He was not relieved. Not one bit. There was still another factor he had not considered. One misstep and it would be ruined. Goddamn it, he had thought the man dead, never to haunt him again. But he’d been wrong, the man was alive.
Either that, or he was staring into the face of a ghost.
One of many who no doubt would plague his existence until he left this plane for the next.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS DARK IN THE STUDY, the curtains drawn, whether to keep out the drafts or to hide something, Iain didn’t know.
It had been remarkably easy to find his way into Sheldon’s town house, an ancient monstrosity in the heart of Cavendish Square. The windows had the original Georgian locks that were child’s play to pick. By the look of it, the previous earls of Sheldon hadn’t given a damn about thievery. By all accounts, neither did the current one, or he would have had every lock on every window replaced.
A growl outside the study door alerted Iain to the fact he was not exactly alone. He wondered what sort of beast was in the hall, snarling at the door. It wouldn’t do for the animal to alert a footman. But, then, the master was out, and when the master was out, the staff played games. Iain knew that from firsthand experience. He’d caught his maids with the footmen more times than he cared to remember.
The growl was followed by a whimper, and the rhythmic slapping of a tail hitting the floor. No guard dog that was, for certain. Still, the damn thing was going to attract unwanted attention, and Iain had no desire to be caught standing in the middle of Sheldon’s study by the butler.
On the desk, an oil lamp was burning low. He tsked…neglectful servants. Probably meant to shut it off, but in their haste to partake of the time the master was out, were too hasty in their tasks, and only turned it down.
Or perhaps the master himself had been in a hurry. Either way, it was fortuitous for Iain. No time wasted fumbling with matches.
Turning the lamp up just enough to chase away the shadows, he slowly looked around the study. It was inordinately neat and tidy, with nothing cluttering the surface of the desk. Leather-bound books filled the bookcases, while glistening dark walnut walls gave a nod to the ancient aristocrats who peered down soberly from their portraits. On the surface the room looked like many other male sanctuaries he had been in, but there was something here that bothered him. It was too damn neat. No man, gentleman or no, was this tidy.
Sheldon was hiding something. There could be no other conclusion. It was far easier to detect if something was askew or missing if everything was scrupulously kept, and the clutter normally acquired in a gentleman’s study was nonexistent.
It also made it much easier to search.
Deciding to make use of the small time he had, Iain began quietly opening the desk drawers. Nothing other than loose sheaves of paper, writing instruments, blotter and inkwell, sealing wax and a gold seal bearing the coat of arms of the earls of Sheldon were to be found. With a muttered oath, he turned to the bookcases, pulling out tomes and peering behind. Nothing.
It was apparent that everything in the room was from the previous earl. There was nothing intimate or personal belonging to Sheldon, giving away no clues, nor any impression of the man.
The tidiness, however, still struck home. It was almost as though Sheldon was an officer on campaign, with all his belongings tucked neatly away in a tent measuring no more than half the size of this room. Not even a cuff link or the burnt end of a cheroot in an ashtray was present. Not even a decanter of Scotch or brandy, Iain thought mulishly. He could use a drink to settle the mounting frustrations he felt as his gaze roved over the walls and the hearth.
A silently ticking pendulum clock perched on the mantel was the only decoration in the room. It was an exqui-site piece, a campaign piece, Iain noted as he lifted it up and studied it. The kind of piece that was an heirloom, passed down from father to son.
Tipping it over, Iain studied the bottom, ran his finger over an uneven edge, and tripped a false panel, only to see a shadow inside.
The sound of the front door opening and slamming shut, along with the dog’s wild barking, informed him he had run out of time. Replacing the bottom, he set the clock back on the mantel, then extinguished the lamp.
Iain dashed to the window and quickly jumped out, shutting the pane mere seconds before the earl sauntered into the room. Peering back through the glass, he saw Sheldon stop in the middle of the study, frozen, then look carefully around the room and tilt his head as if sniffing the air.
