"Lady Isabel Grayson," Ianthe murmured at the watery spectacle. "The daughter of the Duke of Balcairn."
"Balcairn?" Quinn's mind leapt on the name, the very first name on their list and the man they suspected was behind the plot against England. It was often those closest to power who sought to grasp ultimate control and rule themselves. The larger question was how Balcairn intended to seize his prize.
"Yes, do you know him?" Ianthe leaned closer as Lady Isabel started splashing the gathered crowd.
Quinn wrapped his arm around Ianthe, on the pretext of protecting her from a sprinkling, though he simply liked having her nestled alongside him. "We don't move in the same circles, but I have heard his name. Balcairn is close to the crown, I believe. I did not realise his daughter was an aquatic creature. Is she part selkie?"
The woman now added singing to her water dance, a bawdy tune that had the women swooning into the waiting arms of the bucks. They watched for a moment, but Quinn found the whole spectacle tinged with sadness, as if the woman was crying out for attention but received ridicule instead.
Ianthe's hand curled tighter around his arm. "Isabel seems to delight in outraging society and enraging her father. There are wagers being laid on when her father will bow to the pressure, and either send her off on a grand tour never to return, or offer a large enough purse for a suitor to take her off his hands."
The Cyprian and her wolf carried on through the square, and the woman splashing in the fountain receded into the background. Quinn mulled over the noblewoman whose father they suspected of being a French ally. She might prefer to be married off, if the duke was attainted and the family lost everything. "I feel sorry for Lady Isabel. Can you imagine the weight of expectation pressing upon her?"
She glanced sideways at him. "Most people would look at the cavorting Isabel and dismiss her as a vacuous slip of muslin. You are a rare man, Quinn, with your empathy for your fellow creatures."
He shrugged. There was only one creature he truly felt in tune with, the one at his side. He just needed her to feel it too.
Limmer's was loud and raucous, and it didn't pay to look too closely at the floor. Quinn managed to secure a table to one side, where they could see the winner's cups from the races and observe the antics of the other patrons, without being overwhelmed by them. The food was plain but hearty and the wine a tad rough, but you stopped noticing by the third glass.
They passed an enjoyable meal and engaged a few fellow diners in a heated discussion about the current crop of racehorses out competing. As the meal was cleared away, Ianthe fixed Quinn with a stare. "You have questioned me about my life, but seem rather quiet about your own."
He shrugged. "There is not much to tell. I have four older brothers, and I joined the army young. Two years ago I was bitten by a wild lycanthrope and became a member of the Highland Wolves. What else would you know?"
Her gaze was clear, with a hint of curiosity lurking in the cloudy depths. "What of love?"
His heart squeezed. He had an ocean of love to offer and would lavish it on her, if she but asked.
Ianthe toyed with her wineglass, as though she needed something for her hands to do. "Do you have a sweetheart waiting for you? Some fair Highland lass staring at an empty road, counting the days until you hold her again?"
There was only one fair lass he wanted to hold, and she was across the table from him. He held her gaze. "No. I find girls rather fickle and flighty. I much prefer a slightly older woman, who knows her mind."
"Quinn," she murmured. "Ours is a temporary arrangement. One day you will find a girl your own age, fall in love, and probably have many boisterous and furry sons."
He hated the reminder that each minute he spent in her company was another struck off his ledger with her. His luck at cards had won him the initial place in her home; he just needed to figure out how to use that to his advantage. "Wolves are different to ordinary men. A wolf's love is fierce and forever, when we find our mate we cannot be dissuaded."
Her gaze widened. "You mate for life? How extraordinary."
"What of Cyprians—do you not make permanent plans? Is this all you want from your life, one temporary arrangement after another?" He tried to keep the bitter tone from his voice. Why did she not demand more from life, or, more specifically, more from him?
"I had a sort of permanence. My arrangement with Phillip was only cut short by the Creator calling him home." Her hand tightened on the stem of her glass, the only hint that darker thoughts ran behind her lightly thrown words.
