweet. It mattered not that he had to change the events of his plan; the letters had served their purpose. It would bring the redhead to Sussex—and leave him to eye the real piece of the prize.

  “How you gloat over there, my dear,” his companion murmured. “I love to watch the supreme satisfaction cross your face.”

  His lover was no shrinking violet, he thought. They had been in bed together when the blonde whore had walked in. She had watched him murder the woman with his bare hands. She had laughed, and they had fucked after. No, his lover was every bit as evil as him. They made a good team.

  “What is next?” she asked as she patted the empty spot in bed beside her.

  He smiled. “You just keep performing your duties as I say and all will fall into place. You’ll see, the Brethren will come into formation, and then we will watch them fall.”

  “START AT THE BEGINNING. Tell me how this letter arrived.”

  Lucy lowered herself into the comfortable leather wingback across from Sussex’s desk. When she sat, the duke followed, all the time rubbing his temple.

  “Does your head ache?”

  “Like a packet of demons dancing merrily in my head, if you must know the truth.”

  “Have you tried sulphur tonic? I hear it works miracles.”

  “It does. But I have yet had an opportunity to use it—you see, it’s rather difficult when one’s Brethren show up unannounced, and then a young lady you’ve only just ravished the night before comes storming at you, and finally, a dead body arrives on your doorstep. Well, you can understand why I’ve had little opportunity to take care of my head.”

  “Do you suffer from headaches quite a bit?” Rising, she strolled to the bell pull and rang for a servant. Sulphur tonic was a fairly new remedy for headaches. She had been rather surprised that he not only knew of it, but had by all accounts tried it.

  “Often enough, I suppose.”

  Lucy watched him as she rubbed her arms. His eyes were hollow, giving his appearance a startling image she couldn’t countenance. “Where are the others?”

  “Gone out the back of the house. They’ve taken Ana to her final resting place, and then they will proceed to her house.”

  “It’s been a rather strange morning, hasn’t it?” she whispered, fatigue straining her voice. “Even when I thought her your mistress, I did not wish such harm on her.”

  His head cocked to the side, his eyes lit with interest, forcing her to look away and curse her wagging tongue.

  “You rang, your grace?” said his butler as he quietly opened the door.

  “Yes, a sulphur tonic for his grace, if you please,” Lucy ordered as she sat down once more and arranged her skirts. He was awfully pale again.

  “Are you feeling all right?” he inquired, his gaze narrowed.

  “I am feeling rather fit, in fact. At first when I arrived I was livid with you, and then when my father presented himself with a letter informing him that he would find me here with…” Heat crept up her cheeks. “Well, you know, you were present when my father told you.”

  “You thought it was me who wrote those letters.”

  Flushing she gazed down at her folded hands. The intense anger—and hurt—she had felt had melted away, leaving her quite uncertain exactly how she felt. The only thing she knew was she found it quite difficult to look him in the eye, and not recall what had transpired between them.

  “Lucy…” His pause made her glance up. He was watching her again with eyes that still showed fear. “I didn’t write the letter. I didn’t write anything about you coming to me, or I would expose to your father what we did last night. I don’t believe in blackmail, and I would never do to that to you—especially after last night.”

  Fortunately the tonic arrived then, saving her from having to reply. When he drank it down and grimaced, she quickly handed him the accompanying glass of water which he swallowed in one long gulp.

  “Good God, that is a vile concoction.”

  “But rather effective, I think. Or so I’ve heard.”

  Rising, he walked around the desk, and turned the empty wingback chair to face hers. Then he sat, and carefully reached for her hand.

  “About last night—”

  “I would prefer we didn’t discuss it right now.”

  “Lucy.” He
sighed, but she held up her hand, stopping him.

  “I know the conversation must come—and soon—but today…today I’m reeling with thoughts and emotions, and I do not trust myself to speak openly about the matter. Do you understand?”

  There was reluctance in his eyes, but he nodded his agreement. “There are other matters between us that must be discussed, perhaps ones that should be addressed first. Last night you had a coin from the House of Orpheus and a letter from…him.”

