The Wicked One

by Suzanne Enoch

  “It’s so good to see you, Diane,” the duchess cooed. “You’ve been away for so long!”

  “Thank you for inviting me this evening, Your Grace,” Diane returned, reflecting that she’d only met the Duchess of Hennessy once and that the woman had spent the entire time complaining about her husband’s gout.

  “My condolences on Lord Cameron’s passing,” the previously gouty duke rumbled, with a marked glance at Diane’s all-black ensemble. “Two years now, isn’t it?”

  “Just over that, yes.” She gestured at herself, the tips of her fingers lingering for just a moment at her neckline. “I do so adore wearing black. Once I donned it for Frederick, I simply never gave it up.” She smiled. “It’s a very underused color for females, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Hennessy returned, his gaze following her trailing fingers. “Very underused.”

  The duchess cleared her throat. “Do enjoy yourself this evening, Lady Cameron.”

  “Oh, I shall. Thank you.”

  She did intend to enjoy herself, or she had when she’d originally planned her reentry into Society. The architecture of her plans up to the tiniest of details was to have been laid out by now, with only the pied piping to remain. Things had changed, things not even she could have foreseen, but she would make do. It would take more maneuvering than she’d anticipated, and it would mean involving that … man, but perhaps even that could be turned to her advantage.

  At the least she chose to think that with a bit of strategically applied effort and perhaps a pinch of blackmail the end result would be what she wanted. What she required. And that hardly seemed too much to ask.

  A tall fellow with a glittering emerald pin through his cravat approached her and bowed. “Are you dancing this evening, my lady?” he asked, his affected lisp reminding her why for a time she’d actually preferred Vienna.

  “Introduce yourself, and I shall decide,” she returned, favoring him with the cool smile she’d perfected over the past year. The one that said she knew more than she was revealing. It had certainly served her well; in fact, she would place it just below money in the ranks of useful things to have.

  “Ah, of course. I am Stewart Cavendish. Lord Stewart Cavendish. My father is the Marquis of Thanes. And you are ravishing.”

  A second son or below, then. But still a lordling. “For that kind compliment, I shall grant you a quadrille.”

  His own smile deepened. “And what would it take for me to earn a waltz?”

  An inheritance and a title, she thought to herself. “Better than one moment of acquaintance,” she said aloud. “We shall see how you manage the quadrille.”

  He bowed again, reaching for her dance card until she took a step backward and inscribed his name on the thing herself. When they danced was her choice, not his. She ticked off the spaces with her forefinger.

  “I shall see you for the fourth dance then, Lord Stewart, son of Lord Thanes.” She deepened her smile just a touch.

  “And I shall be practicing the steps in anticipation.”

  As he strolled away to regale his friends with their conversation, Diane turned, taking a heartbeat to sweep her gaze across the many pairs of eyes watching her. No sign yet of Oliver Warren, but he was likely in one of the gaming rooms. Which meant she needed to find her way there as well—no easy feat considering that ladies were discouraged from visiting the sites of such vices.

  By the time she’d made her way across the room to the doorway of one of the three temporary gaming rooms set off the main ballroom, she had seven dances spoken for. Only the evening’s first dance and the two waltzes remained, just as she intended. Diane crossed the doorway, managing a surreptitious glance at the billiards table inside. A dozen gentlemen stood about, but not the one she sought.

  A cool breeze brushed across her back. “You are making quite the impression,” Jenny’s soft voice came. “‘Where has she been?’ ‘Where did she find her wealth?’ ‘Why is no one escorting her?’ ‘Does she mean to remarry?’”

  Diane gave a slight nod. “It doesn’t take long, does it?” she murmured from behind her dance card. “If I can find Lord Haybury, this next bit will be even more interesting.”

  “I heard two women complaining that he was spending all evening in the card room and wouldn’t come out to dance,” her companion returned. “They are very disappointed.”

  “Sometimes I think Bonaparte would have won the war if you’d been on his side, my dear.”

