But first, she had a more pressing task to complete. Ianthe called out Phillip's name as he plunged into her again and she uttered the words men liked to hear at such moments. Ianthe gasped about his size and prowess, and cried that her release was imminent.
"Oh, Phillip," she breathed as she clutched at his buttocks. He usually just needed a little encouragement to finish, but tonight he seemed to have trouble finding his peak. His weight settled heavily on her and Ianthe hoped he wouldn't take too much longer, or she would drown under him and disappear into the mattress. As it was, one of her stays had shifted and was pressing into her breast quite uncomfortably.
He gave a long groan, his body twitched, and then he stilled.
At last. She muffled a relieved sigh.
His arms buckled under him and his body slumped over her. Ianthe stifled her cry, and it wasn't one of ecstasy but alarm. Phillip was a rather large and heavy man, and her lungs struggled to work with him pressing down on her chest.
"Phillip, dearest, would you mind terribly if we moved?" She tried to roll him to one side, but couldn't lever his weight with him wedged between her legs. Her knees were thrown wide to accommodate his bulk, but it left her in an awkward position.
"Phillip?" He still hadn't moved or answered her and concern grew in her chest. She couldn't hear the wheezy gasps he'd been uttering moments before. Cold dread washed through her as she grasped his head between her palms and lifted his gaze to hers. She promptly wished she hadn't. His eyes were open, but the black pupil had taken over his iris and his stare was blank and vacant. This was no moment of intense ecstasy. Phillip had taken a journey, but he would not be returning.
Ianthe closed her eyes and took a deep breath—or as much of one as she could, in her compressed state. She tried not to think about his member still inside her. Despair washed through her trapped body as she thought of the house deeds he had promised and now would never deliver.
"It's not fair," she whispered and fought a sudden rush of tears. She had been so close to freedom, and life had snatched it away from her. Why had the sight not warned her to secure the deeds first? What was the point of being mage-blooded when the supposed gift failed her time after time?
"Sarah! Sarah!" She called for her abigail who would be lurking out in the corridor.
The door opened, and her constant companion peered around. "Yes?"
Ianthe waved her hand at the mound of flesh burying her in the mattress. "I need your help, Sarah. He's dead."
2
Ianthe
* * *
Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Ianthe's life was rapidly descending from forlorn to farcical. The newspapers leapt upon her predicament as stark relief from war stories. She opened the pages to find yet another article that called her a femme fatale, because of the manner of Phillip's death. Given that she sought her patrons among the older members of the ton, it wasn't the reputation she wanted. For once in their lives, senior men of the ton actually listened to their wives when they lectured about the follies of weak hearts. Rumours circulated on the grapevine that no older gentlemen wished to tempt a similar fate, and she would not find a replacement amongst them.
The only possible competition that could bump her from the pages of the scandal sheet was the horrifying scandal of a man who turned into a wolf at the assembly rooms. Ladies were swooning at the idea that a dangerous Unnatural had danced next to them. Although, now that the Unnaturals Act had passed into legislation, it might happen more often as such creatures revealed themselves.
"Wolves," Ianthe muttered as she closed the paper on the drawing of the horrid beast with its large teeth exposed. The vision of a wolf fighting over the dead horse flashed before her eyes. Mages and the mage-blooded always kept to themselves and apart from the other creatures. Ianthe had never rubbed shoulders with any true Unnaturals and didn't intend to. Perhaps the vision was a warning to stay away from such animals.
"Wolves? What do hairy dogs have to do with it, and why didn't the sight warn you about Phillip's weak heart?" Sarah growled under her breath as she finished wrangling Ianthe's curls.
"Because the visions only torment me, they do not inform me of future events." Ianthe sighed and pressed a hand to her temple, as another headache threatened. Phillip's sudden demise highlighted her precarious situation. Her income would now dry up, yet her creditors still expected to be paid. Only this morning another financial demand had been tossed at Perkins. Her creditors barely paused at the step, but threw their invoices in her direction and ran, just in case her lethal touch reached out for them and squeezed their dried-out organs.
