With his thumbs, he caressed the smooth planes of her cheeks, settling them in the delicious dips on each side of her mouth.
She trembled, the hand on his chest flexing nervously. Did she feel what he felt?
He had to know.
“Beg me…” he whispered, bending ever closer to his prize.
She licked her lips, her little pink tongue dragging a groan from his throat.
“Beg you? For what?” she whispered in return, her frame fairly vibrating with something he knew as desire.
Holding his breath, he leaned in farther, close enough to brush his lips against hers, lightly, just enough to tease himself with her softness.
“Beg me to kiss you…”
The hand on his chest flattened, and she thrust him away from her with more strength than he was expecting, nearly toppling him backward over a potted fern.
“Victoria. I—”
“Our dance is over, my lord.” She spun on one foot and sprinted farther into the garden, into the dark, where he knew he wouldn’t find her.
…
The man blew out a slow plume of smoke, watching as it swirled, curling, drifting upward before dissipating into the ugly crimson curtain hanging overhead.
Groaning, he sat up, nearly pitching off the divan on which he was sprawled, but he caught himself just in time. He was always able to right himself…to make things right. And he was proving it, too.
Over the last ten days, he’d broken into another four homes, leaving his calling card behind in place of something the lord or lady of the manor would miss greatly. In one instance, he’d stolen the cat. It had clawed him mercilessly, but he’d ended that wretched creature’s life quickly enough. The Thames had one more body to add to its graveyard of the missing and forgotten.
And, over the last ten days, he came to Hedo’s House to celebrate, taking libations, drags of opium, and willing flesh when it was offered. Tomorrow…he’d worry about tomorrow when tomorrow came. No one missed him; no one cared about him. Certainly, his father was a man of great standing, but the son was nothing like the father, and that was one of his greatest failings. He couldn’t measure up to his noble, forthright, demanding father.
But who could? No. He’d never be like his father; he’d be his own man, a man shaped by his own actions and not a title he inherited from feckless men. He was going to build his own empire and drag the House of Cards Society along, kicking and screaming if he had to. Who was the Golden Man anyway that he should be allowed to hold such sway over his equals?
So what if the Golden Man knew his worst fear and deepest shame? He would rise above it all, transforming into something far better than any of them had ever dreamed of.
A shout and commotion from across the expanse of the warehouse made him blink to focus his blurry gaze. Someone was fighting against the large man who stood guard at the front door. Whoever it was was winning.
A grin broke over his face, and he took another long drag from the ivory pipe in his fist.
Suddenly, the man was striding in his direction, a large black—no, gray—mass with menace in each step. He looked familiar— Was he? He couldn’t be sure…ten days of debauchery had stolen his mind—but only for the night. In the morning, he’d… What was he supposed to do again?
“Damn, there you are, man. You look like hell,” the familiar figure said, staring down at him with a swarthy, ugly face, his eyes moving outward across his face to nearly disappear into his large, flopping ears, his lips growing fat and then thinning again, like a pair of bellows right above his chin. He was hideous. He was hilarious.
“Here I am,” he said, holding back a giggle. “And you look like a clown—your nose is glowing, my man. Like the orange and red embers of a fire… Are you on fire?” He knew he wasn’t making any sense, but he couldn’t stop the words from spilling from his mouth.
“No, I am not on fire, but you will be if you do not get up and get home. The duke is not a patient man, and I am tired of running about looking for you,” the man with the fire nose ground out.
“Wait—my father was looking for me?” The old man was actually worried about him? Warmth—not caused by the drugs—spread out from his chest.
“Of course he has been looking for you. You’ve been missing for nearly two weeks. He finally broke his iron will and sought me out, asking me to look through the rookeries to find you. I knew immediately I would find you here. This is the sort of place that seems to appeal to you these days.”
Was it? He blinked and then looked over the man’s shoulder, taking in the shadows, the grime, the peeling paint, the writhing bodies, the groans and the slapping of flesh. It was his sort of place. The perfect place for a son with a filthy, disgusting shame.
“Come on, man, let’s get you home.” The man bent and wrapped his large hands around his shoulders, easily lifting him to standing. He wobbled, not having stood in many hours—days?—but his friend—he was a friend, right?—held him fast. They walked by piles of dazed whores and bugger boys, who stared up into a great, dark nothing overhead. They passed the man who stood guard at the door, who was now sitting on his arse, nursing his gushing nose.
They exited Hedo’s House and quickly climbed into a waiting hackney.
He smiled all the way.
Chapter Sixteen
From her position in the mews behind the townhouse of the Duke of Benford, Victoria watched as the street cleared, the sidewalks emptied, and the depth of the night descended. Cloaked in black, her face covered in a mask and smeared in black greasepaint to hide her complexion, she was a living, breathing embodiment of the dark.
Just as she was meant to be.
Honoria, Verity, and Love were all stationed at other townhouses, each watching, waiting, preparing to take action against their newest target—whomever was sneaking into the homes of the men on the Blackguard List and making off with their evidence.
As it was, they’d kept the Prince out of it, deciding it best to keep mum on the possibility of a breach until they had more information on who the scoundrel was. And once they knew who he was, they’d have him, because no one made a fool of the Darings.
