Lord Libertine

Ah, but what could he do about her? Clearly, she had her own plan. Just as clearly, he was not a part of it. But that knowledge did not satisfy his lust for her or engender any soft romantic notions in him. He wanted her, and he fully intended to have her.

He felt his blood rising again and quickened his pace. He hadn’t intended to go to the witches’ Sabbath tonight, but now he felt the need to slake an indefinable thirst for excitement and fulfillment. Aye, he’d go to meet Henley and the others and they’d find sin of some sort.

Isabella closed the door of the rented town house on James Street and braced herself. As awful as the night had been, coming home to the guilt and pain was worse. She dropped her cloak where she stood, kicked her slippers off and tiptoed into the salon. A soft sigh from the sofa told her that Eugenia had waited up for her.

Her sister sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Bella?”

“Gina, I told you not to wait up. Go along to bed, dear. Mama will need you in the morning.” She went to the sideboard and poured herself a small glass of port to help her sleep.

“She’s had a bad night, Bella. She’ll sleep late. But she may want to see you tomorrow.”

Isabella gave her sister a sad smile. How dear of Gina to hold out that hope. In truth, their mother was the sort who needed to fix the blame for any disaster on anyone but herself. This time it was Bella’s turn to be the scapegoat.

And the awful truth was that Bella blamed herself, too. If only she’d paid more attention to Cora’s absences. A short walk in the park, indeed! Her sister had been meeting a murderer. If only she’d gone with Cora. If only she’d raised an alarm sooner when Cora had been late coming home.

“Mr. Franklin came by at suppertime,” Gina said. “He wants to know if we intend to honor the lease through September. I did not know what to tell him.”

A lump formed in Isabella’s throat and she sighed. “If I am gone next time he comes, tell him yes. We cannot leave London until Mama is well enough to travel, but that may not be for a while. Nevertheless, we shall pay, even if we leave the place vacant. Mama signed the contract, and we shall honor it.’ Tisn’t as if we are destitute.”

Gina nodded. “The sooner we leave, the better, say I. Not only has London killed Cora, but it is stealing you away, too.”

“Hush, sweet,” Bella soothed. “London is not stealing me away. I am simply seeking Cora’s murderer. He shan’t get away with it. I promised.”

“But, Bella, you have changed. You…you are drinking too much strong spirits, you are going out without a chaperone and staying out late. You will be ruined.”

She gave a choked laugh. Will be? If Eugenia found out about the kisses… “Cora is dead. Dead. The scandal will ruin us all—you, Lilly and me. I only hope we can leave London before the news filters to the ton, which it is sure to do when Lord and Lady Vandecamp arrive in London. They will withdraw their sponsorship in quick order. When Mama is well enough, we will return to Belfast, likely never to return.” She sighed. “So, do you really think I care what a bunch of London popinjays think of me? We are already ruined.”

“That isn’t fair. It wasn’t our fault. And, no matter what society will think, it was not Cora’s fault, either.”

“That will not matter.’ Tis always the girl who is blamed. What fast behavior! Why was she unescorted? What was she doing there? Somehow it will be twisted to be Cora’s fault. Now go on to bed, dear. I am home safe now, and I shall come up presently. I just want to look in on Mama and Lilly.”

Gina stood and gathered her robe around her. “Do not fall asleep on the sofa again. Cook will find you when she comes down to prepare breakfast. She’ll tell Nancy, and Nancy will tell Mama.”

Bella nodded absently. Nothing was secret from the servants. When Gina was gone, she returned to the bottle on the sideboard. A sip? Just a tiny dram? Enough to let her sleep without dreaming? Or was Nancy reporting her drinking habits, too? Measuring the level of liquid in the bottles?

What was wrong with her? She’d never even tasted anything stronger than watered wine before Cora died, and now she was using it liberally and undiluted. To forget the pain. To sleep without dreams. To wash away her self-loathing and the taste of too many kisses, too many strange men.

She went back to the sofa, leaving the decanter untouched. She just needed a moment to close her eyes and make plans for tomorrow, and to rest.