  “Thomas,” she provided.

  “There is a connection, Lucy. Anastasia…when she came to me…spoke of a man who seduced her. He provided her with the same coin, and the message that she was to come to him. Lucy, you are a clever woman, you must know what this is adding up to. I swear, I vow on my life—on my sister’s life—that I saw the man who carried your handkerchief shoot Wendell Knighton.”

  She wanted to shout that he was wrong, that it was all just a coincidence. She was blind at times, but at this particular moment, she could not afford to indulge in foolish pride. “It would seem that yes, there are many things linking this Orpheus to Thomas—and to us.”

  Something like relief, and perhaps pride, shone in his eyes. “This is the letter that you pulled from Ana’s hand.”

  She took it from him and read it, barely noticing when the paper fluttered to the floor. “My God.” Her hands were trembling and she could barely breathe, her velvet bodice suddenly feeling much too tight.

  “Lucy, look at me.” He clutched and squeezed her hand until she did. “Promise me you will not attempt to see him, or go anywhere without an escort. I’m sending over one of my footmen. He’ll protect you, and you are to take him everywhere, do you understand?”

  In shock, she could only nod. “Who is this man?” she murmured. It couldn’t be Thomas. It just couldn’t be. She had not been that blind, that needful that she would have given herself to a murderer!

  “You’re tired, and chilled to the bone, I think,” he said as his head lowered and reverently brushed his lips over her fingertips. “You need rest.”

  “I…I might have died,” she said. “I can’t believe it. It all seems so strange, as though we are ensnared in a spider’s web,” she whispered. “Our lives, they’ve become tangled somehow.”

  “I know, love,” he said in a comforting voice. “And we can’t let him pull us apart. We are tangled. Orpheus has found a way to do so. Perhaps in bringing us together, he sought to weaken us, and the Brethren Guardians. I do not know. I only know that you cannot be wandering about the streets alone. You must send word to me, or at the very least Elizabeth, about your plans.”

  “What will you do next?” she asked. “What is to be done?”

  “Black and Alynwick will search Ana’s house, removing anything that might link her, and her disappearance, to me or to my father. In the meantime Sutherland, Alynwick’s valet, will track down the messengers who sent the missives, and follow the trail that led Ana here.”

  “And you?”

  He looked pensive, and his gaze slipped to her neck where she had held his palm to her throat earlier. The mark was gone, but she knew he was seeing it as though it were still fresh. “I have something to do, and a few leads to follow up on. Lucy,” he whispered, “promise me you’ll not see him or go to the Adelphi Theatre. Please.”

  “I promise.”

  “Soon we must talk,” he said again, and this time he cupped her neck in his palm and brought her closer till he could kiss her forehead, the corner of her eye. “We must because, Lucy, I cannot stop thinking of last night. Of how right it was between us. It’s never been that way for me—never. And I…I can’t go on like this. We are not enemies. There is something between us, and I hope you’ll soon see that.”

  She did, and it scared her senseless.

  “I’ll see you out. Lady Black will travel with you, and I’ll send the footman with you, as well.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll see you tonight, shall I?”

  She didn’t know what to say or think. Should she see him? She didn’t know, didn’t like being indecisive. She may have made some poor choices, but at least she had come to a decision—one arrived at by herself.

  “I’ll come around, then, and we can talk. How is your head?” she asked, trying to change the topic. But he smiled, and she blinked at the remarkable change in him.

  “Not worth a farthing, but I’ll wager one kiss from you would make it all better.”

  “I think you are moving too fast, your grace,” she said with a shaking voice. “Time is what we need.”

  He looked disappointed, but reluctantly he agreed, and allowed her to pull away. “Till tonight, pixie.”

  LUCY HAD ALWAYS BEEN very careful about making promises she knew she could not keep—and really this wasn’t technically breaking a promise. It was…bending it, perhaps. She wasn’t seeing Thomas, and wasn’t going into the Adelphi. The little rooming house across the alley from the Adelphi certainly did not count.