Arching her back to push out the ache in her stiff muscles, Vic kept her gaze pinned to the back of the house. She’d posted a footman at the front, who would signal if he saw anyone approaching. More than likely, if someone were planning to break into the duke’s house, they would come through the back, using the mews and hedgerows as cover.
Nervous energy coursing through her, she reached down and touched the hilt of her dao, secured to her side with a strap. While the rapier was a weapon of finesse, she wanted to arm herself with something that would strike fear with one look, and the dao was a wicked-looking blade.
A grin lifted one side of her mouth. She wondered what Richard Downing would think about her dao; she’d love to show him, perhaps press the point against his chest and make him beg for his life.
Beg for a kiss. Unbidden, her memories of their aborted passion in the garden rose up to singe her chest. He’d leaned in, intoxicating her with his heat, his scent. Then his lips had brushed over hers, drawing every thought from her body.
Beg me to kiss you…
Truthfully, she’d been more shocked by her reaction to his ghost of a kiss than by his words. Because she’d been very close to doing just that, begging him to kiss her, to prove to her that he thought of her as a woman and not a weapon. That she was truly desirable, that he desired her, as his eyes and expression said he had.
Victoria had never known that intensity of need before, as if she would die if she didn’t discover what his kiss felt like. It had toppled her, leaving her to seek solace in the dark and quiet on her garden bench.
Thankfully, her mother had made her excuses when she hadn’t returned to the ball after the garden, though she had seen to reprimanding her soundly once Victoria had emerged from her bedchamber the morning after.
Grunting, she refocused herself, gazing into the shadows beside the large hous
e. There was another townhouse on the left side, but the right side of the house was flanked by a large walled garden that consisted of mostly grass, two stone benches, and low beds of yellow and white flowers. Probably tulips. On the other side of the garden wall was a small park, lined with trees and ribboned with walking paths. She hadn’t spent much time in the garden because the high wall obscured her view of who was coming and going, but from where she now crouched, she could clearly see the garden gate, the only rear entrance to the property—unless one scaled the wall as she had.
Rustling from beside her made her tense and look, just as a rat scurried from beneath a nearby bush. She almost laughed in relief; she hadn’t been prepared, much to her frustration. Scouring the rear of the home again, she pinned her gaze, once more, to the gate.
A rat, she mused, how fitting. Even now there was probably a rat ensconced in the grand house before her. A rodent who’d given over his country for his own gain.
How do you know? A voice of doubt slithered through her. It wasn’t the first time she’d wondered that—both she and Verity had wondered about it aloud during one of their cloistered meetings, away from prying Honoria.
“Leavenson says. Leavenson orders. Leavenson relays messages… How are we supposed know what’s really going on if we can never meet with anyone but him? For all we know, he is a lackey, feigning power to play with us like a marionettist does his marionettes,” Verity had said during their previous meeting.
They had no answers. Yet.
And because their father had been recruited to Operation Imperial Twilight on Leavenson’s behalf—which was, supposedly, the Crown’s behalf—they were honor- and duty-bound to follow their father’s lead.
Without answers, Vic was left with a hollow sense of disquiet and a belly full of doubt. She hated questioning their purpose because it was the first time she’d actually felt useful. What was training without practical use? So, here she was, waiting in the dark to see if anyone appeared.
As if by divine blessing, the back gate swung outward, and a man appeared. Tall, broad shouldered, hair the color of sunshine, and face hidden in shadow.
Blast! It was Richard. He was exiting the house of a suspected traitor—in the dark of night, in secret. An invisible fist punched her in the gut. His presence in the Earl of Banebridge’s study…the blackmail letter. His leaving the Duke of Benford’s house… Would she find another blackmail letter within?
It was too much of a coincidence. Richard was involved.
Perhaps he was the one who’d left the playing card at the Manderby theft.
Something akin to rejection sparked within her, rejection of the very idea of his guilt.
Was he truly capable of such things: blackmailing, theft, and deception? The man who’d danced with her at the ball, was so sweet and affectionate toward his young cousin, and was so attentive and charming in the garden?
The tumultuousness of her thoughts and emotions made her grunt in frustration, dropping her right back into the moment.
As Richard turned down the path toward the carriage house, Vic noticed something he had not: he was being followed. And from the glint off the blade in the skulker’s hand, Richard was in grave danger.
Sprinting from her hiding place, she was upon the shadowed fiend before he could complete his downswing and plant his dagger in Richard’s back. But Richard wasn’t as unaware as she first thought, because just as she landed a blow to the fiend’s belly, Richard swirled, pointing a small pistol at them both.
“What goes on here?” he demanded, his gaze landing on the man curled into a ball on the ground, groaning and muttering curses. “You, there—” He pointed the muzzle of his pistol at Vic, who fought every instinct in her body and remained motionless rather than striking out to disarm him. “Who are you? What is going on here?”
The man on the ground made to stand, but Vic rounded another kick, this one to his head, knocking him unconscious.
Good. That just left Richard to deal with.
And how am I to do that?