First, she’d rise early, with her sisters. With Mama unable to cope with even the slightest unpleasantness, Lilly and Gina needed guidance. She could not have them wandering off alone as Cora had done.

Cora. Tragic, beautiful Cora.

How she wished she could remember Cora beautiful now—with her honey-blond hair and blue eyes so like Lilly’s, and so unlike Gina and Bella in coloring and temperament. But she could only remember Cora as she’d last seen her in Middlesex Hospital—a grotesque parody of what she had been. And, dear Lord, how could she ever forget Cora’s sightless eyes entreating her beyond death? Be brave. Avenge me, Bella.

In the weeks following Cora’s death, she’d made daily visits to the Home Office and begged for information. But in the end, there had been no leads, and the case had been put aside. Lord Wycliffe had been too busy, she’d been told, and was working on “other things.” They’d sworn they had done all they could, but admitted that Cora’s killer might never be brought to justice.

But Bella couldn’t accept that. His kiss, Cora had said. Always…always wets his lips after his kiss. As if tasting…and he tastes of…something bitter. So, for the last week, she’d gone out in society, found men who matched Cora’s description and urged a kiss—the only avenue the authorities had not pursued. The only one left to her.

That man tonight—Mr. Hunter—had turned away after their kiss. Had that quirk simply been a reaction to her catching him by surprise? But she couldn’t recall if he tasted bitter.

The mere thought propelled her to her feet and sent her back to the sideboard. No small dram would do, but a full half-glass. She drank it standing there, and did not move until the little trails of fire tingled all the way to her toes.

Which dream did she most dread? Those of Cora, or a new one of that one impossible kiss?

Chapter Two

Garish sunbeams pierced the heavy draperies around Andrew’s bed. It must be afternoon. He winced, his head throbbing in concert with his heartbeat. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth and he could not rid himself of the foul taste. What had he partaken of last night? Sulfur?

Ah, yes. The witches’ Sabbath, sans witches. A chalice containing wine laced with brimstone had been passed from hand to hand as the robed and hooded group stood around the altar where Lady Elwood had lain naked in voluntary submission. She’d giggled when Throckmorton poured wine in her navel and proceeded to lap it away. Rather than finding the scene arousing, Andrew had only wondered where Lord Elwood was.

He sat up and rubbed the grit from his eyes, trying to remember the rest of last night. Henley, Throckmorton and Booth had abandoned themselves to the sexual excess of the orgy following the Sabbath, and Andrew had left them in favor of prowling the taverns, looking for carousing friends. He hadn’t wanted to go home after all. His encounter with Lady Lace had left him restless and unsettled. He was not ready for sleep, and neither his valet nor his cook were particularly good company in the wee hours.

He snapped the bed curtains back and stumbled to his washstand. The cold water he splashed on his face brought him fully awake. This business of being a libertine was rather more taxing than he’d first imagined, but he’d thrown himself into it with enthusiasm.

As the second son of an earl, he was not heir to the title, had few familial responsibilities and had enough wealth to render him independent. After Oxford, when he’d still been trying to find his way, he’d bought a commission in the Light Dragoons, been sent to Spain to rout Boney, been decorated for bravery and then been spit out again on the shores of Britain.

By the time he’d returned to England, there was no corner of his soul left untouched, unsullied. He’d tried to drown his memories at first, then realized they’d always be a part of him. He should have changed, should have recognized his debauchery and stopped. Ah, but it was years and years too late to turn back now. There was no redemption for Andrew Hunter, Lord Libertine.

He dried his face, threw his towel down and dragged his fingers through his hair. He’d go to a barber today and then to his fencing master for exercise. And tonight, one more time, he’d go through the motions of polite society. At least the arrival of Lady Lace on the scene had broken the monotony. Yes, she’d be a fine, if temporary, distraction.

Bella slipped into the midst of a large group of revelers entering Marlborough House for a ball, wrapping her paisley shawl more closely around her. She edged closer as the men presented engraved invitations, knowing it would be assumed that she was included in the group, then followed them into the hallowed halls.

