Harlequin Historical February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: Never Trust a RakeDicing With the Dangerous LordA Daring Liaison

by Annie Burrows

  She looked across the carriage at him. His waistcoat and shirt were marked. There was a rip beneath the arm of his fine dark green tailcoat, where he had been lugging furniture, and his boots were coated in dust and scuffs. The pale silk of her skirt was grubby, and the threads pulled, where she had been kneeling on floorboards. Her hair was dangling free from half of its pins. She scraped it back, feeling tired and dirty, angry and sad with what had happened at the refuge house in Whitechapel.

  ‘How long have you been supporting them?’ His voice was quiet and held nothing of judgement.

  ‘A few years,’ she said and hoped he would ask nothing further. She was so tired she doubted she could guard her answers carefully enough. ‘It is a charity that helps women and their children should they wish a means of survival other than that of the oldest profession. And the house we have just left, a place that they may stay however long they choose.’

  ‘A worthwhile cause.’

  ‘I am glad you agree. There are many that do not.’

  ‘How was the woman they...hurt?’ She heard the slight catch in his voice. He sounded as concerned as Venetia felt.

  ‘Her physical injuries are small enough. But who knows what scars such an ordeal leaves upon the mind? She will survive. Women are strong. They have to be.’

  ‘Maybe not always as strong as they seem,’ he said softly, and she knew it was not the women in Whitechapel of which he spoke.

  Her eyes met his across the carriage. ‘That is why they need smoke and mirrors,’ she admitted. And she smiled a sad smile. ‘Thank you for coming tonight. Thank you for staying. And for everything that you did.’

  ‘You are welcome, Venetia. I am glad that you allowed me to help.’

  She glanced away, and when she looked at him again she spoke the truth that was in her heart, ‘You are not the man London thinks you.’

  ‘Nor you the woman.’

  ‘Maybe we are two of a kind indeed,’ she murmured the words he had spoken on a moonlit night upon a balcony.

  He reached out his hand to her, offering it to her. And she accepted what he offered, folding her fingers around his as she moved across the carriage to sit by his side, their hands still entwined together. It felt right and good, reassuring and soothing after all the distress she had witnessed this night, and the uncomfortable memories that such places always stirred in her.

  ‘I fear for those women.’ She stared into the distance and saw not the carriage, but another familiar scene from across the years. ‘The men who did this are probably employed by one of the local bawdy houses at which the women used to work.’

  ‘Then there is a good chance that the Bow Street Runners will find the villains.’

  She shook her head at his naivety. ‘The constables will do nothing. This is not the first time there has been trouble, although it was not so bad the last time. The women are prostitutes, the law will do nothing to protect or help them.’ Her voice was bitter, but she was too exhausted to disguise it. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I do not mean to lecture you.’ She leaned back against the seat and him. ‘I fear I am too tired for politeness.’

  His arm curved around her, gentle and supporting. ‘Rape is a deplorable crime. The men who did this will be found, Venetia, and punished. On this occasion I am sure that the Bow Street office will be more alert to its duty.’

  She was too tired to understand what it was he was saying. Her mind was slow and heavy with fatigue. His body felt strong and warm, and safe. She relaxed against him, gladdened by the feeling that he seemed to care, about justice for a poor woman who had been raped, and about her. ‘I fear that you are wrong, but hope with all my heart that you are right.’

  ‘Justice will be done, Venetia.’

  ‘Will it?’ His words were strangely bittersweet. Justice for the women. Justice for Rotherham. She did not want to think of the latter implication. Not right at this moment. She threaded her fingers through his and laid her head against his shoulder as the carriage made its way across a still-sleeping city and did not think, but just let herself be with him.

  * * *

  Venetia retired to bed as soon as she arrived home, but her sleep was not uninterrupted. She dreamed of Linwood.