"Do Cyprians marry?" He marvelled at her world, so light and bright and full of pleasure, yet so fleeting. The women who ruled tonight could be usurped tomorrow and they had nothing to grasp to stop their tumble.
She shrugged. "Some do, if they are lucky enough to find a wealthy patron who makes the permanent commitment."
"What if a not-so-wealthy patron wanted a lifetime commitment?"
Ianthe laughed and then cast her eyes downward, not meeting his gaze. "Why would a Cyprian accept a permanent arrangement without the corresponding cash flow to support her lifestyle?"
He had to ask, one little question that carried such enormous hope: "Could love not be enough?"
"No." She looked down, but not before he caught the sadness in her eyes.
Well, he would just have to change her worldview, then.
Laughter erupted from the back of the room, and a crowd parted to let through six strangely dressed young lads. Long horsehair tails were sewn to their breeches, and each wore a bridle and a brightly coloured saddlecloth belted around his middle. Each saddle blanket sported a large white number from one through six.
"What on earth is happening?" Ianthe asked.
"It's the races," Quinn laughed. This was why he had brought Ianthe here, for a night of fun. "The boys race around the room, and you bet on who will win."
He eyed the lads. They jostled and pushed one another as they waited for the patrons to place their bets. Quinn turned his gaze to them, trying to figure out who looked like he wanted to win. He decided on the runt of the litter, with a blue saddlecloth. Small and scrawny, the lad looked hungry for victory. He also looked small enough to dodge under the furniture that was crowded in the public room.
Quinn pulled a shiny shilling from his pocket and caught the lad's eye. Immediate interest lit the boy's face. Quinn waved the coin, held up one finger, and mouthed, 'First.'
The boy gave him a discreet nod. Plan in place, he placed his money on number four to win.
Ianthe laughed openly now. "There is no room for them to race in here."
Quinn grinned. "That's part of the fun. They have to make it past the furniture and the patrons. You are allowed to interfere."
The boys were marshalled to one side. They were to race twice around the room and back to the starting point, all while on hands and knees. A tall gent yelled, "Are we ready?"
The crowd roared in return, someone hollered go, and the boys shot away. Chaos erupted as the 'horses' fought, pushed, and pulled each other's tails. Many of the watchers also jostled each other to push chairs and tables in the way, which had to be surmounted, or even more cunning, drop a small coin, forcing a boy to slow down as he picked it up and pocketed the money.
Quinn picked up Ianthe and helped her stand on the chair, so she commanded a better view of the race. She clapped her hands and cheered number four. The wee boy scooted under chairs and around legs, steadfastly ignoring the pennies thrown in his path. A larger boy knocked him off-balance and number four rolled to one side, only stopping when he bumped into a wall of legs. He shook himself off and got back up on his knees. Quinn was yelling right along with the others as the boys started their second circuit.
Now, leaders began to emerge. Number four was sitting in third place, when someone toppled a chair in his path. He clambered over the top, but wasn't gaining on the leaders. Ianthe jumped up and down on her chair and screamed, "Come on, four!"
Quinn fumbled in his pocket and fo
und a couple of coins. He lobbed them at the leaders and was rewarded to see them pause to grab them off the floor. Number four edged closer. Ianthe's excited scream escalated and it was music to Quinn, who would be hoarse the next morning from the amount of yelling he was doing.
Another chair was thrown at number four, but he ducked and dodged, and it flew past and knocked out number one instead. Then he crawled under and around a table to narrow the lead. The boy in first place was stymied by a table hurriedly dropped as a hurdle, and number four scurried ahead.
Amid cries and cheers and shouts of cheating, the small lad finished first. Quinn picked up Ianthe and swung her around. "Having fun?" he whispered.
"Yes," she said, slightly breathless from all the yelling. The huge smile on her face nearly knocked his feet from under his body.