The dog was running circles around him, jumping and barking, begging for attention. Sheldon reached out and scratched the animal behind the ears, his gaze landing directly on the clock, the gold pendulum swaying back and forth. The satchel he wore slung over his shoulder was slipped off and placed haphazardly atop the desk.
The canvas flap opened, allowing parchment rolls to spill out of the bag.
Etchings… Iain squinted, trying to make out the draw-ings. Elevations of some sort, he thought, and his eyes widened as he saw the Templar cross in the corner of one, and beside it, the Cross Lorraine—a cross with an extra vertical bar, which had always been a heraldic sign to mark the dukes of Lorraine. It was also used within Freemasonry to denote a member’s degrees.
Fascinating. Iain could not drag his gaze from the symbols that seemed to entwine with his and the other Brethrens’ past. This could be no coincidence.
Taking brisk steps, Sheldon crossed the room to the hearth, placed his hands on the clock and adjusted the angle of it, his brows furrowed. Perplexed, thinking…
Sheldon knew. It was as if Iain could hear him say Someone has been in this room….
The earl moved to the window, and Iain pressed back against the redbrick, blending into the night that surrounded him. He was in the garden, with little moonlight.
Sheldon would not be able to see him. But that didn’t stop the earl from standing at the window for an inordinately long time, gazing out into the vast darkness. Finally, he moved back, pulled the curtains closed. It was then that Iain walked down the street to the waiting hackney.
“Sussex House,” he demanded. He had a blazing desire to check on Elizabeth, and to fill Sussex and Black in on his discoveries.
ONE, TWO, THREE, one, two, three… Cautiously, Lizzy made her way about the salon in slow steps, her arms not outstretched, searching for danger, as they should be, but curved, as if preparing to go around someone’s shoulders. Not just someone’s, she thought while she moved, keeping time in her head, but Lord Sheldon’s.
It had been years—more than a decade, she reminded herself—since she’d waltzed. She hadn’t dared to attempt it. But something had propelled her to do so this evening.
One, two, three, one, two, three… Yes, the rhythm was coming back, and she sensed that she was far enough away from any objects that might impede this imaginary dance.
One, two, three… It was almost automatic now, and with the added protection of being in Sheldon’s arms, well, there was nothing stopping her from accepting his proposal to dance, if one should ever come. This proved it—she was capable of moving through the dark, able to be led, and to trust that the one leading her would not send her into danger.
Smiling, she picked up the pace, gliding as if she were clasped in a pair of strong arms, being whisked around a ballroom. She twirled, giving it a go, then sensed, too late, that she had misjudged her whereabouts in the room, and her proximity to the hearth.
The loud crash of the scuttle and poker smashing against the marble hearth reverberated around the room with such a clatter that she knew everyone in the house would hear it. Stopping, she tried to reach for the rest of the tumbling objects, but promptly tripped over the hem of her gown, sending herself careening forward into what she prayed was not the marble pillar of the hearth.
After landing with a thud, her hands skidded along the smooth floor, her body following, only to be stopped by the impact of her forehead against the immovable pillar.
If she could see, she knew her v
ision would be swimming. Stars would be bursting behind her eyes. They were there, she knew; she just couldn’t see them. But she could sense the immediate vertigo, the nausea rise up and the pain of her head—not to mention her damaged pride.
Stupid, stupid fool, she thought as tears stung her eyes.
What nonsense was she trying to prove—and to whom?
“Beth!”
She groaned when the door was flung open against the wall, making her already pounding head throb more painfully.
“Good Christ,” said a voice she did not want to hear.
“What the devil happened?”
“Go away,” she moaned as she brushed her hand across her skull and immediately felt a sticky warmth on her fingers. “Just leave me be.”
“Like hell,” Alynwick grunted, and she felt him lean over her, the scent of his body burning her nose, the heat from his chest comforting. Immediately she struggled against it as she felt her skirts being brushed aside.
“Christ,” he whispered, his voice unsteady, “your gown was only inches from the fire.” He shuddered. “You could have gone up in flames.”
