The Black Rose

by Christina Skye

  After that had come a different sort of madness, when he carried her to his bed.

  Horrified, Tess relived it all, the way he had come to her with tongue and teeth and mouth, again and again. Only for her to find it was not enough, that she had to have him in the primal way of man and his mate.

  Which he had done at last, pounding into her with all his fire and all his fury, past and future swept away in the searing pleasure of their first joining.

  The way it should have been so long ago.

  Except that he wore his bitterness like a shield now, where once love had draped him. And how could she blame him for that?

  Slowly Tess turned from the cheval glass, her face a mask of pain as she slipped into the steaming tub beside the bed. With fierce, punishing strokes she began to scour her body from head to toe, knowing all the while that she would never, ever feel clean again.

  * * * * *

  Lazy clouds glinted pink and lavender in the late afternoon sun as Hobhouse opened the Angel's front door and strode purposefully up Mermaid Street. Stony-faced, he climbed the pristine marble steps to Ravenhurst's townhouse and banged the brass, lion-headed knocker.

  Long minutes later the door opened. Peale's face registered the merest trace of surprise. "How may I assist you, Mr. Hobhouse?"

  "You can fetch Lord Ravenhurst, that's what you can do for me, Mr, Peale," the majordomo growled.

  "The viscount is, er, otherwise engaged at the moment. May I tell him —"

  Hobhouse did not wait to hear more. His shoulders squared, he pushed past Peale into the house. "Show yourself, blackguard!" he thundered. "Or are you so craven that you dare to attack only defenseless females?"

  A dark figure appeared at the landing above. "Go away, Hobhouse."

  "Bastard! Bloody, black-hearted bastard. That's what you are! Now, do you come down here and face me or do I go up there?"

  Ravenhurst did not move. "Neither choice holds any particular appeal," he said coldly.

  "And you call yourself a hero?" Hobhouse sneered. "The only person I see before me is a miserable son of a —"

  "Don't push me, man," Ravenhurst growled. "I'm trying to overlook the things you've said, but —"

  "I'll leave when I have satisfaction, and not a second sooner, you scum."

  The viscount's face darkened, settling into harsh, forbidding lines. Slowly he began to descend, each foot dropping with harsh finality upon the uncarpeted steps. "And what if I refuse to fight you?"

  His lips curled with distaste, Hobhouse returned Ravenhurst's glare. "Oh, you'll fight me, you cur, I'll see to that." His voice dropped. "I don't know what you did to her, but she has no one else to defend her. No father, no mother. No one but me." Ravenhurst was in front of him now, his eyes smoldering. "So you see I reckon you got this coming." Even as he spoke, Hobhouse twisted, sending an iron fist arcing toward the viscount's jaw.

  Oddly enough, Ravenhurst did not dodge the blow, even when he saw it coming, so that Hobhouse's fist connected with savage force.

  The viscount staggered, smothered a curse, and eased his hand across his throbbing mouth. "It appears that you will have your wish." Nodding curtly at Peale, Ravenhurst turned and began to stride down the hall toward the rear of the house, jerking off his bottle-green jacket as he went.

  In grim silence they stalked out into the long, walled garden. With quick, precise movements Hobhouse stripped off his black jacket and began to roll up the sleeves of his spotless white shirt.

  Ravenhurst waited, his face cold and expressionless.

  Then, eyes smoldering, the two men began to circle.

  Hobhouse was the first to land a blow, connecting with Dane's shoulder. In spite of his smaller size, he was tough and wiry and his aim was true. Although Ravenhurst did not know it, his opponent had worked out with the leading pugilist of his day, no less than Gentleman Jackson himself.

  The viscount was stronger and taller, but Hobhouse was a veteran and well trained. They were, in short, well-matched opponents. Too well matched, it soon became clear, as blow after blow was given and then returned. Soon blood matted Dane's brow, while Hobhouse could only blink and peer out through eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

  But neither man would give in. Above them the sky bled from lavender to violet and then lapis. A bat slashed through the darkness, screeching shrilly.

