by Stacy Reid
Hard shudders wracking her body, he leaned forward and kissed her shoulders gently, reverently. He pulled from her, lifted her against his chest, and took her over to the bed. Then he went behind her screen to the wash basin and returned with a cloth. He gently cleaned her, finding it so amusing that she blushed.
Everything in him—every thought, every one of his senses, arrowed on that sweet, loving smile on her mouth. His heart stuttered. Love. He could see it in her eyes, feel it stirring through his soul.
“I will be speaking with your father soon.”
Her eyes widened. “How soon?”
“I have made my move against the wolf. Only yesterday, I had set up a financial scheme especially for him, it is something on the lines of the South Sea bubble scandal, which was all smoke and mirrors, but it can’t be traced back to me. He will learn today how much money he has lost. This will shake him from the dark.”
Her throat worked on a swallow. “And the black Dahlia?”
“I am still searching.”
Her brows furrowed. “Do you still believe it to be my brother?”
He hesitated. “I have not ruled out that possibility.”
The words fell between them, a fiery arrow piercing their tranquility.
Something wild flashed in her gaze. “I swear to you my brother would never act with such dishonor. And I asked him if he knew Arianna and he said no. We have never lied to each other.”
“So you know he has a mistress and a child?”
She froze. “I…what?”
“One of the reports that came across my desk revealed there is a home on the outskirts of London he visits once every two weeks.”
“And the child?”
“A girl.”
She flushed. “The bacon-brained dolt would think he is protecting my sensibilities. Why would he not marry her?”
The naivete in the question rocked through her. “Her circumstances might be inferior.”
He hated seeing the hurt in her eyes. “He has a child, and he has allowed her to be born a bastard! And then he hid her existence from this family.”
“All men hide their mistresses and by-blows,” he calmly said. “And your mother has a reputation of being a moral prig. I am certain he would take care to not reveal it.”
Using the pad of his thumb, he traced a slow line from her collarbone to the tip of her breast. Thud, thud, thud. How fiercely her heart jerked. “I have cast my net wider,” he promised. “I already set my investigator to pay a keener attention to details. And they’ve already suggested another young man’s name who attended both Eton and Oxford and was there at the inn.”
For suddenly it was unbearable that her brother might be the man Nicolas was looking for. It would hurt her, and he couldn’t imagine what it would do to their relationship. Nicolas had been relieved when they gave him the report that there was another young lord, a baron, who might be the black Dahlia. Suddenly it had made sense that he hadn’t found anything linking Lord Crispin to Arianna.
She nodded, a relieved sigh slipping from her.
“Do you have a masquerade mask?”
The sleepiness that had suffused her lovely face vanished and she sat up excitedly. “Yes, why?”
“I will take you to the Asylum.”
She looked about ready to faint. “The gambling den?”
“Yes.”
She flung her hands around his neck and rained exuberant kisses all over his nose and mouth.
“Do you have a wig?”
She paused. “No.”
“We must cover your hair. It is incredibly unique.”
She laughed softly. “You are the only person who does not think my hair brown.”
“Are your parents still attending Lady Burrell’s ball tomorrow?”
“Yes, it is the final ball before we retire to the country.”
“Plead a headache and stay home. Tomorrow, procure a black wig, and be ready for me by ten p.m.”
She brushed her lips against his, then lower over his jaw. “Thank you.”
His Maryann barely touched him, featherlight, but it was the most sensual sensation he’d ever experienced.
His hands framed her face, thumbs brushing her frantic pulse, then he kissed her with all the emotions brewing in his gut, hoping she would feel them, even as he struggled to express what they were.
…
The following night, Maryann stood inside the most notorious gambling den, staring around in awe. Her pulse had quickened alarmingly, she felt achy, terrifyingly breathless that she was here, in this den of sin.
The decor could be described as decadent luxury, blue and silver carpets covered the floor, and swaths of silver and golden drapes twined themselves around massive white Corinthian columns. Dozens of tables were scattered in an organized sprawl on this lower floor, and many lords she recognized sat at tables playing faro, Macao, whist, and vingt-et-un.
The clattering of dice echoed as they rolled on the tables. Raucous sounds of laughter, the downing of drinks, and snatches of conversations and smoke filled the air.
Maryann was tugged by the strains of music and they bypassed the gaming tables to the large ballroom. The glitter of the chandeliers, the dazzling array of lavish and beautifully dressed ladies, the self-indulgence and laughter, the ornate and exotic masquerade masks all assailed her senses.
“People are staring at you,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the din.
“I’ve never brought a lady here before.”
Maryann sent him a pleased smile. “I cannot believe I am here. My friends are going to be green with envy!”
“So, I see everyone in this wallflowers club you’ve told me about is just as mischievous.”
“Oh, we are all going to be terribly naughty, you’ll see,” she murmured, her hand fluttering to her throat when a waltz started.
“Dance with me,” he murmured at her nape, curving his hand around her waist, and leading her to the dance floor.