Sarah scowled as she placed a bonnet on Ianthe's head. "You are completely mad. This is the most daft idea I've ever heard."
Ianthe waved her hand out of the way and tied the bonnet herself. "Daft or not, if I don't go we could find ourselves discussing the merits of my actions from the gutter. The sight is far too unreliable for me to earn a living as a seer. Instead, I must approach Lady Dunne about the house deeds. I'll not let our home be snatched out from under us if all I need do is swallow my pride and ask. Phillip had the papers executed and they only needed to be delivered."
Sarah narrowed her eyes and fussed with the ribbon. "That lot will have their claws out for you. You're a fool to run straight into them." She tugged on the bow to even out the two sides. Then her scowl softened somewhat. "The old harpy will lord it over you, assuming she even acknowledges your existence. Why place yourself at her mercy, just to be humiliated?"
Ianthe understood the source of Sarah's concern and laid a hand on her companion's arm. "When have I not been looked down on by the likes of her? I am no stranger to it and I have enough fortitude left in my spine for the task at hand."
Besides, she'd swallowed a finger's width of tonic to dull the pain. Today was Phillip's funeral and Ianthe would attend. It was her one opportunity to make her request of Phillip's widow. It was highly unusual for a woman of the ton to attend a funeral, but Lady Dunne was made of sterner stuff than her aristocratic sisters. Most women avoided the events so as not to burst into displays of unseemly histrionics. It said something about the widow that she did not intend to cry in public. Her attendance presented a rare chance for Ianthe to approach and hope that Lady Dunne's stoicism extended to talking to her husband's mistress.
Ianthe planned to walk into the lion's mouth and hope its teeth did not shred her. Or was she the slain horse the wolf and demon fought over in her vision?
She dropped a hand to brush her skirts. She wasn't hypocritical enough to wear full mourning and the rules of society didn't quite extend to courtesans and mistresses. But she still mourned her former patron, and had found a deep grey and lavender gown that would suffice. Over the top, she wore a grey spencer with purple braiding, and a matching bonnet.
It was hard to remember that only a few days had elapsed since Phillip died in her embrace. Events had moved apace after Sarah helped roll the dead body off her and then ran downstairs to fetch his man. They had kept everything secret, maintaining his dignity and discretion even in death.
It took three of them to carry his cooling body out to the waiting carriage. It was far too much effort to try and re-dress him; instead they wrapped his naked form in a blanket and took a corner each with Perkins at the shoulder end. Ianthe ensured he made it home to be 'discovered', deceased, in his own bed. She trusted in the strict confidence of her staff and none would breathe a word of what happened. Ianthe still shuddered at the thought of being trapped under him.
Phillip's household, however, proved themselves less trustworthy. The picture appeared in the newspaper the next day. Ianthe shuddered as she glanced at the cartoon that still resided on the hall table. Silly thing should be tossed in the trash.
A caricature of a rotund elderly man lay slumped over a bed, while a half-naked and buxom lass clutched a riding crop and proclaimed, He didn't last the ride. The man was notated as 'Sir P'. Another figure peered around the doorframe
: His tiny label read 'Viscount H'. Underneath his character was the question, Is it my turn now?
Sarah huffed. "Doesn't even look like you. You are far prettier. That doxy is coarse of form and face."
A brief smile flitted to Ianthe's face at her abigail's defence, but it pained her to be the object of such ridicule and speculation. Even more disturbing, she knew that Viscount Hoth watched her, waiting to step into Phillip's shoes. She had hoped to keep Phillip for a number of years, long enough for the banker to turn his attentions to another. Seeing him creep round the door of the cartoon seemed a hideous premonition of events yet to unfold.
Yet again the sight failed her and gave her no direction about either Hoth or a new patron to replace Phillip. Why did others have useful gifts from their mage blood while she struggled with useless visions that served no use except to inspire maudlin poetry?