  Bending, she told herself, and for a very good cause. She needed guidance, that was all.

  “My lady, my instructions were very clear. I am to take you and Lady Black directly to Grosvenor Square.”

  “Which you did,” she replied as the carriage turned the corner and made slow progress through the narrow alley separating the row house from the theater.

  “I saw Lady Black ’ome, but not you.”

  “You will, Charles,” she said, trying to placate the young man. Sussex surely had chosen the burliest of his footman to protect her. “I just need to stop here for a moment, and then we shall be on our way.”

  “His grace said I was to mind that I didn’t fall for yer enchanting ways, miss,” he said, blushing to the tips of his red hair. “He says ye have a mysterious way of making men’s thoughts turn to mush when you smile.”

  “Did he? How delightful of him.” Lucy felt an absurd sense of elation at that.

  “I haven’t been in his grace’s employ long, ma’am, and I have three brothers and a mother to see to.”

  “You shan’t be sacked, Charles. I vow it. Now, if you would only stop worrying, I could be about my business quickly, and be back in time to the house for luncheon. I’m quite certain you are famished. It is rather late for luncheon, is it not?”

  “I am hungry, miss.”

  “Well, I will rectify that immediately when we arrive home.”

  The carriage came to a halt before the tattered door with its peeling red paint. She made to open the door, but a large white gloved hand came down hard upon her wrist.

  “Begging your pardon, miss,” Charles mumbled, withdrawing his hand. “I ain’t to put my hands on ye, forgive me.”

  “No harm done, Charles.”

  “I’ll see you up to wherever it is yer going.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Then you ain’t going up.”

  He had a mulish, determined expression, which she supposed had encouraged Sussex to hire him as her personal bodyguard. It rather resembled Sussex’s determined glares.

  “Oh, very well, but I shan’t need you to stay. You can wait in the carriage.”

  “I’ll wait outside the door.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. My dealings are private.”

  “I won’t tell his grace of your dealings,” he said, and she could tell that the footman thought she was indulging in an assignation.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m only having my fortune told.”

  His expression lightened. “I see. Still though, miss, I’ll stay anyway. You never know, you might get told a fortune you don’t like, and I might be useful to persuade the mystic to give you a better one.”

  Lucy couldn’t help but laugh. “Come along then.”

  They climbed the stairs up to the door. With a knock the door opened to reveal Mrs. Fraser seated at her kitchen table with a pile of cards set out before her. Across the table was a teacup painted with white roses; steamy tendrils laced
their way into the air from the deep cup.

  “Hello, lass,” Mrs. Fraser said as she began to place the cards at the empty place at the table. “I ’ad a notion ye would come today. Tea is ’ot and ready. Come an’ ’ave a seat, and we’ll get started.”

  FROM THE DARKENED CORNER of the coffeehouse, Sussex peered over his news sheet and turned the page. Stonebrook was in his sight; so, too, was Lord Fenshaw, a little sparrow of a man with yellowing hair and spectacles, and a third man whose image was burned in his memory banks. He had been there the opening evening of Knighton’s museum exhibit. He recalled the fellow because he had been so odd. It had been late evening, the autumn sun gone, replaced with the moon. The gaslights had been lit, but were not overly bright. Nigel Lasseter had sat like a commanding pasha behind a long table wearing an expensive black suit, his long black hair reaching the middle of his back, and a pair of sun spectacles. It was the spectacles he remembered the most.

  He was wearing them today, too, despite the fact the shades were drawn in the restaurant. He could not make out their conversation; it was too loud and busy in the shop for that. He hadn’t come to eavesdrop, anyway. He had come to prove, or disprove, Stonebrook’s claims he was meeting friends.

  There was something secretive about the marquis. Adrian did not have the sense that the man was up to no good, but there was no denying that he was often reticent to speak of his whereabouts, not to mention the fact that he, his lordship, had an uncanny ability to pop up whenever there was something untoward occurring.