  In the dream she was standing in her bedchamber. It was daytime, she could tell by the way the cold stark light flooded in through the windows, but even so she was wearing her new black-silk evening dress, the one she had been saving for a special occasion, the one that would shock and stir scandal that could only do the theatre, and herself, good. Her hair was pinned up, a few curls arranged to trail artlessly against her neck and the edges of her face. She faced the man sitting on the edge of her bed. A man who was fully clothed, dressed all in black as if their outfits had been deliberately matched. A man who was silent, and whose ebony-dark eyes were filled with passion and with secrets.

  ‘Do you want me?’ she asked in a low sultry voice. And she did not know why the answer was so very important, just that it was.

  Linwood gave no reply. He did not need to. She could see the answer in the way he looked at her, see it in the tension that ran through his body, hear it in the whisper of the air all around, and feel it in the atmosphere that strained between them.

  Her gaze dropped to the pistol that she held in her hand, an old-fashioned duelling pistol just like her father’s. It felt too big and heavy, but she held it still and true in its aim at his heart and did not let it waver. Her eyes moved back to his face.

  Linwood did not look at the pistol, not even when she pulled back the cock ready to fire or when she moved her finger to rest lightly against the trigger.

  ‘Linwood.’ She said his name loud and clear and began to walk towards him. ‘Linwood’, again, this time softer, the word almost a caress upon her lips. She walked until there was no more distance between them, until the muzzle of the pistol nosed within the lapels of his jacket to press against the clean white linen of the shirt that covered his heart. And it seemed as she stood there she could feel the beat of his heart vibrate all the way through the length of the pistol, feel the slow steady thud in her hand and her heart.

  He whispered a word, one solitary word. ‘Venetia.’ And then he leaned forwards and took her mouth with his. And the kiss changed everything. He changed everything. The pistol was no more. He kissed her and she yielded to him, to the need that had been growing within her since the very first moment they had met. His hands were on her breasts, on her hips, stripping away the barriers between them. Touching her in a way no one else could. Caressing her, kissing her until Venetia could not fight it any longer, until they were naked together, until she was pushing him back flat on to the bed, until they were rolling together in a tumble of limbs and the heat between her thighs was a pulsing inferno of need. She splayed her legs, opening herself to him, needing him, wanting him, straining for what only he could give her.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes’, when all through the years she had said no. Linwood’s eyes, deep and dark and smouldering, stared into hers as he positioned himself between her thighs, the tip of him teasing against her, so tantalisingly close, the moment stretching to an eternity of longing.

  ‘Francis,’ she whispered his given name, her use of it finally admitting what they were to one another. ‘Francis!’ She cried it out loud, needing him, wanting him to take her and make her his.

  She woke with a start, her heart pounding in a frenzy, her blood rushing wild and torrential. Her breath was ragged and fast and loud in the silent darkness of the bedchamber. The dream was still heavy and vivid upon her. It seemed so real, so very real that she craned her neck to stare around her, looking for the man from her dream. But the crack of silver moonlight showed nothing but her own bedchamber and a hearth on which the fire had long since died.

  Her breath blew puffs of mist into the night-chilled air, but although beneath the h
eavy weight of the blankets and covers she was trembling it was not from cold. Quite the reverse. Her body was aflame and hungry with desire. As she shifted her nightdress rasped coarse against her swollen nipples. And between her thighs burned a need frightening in its strength. A throbbing. An ache. A yearning for the touch of a man with a handsome face, unsmiling, dangerous, with dark, dark eyes that spoke to her soul.

  She touched where he would have, sliding a trembling hand between her legs, to the place that was slick and wet with desire. ‘Francis,’ she whispered as her finger touched, and her body’s response was swift and unexpected. She gasped aloud, her body arching and exploding with a shimmering sunburst of sensation that took her beyond the curtain-dimmed loneliness of her bedchamber, soaring high to a place she did not know.