“Speak,” he commanded, his face hidden in the shadows cast by the street lamps, but she didn’t need to see his face to know his expression was hard, just like the rest of him—except, of course, his lips, which had been soft and giving.
“He meant to stab you. I saved you,” she said in French. She’d been incognito, dressed for hiding; therefore she was confident he couldn’t see her face. As she was, she could appear to be anyone.
“French? Damn. What is a Frenchman doing skulking about in the alleys behind my friend’s house?”
“That is none of your affair. I saved your life. You can thank me,” she intoned imperiously, annoyed by his utter lack of gratitude.
Taking a step forward, he brought the pistol closer, and Vic did what she’d tried to avoid having to do: she reached out, grabbed the pistol with a flick of her hand, and tossed it into the hedges before he had the chance to stop her.
Tensing, he braced himself for an attack. But she merely stepped back and crossed her arms, thankful she’d bound her breasts before donning the traditional jiànshēn fú. Without the hindrance of her ample chest, it was easier to move.
Even without the benefit of his weapon, Richard still looked capable of defending himself— She could easily remember the hardness of his body against hers as he held her to his chest.
“How did you do that?” he asked, a smidgen of grudging awe in his deep voice.
She shrugged.
Vic peered at his face. He was distractingly handsome, even in his ire.
What am I supposed to do now? Saving his life was the right thing to do, but it also put her in a precarious situation; she could leave him there and he would be none the wiser, but she’d also have no idea as to why he’d been in a suspected traitor’s house. Or, she could capture him, take him to the designated interrogation location, and ask him all the questions she wanted—still with him none the wiser about who was actually standing before him.
Him…Richard…the man who’d been haunting her dreams for more than a month. The man, the enigma, the bane of her peace of mind. The man brought out the worst in her, making her lose sleep, lose focus during sparring matches with Verity and Love, and driving her mad with wondering when he would let slip that he knew the truth of her.
And now, she was staring up at him, as he stared down at her. She had to admire the fact that he hadn’t lost his calm; he was still tense and alert, but his breathing was even.
It was his turn to cross his arms, and Vic didn’t miss the way his coat pulled taut over his biceps or the way his muscular legs spread evenly, making him look all the more imposing.
And all the more dangerous.
The man at her feet groaned, and she was reminded that she had to deal with him before he completely came to. He’d tried to kill Richard—right behind the house of her current target. She’d be a fool to think all the circumstances weren’t related somehow. But how? Vic had to get the man secured, get him to someplace remote, and get him talking.
Vic had come to this alley prepared to take any potential burglar into custody, which meant the bit of rope secured around her waist was just the thing to tie the villain’s hands and feet together, like a trussed deer.
Keeping Richard in sight out of the corner of her eye, she undid the rope from her waist and crouched to flip the man onto his stomach. Mercilessly, she pulled his limbs together behind his back and made short work of securing the ropes with knots that would make a sailor proud. Now that he was tied, she placed her tongue just at the back of her lips and let out a loud, shrill whistle.
Richard flinched, his eyes wide, but she ignored him. Rising to stand, she watched as the footman she had stationed at the front of the house came around the corner, pushing a wheelbarrow. Since she’d planned ahead to apprehend a prowler, she’d told Harry to be prepared with the wheelbarrow when she whistled.
Just as soon as Harry appeared, he helped her lift the body into the barrow and then he was
off. He’d wheel the unconscious prowler to their carriage waiting farther up the terrace, from where he would be transported to Leavenson’s home for interrogation. She wished she could be there to ask the blackguard all the questions whirling through her mind, but there was still a loose end to tie up.
And he was standing in front of her, his golden eyes blazing in the lamplight, and his body thrumming with barely held restraint.
Chapter Seventeen
Richard blinked, then blinked again. Slowly, his eyes cleared of the red haze, leaving only an outline around the figure standing before him. Where they were standing, in the dark of the alley behind Benford’s townhouse, he could just make out the slender Frenchman, and the lump of human refuse at his feet, who had apparently tried to murder him.
But who was the man on the ground, and why had he tried to kill him?
Sucking in a breath, he took stock of his bearings. The man who’d saved his life had tied up the villain with rope he had on his person, then whistled, then another man appeared, and then the other man and the villain were gone. How the hell did he do that?
“Who are you?” he demanded. There was more to this person than just watching the house— He’d come prepared. But for what? Had he meant to capture Richard for ransom, but his plans were thwarted by the attempt on his life? No. That didn’t make any sense; the man couldn’t have known where he’d be tonight— He hadn’t known where he’d be.
He’d been nursing a tumbler of Scotch when Michael arrived, bemoaning his brother’s activities. Ben, having begun his night at Whites, had continued his evening at a seraglio along the river. Michael begged Richard to retrieve his brother for him. The friend he was, he’d agreed. When Richard arrived at the warehouse-cum-den of sin, Ben looked the worse for wear, was mumbling incoherently, and trying to rile the other “patrons” into a round of fisticuffs.
He was exhausted, angry, and frustrated, and the man before him was only making him wish he’d stayed home.
So you could wallow in thoughts of Victoria?
A Lady Never Tells (Women of Daring) Page 14