She pictured it, her prone body igniting, the satin of her evening gown lighting up as fire snaked along her body. And all because she’d wanted to see if she could waltz. Vain, silly creature. So very greatly in need of his protection. Even though she would not thank him for it.
“Hold still,” he snapped, and she heard him reach into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, then delicately brush loose strands of hair away from her brow. “You’re bleeding,” he murmured. “Let me have a look.”
“Get. Out!” she enunciated in a clipped tone.
“Are you dizzy?” he demanded. “Can you sit up?”
“I can manage myself, thank you,” she muttered as she struggled to sit upright. Moving her shoulders caused her to wince and hiss in discomfort. His hand, so warm and large, landed between her shoulder blades, supporting her.
“Let me look,” he repeated.
“Can’t you understand you are not wanted here?”
“Settle your feathers,” he whispered against her ear.
“There is no need to act all pricklish. You’re injured.” “I’m mortified! Can you not allow me to wallow in my own stupidity in peace?” she said, her bravado deflated.
“I’ll not leave you alone.”
“Wonderful. So I am to endure further mortification in your presence, is that it? You are a devil, Alynwick,” she snapped.
Her head hurt and her body ached. Her pride, well, it was damn near decimated. Bad enough she had fallen, but to be rescued by Iain, to know he saw her in such an unglamorous position, sprawled out on the floor, was more than degrading. It was appalling, not to mention utterly unacceptable.
“What the devil were you doing, and so close to the hearth?”
“Just help me up.”
He did as she commanded, but he did not release her.
Instead he held her, steadied her, not by the arms, but by wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her close.
“Lady Elizabeth?”
She groaned again. Maggie. And she would discover her wrapped in Alynwick’s lascivious arms.
“Your mistress has fallen. Summon the doctor.”
“Right away, my lord.”
Elizabeth could envision Maggie bobbing a curtsey and rushing to do his bidding. “No!” she cried, trying to shake off his hold. “I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding, miss,” Maggie said worriedly.
“It’s only superficial. I just need a wet cloth.” Silence. She could imagine that there were shared looks between her companion and Alynwick, and she hated that she couldn’t see them, could not tell what transpired.
“Very well,” Iain muttered. “If you would be so good, Maggie, as to get me some supplies, I shall tend to the lady in lieu of the physician.” Elizabeth gasped in outrage at his suggestion, but found herself moved effortlessly to a settee, and lowered gently onto its cushions.
“I shall accept the doctor.” She sniffed, trying to find her shield and pride so she could brandish both before him. But it was a useless endeavour, for they were both still lying on the marble floor where she had fallen.
“Too late,” he said as he took the cushion beside her.
She was sitting upright, and felt a little bilious. She’d give anything to lie down, but would not give the maddening Iain a chance to be smug—and correct. “Your companion has already left the room, and now there is no one else here but me. Lucifer.”
She almost smiled at that quip. Almost.
“Why are you here at this time of night? Shouldn’t you be out doing something wanton and depraved?”
“How do you know that I haven’t come here for that express purpose?” he teased.
Sucking in her breath, Elizabeth tried to ignore him.
“Sussex is not in.”
“You don’t think I’ve come here tonight to be wanton and depraved with Sussex, do you? My, how much of a degenerate you think me.”
He was teasing. She heard the laughter in his words, in the silky voice that seemed to slide along her flesh.
“I think you a proliferate degenerate.”
“Yes. I know.” There was no further teasing in his voice. The light banter had been replaced with something that sounded rather akin to pain. But for one to feel pain, one must have a heart, a conscience, and Iain possessed neither.
“I can’t tell you where my brother has gone. You sug- gested that I be kept out of Brethren affairs, and Sussex has lost his mind, believing you correct. But I was told that he made a hasty escape after learning that Lucy had not been home since this morning. I do hope nothing has happened to her, especially after the events of today.”
“I am sure she is well. Sussex will find her.”
