She stripped off her gloves and handed them to Perkins.
"What do we do now? Does the sight not give you any clues?" Sarah wrung her hands.
She sighed. In her mind, she heard the little bottle of tonic calling her name. "First, you will help me change. Then we will hope the swelling in my cheek dissipates, and I will attend Caroline's salon tonight. I must secure another patron before Lady Dunne finds the house deeds."
3
Quinn
* * *
"Life's not fair. Why do I have to dress like a French vampyre?" Quinn scowled at his reflection in the mirror as he tugged on his cravat. For some reason, even though the length of starched fabric had started life identical to the one that graced Ewan's neck, his always looked lopsided and malformed.
"Because Alick—or as the newspapers refer to him, the great Highland beast—is banned from polite society. As are all the Highland Wolves, except for you and me." Ewan tugged on the white cuffs at the ends of his sleeves and turned to survey Quinn.
Ewan was as impeccably attired as ever. He could make Beau Brummell feel shabby, but dandyism couldn't compare to military precision. Tall and leanly muscled, Ewan possessed black hair, deep blue eyes, and a square jaw. As if life hadn't showered him with enough gifts, he had also received the ability to tie a perfect knot with his eyes closed. Meanwhile, Quinn had the ability to constantly look like a ten-year-old caught wrestling a dog in a mud puddle. Life wasn't fair.
It wasn't the disparity in their ability to tie a cravat that weighed on Quinn. It was the other inequality of life. He suffered the misfortune of being the only wolf unable to shift form. At times the pressure built to such intensity inside him that he thought his skin would tear apart and he would explode. His wolf clawed from the inside but couldn't break through. Ewan, on the other hand, could change, but simply refused to.
"Why don't you shift? I can't understand being able to and not doing it." Quinn frowned at his lieutenant.
"Because I find it uncivilised and unnecessary." A smile twitched Ewan's lips, and then he sighed. "We cannot have you venturing forth looking like this." He undid Quinn's cravat with one finger, and re-formed it.
"Why did you ever agree to take the bite then? You should have been a dandified French vampyre," Alick asked from the corner where he sat on a loveseat. More accurately, he dwarfed the delicate piece of furniture with his bulk. With his wild hair, pale blue gaze, and an imposing muscled breadth, he looked like he was cobbled together from half an ancient Viking berserker and half a great beast that roamed the isolated wilds of the Highlands. His appearance was made more manic by the scar slicing down his face. It began at his forehead, slashed through his eyebrow, narrowly missed his eye, carved through his cheek, and stopped at the corner of his mouth.
Ewan turned a cool blue gaze on the Highland beast. "It might surprise you to hear, but my first loyalty is to Scotland, not my tailor. I took the bite to become a better soldier to fight for my country. And if society wants to see my exposed buttocks they can pay. I'll not put on a free show like some."
Alick snorted. "You're just jealous that my arse is being discussed in the newspapers and not yours."
Quinn heaved a sigh as Ewan's nimble fingers worked at his throat and tied a perfect knot. "I thought my knot would pass muster." Having the older man dress him just reinforced his self- image of being the scruffy youngster who needed a nanny.
"Only as a tourniquet." Ewan narrowed his gaze, adjusted one corner, and then slid a silver stickpin through the silk. "Now you are presentable."
Alick chuckled as Ewan fussed over Quinn's appearance. "You're wasting your time. The lad will be dishevelled by the time you get there."
"Why is it that you can look like you stopped mid-shift but I cannot?" It grated how they treated him like a wayward child, even though he knew it was done out of affection. Having grown up with four older brothers, Quinn found that his brothers-in-arms, and now wolf pack, treated him much the same.
"Because I wear feral with panache." Alick grinned and finished his drink.
Quinn snorted. Panache his arse, it was simply that no one wanted to tell the large man he looked like a swineherd.
Alick's face adopted a rare serious expression. "Stop worrying about it, lad. We can all sense the wolf inside you. You're just a late bloomer, that's all. The change will happen when you find sufficient motivation."