  "I only wish I could kill you," Hobhouse muttered, landing a sharp right hook just below the viscount's left cheekbone.

  His opponent recoiled, coughing, and spit out a mouthful of blood. "You are, I apprehend, a 'man of science,' Hobhouse. Studied with Belcher, did you?"

  "Gentleman Jackson, himself," his opponent growled, his voice tight with pride.

  "It won't help you much longer, for I'm twenty years younger and forty pounds heavier. Give it up, man!"

  "Go to hell!" came Hobhouse's acid reply.

  Grim-faced, Ravenhurst sent a bruising left hook toward the older man's stomach, and Hobhouse grunted, staggering beneath the force of the blow. He began to weave unsteadily, struggling to see from his one good eye.

  Overhead the sky faded to navy and then black as the two circled and engaged, barely able to see, their blows traded blindly.

  Peale watched anxiously as Ravenhurst took a blow to the midriff and stumbled to the ground. "You are making a spectacle of yourself, my lord," he said tensely. "What honor is there in that?"

  Unheeding, the viscount staggered to his feet.

  Then Hobhouse's fist crashed into his temple, making him grunt with pain as stars exploded in his head. He swayed, blood trickling from his nose, the ground spinning crazily beneath him. A bat screamed past his head — or was it inside his head?

  Where had that fool gone now? Ravenhurst wondered dimly, straining to see through the darkness.

  Then it did not matter, for the ground was rushing up to meet him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hobhouse uttered a long, hoarse sigh of satisfaction. Swaying slightly, he looked down at the viscount's motionless body stretched out before him on the cold ground. Only then did the Angel's majordomo turn and begin to weave an unsteady course back the way he had come, a tight smile on his lips.

  "Oh, don't worry, he's far from dead," he told Peale, who was hovering nearby. "More's the pity, too, for never a man so deserved to die as he does. But I'll not wear the title of murderer, not even for the likes of him. And you tell Ravenhurst this," the battered servant said coldly, raising a bruised fist before the valet's face. "Tell him I said to stay away from the Angel in general and Miss Leighton in particular." Hobhouse's voice flattened. "Or next time I will kill him."

  With stiff pride, the weary fighter tugged on his black coat and arranged his torn, dirty shirt. Blood oozed thickly from a cut at his temple and his right eye was swollen nearly shut, but he gave no sign of noticing.

  At the rear door of the townhouse he stopped, swinging around slowly. "Come to think of it, the same warning holds for you, Peale. Don't think I haven't noticed you and Letty Glossop sneaking about, smelling of April and May."

  The valet's immediate stiffening was all the confirmation Hobhouse needed.

  * * * * *

  The return of the Angel's majordomo provoked a flurry of excitement. His eye swollen completely shut, he wobbled through the kitchen door, barely able to keep to his feet. Soon, however, he was basking in the adoring attention of Letty and two tittering kitchen maids, while Edouard stuffed precious chips of ice into an oiled cotton bag for a cold poultice.

  Tess's fingers trembled as she bathed Hobhouse's raw temple.

  " 'Twould serve you right if you couldn't see for a week," she snapped, anxiety making her voice sharp. "I never thought to see such behavior — not from you, Hobhouse! A grown man, you are, and yet acting like a sulky, bad-tempered schoolboy. You look ghastly!"

  Hobhouse stared at the range for a moment, his eyes distant and cold. "Ah, but you should have seen how he looked when I finished with him. Knocked the bloody bas—
brute right out cold."

  Tess sniffed the air suddenly. "Never tell me you've been drinking, Hobhouse?"

  "Sober as a sexton, miss."

  "Well then, whatever possessed you to —"

  "No concern of yours," came the flat reply.

  Suddenly Tess froze, her hands tense on Hobhouse's swollen forehead. "Who was it?"

  "I don't believe I'll tell you that, either."

  "It — it wasn't ..." Her voice trailed away.

  "Like I said, miss, I don't mean to give you his name."

  A slow, wicked smile began to snake across Tess's lips. "You didn't," she whispered.