“He’s been gone for hours. Took Black and Isabella with him. I suspect he’s gone to the House of Orpheus, but again, he would not tell me. He only said he would return soon.”
“It’s a good thing, then, that I came when I did. You should not be alone. Now, come closer and let me see you,” he demanded.
“You’re not touching me,” she announced. “Besides, I’m perfectly fine. And it’s unseemly for you to be visit-ing in the evening when my brother is out.”
“And why is that?” he murmured.
“You know perfectly well why. It’s the evening, Alynwick. You know what people will think if it gets out that you have been over in the evening while my brother is not at home.”
“That we are having sex, is that it? You fool yourself, Beth, or perhaps you forget the fact that one can fuck quite adequately in the daylight during a polite morning call.”
She blushed at his crass language, and he laughed.
“Morning or evening. Either way, people will wonder what it is I am doing here. It’s the way of the ton.”
“Oh, your language,” she muttered, but winced as the pain in her head worsened. “You try my patience to no end.” And desolate my heart.
To hear what occurred between them debased to something done in a brothel made her want to retch.
With an annoyed-sounding sigh, he reached for her, pulled her closer while ignoring her gasp and struggles, and tilted her head, to what she perceived was the light from an oil lamp, for she felt the flickering heat on her cheek, smelled the scent of the burning oil.
“You were waltzing.”
The words, spoken so softly, stopped her cold. “You were spying on me!” she accused in outrage, but with typical Alynwick indifference he did not seem at all cha-grined to be caught intruding upon her privacy.
“For whose arms were you risking life and limb?”
“None of your concern.”
She felt him brush up against her, then dab at her brow with his handkerchief, which was covered in his scent, and did nothing but stir her unease.
“You’re already starting to bruise. I wish I could have arrived sooner, caught you before you fell.”
“I wish you had not been spying in the first place!” Straightening her spine, she winced in pain before she could check the emotion. Alynwick was already leaning back, his deft fingers trailing across the skin that was revealed by the neck of her gown.
“You’re bleeding here, too—and bruised. Let me see.”
“I think you have seen enough for one day, my lord. I thank you for picking me up off the ground. Now if you would be so kind as to take your leave, Maggie can see to my war wounds.”
“I have no other appointments for the evening. I am happy to linger and assist you.”
“Well, I do have appointments,” she growled. “Now take yourself off.”
“Ah,” he said, and there was a wealth of knowledge in that one word. “Shelly must be coming by. An evening call? How sordid, Elizabeth.”
“Lord Sheldon,” she corrected. “And yes, he is. And I will die ten thousand deaths if he arrives and I am looking like this.”
“Looking like what?” he murmured silkily as he tugged a few strands of hair that were already falling from her coiffure. “Like you have been well and truly tumbled?”
“Like I have tripped and fallen like a blind fool,” she snapped, pulling away from him.
“Never a fool, Beth,” he said, and she hated—and adored—the way he said her name. “Shall I take you in my arms and waltz with you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Shall I just take you in my arms, then?”
“I am not a child, my lord.”
“I know. One look at your body and no man could think you a child. But still, I have the mad urge to kiss away your pain and make you feel better. I could, you know.” His voice was a deep rumble as his finger traced her collarbone. “I could take away the pain, replace the ache with another sort of ache, a thrumming heaviness, one of yearning deep in your core.” His hand slowly glided down, to where her breasts were pushed high beneath her bodice. Sinking one finger into the cleft, he slowly moved it up and down, intimating the carnal act she remembered all too easily.
“I could bend you back and pleasure you, and you wouldn’t even feel the scrapes between your shoulders as you lay against the settee, because you would be too far gone with the feel of my mouth and lips tasting you…parting you.” With his thick finger he did just that, parted her breasts, creating a space for his tongue to flick and lave and circle, intimating another act he had performed on her once so long ago. He had a beautiful mouth, a skilled tongue that shocked yet excited her. She had been mortified by what he had done, but not enough to make him stop. No, she had only opened wider to him, and lowered her hand to his hair, so she could feel the movement of his head against her.
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