  Her heart was racing when she returned to her body. The haze of desire cleared, leaving her with a cold, clear realisation. She rolled onto her side and hugged her arms around her, feeling guilty and ashamed and more alone than ever, because the boundaries between pretence and reality were blurred, and of that which was happening between her and Linwood she no longer knew what was play-acting and what was not. The man she was coming to know was not the one she had expected to find. To the man she was coming to know she was in danger of yielding all that she had sought through the years to protect...her body, her respect...and maybe even something that touched dangerously close to her affections. And that was something that Venetia could not allow to happen.

  * * *

  The next day seemed to go wrong from the very start. She overslept, then woke late with a headache, feeling tired and unrested following the long hours of wakefulness in the night. She accidentally caught the skirt of her dress and tore it, there was a problem with the range, which meant the cook had been unable to heat water let alone cook anything, and she could not find the pages containing her lines and notes on stage direction. As if that was not bad enough, one of the horses had gone lame in a leg so there was a surgeon to organise and then a rush to catch a hackney carriage to the theatre.

  * * *

  She arrived late to find Mr Kemble in a black mood and the whole cast waiting for her. She had trouble remembering her lines and everything was going from bad to worse when she saw the small wiry man down in the stalls talking to Mr Kemble. There was something about him, an air, a bearing, that gave away his official position before she saw him slip the dark wooden truncheon into an inner pocket of his jacket—a Bow Street Runner. The uneasiness whispered through her like a winter wind through a graveyard.

  ‘Gentleman from Bow Street office to see you when you’ve got a minute, Miss Fox.’ The stage hand spoke quietly enough, but she knew that his visit would spark the curiosity of the rest of the cast.

  ‘Have him come to my dressing room.’

  All she could think of was that Linwood had been found out, that he had been arrested, charged with the murder. She could feel her heart in her throat; hear the way it made her voice ring higher. The nervousness threaded though her pulse, making her feel sick. She did not let herself look at him, just focused her mind on the lines, speaking them loud upon the stage until somehow she got through the scene. It seemed too long and yet not long enough before she made her way from the stage through the narrow corridors that led to her dressing room.

  The man was leaning against the wall beside her door. ‘Mr Collins of the Bow Street office.’ He stepped forwards, introducing himself and slipping his baton from his pocket to show her the crest fixed to it. ‘I wonder if I might have a word, Miss Fox.’

  ‘Of course.’ She preceded him into the dressing room and waited until he closed the door behind him before she spoke again.

  ‘How may I be of assistance, officer?’ She did not sit down, just leaned against the edge of her dressing table, her hands holding loosely to it.

  ‘Oh, no, Miss Fox.’ The wiry little man shook his head and blushed. ‘Nothing like that. I came to let you know the good news. We’ve closed one of our top priority cases. One in which you have an interest, although the office understands the requirement for absolute discretion...’ his eyes glanced at her with undisguised admiration ‘...when it comes to your involvement in the matter.’

  Something writhed in Venetia’s stomach, something black that felt a lot like dread. She gripped hard to the dressing-table edge, even while her mouth curved in a cool smile and she held the man’s gaze with a brazen confidence that belied all that she was feeling. Waiting. And waiting for him to say the words.

  ‘We’ve caught them.’

  The blood was thrumming so loud in her ears that she almost did not hear the last word. Them.

  ‘Got all four of them locked up snug in the cells at Bow Street.’

  ‘All four of them,’ she repeated and suddenly realised that he was not talking about Linwood.

  ‘They won’t be bothering any women in Whitechapel again. Your charity works are safe, Miss Fox.’

  The relief made her almost light-headed. She sat down in the chair, the thoughts whirring in her head. ‘How did you come to catch them so quickly?’

  ‘It was the strangest thing. Fifteen years in the service and never seen anything like it before, miss. All four of them had an attack of conscience. Came to the office and turned themselves in. Gave a full confession and everything. No need for the unfortunate victim...’ he glanced down at his notepad ‘...a Miss Sadie Smith, I believe, to give evidence in court.’

  ‘That is good news indeed, Mr Collins.’

  ‘And it seems there will be no need to mention your association with the charity.’

  ‘Even better.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you for coming to tell me.’