Dejection plunged through Quinn like cold water. "I rather thought having a vampyre slit my throat would have qualified as sufficient motivation."
Ewan brushed lint off Quinn's shoulders. "If you had shifted that night you would have revealed yourself as a Highland Wolf and exposed Aster as the true cryptographer working on the list of traitors. You might not have realised it consciously, but I believe your wolf refused to throw your adopted sister in the path of such danger."
Quinn resisted the urge to sulk. Ewan's words made sense. Their plan had been crafted to protect Aster, their captain's wife and mate. Life still wasn't fair, but he had wallowed enough. "Do we have a plan for this evening?"
When Ewan turned his back, Quinn tugged on his cravat and loosened the layers. After having someone try to slit his throat, he found he hated anything tight around his neck. Since he couldn't shift to protect himself, he'd rather have a weapon in his hand and nothing cutting off his airflow.
The Highland Wolves were on the trail of a group of men working against England. They had secured an ensorcelled and coded list that named the traitors, but too many men had already died trying to unmask the plot and they still had no proof. One name on the list sat close to the crown—the Duke of Balcairn. The wolves padded softly regarding him. One didn't accuse a duke of treason without ample evidence.
Of the remaining names, one, Sir Phillip Dunne, had just died of natural causes while in the arms of his mistress. The courtesan was connected with another name on their list, Septimus Fletcher, Viscount Hoth. The woman's involvement with two traitors seemed too unlikely to be coincidental, and they planned to find out what she knew.
"Our plan for the evening is simple. Tonight is an open salon for the demi-monde. You will earn us some spending money at the tables and I will stalk our Cyprian," Ewan said as he gathered up his top hat and gloves.
Quinn stared at his accessories as though they were instruments of torture. Dressing up and rubbing shoulders with society wasn't high on his list of priorities. Why did the demi-monde follow the same dress rules as the ton? He thought the half-world should have half the requirements, like open shirts and no cravats. He'd much rather be galloping through open country on horseback than mincing through a packed drawing room. It was only the lure of spending time near Ianthe Wynn that made him endure Ewan's grooming process.
He heaved a sigh and plonked his hat on his head.
Alick still had a smirk plastered to his face. "You boys have fun among the old toffs. I'm stalking the pubs of the East End for any snippets about Hoth from those who have worked for him."
The men headed out the door and hailed a hackney. Quinn still scowled—not because of his restrictive clothing, this time, but because his fellow soldiers so easily assumed the courtesan was complicit in any conspiracy. While Ianthe Wynn's name was tied to two they knew to be traitors, the idea of her involvement didn't sit right with him. Not that he had any evidence either way; perhaps he simply didn't want to believe the object of his obsession could be capable of treachery and betrayal.
He had spotted the ethereal courtesan on his first day in London and been fixated on her ever since. Every day he stood by the rail on Rotten Row to watch her on a grey stallion. While undeniably beautiful with her alabaster skin, fiery hair, and curvaceous figure, it was more than her appearance that drew him and called to his wolf—it was her skill with the temperamental horse.
She sat with a gentle ease, her hand on the rein always guiding and never restraining. Those who swirled around her had no idea of the expertise it took to manage the animal, while appearing to d
o nothing at all. He longed to talk to her, to hear her training method, and, if he were honest, to steal a kiss from her luscious lips.
It was a short trip to the enormous mansion on Grosvenor Square hosting the evening's entertainment. Quinn stared at the tall metal railing protecting the façade. This evening the double gates were thrown open, and a succession of well-dressed men trod the cobbles of the driveway.
"The earl's wife is confined to the countryside, about to deliver the hoped-for heir. To console himself, the earl has moved his mistress in," Ewan explained as they walked closer.
Light spilled from every window of the house, as did laughter and music. Tonight, the demi-monde entertained in grand style, and men were drawn to the house like bears to honey. On the pavement outside, young bucks nudged each other as they ventured into the brightly-coloured world of the courtesans for the first time. Older and wealthier men were more comfortable in their positions, sure of their ability to crook a finger and have the woman of their choice obey. They strode right up the stairs, needing no confidence-booster from their peers.
