by Stacy Reid
Oh God, what have I done?
Chapter Six
Nicolas bit his knuckles through his gloves until they ached. Not even that pain stopped the desire stirring to life with violent force. Hovering in the dark gardens of Lady Maryann’s home, he peered up, watching her silhouette at the windows as she looked down upon where he lingered. His intentions had been for her to understand that there might be danger in associating with him, and that she should be careful. Nothing more.
So then how had that devolved into him staring at her like a hungry predator as she entered her room, then sparring with her, to then convincing himself not to toss her on the bed and have his carnal and oh-so-wicked way with her?
So it’s ravishment, then?
He closed his eyes against the memory of that husky whisper. The heat in her eyes as she stared at him had affected his senses most profoundly. And it shocked Nicolas, this unanticipated interest on his part. Lady Maryann had wanted him to kiss her, but beyond the curious arousal in her eyes, there had also been fright, and that awareness had leashed his as nothing else could.
She moved away from the window, and he let out the breath he’d been holding. Moving with efficient stealth, he walked away and jumped over the side gate, lingering in the shadows cast by the small trees and hedges before strolling down the streets.
“Her damn mouth needs to be outlawed,” he muttered, thoroughly irritated with his attraction. And her eyes, bloody hell, they were the finest he’d ever seen. Golden brown flecked with sparking green at the center. “And why is she so fearless?”
When she had realized someone lingered in the dark, she hadn’t screamed or fainted, which he truly expected. It had intrigued him that she went for a weapon when it shouldn’t have, given the night with the shovel. Her skill with a rapier was greater than that of most gentlemen he knew, and her mettle might even be tougher. The brilliant splash of her unbound hair had captivated him, and even the peek of bare feet and dainty toes had tied him in knots.
He had deliberately acted the scoundrel, slashing open her nightgown, and even then the damn woman hadn’t fainted away. Her fresh, artless loveliness would tempt any man, yet based on the little digging he had done, she was often overlooked. “Damn fools.”
How could anyone not notice her? Yet Nicolas had done so for years. According to David, Lady Maryann had been out in society for the last four seasons. If not for that night in the gardens, would Nicolas have even noticed her?
He might never know, and it should not matter. In another place, another time, she might have been a welcome diversion. They would not be acquaintances, friends, or lovers. Especially if her brother was the black Dahlia, that would mean he was one of the men who had hurt Arianna. And Nicolas would irrevocably ruin him should it be proved true—the men who violated her could not be redeemed, and everyone would pay for their crimes. If her brother became his enemy, then Lady Maryann would indirectly become his enemy.
Arianna. It was hard to recall the shape of her face, the sound of her voice, or how she had tasted. They had kissed several times, but he had prevented himself from being callous. He was the son of a powerful marquess and she the daughter of servants. Their match would never have been accepted, and he’d promised himself to not ruin her.
Yet in a different way, he had.
The eagle soars indifferently while the wolf betrays…
He was the eagle. That was how she’d always seen him and had joked about it often enough. She had believed him indifferent to her pain and died believing those blackguards were his friends, and that they’d had his approval to debauch her against her will.
And why wouldn’t she have believed it? When Arianna had confessed her love, he had looked down his damned aristocratic nose and reminded her she was the daughter of servants and it was his duty to marry someone of the right station. He’d admitted his budding love but told her they could not marry. The shame, pain, and crushed dreams in her eyes had almost felled him.
He often wondered if those who had never felt its sting understood the absolute power of guilt. There were days its claws and talons ripped into his gut and tore him apart. She had been his friend, a girl he loved, and he had not been there in her greatest time of need. Five young men from the finest families in the aristocracy had ruined her purity with rank callousness, and unable to bear the pain and shame of her situation, she had flung herself into the river.
Nicolas entered the parked carriage which had been ordered to linger several houses down from Lady Maryann’s. He rapped on the roof, and the coachman urged the horses into a trot, taking him to Mayfair and the home of Viscount Humber, a most distinguished gentleman and one of society’s great orators of the House of Lords.
It was after midnight, but a careful analysis of the man’s habits for the past month indicated he would be in his study, reading scientific reports. Once again, Nicolas’s coachman stopped the equipage a number of houses down, and he alighted. He turned up the collar of his coat against the unusually brisk wind, gripped his silver-handled cane, and strolled toward the viscount’s house.
With little effort, Nicolas broke into the man’s home through the kitchens and silently made his way up the servants’ stairs to the lower floors. With the information he’d obtained from a chambermaid he had bribed, Nicolas quickly found the man’s study.
A sliver of orange light peeked from beneath the large oak door. A careful test of the lock, and it turned in his hand. Nicolas entered silently, braced for the possibility of alarming the man. Predictably, the viscount was at his desk, several lit tapers close to him as he read from a book and at times made jottings in a ledger. The man was so engrossed in his task, he did not hear or sense Nicolas as he padded over to the bookshelf, the darkest corner of the room.
Nicolas waited for his presence to be felt, and after a few minutes, a humorless smile curved his lips. “Humber,” he said quietly.