Hoth took mistresses of his own, yet he made no secret of his desire to possess her. She was a toy he could not have, because Phillip didn't share. Only his respect for his business with Phillip had kept Hoth at a short distance. Such was the perilous nature of Ianthe's position. She needed a patron to pay her monthly income, and on the face of it Septimus, Viscount Hoth, was a satisfactory substitute.
The viscount was wealthy and rumoured to be exceedingly generous to cast-off mistresses. It was in many ways her ideal situation: Service him for a year or two, and then accept a modest country home as payment. Though it dovetailed neatly with her plans, there was something about him that sent ice racing down her spine. Were his former mistresses truly so content that no one ever heard from them again, or was there something else at play?
Ianthe shook aside those thoughts. The tonic splintered her attention and made it hard to concentrate. She needed to address the immediate problem, that being the roof over her head. Phillip owned the house, which meant it now fell into the possession of his wife and son, unless she could procure the deeds by asking very nicely. Her actions in approaching the widow at the funeral were gauche and would doubtless result in her being censured, but she had no other option. The family would never be home to her, and it wasn't as though she could pop round for tea after a suitable interval. By the time the widow was out of mourning, Ianthe would be living on the streets. She either acted now, no matter how grievous the breach of etiquette, or missed her opportunity. Phillip should have had the good grace to hand over the deeds before dying.
Ianthe took a hired hackney cab to close to the church and then walked the remaining distance. The church was packed; it seemed every pew was jammed with bodies, eager to view the man who was caught in flagrante delicto by death. It would take either a plague of vampyres swarming London or Napoleon sailing up the Thames to provide a better distraction.
The grieving widow and her family took up the entire front row. The women stood rigid and quiet; the only sign of any silent tears was the occasional handkerchief pressed up under black veils. The men were more stoic, although his eldest son was no doubt calculating the size of the purse that had just fallen into his lap. Ianthe assessed what little she knew of him. If she remembered correctly, he was in his late twenties, and from what she could see he ran to corpulence like his father. Phillip had spoken of his son with pride when the younger man had joined the family legal practice. She vaguely recollected talk of a grandchild, so he was married. His wife must be the mousey woman clinging to his arm as if she were drowning in a heavy ocean.
Ianthe didn't usually take younger men as lovers; they were simply too exhausting and too much work. But if Phillip's son was anything like him, then perhaps he might consider inheriting more than just his father's estate? That would be a tidy solution and it would enable her to escape the clutches of Septimus. Speaking of whom, the viscount stood just behind the widow. He turned and met Ianthe's gaze just as her mind skimmed over thoughts of him, as if he possessed some sixth sense that alerted him to her presence. He nodded in her direction and then turned back to speak to his companion.
She continued her inspection of the gathered mourners. Colleagues and clients filled more rows, as did the curious and those members of the ton who simply thought it was the done thing to attend every funeral. Many turned up simply for the food and drink that would be served afterwards, and whatever tidbits of gossip were dropped like crumbs.
Ianthe acted with discretion. She sat at the very back of the church and kept her eyes downcast. She was aware of the nudges and twitters around her, the sharp reproving looks from the women and far more speculative ones from the men. She drew a deep breath. Society could think what they wanted. She’d had a three-year relationship with Phillip, and would pay her final respects.
At the end of the service, she joined the line of mourners who filed down the aisle and past the deceased to say their last goodbyes. When it came her turn, she paused and laid a hand on the casket. It was better to remember him like this, laid out in his fine coffin lined with blue silk, wearing a tailored jacket and cravat. She needed to erase the memory of his large, naked body enveloping her in death.
As the service concluded, she waited near the back for the mourners to disperse. The fewer people to witness her attempt to grovel and save the roof over her head, the better. The reporters had enough fodder to fill their pages. Once the church emptied, she steeled herself, and then walked out into the afternoon sunlight. She was about to cross an invisible line, one conveniently highlighted by God as a shadow from a lamppost drew a horizontal stripe on the stones underfoot.