As soon as the Wolves stepped over the threshold, both men and women called out to Ewan. He was a striking companion and moved with a predatory grace. Some likened him to a dancer, but he was pure assassin and possessed remarkable skill with a blade. They handed their coats and hats over to an attendant, while Quinn listened with open ears. It appeared the aloof Scotsman had something of a reputation in London, and quite the following.
Being unmasked in the newspapers as one of a troop of Unnaturals who could transform into wolves didn't stop ladies making offers to Ewan as he strode the hall. Or perhaps knowing his true nature made him all the more appealing, with the added hint of danger and the forbidden.
Quinn cast a glance in his lieutenant's direction. "Where do you find the time?"
"Since the War Office refuses to send us on active duty, in between assignments I have nothing but time. Besides, every exchange results in some snippet of information." He lifted two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Quinn. "Now, let us find the object of our mission."
It seemed to Quinn that every room in the house was jammed with people. There were far more men than women. Each fair maiden commanded a circle of admirers as the game of love played out. Some men looked for temporary escape, a few hours at most; others sought more permanent arrangements. As unlikely as it seemed, business deals were negotiated among the heaving bosoms and half-lidded glances.
They found the object of their enquiry in a parlour. The room was decorated in the Egyptian fashion, with columns and motifs dancing around the walls in shades of blue and gold. There to one side was Ianthe, as lovely as her namesake—the ocean nymph of outstanding beauty from Greek mythology.
When the Ianthe of legend died, the gods themselves had mourned and blanketed the fields around her grave with purple flowers. Tonight, this Ianthe wore pale lavender, as though she were in half-mourning. Or perhaps it was simply to complement her colouring. The gown clung to the curve of her breasts and the sleeves slipped off her shoulders, revealing her collarbone. Her red hair was piled high on her head with a few curls artfully arranged about her face. She was beautiful and vivacious. Quinn's wolf wanted to snarl at the men who surrounded her and pull her away to somewhere private.
Ewan laid a hand on his arm, as though reading his thoughts. "I'll worry about her. You watch from the card tables."
Quinn bit back the words that rushed up his throat. Why did Ewan get to approach Ianthe? Just because he was older, more experienced, higher-ranking, and seemed to know everyone in the room? Admittedly those were compelling reasons, especially when they were all stacked up. But Quinn deserved a chance and he thought Ianthe deserved an honest approach, not subterfuge and games.
Instead, he asked a more reasoned question. "How do you intend to approach her?"
Ewan's cold gaze swept the room, barely registering Ianthe. "I won't. I intend to ignore her. Courtesans hate that. I will play out my bait and wait for her to come to me."
They split up and Ewan moved among his admirers, presenting his back to their target. Quinn circled the felt-topped tables, watching the games in progress and assessing the merits of the players. He sipped his champagne as Ewan chatted to an older woman. The crowd contained a few rich widows who sought companionship. Given the way this particular matron kept tapping Ewan's arm with her fan, it looked like she was intent on investing her finances in him.
From across the room, he stared at the subject of their mission. Quinn appraised her the same way he assessed an opponent at cards. Beneath the expensive gown, he saw a tired woman. She pretended to laugh at the comments of those around her, but he saw the faint lines at her eyes and the tension to her smile. Her hand tightened on her fan when someone touched her, since she could not be seen to pull away. There was a stiffness to her posture, yet she was fluid when seated on a horse.
Quinn saw a woman who would rather be anywhere else than in this parlour tonight. Damn the plan. He was going to rescue her, and the deuce what Ewan thought. He dropped his glass on a tray as a waiter passed by, then straightened the points of his waistcoat, brushed his hands through his hair, and made his way through the crowd.
He stopped before her and bowed. "Quinn Muir at your service, madam. May I escort you somewhere more private?"