As unobtrusively as possible, she separated herself from the group and wandered away. She returned a hesitant wave from Mr. McPherson. He would not come talk to her tonight. He was in the midst of a group of women, and she knew full well that her behavior had put her beyond the pale of polite introductions.

She took her bearings, feeling a bit like a country mouse surrounded by such splendor. Marlborough House literally glittered with crystal and candlelight. The richness of the furnishings and decor took her breath away. Before she could turn around, she had a glass of champagne in her hand and was caught in a stream of guests entering the ballroom.

All the gaily colored gowns she and her sisters had ordered would remain in their boxes, and Bella, the most reserved of the sisters, was wending her way through the ton as a wanton. Not precisely the figure the O’Rourke girls had hoped to cut.

She put her melancholy aside and tried to look serene and approachable. If she looked helpless enough, some gentleman was bound to take pity on her. And once that was done, she could manage a few introductions.

She gazed quickly over the sea of people. So many dark-haired men! Before she could take another step forward, she was struck by the sudden, crushing realization that she’d never kiss them all. She had to find a better way to narrow the possibilities.

Bile rose in her throat and she whirled back toward the foyer, her instinct to flee nearly overwhelming her. She needed a moment alone to control her racing heart. She could not think what was behind these sudden bouts of panic, but she could not allow them to control her.

Finding her way blocked by the flow of arriving guests, she turned down a corridor, praying there would be a ladies’ retiring room or private sitting room where she could collect herself.

* * *

Arriving at Marlborough House, Andrew caught a glimpse of his quarry. Fortune had favored him quickly. Lady Lace. Again, she had dressed in black. A black silk sheath with a black lace overdress and a décolletage that dipped scandalously low. Stunning. He glanced toward the reception line and back down the corridor where she’d disappeared. He’d pay his respects to his host later. But first…

He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he was brought around by a hand on his shoulder. Lord Wycliffe, his former commanding officer and a close friend of his older brother, gave him a canny smile.

“You have the look of a man on the prowl, Hunter. Is some luckless lass in for a run?”

Andrew grinned. “How did I give myself away?”

“The eagerness in your step,” Wycliffe told him. “I hoped I would see you here tonight, though it would have been easy to miss you in the crush. I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you. No time like the present, eh?”

“Actually—”

Wycliffe shook his head and turned Andrew toward the library, where men were clustered in low conversation. “She will not get away from you, Hunter.” He went to a tea table where bottles of liquor were waiting, poured them both a small draught and handed one glass to Andrew.

He took the glass and narrowed his eyes. What had he done to put Wycliffe in a mood? “Make it quick, sir. I wouldn’t want to give her too much of a lead.”

Lord Wycliffe laughed. He edged toward the far side of the room, nearer the fireplace and away from the possibility of being overheard. “Now then, when your brother retired from the Home Office, it left a bit of a hole. And I thought—”

“I’m not Home Office material, Wycliffe. I might have helped Lockwood out once or twice, but if you think I can fill the hole he left, you are mistaken.”

“Come, now. Do you forget that I know just how well you work and how discreet you can be? Your service in Spain proved that. It is, in fact, because I know you so well that your name came to mind. After all, who better to catch a scoundrel than another scoundrel?”

Andrew grinned in spite of the veiled insult. “Scoundrel, eh? How are you thinking I can help?”

“We have a case that is rather troubling. We are stymied at the moment and thought you might have an insight.”

“You mean, I gather, that you wonder if I know anything.”

“It is not a stretch, Hunter, to think that you might have knowledge of a crime. Not that you committed it, mind you, but that you might have heard or seen something. This particular case is the sort of thing that is in keeping with your…er, wide range of interests.”

A polite way of saying that he had a reputation for wallowing in the dregs of London society? A fair enough assessment, he supposed. He took a long drink from his glass before answering. “Which particular interest are you speaking of, Wycliffe?”

The man glanced over his shoulder, ostensibly to make certain they were not being overheard. “The religious underworld, so to speak.”

Andrew blinked. What interest could the Home Office have in religion—underworld or otherwise? His doubt must have shown, because Wycliffe leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“Black Sabbaths, witches’ Sabbaths, covens, satanic rituals. That sort of thing.”

