Raven (Gentlemen of the Order Book 2)

by Adele Clee

  “You’ll give me as long as I damn well need.” Finlay turned on his heel and offered Sophia his arm. “Shall we take our seats for the performance?”

  “Certainly.” In Finlay’s company, she didn’t feel the need to tread carefully, to tiptoe around Fitzroy Adair. Finlay would ensure the coxcomb never uttered a word about Jessica’s plight.

  They strode past the three buffoons and entered the plush box belonging to Viscount Morley. The cut-glass chandeliers and sumptuous claret furnishings gave the theatre a certain opulence. A buzz of excitement thrummed in the air, but it was nothing to the feverish anticipation flowing through her veins.

  Of course, it wasn’t the play that stirred her senses. In the intimate confines of the box, the need to feel Finlay’s hot mouth devouring hers left her a little breathless.

  “Does Viscount Morley still insist on showering you with gifts?” she said, hoping the conversation would calm her rapid pulse. The viscount used every opportunity to show his gratitude.

  Finlay smiled and waited for her to sit before dropping into a chair. “I have the full use of his stables, his theatre box, invitations to stay at his shooting lodge.”

  “How generous. But Charles would have died had you not dug the lead ball out of his shoulder, had you not tended the wound and nursed him through the fever.”

  “Perhaps.” Finlay stared beyond the balcony at the burgundy stage curtains embroidered with symbols of the zodiac. “Do you believe life must have balance?”

  Ignorant to his train of thought, she said, “In what respect?”

  “I could have escaped, left Charles to die. In saving a man’s life, I ruined my own.”

  Oh, she had considered the point many times over the years.

  “Your conscience would have been the death of you had you acted so selfishly.” His noble actions made her admire him all the more. “And you haven’t ruined your life, Finlay. Your work for the Order is to be commended. You fought for king and country, and now you fight for the oppressed.”

  It’s why I love you so deeply.

  It’s why my heart aches to bring you peace.

  He turned to look at her. “And what of you, Sophia? I’d convinced myself you were happy. But I saw the contempt in that fop’s eyes. Life couldn’t have been easy.”

  No, easy was not a word she would use to describe any aspect of her life.

  Distressing images formed in her mind, images more harrowing than any scene in Presumption. If Mr Peake’s play proved an accurate representation of Mrs Shelley’s work, then Victor’s bride would die on her wedding night. Sophia had died inside before exchanging her vows. Every intimacy she shared with William Adair was like the rebirth of the monster—wrong, immoral, hideous and grotesque.

  “I played the role, found myself torn between hatred and gratitude.” She blinked back tears. “Let us not dwell on the past. Let us discuss something else.” Though she knew when she saw the nameless creature on stage, she would see something of herself—a lonely figure who didn’t belong.

  For a time Finlay watched her—not those squabbling over a seat in the pit—his penetrating gaze searching her face. But then the orchestra launched into the overture, drawing everyone’s attention to the stage. No doubt the mournful strains were meant to set them on edge, to create an atmosphere ripe for impending horror. Indeed, the curtains opened with a scene of a gothic chamber in Victor Frankenstein’s house. They were introduced to his laboratory assistant, Fritz, asleep in a chair but woken by a symphony of song.

  Finlay leant closer. “I don’t recall reading of an assistant in Shelley’s novel.”

  “I believe Presumption is a melodrama. I was told to expect dancers, gypsies and peasants, too.”

  If Mr Peake intended to frighten the audience, he succeeded. Women gasped and swooned upon witnessing the sight of the bulging-eyed creature. The demon corpse. Husbands cradled their wives and scrambled in reticules to find trusted vinaigrettes. Many in the pit jumped to their feet, unsure whether to remain frozen or flee.

  Sophia couldn’t help but compare the stranger in Blackborne Wood to the monstrous figure on stage. An unhealthy need drove both devils. Both devils sought to harm an innocent woman in the name of vengeance. That the doctor’s assistant was named Fritz, and her stepson Fitzroy, seemed more than a blinding coincidence.