The conversation of the older men around her ceased abruptly, as they turned to stare at him and mutter their rebukes. Ianthe's smile froze in place. Her grey gaze rested on him, and she tilted her head. "I think you are mistaken, Mr Muir, for I am quite content where I am."
Well, that wasn't the response he had expected. He’d imagined that when he rode up and offered to rescue her, she would fall into his arms and point to the closest exit.
He tried again. "I thought you might like some fresh air and equally fresh company."
The men at her sides straightened, or as much as their ancient and arthritic posture allowed.
"We were here first," one growled, as though she were a bone an old hound had dug up. Although, given the age of her admirers, they were the fossils, not Ianthe.
Quinn longed to drop his fangs and growl back, if only he could effect even a half-change to let his wolf show through. "Do you not grow tired of conversation with the same old gentlemen?"
He wondered what she saw in these men. He doubted any of them was younger than fifty. None would have the stamina to give a woman like her the evenings she deserved. He was surprised they were even still upright; surely they should all be tucked up in bed by now?
"Age brings with it wisdom and courtesy," she said. The smile never moved from her face, but her gaze narrowed as she swept his appearance. "I am not familiar with you, Mr Muir. Do you perhaps possess a fortune, to compensate for your lack of title?"
He stiffened. There was a blight on younger sons, for they lacked both titles and fortunes, as though the worth of a man depended on whether you had to call him lord or not. "No, madam, I do not possess a fortune."
The men beside her chuckled, and one spun a diamond ring on his pinkie. She gestured at Quinn with her fan. "Ah. Then we have nothing further to discuss."
He swallowed and bowed as the laughter of the older men washed over him. He might be dismissed like an errant schoolboy, but he was persistent. He intended to show Ianthe Wynn that a poor young man who held her in regard was worth far more than an old man with a fortune, who saw her as a mere objet d’art to add to his collection. He would regroup, muster his forces, and sally forth again.
4
Ianthe
* * *
Ianthe watched the young man move away and, for the briefest moment, she wished she could call him back and accept his offer of escape. Quinn Muir's words dropped like a stone through her hollow middle and stirred a cold breeze over her skin. The men who crowded around her were stifling, the very air around them tainted with the musty odour of decrepit mansions and rooms shut up for years. The young man threw words that rem
inded her of their age and frailty, and also made her recall being pressed into the mattress by Phillip's dead weight.
Due to the perilous state of her life, Ianthe was dependent on one of these men reaching into his pocket and leaving coins—or preferably notes, by her bed. Although she dressed in silk and moved among the nobles, Ianthe was not so far removed from the dirty women plying their trade in darkened allies.
Ianthe made polite excuses and moved away, through the open French doors and out onto the balcony. Tonight the rooms seemed either too small or too full, and she needed fresh air. She had come to the earl's soirée to hunt for a new patron. She needed to find someone wealthy, who would compensate her amply for her time, but also an older gentleman who would make few demands on her.
Age and health were delicate matters to judge; she didn't want someone so old or infirm that he would die on her. She never wanted to experience that again. There were two or three men who met her criteria, and since the sight didn't offer any direction, she sought more practical information about them. Then the strapping youth had bowled into their conversation and thrown her off-balance.
He had such an open face and wide, genuine smile that, for a moment, she’d struggled with what to say. Broad of shoulder and standing tall, he held himself like a military man. Ianthe always admired a man who took care of himself. His tangle of brown hair looked as though someone had wrestled it under control, and he possessed warm brown eyes that concealed nothing. Mr Muir seemed untouched by the ennui and cynicism that affected the rest of society. He certainly lacked any tact, given his direct approach.
Ianthe let out a sigh and inhaled deeply of the sharp night air. Mr Muir was a dangerous man. Honesty and youth were appealing, but they could also be tiring. It had been some years since she had taken a younger man to her bed. She had no enthusiasm for their constant demands, even if her hands longed to caress hard muscle and not excessive wrinkles.
Kisses to Steal Page 3