The viscount dropped the book and half rose out of his chair. “Is someone there?”
Staying ensconced in the shadows, Nicolas retrieved the rolled sheaf of papers tied with a dark ribbon from his pockets, then with precision he tossed it to land on the man’s desk.
“What is the meaning of this?” the viscount snapped, moving swiftly around his desk and grabbing up the papers and setting them atop his desk. “Who are you?”
“A messenger. I mean no harm.”
“Yet you broke into my home,” Humber snapped, a scowl darkening his features.
“Lord Humber, you are known as an upright man…who is just and abhors reprehensible people, especially if their crimes are vile.”
The viscount remained still for an inordinate amount of time, his chest lifting on his rapid breathing, staring into the shadows. “What is this about?”
“Another rumor says that you adore your daughter and are not ashamed to admit she is the apple of your eye. You’ve betrothed her to a man most vile.”
The viscount curled one of his hands into a tight fist at his side. “Who are you?”
“A most concerned party.”
“A friend does not approach me in this villainous and secretive manner.”
“I did not claim friendship, but I am not your enemy, either. It is best for the both of us that my identity remains hidden. I swear upon my honor, I mean you and your household no harm.”
The viscount seemed to struggle for a few moments before he swiped the cylindrical roll off the table and impatiently ripped off the ribbon. He straightened the papers against the desk and bent over them, reading the information presented. Nicolas patiently waited for the man to absorb the information.
“What is this?” the viscount asked with dawning outrage.
“Your daughter’s betrothed frequents a particular house in Soho Square.”
Humber straightened. “I do not believe this!”
The duke had recently completed the
arrangements with Viscount Humber for his daughter’s hand in marriage. The girl had a dowry of fifty thousand pounds, plus two unentailed estates and shares in a copper mine. Farringdon had been pleased with the match, given his financial straits, and bragged in the clubs he would soon be flush in the pockets. The viscount was equally pleased his daughter would marry into such a powerful family.
Dirty secrets that had the potential to bring scandal and ignominy to a family had the power to crumble even the most sought-after alliance.
“That information was carefully collected over the course of eight months,” Nicolas murmured. “I made no mistake. The duke has a penchant for depravity and that brothel in Soho caters to his every whim. He also hurts those under his protection without regret.”
Lord Humber’s fingers tightened on the paper. “This report says he has foisted a bastard on a young maid in his home before running her away.”
“To suffer a life of poverty and misery. The girl was only fifteen.”
If Nicolas hadn’t kept such a keen watch on the duke, he wouldn’t have been able to assist the girl in her darkest hour of need. That young girl had been returned to her family in Cornwall with a draft of two thousand pounds, a fortune she’d hardly known what to do with. But her relief had been palpable, and Nicolas had witnessed the despair lift from her shoulders as hope had shone in her eyes. When she had impetuously flung herself into his arms and hugged him, he had just stood there, but inside, complex emotions had tumbled through him in unrelenting waves.
The duke hadn’t lost a night’s sleep and had simply moved on to his next pretty prey. And Nicolas’s revulsion and need for vengeance had deepened.
The viscount looked away into the fire.
Nicolas shifted a bit closer. “While not uncommon for some men to seduce dependents in their household, your daughter would be the duchess of a man who will dally indiscriminately right under her nose and bring her shame and embarrassment.”
The viscount grabbed up another sheet, reading the words. Humber’s heavy sigh echoed in the library. “He vowed to me to end all his dalliances. He has given his mistress her conge.”
Nicolas scoffed. “How bitterly disappointed you must feel to know he has only moved her from town to Bath. The duke has no honor.”
The viscount’s gaze swung to the very spot he stood.
“And what do you gain from bringing this to my attention?”
Another step closer to destroying everything the duke valued. “What does it matter?”
“I’ll not be another man’s sword!” Lord Humber growled, fisting his hands at his side, uncaring he crumpled the paper. “If you think to manipulate me, you are wrong. My daughter will be a duchess, and that makes her happy. There is nothing more to it.”
“Act in haste…and greed, you shall surely repent in leisure.”
Nicolas whirled around and made his way from the library, uncaring the man had full view of his retreating back. His dark hair and black coat would not reveal much.
“What did the duke do to you?” Humber demanded gruffly.
Nicolas paused with his hand on the door.
“He stole the life of a young girl who mattered to me.” Then he opened the door and slipped away from the viscount’s town house.
His work for the night was not done. From what he knew from studying the viscount, the man would not be able to sign his precious daughter over to the duke. Nor would Humber sleep on the matter. Despite his brilliance in parliament, the man was driven by his emotions, perhaps the very reason he was able to sway so many to his side of whichever bill he supported. His emotions and passions were effortlessly conveyed and felt.
That very emotion driving the viscount would work in Nicolas’s favor.
…
Nicolas took a deep breath of the chilled night air. He was headed to the Asylum, a most notorious gaming hell, and there he would wait for the show to begin.