  Hobhouse shifted, looking up at her with an expression of aggrieved innocence. "I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, Miss Tess." But an answering smile began to twitch at his mouth, and a look of unholy pleasure brightened his battered features. "I'll tell you this much, though. That's one bastard who won't be troubling folks around here anymore."

  * * * * *

  At that same moment, Lord Ravenhurst sat scowling in the kitchen of his townhouse while his tight-lipped valet pressed a slab of raw beef to his employer's swollen temple.

  "Ouch! Damn it, man, watch where you're shoving that thing!"

  "I beg your lordship's pardon," came the stiff reply.

  Ravenhurst's eyes flickered. Peale never called him "your lordship" unless he had fallen from the servant's good graces. "Who gave you this idea, anyway?"

  "A London acquaintance of mine."

  "His employer brawls a great deal, does he?"

  "My friend is his own employer, as it happens. He manages a public house near Drury Lane, and his clientele often turns unruly."

  "Well, his bloody cure is worthless, you can tell him that for me."

  "Very little would help that wound, I should think," Peale said stiffly. "Except, perhaps, the passage of time."

  "Then why are you grinding that cursed piece of meat against my head?"

  "One must do something, my lord. Now, please stop twitching about like a distempered canine."

  "Have I ever told you you're a bloody pain in the — posterior, Peale?"

  "On numerous occasions, I believe. Your lordship."

  "Don't be a prig, man."

  "No, your lordship."

  Ravenhurst flinched slightly, even though Peale's fingers were careful at his forehead. "In fact, if you weren't such a damned competent manservant, I'd get rid of you tomorrow."

  "Thank you, your lordship." The valet's tone was arctic.

  "That, Peale, was no compliment."

  "In that case, I withdraw my thanks."

  Ravenhurst was still muttering beneath his breath when a muffled tap from the far side of the kitchen interrupted this bickering. A moment later Lieutenant Taft came into view, hat in hand, a sheepish expression on his face.

  "Sorry to barge in on you this way, your lordship, but I knocked several times and no one ..." His words died away as he took in the ugly bruises and cuts about Ravenhurst's cheeks and jaw. "Have you caught one of them, then?" he asked eagerly. "On the marsh, was he?"

  "No, damn it, I did not catch a smuggler, Lieutenant."

  "But —"

  Growling a curse, Ravenhurst pushed away the raw chop Peale was still trying to maneuver into position over his forehead. "Well, Lieutenant?" he snapped.

  "Sir?" The young officer frowned, totally adrift.

  "What dire emergency has brought you barging in here?"

  With a start the young officer collected himself, then dug into his pocket to remove a slightly crumpled vellum envelope with a large and very official-looking wax seal. "Oh, yes — this just arrived for you. From the Admiralty, by the look of it."

  Wincing slightly, Ravenhurst uncoiled his long frame and came to his feet. His eyes narrowed. "I believe you are correct, Lieutenant. For once," he added, tearing open the envelope.

  Silently he drew out a heavy vellum sheet and began to read, his face growing steadily darker.

  For long moments he did not move, and then only to refold the sheet slowly. "Prepare a bag for me, Peale — only the essentials. Enough for ..." He looked out the kitchen window toward the rear of the garden, frowning. "Five days, I should think." Still abstracted, he turned and strode away.

  "But sir —"

  The viscount did not answer, already at the door. His hands tightened, crushing the heavy vellum sheet into a tight ball.

  * * * * *

  Although the night's rest did little to pacify Tess's chaotic thoughts, it did wonders for her lithe, healthy body. Her fingers had ceased to throb and her strength, she discovered, was entirely restored.

  It was only the visions that would not go away, forbidden images of calloused bronzed hands lying heavy against her tender skin, memories of a dark and savage hunger that could not be assuaged.

  Torment beyond telling. Pleasure beyond enduring.

  Nightmares, she thought desperately. Always the nightmares.

  Outside her window the wind began to rise. High over the wealden hills, lightning crackled in a demonic arc.

  It was time to go.

  Tess's face, reflected in the mirror, was sheet-white, her eyes dark hollows. With cold fingers she pulled her black cloak, mask, and high boots from the locked trunk at the foot of her bed.