With a sense of shock, she realized he touched her freely, without any worry that how closely they stood might seem improper and start a wildfire rumor.
“Here, when we dance, we can be as close as possible.”
“And we can even kiss,” she said faintly, staring at a couple locked in a passionate embrace near the doorway leading out to the terrace. Unexpectedly she laughed, tipping her head to the dazzling chandelier which seemed to hold a thousand candles.
The waltz leaped into life from the orchestra’s bows, and he took her in his arms. Scandalously and wonderfully close. They twirled across the floor, and whenever he drew her in, Nicolas flushed her body against his. Maryann almost expired on the spot, until she realized just how free the mask and the wig she wore was. The second time he spun her away and she twirled twice, sliding her feet across the parquet floor in the intricate and sensual moves to come back to him, this time he kissed her mouth. Their dance blossomed into something sultry and decadent and so very naughty. By the time the strains of the waltz died away, Maryann was breathless and laughing.
“I am so pleased you are the only gentleman I’ve danced with in over two years who is not my father or brother.”
“And I am damn glad you waited for me,” he murmured, kissing her mouth in a quick, scandalizing kiss.
The night was perfect. And as Maryann twirled in his arms for their second waltz, an odd surge of fright darted through her heart. What if this should all end? Pushing aside that unexpected burst of raw dread, she lost herself in the moment of being so free from the restraints of society’s expectations, and simply lived. And most glorious of all, Nicolas would soon approach Maryann’s father for her hand, and they would be affianced.
Almost an hour later, Maryann laughingly complained of sore and tired feet. They had danced the waltz and the polka several times, but none
of the strict proprieties of distance had been observed. Every move and touch had been designed to heighten the carnal awareness of being in your dance partner’s arms and touching their body.
It had been remarkably intimate, freeing, and so sensual.
“Let me procure you a drink, something cool and refreshing.”
“Am I allowed to explore?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Freely. No one will accost you.”
She glanced around a bit skeptically. “Are you seeing the same room that I am?”
“No one would dare.”
“Because they know I am with you.”
His eyes darkened and her breath hitched at that tender yet starkly possessive look.
“Because they know,” he murmured.
Maryann smiled when he melted away in the crowd, and she slowly walked the expanse of the room, admiring the lavish gowns and masks the ladies wore. They were all bewigged and their identities hidden. It was only the men who were allowed to indulge without any worry to their reputations.
Maryann scoffed, turning to make her way down a well-lit hallway that was conspicuously empty. She paused, intending to return to the ballroom when the distant sound of singing pulled her farther down the hallway. The closer she got to the door at the end, the more the raw beauty of the voice enchanted her.
And it was also so familiar.
Maryann came to a door and gently tested the knob. It opened soundlessly under her palm and she faltered into stunned stillness. It was a large room swathed in more shadows than light, but she saw clearly the lone man sitting in the center of that room in a large armchair. He was indolently reposed, a cheroot in his mouth and a glass in his hand. She could not discern his appearance in full, it was more an impression of power and masculine grace, and that his gaze was unflinchingly pinned on the lady before him on a raised dais.
Ophelia.
Maryann swallowed her gasp. Though her friend wore an elaborate silver-blond wig and a gold filigree mask, she would recognize her anywhere. And that voice, so pure and powerful in its sheer beauty, enveloped the room, creating a pulse of such ache inside Maryann’s heart.
Ophelia’s voice had always enthralled, and once when she had regaled an audience at a musicale some years ago, Maryann had felt such regret that the world might not hear what she had to sing.
But now here she was, a songbird of poignant and rare talent singing in her unique voice to an audience of one, bravely standing before a gentleman who stared at her as if he were a hungry predator. There was something about the situation that was alarming.
And suddenly Maryann knew this man—Devlin Byrne, a man so mysterious not even the scandal sheet had much to report on him other than that he was a wealthy industrialist who stood on the very edge of respectable society. His relentless rise to power and influence in the ton had been remarked on frequently, and his background which was shrouded in uncertainty was also whispered about.
Is he your slice of wickedness, Ophelia?
The slight shift of the man’s head, a cant in her direction implied he knew they were no longer alone. Maryann stepped back from the room, closing the door. Yet her feet did not move, and she admitted it was with worry for her friend. Anything to do with a man of Devlin Byrne’s ill-shrouded reputation could not be good.
She bit into her lower lip, torn between wanting to protect her friend and also celebrating whatever wickedness she was enjoying for herself. Ophelia had recently turned four and twenty, the oldest amongst their sinful wallflowers group, and for the last year or more there had lingered a shadow of pain and doubt in her eyes, something that bespoke of a private agony she had not shared with her friends.
Accepting this must be what her friend wanted, she slowly released the knob.
“Maryann?”
That shocked tone arrested her retreat and had her sharply turning around. It was Crispin.
“What are you doing here?”
She could think of no possible reply.