  He smiled in return and gave a bow before leaving. The door closed after him.

  Venetia did not move from her chair. Amidst the retreat of his heavy-booted footsteps along the corridor it seemed she could hear the echo of Linwood’s words. The men who did this will be found, Venetia, and punished. On this occasion I am sure that the Bow Street office will be more alert to its duty. And she wondered at Linwood’s far-reaching influence and how it might sway the solving of a crime—for good or for bad. It was a reminder of what Linwood was capable—and that chilled her, as did the realisation of her feelings when she had thought him caught. She stared into the peering glass and felt her blood run cold. It was a much more dangerous game than she had realised. She must take time away from him, must regroup and focus. He was a murderer, the man who had killed Rotherham, and she was in this to bring him to justice.

  Chapter Ten

  Venetia deliberately did not see Linwood for three days following Mr Collins’s visit, by which time she had strengthened her resolve and cleared her head somewhat of the confusion of feelings surrounding him. She was shopping that day when she saw the two women walking in their direction on the opposite side of the street. She knew almost immediately who they were. The matron dressed severely in purple was Lady Misbourne, Linwood’s mother, and the young, blond-haired woman by her side must be his sister, Lady Marianne, or Mrs Knight as she had only recently become in what had been a scandalously sudden marriage.

  She studied the two for a moment, so clearly mother and daughter despite the differences between them. The older woman was taller, with a body thickened by the years. Her demeanour held an air of superiority and snobbery, and her face a faded beauty marred by weakness. Lady Marianne was smaller than her mother, a little pocket diamond as the gentlemen would have said. The women were engaged in conversation, Lady Misbourne smiling indulgently at something that her daughter had just said.

  She knew the moment that the two women saw her. Lady Misbourne’s expression froze in horror, before she issued a curt instruction to her daughter.

  ‘Avert your gaze, Marianne. This instant. We do not even see that woman’s presence.’ The words told Venetia that they were aware not only of who she
was, but also of her association with Linwood.

  Contrary to her mother’s command, Lady Marianne did not look away. She was as fair as Linwood was dark, petite and very pretty. And from this distance her eyes looked as black as her brother’s. There was nothing of condemnation in that gaze, only curiosity and considered appraisal.

  ‘Marianne!’ her mother snapped again and Venetia could see the outrage on Lady Misbourne’s face.

  But Lady Marianne did not appear to be ruffled in the slightest. She held Venetia’s gaze, before turning her head to the front and walking on at the same unhurried pace, despite all her mother’s consternation.

  * * *

  Venetia saw Lady Marianne again that evening, across the dance floor of the ball she was attending with Linwood. The days apart from him had fortified her confidence. Tonight she felt her usual poised, self-possessed self. In defiance of what had gone before between her and him—in the glasshouse and in the carriage after Whitechapel—or maybe even because of it, she wore the black-silk evening gown, so scandalously seductive in its cut and fitting. Every lady’s eye was frowning upon it, every gentleman staring open-mouthed and drooling when their ladies looked away. And Linwood, well, she had seen the way his eyes watched her with such dark possession. It was her ultimate weapon. It gave her strength, to resist and to remember all that this game was about. She smiled and turned her attention to Linwood’s sister.

  By the girl’s side stood a very tall, dark-haired man who, by the subtleties of the body language between them, Venetia knew must be her husband. Lady Marianne had not snubbed her in the street, nor did she snub her now, even if every other lady of quality here was doing so. Their gazes met across the floor, fleeting and yet there just the same. Linwood saw his sister and her husband, too, his gaze sliding from the younger woman across the floor back to Venetia.

  And even though the expression on his face was more closed than ever she knew that he had not expected Lady Marianne’s presence. He showed not one sign of embarrassment, although the situation could be nothing other for him. The presence of his sister and his...inamorata. The word whispered a tingle down her spine that she deliberately ignored. It was hardly a fitting description of what she was to Linwood, but it was the impression that the ton was labouring under.