His thoughts lingered on Lady Maryann, and he wondered what she had done after he left her chambers. It was an entirely new experience for him, thinking about a lady this often. With a soft chuckle, he shook his head, for he anticipated the next time they would cross wits.
What will you do when you see me again?
Nicolas strolled for several minutes to where his coachman waited with his carriage. Less than an hour later, he hopped down from the equipage and strolled toward a large three-story brick building that had two men standing outside by the door. A light rain fell, and a few carriages queued near a fog-shrouded gas lamp. The men recognized him and, without asking any questions, opened the door, allowing him entry.
Nicolas waded through a thick crowd, the sounds of women laughing, the dice slapping against a table, the scent of tobacco, curls of smoke twisting in the air. He inhaled deeply, always astonished that this was a place he felt comfortable. A place that homed a truly disreputable group, men of such ruthlessness, one had to learn to tread carefully or face the possibility of losing their life.
Except Nicolas hadn’t learned to tread carefully and bow to their underground power—he had made himself to be cunning and ruthless in order to earn their respect. There were days he felt like he did not know himself. His feelings and thoughts were always hidden behind a wall of charming affability and rakishness, and there were times he felt restless and dissatisfied.
François de La Rochefoucauld wrote that man was so accustomed to disguising themselves to others—their fears, needs, wants, desires—that in the end, man became disguised to themselves. Nicolas had pondered that very complexity of his nature a few times. Who was he? He often lay in the dark and stared sightlessly at his ceiling, wondering why he felt so unrooted.
Was he the rake, the charming libertine who loved to seduce women, drink, race recklessly, and gamble? Or was he the man Riordan O’Malley called Hawk, someone believed to be just as dangerous as the owner of the Asylum, a man who had killed while dueling and whenever provoked to act in defense of his self?
“My Lord Rothbury,” a voice purred. “You are the very man I wished to see.”
It was Madame Salome herself draped in a scandalous gown of flimsy green silk, her mass of vibrant red hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her gown clung to her dazzling form, accentuating and displaying what lay beneath. The lady had a reputation of arranging discreet trysts, allowing women and gentlemen of high society to indulge in experiences under the banner of secrecy. She gambled often at the Asylum and was rumored to have a debt of over fifteen thousand pounds, yet O’Malley had not called her in vowels.
“Salome,” Nicolas said by way of greeting, a slight dip of his head acknowledging her interest. “How may I be of service to you?”
She laughed, light and tinkling. “On your knees, preferably. I am restless tonight, and I do not believe I’ve had you yet.”
He stared at that charming smile, oddly unmoved. The woman was beautiful and intimately knew of her allure. He admired her confidence and even her cunning, for she was a lady protected by some of the most powerful lords of society—those belonging to the ton and those of the underworld.
Hunger stirred Nicolas’s veins, but it was not for this woman. All his thoughts and attention were with another lady. One who probably would skewer him if he truly tried to kiss her. It should be alarming, the degree to which Lady Maryann compelled his senses.
“I am flattered,” he said with a slow smile to lessen the sting to her vanity. “Regrettably, I must decline.”
Her light blue eyes flared wide, and it was clear the lady was not accustomed to rejection.
“You are horridly disobliging,” she said with a pout meant to entice. “Could it be the rumors are true? That you’ve formed an attachment with some naive little thing?”
It did not surprise him that gossip had already made its way to this particular gambling den. The owners traded in information on the black market where the
currency of secrets was more powerful than money itself. Everyone who visited the Asylum told of what they knew to see if they could gain some value from the knowledge they provided.
“If only they were,” he said calmly. “Either way, I do not give a damn about said hearsay.”
“How disagreeable of you.” A calculating glint entered her eyes. “I have never heard you deny a rumor. Is the marquess protesting too much?”
Nicolas smiled but made no reply. Yet he perceived the threat in her probe. Bloody hell. Who else was actively wondering how important Lady Maryann was to him?
He walked past Salome, and he could feel her stare boring into his back. Perhaps she worked with Farringdon, the very duke Nicolas was knocking down a peg tonight.
It would explain her sudden interest, and there had been a rumor some months ago that they were lovers. Perhaps her task had been to seduce Nicolas and ferret out the truth. Or a weakness he was sure to have. Either way, he would not allow her to distract him from his purpose, but he would keep discreet tabs on her.
And most importantly, he would hire two of O’Malley’s men who were former runners to discreetly watch over Lady Maryann and protect her, should the need arise. It was better to be safe than regretful. And the idea of anything happening to her was…truly unthinkable.
Nicolas stopped at the railing on the upper bowers, peering into the crowd of dancers as they twirled to the waltz. The ballroom was as elegant as those found in the best town houses in London, possibly even grander. All the women on the floor wore decadent masks to hide their identity from scandal, and in the arms of the men they twirled with, they were far bolder and more scandalous than ladies of the demimonde.
Nicolas spied Farringdon sitting at a table in a corner, conversing with the owner of Asylum, Riordan O’Malley. The duke appeared agitated, and he glanced over his shoulders several times, rubbing the back of his neck, and other times tugging at his cravat.