A tug on his trouser leg brought Quinn back to reality from his spin around the stars. Horse number four gave him a toothy grin and held out a hand.
Quinn dove into his pocket and folded the shilling into the boy's hand. "Well done, lad."
"It was a close thing," the boy said, and then disappeared back through the massed legs.
Quinn collected his winnings, amply making back the lost shilling, and escorted Ianthe out the door into the cool evening.
She nestled close against the light breeze. "Thank you. I haven't had that much fun in a very long time."
"I am determined to show you that enjoyment does not hinge upon possessing a fortune," he said as they strolled along the lanes. The streets were as busy at night as during the day. People called to one another, and the clubs and inns spilled over with laughter and chatter. Women lurked at the edge of the shadows, looking for a willing client to spend the coin that would pay for their bed and board.
From a lit doorway, a woman waved and called out. Ianthe sighed and then mustered up a smile.
"Giselle," she said as they paused by the house, feminine laughter spilling into the night air from inside.
"Why, if it isn't Ianthe and the talented Mr Muir." Giselle had the most garish red hair, and a low-cut gown that clung perilously to her breasts.
Quinn wondered if the woman had tried to replicate Ianthe's fiery colour, but if so, she had failed miserably. She also advertised her wares a little too liberally, when perhaps she would benefit from an air of mystique, letting the unlucky patron be surprised by what he found underneath. Or perhaps Giselle was just finding men who wanted to spend time with the women inside the house.
"After the other night, rumours abound about your fine young gentleman here, and what exactly his talents are, particularly given he's one of them wolves. Some say he has a very long tail or that he must boast amazing linguistic skills with his wolf's tongue." Giselle winked at Ianthe and licked her lips at Quinn.
"And what say you?" he asked, feeling somewhat like a bull being appraised at market.
Her gaze roamed over his body, but lingered at a particular mid-point. "I'm simply fascinated by the size of your Hessians," she murmured from under lowered lashes.
"I'm afraid you will just have to continue to speculate about Mr Muir's talents. I intend to keep my lips sealed on the subject," Ianthe said.
Giselle pouted. "Well, if he wears you out, dear, the girls and I will happily take him off your hands."
"I could not imagine ever growing weary of Mr Muir's company. Have a good evening, Giselle." Ianthe's words were clipped as she nodded to the older courtesan, and turned back to the road.
Hope burned hot in Quinn's chest at Ianthe's words, tinged with the lightest shade of jealousy. Nothing could ruin this evening. It was almost perfect, if only he had a kiss to spare. He doffed his hat and drew her away.
They strolled back to Bond Street, where they planned to hail a hackney for the trip home. A group of young dandies piled out of a club onto the pavement. They were staggering against one another, laughing, when one narrowed his gaze at Ianthe. The hair on the back of Quinn's neck stood up. He recognised drunken trouble when he spotted it.
"Ianthe Wynn!” one called out. "I have heard of you." Sniggers ran from man to man, and they elbowed each other.
She ignored them and turned her head to gaze at a passing carriage, as if looking for one in particular.
Quinn pulled her closer and moved to walk around the group. The wolf prowled under his skin, wanting to push through and snarl at the men. One man, who wavered less on his feet than the others, blocked their path.
The fop reached out at Ianthe. "Don't be so coy. The boys and I are looking for some entertainment this evening, and we have the coin to pay for what is between your legs. Don't think you are above us."
She drew in a breath, perhaps a retort on her lips but Quinn wasn't waiting. He'd been tested enough over the last few days. He drew his fist back and hit the dandy smack in the nose. The man cried out and went to his knees, clutching at his face. Bright red dribbled from between his fingers and stained his cravat.
"You are wrong. The lady is so far above you, you could no more have her than you could grasp at the stars in the heavens." Nothing was going to ruin his near-perfect evening, especially not a drunken oaf.