  The end of the first act culminated in a fight between the creature and his master. “Fiend!” the doctor shouted, drawing his sword. The thunderous thud of drums and the clash of cymbals tore shrieks from the audience.

  Sophia’s heart thumped in her throat. The crowd’s hysteria proved contagious. Swept up in the moment, she reached out and gripped Finlay’s thigh. Honed muscle flexed beneath her fingers. She suspected his sharp intake of breath had nothing to do with the violent struggle on stage.

  Her focus shifted from the play to the handsome man whose gaze turned intense. His slow perusal of her body seared her skin like lust’s fiery flames. The way those dark eyes reached deep into her soul spoke of a more powerful connection. The kiss they’d shared said he wanted her, but could he learn to love her again? That was a more complicated question.

  Perhaps she should have snatched her hand away, but the power beneath her palm was a potent aphrodisiac. She loosened her grip slightly and drew her gloved hand slowly up Finlay’s thigh.

  His hiss of approval mingled with the audience’s hiss of contempt.

  But he did not cover her hand or push it away.

  Sophia dared to edge higher.

  Finlay relaxed back in the seat, spreading his legs wide in open invitation.

  She ventured closer to the placket of his black breeches, couldn’t resist stroking the noticeable bulge. He was hard—hard for her. The thought sent her heart galloping.

  Were they anywhere but in a theatre full of people, she would hike up her skirts and straddle his lap. He would push into her body, stretch her wide, thrust so deep she would know she wasn’t dreaming.

  Indeed, she considered slipping her fingers inside the opening, wrapping them around his throbbing manhood and pumping him to completion. He seemed willing, almost desperate for her to take matters into her own hands.

  But then the curtains fell amid a chorus of gasps.

  Sophia removed her hand but could not temper the lust pooling low and heavy between her thighs.

  His breathing was ragged, too, his expression pained.

  “Finlay, you’re the only man I’ve ever wanted,” she said, for she could no longer suppress her feelings. Desire blurred reality. Desire made one act on impulse. “I don’t want to leave this world without knowing your body. I’m tired of feeling empty.”

  He made no reply.

  “I need you. If only for tonight.”

  He closed his eyes briefly.

  “What harm can it do, Finlay?” Every syllable oozed with desperation. “Two lonely people taking comfort?”

  He reached across and captured her hand but still said nothing.

  The curtains parted for the second act. It began with Victor’s turmoil, his guilt, his fear. Finlay sighed numerous times during the soliloquy. He sighed during the marriage scene. Sighed when the sentimental love song echoed through the auditorium.

  As the play progressed, the tension on stage was nothing to the tension inside the viscount’s box. The air vibrated with a heavy energy that grew in intensity. Only the shudder of their sweat-soaked bodies and the passionate cries of their climax could curb this agitation.

  Musket fire and rumbling thunder accompanied the death of Victor and the creature on stage. The curtains fell to rapturous applause. Patrons pushed to their feet.

  Sophia wasn’t sure she could stand. “Are we to remain for the next production on the playbill? It’s The Rival Soldiers.”

  He looked at her, a war raging in those inky pools. “I understand why they wish to follow such a terrifying tale with a farce, but I’m not in the mood for buffoonery.”

  What was he in the mood for? />
  A passionate encounter?

  If so, he gave no indication. Indeed, he released her hand and stood abruptly. “Come, we will deal with our problem during the interval.”

  “Our problem?” Did he speak of the need to slake their lust?

  “Fitzroy Adair.”

  “Oh.”

  “We shall storm into his box and demand to know what the hell he was doing at Blackborne.”

  Chapter 10

  Love and loss was the theme of the evening.

  Finlay always told himself Sophia had benefited from his absence. She had married a lord, not the son of a military man. What else did a woman want but wealth and status? Love was an extravagant luxury enjoyed by the few. But in reality, she had lost her innocence, lost her dignity, lost all hope.

  If that were not enough to plague a man’s mind, he’d sat through a play that drew stark similarities to his own life. He had loved deeply. In following his conscience, his love had been snatched by a monster. And yet, in some respects, he was the monster. He craved love but sought to destroy his only chance of happiness.