The demi-monde and wives never interacted. One pretended the other did not exist. It was how things had always been in society; husbands kept their mistresses, and wives turned a blind eye. Mistresses did not stroll up to wives and strike up a conversation. Or at least, they didn't until today.
"Lady Dunne." Ianthe crossed the shadowy line and bobbed a curtsey. Far too many people still milled around outside, chatting and waiting for carriages to round the corner.
The widow recoiled and clutched the hand of the woman next to her. She had a drawn, pinched face, and thin lips that warned Ianthe not to expect any compassion. From behind her veil, her watery blue gaze narrowed at the young woman before her. Her breath escaped with a sibilant hiss.
Then she regained her composure. "You have no right to be here."
Ianthe held her position. She could do this, although she wished she could sneak a mouthful of tonic from the flask in her reticule. "I knew your husband for three years, and I came to say goodbye, like everyone else here. But I wanted to ask you about certain papers of mine that Phillip had in his possession."
"You dare use his name? You murdered my husband and then come here seeking favours! Did you expect to profit from your foul and perverted acts?" The woman spat with such venom against her veil that the netting swayed with each fired breath. Her voice escalated in pitch, and those around them fell silent. Heads turned and gazes widened.
"I did not murder your husband. His heart simply could not sustain the vigorous activity." This meeting was not going as planned. Ianthe suspected there would be another caricature featuring her printed the next day. She had hoped to have the house deeds delivered after a quiet word with the widow. Instead, they were fast becoming a spectacle. Perhaps she should turn it into a full-on dramatic performance by tearing her gown open and throwing herself at Phillip Junior.
The man in question fixed his gaze upon her. Ianthe gave him a look and arched an eyebrow. He seemed on the point of stepping forward when his mousey wife and two other women tackled him and dragged him into a waiting carriage. Ianthe sighed; another lost opportunity.
"Sir Phillip's death was a great tragedy. I merely sought to enquire about papers that he had promised to deliver this week." She needed the deeds; without them the house could be sold from under her and her future would become ever more perilous.
The widow would not be swayed. She pointed an accusing finger at Ianthe. "Your kind are a scourge upon this earth that should be cleansed along with those Unnatural vermi
n. You corrupt our husbands with your lewd and licentious ways."
Ianthe drew a tired breath. Society never changed. The ton believed themselves so pure and beyond reproach. They considered the women working for a living as just the filth beneath their feet. Sometimes she had to speak up for her sisters, even if it would cost her dearly.
"You conveniently forget that Phillip sought me out. The demi-monde does not knock on your doors to lure away your husbands. They leave you willingly, to seek entertainment they cannot find at home. I rather thought wives such as you would thank ‘my kind’. In performing our duties, we allow you to neglect yours."
Ianthe had no warning apart from the sudden indrawn breath. Then the grieving widow slapped her cheek. The noise of hand meeting flesh rang out in the silence, and was met by a gasp from the captivated audience. Then a titter ran through the crowd as they waited to see what would happen next. Ianthe was so very tired, or perhaps the tonic had sapped her will to care.
"That usually costs extra," she murmured, and turned her face to present the other cheek.
Lady Dunne walked away, for which Ianthe was grateful. The widow had quite the arm, and her cheek stung. Keeping her head held high, Ianthe descended the steps. The crowd parted before her and she continued down the street. She couldn't afford a carriage for the ride home and it took all her effort to hold herself together as she walked.
Only when she reached her house and the front door closed behind her did she lean against the wall and bite back a sob. Damn them. Home for how much longer?
Sarah and Perkins appeared before her, worry creasing two brows at once.
"Well?" Sarah asked, as she took the bonnet and spencer from Ianthe's limp fingers.
She shook her head and raised a hand to her face. "The widow did not take kindly to my questions. We must look elsewhere for a solution."
Kisses to Steal Page 2