Her brother wiped his hand over his face slowly, shook his head, and stared at her unblinking.
“How did you recognize me?”
“Is that what you are concerned about?”
“Yes,” she said mildly.
“You are my sister—how could I not recognize you?” he said furiously.
Crispin grabbed her hand and drew her away with rapid strides. Not wanting to cause a scene, Maryann followed him out the side doors and into the garden. They passed a few couples whose actions caused her to blush, to a small private alcove.
“How are you here?” he demanded. “I…I just cannot credit it.”
“I am here with Lord Rothbury,” she said honestly.
Her brother’s mouth hung open. “You have irrevocably lost all sense of yourself. I cannot even think of the scandal. That bloody bounder—”
“Do not be ridiculous, Crispin,” she snapped, tugging her arm from his clasp. “What scandal? I am in disguise. There is no need to worry about it.”
“You reckless hoyden with no sense of—”
The soft sound of footfall crunching on leaves sounded, and they looked up to see the marquess, standing in the shadow of the gardens. He had been deliberate in alerting them to his presence.
She moved toward him, only to falter upon realizing he stared past her.
“What is it that you wear?” Nicolas murmured, his tone a purr of lethal menace.
Maryann glanced back at her brother, her gaze falling on his cravat pin.
“Oh,” she said, “it is a cravat pin from our grandmother. I have the brooch to match it. They were made by a most famous London jeweler in the shape of a…”
As her heartbeat slammed deafeningly in her ears, she faltered into complete stillness. They had been done in the shape of the dahlia flower, and in the center of each jewelry was a black onyx stone.
The black Dahlia. She shook her head sharply, a place in her shattering. “Crispin?” she asked with a voice that shook.
He stumbled back and she understood; the sheer menace in Nicolas’s expression was frightening.
“Are you familiar with a certain inn at Wiltshire ten years ago, and a girl who drowned?”
Her brother paled, and Maryann pressed a hand over her mouth. She whirled to face Nicolas. “There must be an explanation,” she began. “Please—”
Crispin rushed past them, all but running back inside the gambling den. Nicolas whirled to follow, but she grabbed the sleeves of his jacket. “Nicolas, please, let me talk to him first.”
His eyes were so chilled, she felt frightened.
“No.”
“The cravat pin is not proof of his guilt!”
“Then I will ascertain it, tonight. Because I must know what it will mean for us.”
“What it will mean for you?” she demanded shakily. “It does not have to mean anything.”
His expression closed, and he peered down at her as if she were the oddest creature. She recalled then his certainty they would be enemies should her brother prove to be the black Dahlia.
“Nicolas…I…”
With an air of dark resolution about him, he pulled away from her, and she stood there, her heart a beating mess, before springing into motion and rushing after him.
Chapter Twenty-One
She rushed through the throng in time to see Nicolas drag her brother by the back of his neck, down a darkened hallway. Crispin was trying to loosen his cravat as Nicolas’s grasp was choking him. Dear God! The crush in the ballroom slowed her movements and it felt like it took forever to reach the passageway down which they had disappeared. Gathering the skirts of her gown, she ran down the hallway before coming to a shuddering halt.
“I told you all that you asked,” her brother said shakily. “Please remove your blade from my throat.”
“Please, Nic
olas, please!” Maryann cried, rushing up to where he held her brother against the wall with a knife at his throat. “Why do you threaten him so?”
“It was the most effective way to loosen his tongue,” Nicolas said menacingly. “Leave, now.”
She gripped her gloved hands before her to prevent them from shaking. “No! You are in a dangerous mood; I will not leave!”
There was a speck of blood on the corner of her brother’s mouth and his jaw appeared bruised.
“There must be an explanation, something we are missing,” she said tremulously, a desperate uncertainty quaking through her heart.
A cruel curve slanted Nicolas’s mouth. “He’s already admitted that he was there.”
Maryann’s heart stopped. “No…I…what?”
Her brother had paled. “You involved my sister in your madness?” he demanded. “You damn—”
The knife sank deeper, and blood kissed the edge of the blade, stripping her brother of his verbal attack.
“You did not kill the others!” she cried, so frightened she wanted to crumple to the floor. She knew what Nicolas’s retribution meant to him, and his vow that none would be spared was implacable and impenetrable. “He was only seventeen! A boy who was foolish and afraid,” she said hoarsely.
“What are those who stand silent in the face of evil? How are they judged?”
His tone was a lash of rage when he asked the question.
“Answer me!”
“Guilty!” she cried, swiping at the tears which spilled over on her cheeks. “They are guilty.”
“Do you wish me to treat him as I did the others?”
She pressed a hand over her mouth. “No.”
Those other men had been ruined financially, stripped of the things they valued, divested of their pride, and their financial security to live their idle lives in luxury. He had broken them beyond redemption. Maryann’s logical mind asserted that justice had been done for their heinous crime, but looking at the pale fright in her brother’s eyes and knowing he had only been a lad almost felled her to her knees.