  “If we wish to question Fitzroy, we should hurry.” Sophia brushed her skirts with the hand that had massaged his manhood in the dark. “He won’t remain in his box during the interval.”

  How had she slipped through his defences? He had surrendered the second her fingers crept up his thigh. He wanted her more than he’d wanted anything, and she had offered a perfect solution. A sexual liaison. Just for one night.

  Temptation danced like the devil inside.

  “Finlay?” Sophia’s voice broke his reverie. “Do you wish to speak to Fitzroy, or not?”

  Finlay mentally shook himself back to the present. “Speak to him? I’m likely to wring the fool’s neck.”

  “I need to know what he was doing at Blackborne. I need to discover what he knows about Jessica.”

  “Trust me. The only way I will make that imbecile talk is if I threaten him with violence.” He had dealt with the likes of Lord Adair before, men who stood behind a shield of arrogance. Men who would rather risk their lives than appear weak.

  Finlay smiled to himself.

  Beating Fitzroy Adair would banish some of his frustration.

  “Remember, make no mention of Jessica,” he said. “Fitzroy might know you own the house but know nothing more.”

  Sophia’s nod came with a sigh of apprehension. “I shan’t utter a word. He would use Jessica as a pawn to lure me into his trap.” Her hand fluttered to her chest like a panicked bird. “Tell me Jessica is safe with Mr Sloane and Mr D’Angelo. They seem the unreliable type.”

  “I trust those men with my life.”

  “Mr D’Angelo is reputed to be a lothario.”

  “D’Angelo doesn’t plan on living long and takes pleasure where he finds it.” D’Angelo joined the Order hoping to find the fiends who murdered his parents. “He’s ready to die in the name of vengeance. But he will protect Jessica as if she were his own sister.”

  The hum of conversation in the corridor confirmed people were leaving their boxes. Within seconds of Finlay opening the door, Lord Adair appeared.

  “If you have something to say, you may do so here.” The pompous prig barged into the secluded seating area. “I’ll not be seen arguing in my father’s box.”

  Mr Harrington and Mr Jameson lingered in the corridor like virgins at an orgy, all pink cheeks, shuffling feet and darting gazes.

  Finlay threw them a devilish grin. “Don’t wander too far. You may need to summon a surgeon.” And with that, he slammed the door.

  “What the devil is this about?” Adair said in the lofty tone Finlay despised.

  “It’s about you being an interfering coxcomb.” Finlay stared down his nose. “Explain why you’re snooping into your stepmother’s affairs. Explain why you demand she is at your beck and call.”

  The man’s lips twitched, drawing attention to his ridiculous side whiskers. “Must you use that term? I find it offensive. She’s the woman my father married, nothing more.”

  Finlay resisted the urge to push the weasel over the balcony. Indeed, the lord must have sensed the danger as he shuffled sideways until his back was pressed to the wall.

  “You resent her,” Finlay said, for it paid to have an opponent consumed by his emotions. “You hate the fact your father married someone young enough to be your sister.”

  “It’s pathetic,” the lord spat. “Immoral.”

  Finlay agreed but blamed William Adair, not Sophia. “Your father knew your arrogance would be the death of you and sought to secure another heir.”

  “Is that what she told you?” Adair challenged. “It’s utter twaddle. She wanted a title. They coerced my father into marriage. They bullied him into submission.”

  “They?” Finlay kept his tone even. Yet the old anxieties surfaced. Tales he concocted during his darkest hours. Had Sophia married William Adair for the reasons she had stated? Was it to save Jessica or for selfish motives? “To whom do you refer?”

  “Clarence Draper and his scheming daughter.”

  Sophia sighed. “How many times must I tell you? Marriage was William’s idea. He spent a week trying to persuade my father as to the merits of the match.”

  “Ha!” Adair looked at Finlay as if he were Chief Justice of the King’s Bench. “Whenever I mention her treachery, she spouts the same ridiculous story.”

  “Heaven help me, Fitzroy!” Sophia exclaimed. “Jealousy has affected your mind. William wanted me to bear him a son. It’s the reason the nobility marry.”

  “Nonsense. Clarence Draper blackmailed my father into marrying you.”