  "Don't go, miss." His face shuttered, Hobhouse stared at her from the doorway. "It's turning up nasty out there. Half the men won't even muster on such a night as this."

  Silently Tess turned back to the mirror and tugged on her polished boots. As she did so, she felt something cold hit her fingers. Her mother's medallion, she saw, the only item of jewelry salvaged from her father's greed. An amulet whose magic she had felt protect her on many occasions.

  Her fingers stilled, then ran lightly over the deeply chased face. "I must, Hobhouse. You of all people know that. If I do not appear — if the Fox does not appear — then my power to command will be forever lost."

  Frowning, she lifted the heavy chain and made to slip the medallion back inside her shirt.

  With a hollow clatter, the silver ornament fell to the floor.

  Tess shivered, feeling a hint of coldness creep along her spine. Coldness and something else ...

  Don't be silly, she told herself sharply, bending to pick up the pendant. 'Tis merely that your fingers are still awkward where the wounds have not healed. 'Tis merely the cold air that stiffens your joints and makes you clumsy.

  She did not believe in omens and portents!

  Tess bent to pick up the fallen necklace. When she looked up she saw Hobhouse's anxious face reflected in the mirror just beyond her own pale countenance.

  "Don't go," he repeated urgently. "Not tonight."

  Tess's lips set in a firm line.

  Outside, the wind flung itself at the roof, rattling the casement windows and howling shrilly.

  Mocking her efforts to be brave.

  Mocking her for saying there were no such things as omens.

  Her eyes dark with determination, Tess lifted her thick flow of auburn curls and thrust the cold medallion beneath her shirt. "I shall be back before dawn, Hobhouse. Tell Letty to listen for me at the passage."

  And then, with a wild swirl of her long black cloak, she was gone.

  * * * * *

  He did not notice until a few minutes later. It was the fierce burst of lightning that first revealed the loss to him. In the storm's unearthly, phosphorescent flare Hobhouse saw something glitter beneath the corner of the bed.

  Grim-faced, he bent down for a closer look.

  Tess's medallion! The chain must have slipped free again when she pulled on her cloak.

  He ran for the passage, calling her name hoarsely.

  But he was too late. Far below he heard the whish of a door closing.

  In his fingers the amulet grew heavy, cold emanating from its deeply indented center. Cold that pierced straight to Hobhouse's heart.

  "God be with you, Miss Tess," he whispered to the dark
, silent passage.

  * * * * *

  A thousand times between Mermaid Street and the cove, Tess thought of turning back. And each time she forced herself to do precisely the opposite.

  There were men relying on her, after all. Families to be fed.

  And somewhere a traitor conspiring with England's enemies? a hard voice mocked. Carrying gold to feed Boney's troops?

  No, she must not think of that. It simply could not be true.

  As if somehow sympathetic to her mood, the night turned wild, rain flung down in raw, sullen sheets. There was no moon to give guidance or comfort this night, only a lashing wind off the Channel.

  Over Tess's head a giant arc of lightning exploded, bathing the chalk cliffs to the west in an unearthly silver flare. Quickly she reviewed her plans. The lugger's cargo tonight was China tea and French brandy. Long-oared rowing galleys were to meet the ship beyond the breakers and take on the customary quota of tubs and chests. Only this night, Tess had made a slight revision in her usual plan.

  This night two bands had been dispatched to receive cargo, one at the Dymchurch seawall and the other far to the west, at the narrow shingle below the unstable chalk cliffs.

  Tess had been most careful in her instructions to both: each group thought the other was waiting inland to receive the contraband.

  Only two men in each party knew the locations in advance. And one of those men would be the traitor who had told Hawkins where to wait for them before.

  She shivered as icy fingers of rain stabbed her neck. Her eyes narrowed, she strained to pierce the sullen darkness, whose shadows held a hundred places to hide.

  What if the traitor had already spilled his secrets? a cold voice asked. Were Hawkins's men waiting for her even now?

  If so, she would know it soon enough. It was a terrible risk, but a necessary one. She had to know whom she could trust.