14
Ianthe
* * *
The next morning, Ianthe gave a lazy stretch and considered her options: get up, or stay snuggled in the warmth of her bed? Meet Quinn in the dining room, or wait for him to seek her out? Her pulse thrummed through her body at the latter idea, and the good mood of the previous evening still lingered in her limbs. Having the young man under her roof made her reckless. Since the sight wasn't co-operating, she would throw the dice and play this hand to see what happened.
Her carefully constructed fortress was crumbling around her, and for once, she didn't care.
"Still abed, I see," Quinn said as he pushed into her bedroom a half hour later.
Ianthe dropped the newspaper. "Obviously."
A tiny part of her mind pointed out that this was her plan all along. She knew the cheerful soldier would seek her out. The cold part of her heart longed to warm itself in his glow, just as she had the night before. She had basked in his company, and his light crept into her darkest corners. His questions kept repeating in her head, asking if Cyprians could dream and seek love. She wanted to scoff and declare him foolish, except that in the quiet depths of her soul, she longed for just that. Someone special who would love her, hold her, and share her dreams.
She imagined having a wolf love her fiercely and forever, one who fought off the shadow demon that sought to claim her.
He grinned, and she marvelled at the joy he found in everyday life. It must be exhausting to greet each day with such enthusiasm. But even as their week together drew to an end, she had not seen him flag or wane. That devilish smile was as prominent at ten in the morning as it was at ten in the evening, and each time he turned his gaze on her, a primal tug stirred at her centre.
"Boots," she murmured as he sat on the edge of her bed.
Quinn tugged off his Hessians and settled on top of the blanket next to her, his gaze drawn by the way her diaphanous nightgown dipped over her breasts.
Heat flared through her body. She should have scolded him and chased him out, but she knew it was too late. Stone by stone, he had chipped his way through her defences and made her feel. To survive as a demimondaine, she had spent ten long years locked in ice. Now she wanted to embrace the fire, even though she knew the flames would consume her and leave only a pile of cold ashes in their wake. Ianthe longed for a hot memory to hold close for the empty years ahead.
He rolled to his side and leaned on one elbow. She cast a sideways glance at him. His shirt hung open, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his thick hair looked like it had yet to be introduced to either brush or comb. She guessed he had come straight to her room. Perkins wouldn't have let him past the foot of the stairs in such a state.
His gaze slid up to her face as he reached out, took the paper from her fingers, and tossed it to the floor. "I would have my kiss now."
She licked her lips and waited. "Are you not concerned Sarah will burst in and interrupt us, like Davie did yesterday?"
He laid a hand on the blankets at her waist. "I don't care if a blasted band parades through here, complete with trumpeters. Today, I will not be interrupted."
His gaze never left her face as he pushed the quilt down and wrapped his arm around her. He dragged her down the bed, so she was no longer sitting up but reclining next to him. His hand slid from her waist up under her back, hauling her closer with his fingers splayed over her spine. Only when she was flush to him, did he roll.
Ianthe thought he would roll on top of her, pushing her to the mattress as Phillip used to do. Instead, he rolled on to his back and pulled her over him. She kicked the bedding away from her feet, and her knees parted as he arranged their bodies so she ended up straddling him. The soft cotton of her shift rode up her thighs, and his touch burned through the delicate fabric.
"Do you want me to be in charge?" she asked, her hands on his chest as she leaned close.
His hands ran up from her thighs to her waist, holding her. "I want you to think you are."
Then he wound one hand in her loose hair and used gentle pressure to draw her head down to him. The distance between them closed from inches to mere fractions, measured by a hair's width. His breath was warm on her face, and his cheek rubbed against hers before he turned.
Quinn was right; being on top didn't mean being in charge. As soon as their lips met, he took everything. His tongue plundered her mouth, and she moaned against him as fire ran through her body. At times, he pulled back enough to lick or nip at her lips, until he dove back in again. Over and over, he caressed her mouth and danced with her tongue, until her senses reeled and she pressed her aching breasts against his chest. His arousal pushed into her core, and for the first time in long years, her body pushed back.
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