  Sophia’s laugh conveyed disbelief. “That’s absurd.”

  Their gestures and expressions were determined, dynamic.

  One might conclude they both spoke the truth.

  “Blackmail is a serious accusation,” Finlay said. “On what evidence do you base your theory?”

  Before Adair replied, Sophia blurted, “Please tell me you don’t believe this nonsense.”

  “I am trying to establish how he came to such a shocking conclusion.”

  “Because I overheard an argument,” Adair was quick to explain. “I heard the threat. Clarence Draper told my father that if he didn’t marry, the truth would out and lives would be ruined. Tell me that isn’t a means of intimidation.”

  Ah, no doubt the conversation related to Jessica’s tragic tale.

  Moreover, the conversation had taken place seven years ago. Adair was an unreliable witness, equally immature.

  “Was Mr Draper’s tone aggressive?”

  “Well, not aggressive, no. They were disturbed by the dinner gong.”

  Finlay snorted. “So moments after Mr Draper blackmailed your father, they sat down together to dine?”

  The lord’s cheeks coloured. “Yes, but clearly my father was frightened out of his wits. Why else would he have married a chit half his age?”

  Finlay stole a glance at Sophia. Why would any man want to marry such a vivacious woman? One kiss from those pouty pink lips and Finlay’s troubles had disappeared. Being buried deep inside her body would prove equally rewarding. Between her soft thighs, he would find his utopia. But besides Sophia’s physical appeal, her penchant for self-sacrifice, her genuine kindness and loyalty to her sister, made her utterly irresistible.

  “Is that why you issue commands and insist she follow your instructions?”

  Clearly, the lord enjoyed taunting Sophia in front of his friends. Were it not for her fears over Jessica’s welfare, she might easily belittle this coxcomb to the distinguished members of the ton.

  Adair glanced at Sophia as if she were something foul stuck to his shoe. “She used devious tactics to snare a title, and so she can damn well do her duty.”

  Strange. As an enquiry agent, Finlay numbed his emotions. It wasn’t always possible. During harrowing cases he often spent a night alone, cradling a bottle of brandy. It wasn’t possible now. The need to protect Sophia bur
ned so fiercely he wanted to bury his fist in Adair’s haughty little mouth, bury the lord alive in a coffin six feet under.

  Sophia squared her shoulders. “Well, I’ve had a change of heart. I’m tired of your petty demands. No longer will I play the wicked stepmother so you may be the tyrant. Find another means of gratification.”

  Rather than offer an angry retort, the lord flicked a lock of blonde hair from his brow and laughed. “While you carry my father’s name, you will do what I say, madam.” Adair’s self-assured hubris would be his downfall. His arrogance made him forgetful of the danger. “Use of the house in Portman Street and the majority of your allowance is given on the proviso you fulfil your duties. If I say dance, your only question should be a waltz or a reel.”

  An unholy rage rang in Finlay’s ears, drowning out the lord’s mocking chuckle. The punch was swift, delivered to Adair’s stomach with maximum force.

  Finlay stepped back for fear he might wring the imbecile’s scrawny neck.

  Adair dropped to his knees, clutching his abdomen and gasping for breath.

  Finlay crouched down beside the devil and said through gritted teeth, “Mind your tongue, else I shall cut it out and serve it to your friends for supper. You think that creature on stage is terrifying. You do not want to meet me in a dark alley.”

  The lord coughed and spluttered.

  “You were on the road to Cornwall two nights ago.” Finlay straightened, giving Adair ample view of his powerful thighs, thighs capable of outrunning any man. “Why?”

  Adair shook his head but made no reply.

  Movement and the hum of chatter in the auditorium stole Finlay’s attention. People swarmed to their seats like bees to a hive, ready for the next offering on the playbill. Time was of the essence if he hoped to gain information.

  “You’ll tell me what the hell you were doing near Windlesham.”

  “You were following me,” Sophia blurted. “Spying. Admit you have an unhealthy obsession. Admit you thrive on causing strife.”

  Adair’s chest heaved, but he found the strength to say, “Obsession? Don’t be ridiculous.”