“They are absolute hogwash. Frivolity. Grown men looking for an excuse to behave like naughty lads.”

“Grown men who have gone too far.” Wycliffe cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps men in your stratum, Hunter. Men with a nasty streak.”

He recalled last night. Lapping wine from Lady Elwood’s navel could be considered by some to be naughty, even nasty, but why would the Home Office care about that? “Gone how far?”

“You may as well be warned, Drew. Rape. Ritual sacrifice. That sort of thing.”

Andrew grimaced. Nasty, indeed.

Wycliffe reached into his jacket and brought forth a small scrap of paper. He unfolded it and passed it to Andrew. “Have you ever seen this before, Hunter?”

Crudely drawn, the figure appeared to be an inverted triangle. On the paper below that was sketched a crude dragon—a wyvern, if he recalled his mythology correctly. “You associate these patterns with dark religions?” he asked.

“We haven’t a single notion what they suggest. This is new to us, and completely unprecedented.”

“Where did you find it? And why is the Home Office involved?”

“The triangle was carved into a young woman’s forehead some weeks ago. The flesh had been removed and we did not find it. The dragon had been painted in blood on her lower belly. Her blood. She’d been raped, beaten and left for dead.”

“Human sacrifice, then?” A freezing cold invaded him clear to the bone. Wycliffe was right. This had gone too far. He’d seen savagery like this in the war, but never in London. Civilized London.

“There were other, ah, indications that she’d been used as a ritual sacrifice. We found puncture wounds on her wrists, as if her blood had been drained into some sort of vessel. Yet the girl survived for several hours afterward and expired of her wounds at hospital.”

“Who was the girl? Is there anything in her background that would give you a lead?”

Wycliffe shook his head. “Fresh into town for the season and had never been here before. Good family. And the evidence would indicate that she’d been virgin before the ritual. According to her family, she had no acquaintances.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Keep your eyes and ears open. Say nothing, not even to your friends. We cannot have the public in a panic over ritualistic murders. You see, this was not the first body we’ve found with such markings.”

Andrew refrained from asking just how many bodies they’d found. All that mattered now was that, if the killer was not stopped, there would be more. “What do you want me to do?”

“Keep your nose to the ground, Hunter. Eventually you will catch wind of the stench.” Wycliffe paused and met Andrew’s gaze. “Do not take it upon yourself to handle this on your own. If you hear anything, see anything, bring it to me.”

He nodded, thinking of a few of his acquaintances who were capable of such monstrous acts. There were some who, quite literally, knew no boundaries. But this went beyond anything Andrew had ever done, and he could not say that about much.

Wycliffe stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew you would not turn me down, Hunter. And I know I can trust your discretion.”

The outcome had never been in doubt. He would always agree to anything Wycliffe asked of him. His guilt over the events in Spain would see to that. He nodded and put his glass down.

At least this would give him another interest this season. Another break from the tedium. Meantime, Lace was waiting.

* * *

Bella found herself in a small sitting room and spun to close the door behind her. Alas, Mr. McPherson had followed her. He must have thought she was summoning him by their shared glance in the ballroom. She would correct that notion at once.

She put one hand up, palm outward. “Heavens, Mr. McPherson! You should not be here.”

He advanced on her, despite her words. “I have not thought of anything but you since last night. You have enchanted me, and—”

“You have misunderstood me, sir.”

“Canny little minx! I want more, and I’m willing to pay for it. Willing, in fact, to set you up in your own place. Name it, and ’tis yours.”

He stepped closer. She stepped back, her hand still in front of her. “I have heard it said, sir, that one will know their true love by his kiss. I am simply trying to find…the right man. I regret, Mr. McPherson, you are not the right man.”

“Come now. Give me another chance. Was I not commanding enough?”

“Sir, that is not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“That I did not feel that you were, ah, the man I am looking for.”

“Balderdash! That’s a bunch of feminine nonsense!” McPherson closed the distance between them and jerked her against his chest.

“Stop!” she squeaked as one of her hands became caught between them.