  “Of course he would have.”

  Diane caught the smile before it could touch her mouth. Instead she continued with her search, declining two more invitations as the music for the night’s first dance, a quadrille, began on the overlooking balcony. The dance floor filled, and the space around her opened. And then her pathway was blocked again.

  “Diane.”

  She looked up into pale gray eyes cooler than the fabled ice of the Arctic. “Oliver. There you are.” Before she could take the moment to consider just what she was about to do, she stepped forward, taking both his hands in hers. “So good to see you again.” She set her mouth into a deep smile, far more than she’d favored anyone else with that evening.

  His hands felt warm even through her gloves—and thank God she was wearing them, or she would have been tempted to scratch out those lovely eyes with her nails. His fingers, though, remained in hers. And they were very still. A heartbeat later he withdrew them. “Yes, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he said, though the expression deep in his eyes was far more murderous.

  “It has! Do call on me tomorrow. At ten o’clock. We’ll have tea. I do so want to announce the news of my new gaming club, you know.”

  There. Before she could even turn away she heard the echoes of her conversation spreading through the guests like a ripple of water in a pond. Or fire in a wheat field, more like. Yes, she’d just said she was opening a gaming club. Yes, Lord Haybury knew all about it—indeed, they were old friends.

  A hand grabbed her elbow. “What the dev—”

  Diane blinked, pulling in her thoughts even as she faced Oliver again. His expression hadn’t altered, but his eyes weren’t cool any longer. “Not here, Oliver,” she cooed, holding still despite the fact that she had the sudden urge to yank herself free and run. Swiftly. “We must discuss the details first.” With her free hand she reached up and touched his cheek, brushed her fingers against hair the brown of richest chocolate.

  The murmuring became peppered with gasps of surprise. “Whatever you’re attempting to tangle me in, I will destroy you for this,” he breathed.

  She smiled again. “You may try,” she returned. “Now unhand me or I shall kiss you.”

  The trap of his fingers snapped open, and feeling rushed back into her arm.

  “A pity you aren’t dancing this evening,” she continued in a more audible tone. “Ten o’clock. Don’t forget.”

  His hard gaze held her in place for a moment. “I don’t forget anything.”

  “Hm. Neither do I.”

  As she glided over to meet her partner for the next dance of the evening, she used every ounce of willpower to keep her hands and voice steady. Yes, she knew precisely what she was doing and no, he didn’t frighten her in the least, but being face-to-face with him again … It reminded her of more than how much she disliked the man. Touching him sparked the memory of things that she’d already resolved were not to be dredged up again. Not for anything.

  By the second waltz of the evening Lord Haybury was nowhere to be found and the gossip about her plans had spread so far it was coming back to her. She stood to one side, intentionally in sight of all the men who’d asked her to waltz and been refused. Yes, they were on the dance floor while she wasn’t, but each one knew—as did she—that he was partnered with his second choice.

  Yes, the night was proceeding perfectly. The only thing that could have made it better was if Oliver had demanded a waltz as well, so she could have turned him down just as she had all the others. More than likely
he’d known that, though. Oliver Warren was no fool.

  “You should sample the parfaits,” Jenny said from beside her. “They are exquisite.”

  “The Hennessys’ chef is a fellow from Sicily,” she returned. “I won’t have him.”

  “I didn’t mean you should hire him. I meant the sweets are tasty.”

  Diane rolled her shoulders. “Yes, yes. I’m sorry, my dear; I’m obsessing again. But I won’t be eating this evening.”

  “I shall eat two, then.” Genevieve seated herself, using a stand of ferns to shield her from the majority of the room. “Everyone wants to know if you’ve gone mad. ‘A club? What sort of club? If Haybury is involved it must be for wagering.’”

  “I told you he was the better choice, however willing Lord Blalock was to open his purse. Blalock wasn’t known for anything but having deep pockets and a penchant for the ladies. Oliver Warren is synonymous with wagering. It saves so many steps.”