On the contrary, Mr. McPherson crushed his mouth against hers in a bruising kiss. He used one arm to hold her so close against him that she could not gain leverage for her trapped hand to wedge him away. His other hand cupped the back of her head, preventing her from turning away from his mouth.

She tried to protest, but all that came out was a muffled, “Mmm-ph…”

She wasn’t aware of the door opening until she heard the clearing of a throat. She staggered backward and caught her hip on the corner of a chair when Mr. McPherson released her.

“I say, Hunter, rather bad timing of you.”

With a sinking feeling, she turned toward the door. Yes, her rescuer was the man from last night. The one who’d stolen her wits and whose kiss had been open to doubt. He was studying them both, a glass of something amber in his hand, his dark eyes judging and assessing.

“McPherson,” he acknowledged. “Should I excuse myself?”

Heavens! She could not decide if it would be safer to remain with Mr. McPherson or make her escape with Mr. Hunter. She glanced away and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She thought she tasted blood from the way Mr. McPherson’s teeth had mashed against her closed lips.

“Yes, damn it,” Mr. McPherson said. “And close the door on your way out.”

She turned back and saw that Mr. Hunter had his hand on the doorknob. He met her gaze and stopped. With a lazy smile, he dropped his hand to his side and shook his head. “Actually, McPherson, I like the quiet here. Why don’t we all sit down and have a chat?”

Mr. McPherson’s face suffused with color. He seized her wrist and pulled her toward the door.

“Leave the lady here, McPherson.”

She held her breath while the two men faced each other down. In the end, Mr. McPherson made the decision she would have. He left, slamming the door behind him.

“You are welcome,” Mr. Hunter said, the hint of a smile in his voice.

Was he pleased to see her discomfort? She chafed her wrist and refused to look at him. “Thank you,” she grumbled. “I do not know what got into him.”

“Truly?” His laugh was a low, warm rumble. “I have a few ideas, madam. Allow me to indulge them. Perhaps he did not appreciate the promise you made with your lips that you later recanted. Or perhaps you have so enchanted him that he could not help himself. Or—and this is just conjecture, you understand—perhaps he did not realize you were just making sport of him.”

“I did not intend…that is, I did not know he would follow me tonight. I did not mean to encourage him in the least.”

“For many men, once is enough.”

She rubbed her hip to still her trembling hands. “Is that why you are here, sir? To renew your offer? Will you, too, devil my every step?”

His glance dropped to her hands, then moved back up to her eyes. A flicker of emotion passed over his features, but she could not tell what he was thinking.

He came forward and pressed his glass into her hand. “Drink,” he said. “It will calm your nerves.”

He stepped away from her, as if he were uncomfortable being close. “As for me, I may devil your footsteps, but set your mind at ease—I will never force myself upon you. I have already said, have I not, that I will wait for your answer?”

She frowned. What an odd blend of concern and anger he possessed, that he could both assist and insult her in the same moment. And she did not care for the touch of antagonism in his voice. “You confuse me, Mr. Hunter. One moment you are pursuing me most ardently, and the next you sound as if you do not even like me. You have taken great care to warn me against you. Is this sport? Are you trying to make your conquest of me more difficult, so the winning will be sweeter?” She lifted his glass, took a swallow and winced as the whiskey stung a little cut on the inside of her lip.

“I think you drink that whiskey a wee bit too eagerly for a lady. Do you have a drinking problem, madam?”

“Not yet, Mr. Hunter, but I am working on it.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I daresay you will get there. You appear to be deucedly determined. But I should warn you that a drunken woman loses her attraction.”

She looked up and studied the handsome face. No. Whatever concern he might have had for her was gone. Now there was just a challenge. “What would I have to do to make you go away, sir?”

“Come clean. Tell me what you are about. Or say, ‘Yes, Mr. Hunter, I will be delighted to take you to my bed.’”

Bella was discomfited to learn that she could still blush—if the heat in her cheeks was any indication. She covered it with an extra measure of defiance. “Then would you go away? Truly?”

But he only shrugged—not that she would have told him the truth anyway. “Money, then?” she asked. “If I paid you, would you go away?”