  Even without looking, she knew Jenny’s expression would be skeptical. It didn’t matter, however. She’d taken the first step and had already laid out the pathway all the way to the front door. And Oliver had best walk it with her, or he would regret it. Because arrogant as he was, she knew just where to find the chinks in his armor. Nor was she afraid to exploit them. With Lord Blalock dead, everything depended on it.

  “As you said, we have no choice,” her companion agreed softly.

  “As I said. More gossip, if you please.”

  “I’ll be close by the refreshment table. And not because of the parfaits. The sweets seem to loosen tongues.”

  “I’ll not begrudge you a parfait, my dear. Merely keep your ears busy, as well.”

  “Mais oui.”

  Partway across the room Diane noticed a young lady looking at her. That wasn’t so unusual, though the woman’s expression wasn’t the vaguely resentful one she’d already become accustomed to seeing on female faces this evening. Finally the lady clasped her hands together and approached. “Has it truly been so long that you don’t remember me?” she said, stopping a few feet away.

  Diane looked at her more closely. “Jane Lumley.”

  Jane smiled. “You see? Four years hasn’t altered me so much. You, on the other hand…” She gestured at the sleek black gown Diane wore. “You’ve become some sort of goddess of temptation, I think.”

  “Oh, please. It’s only clothes.” Abruptly less certain than she had been since her return to London, Diane gestured her old friend toward the open balcony doors. She hadn’t had many close friends before Frederick, and fewer after, and this was not a conversation she looked forward to having. But if she’d learned anything over the past four years, it was that no one else would look after her with the same care and cunning she used. And looking after herself took precedence over everything. Even old friends.

  “For someone who so quietly absented herself from Society you certainly know how to make a grand entrance,” Jane observed as they stepped out on the balcony. Two couples had preceded them, but it was still a hundred times quieter than the ballroom.

  Of course quiet also meant they could more easily be overheard. “Frederick’s decision to leave England was rather … impulsive. Leaving Vienna took a bit more forethought. It’s such a lovely city, you know.”

  “So I hear.” Her expression cooling a fraction, Jane sent her gaze over the rooftops behind them. “You’re not still in mourning, are you?” she asked in a quieter voice. “Because as I recall, you and Frederick—”

  “Vienna is quite romantic as well,” Diane broke in. “You really should make an effort to visit.” There. Whatever her motives, it would never do for her to be seen as mercenary. Everyone had to see something in her plans for themselves, or her ship would be sunk before it ever left port.

  “I shall, then.” Jane favored her with a sideways glance. “I would be delighted if you would call on me, you know. For tea, or luncheon, or shopping—whatever pleases you.”

  “Well, I’m frightfully busy with my new hobby, but we shall see. Thank you for the invitation.”

  “Your new hobby being opening a gaming house?”

  “A club. A magnificent, very exclusive club.”

  “A club, then.” Jane drew a breath. “We were dear friends once, Diane. If you ever wish to chat, I shall lend you an ear. Two, if necessary.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not harboring any dark secrets. Not very exciting, I know, but there you have it.”

  When Jane excused herself a few moments later in favor of a clearly nonexistent appointment, Diane let out her breath in a small sigh. Yes, they’d been friends, but the last thing she needed these days was a combination of confidante and reminder of her unfortunate, naïve past. Diane chose her companions and associates with great care now, mostly because she could. In fact, she refused to be a victim of circumstance or tradition or—or anything, any longer.

  This was her venture, and no one else would be allowed to guide, assume, or abscond with it. Ever. And the sooner one particularly arrogant man learned his place in the scheme of things, the better for everyone concerned. She would tell him that tomorrow. At ten o’clock.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  “THE WICKED ONE” copyright © 2012 by Suzanne Enoch.

  Excerpt from A Beginner’s Guide to Rakes copyright © 2011 by Suzanne Enoch.

  Cover art © Tricia Schmitt (Picky Me)

  All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  eISBN: 978-1-4668-1495-0

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