Lord Libertine

by Gail Ranstrom

  Damn Wycliffe and damn his unconscionable strategy! If Bella even got close to the villain, her life would be in grave danger. Andrew hadn’t seen any sign of the “covert agent” Wycliffe claimed was watching her.

  “Andrew?”

  Her voice was so soft that he barely heard it over the clatter of the horses’ hooves and the rattle of the harness. He leaned across the distance and took her hand. Though she’d drawn her gloves on, he could still feel her warmth. “Yes?”

  “You realize that kiss changes nothing, do you not?”

  He kept his disappointment hidden. He hadn’t dared think she would forgive him, or that her kiss had meant anything more than what it had been—a test of his innocence. “Yes, I know, Miss O’Rourke, although I had hoped it would change a few things.”

  “I…I will still go on kissing others.”

  The tears shimmering in her eyes nearly undid him. “Why?” he asked, and prayed she would answer this time so they could have it in the open.

  “If I do not, who will?”

  He tensed at the pain and resignation betrayed by that simple question. “I will,” he said.

  She blinked and then began to giggle.

  “Though it is unlikely that I will have your success,” he warned.

  “Thank you for your generous offer, but—”

  “Nothing generous about it, Bella. I have quite a bit to atone for, and I would think this would pay my account in full.”

  “And I…but that is not possible.”

  He tightened his grip on her hands. “I do not think you understand. The choice is no longer yours.”

  She tugged her hands free and sat back against the leather squabs. “I surrendered a kiss, sir, not my free will.”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, my dear Miss O’Rourke, you surrendered everything to me but your free will, and I now consider those things to be mine. Sadly for you, I do not share.”

  “You promised you would not interfere with me.”

  “I lied.”

  “Then everything is the same as it always was.”

  “Not everything. You now have my cooperation and whatever assistance you require. Everything, in fact, but my willingness to stand by and watch you kiss other men. I know I’ve given you little reason to trust me, Bella, but you have my vow that you can. If you could bring yourself to believe that, things would go easier between us.”

  He watched the expressions flicker across her face and knew she was struggling with herself. God knew she had no reason to trust him, and less to believe his word that she could. And yet he hoped, for the sake of that one kiss, that she would manage it.

  “There is a man,” she began. “I will know him only by his kiss. I must find him.”

  It was a start. “What will you do when you find him?”

  “I shall report him to the authorities.”

  “Why?”

  “He is a murderer.”

  He leaned forward again. “How do you know this, Bella?”

  Her pause was longer this time. He could only imagine how difficult this was for her. “He…he murdered my sister.”

  He gave her a look of deep sympathy, relieved that she had finally bridged the gap that had separated them. “May I assume my kiss has exonerated me?”

  She closed her eyes and the dark fans of her lashes were spiked with unshed tears. “Yes.”

  He reached across the distance and touched her face, stroking her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “I wish I’d kissed you sooner, Bella.”

  She nodded. “I tried.”

  He groaned, remembering those times. “You have my apology for my ungentlemanly behavior.”

  “But you see now, do you not, that I must continue? The authorities have given up, and if my sister is to have justice, it depends upon me.”

  Blast Wycliffe and his lies! If it were not for the other murders, he would tell her everything. “I shall find another way. I cannot allow you to trade your honor for your sister’s.”

  “What honor?” The question had been delivered more like an accusation, and she looked immediately contrite.

  He took a deep breath. “Another thing we shall remedy once this is over.”

  “Do you know of some potion to drink? A magical spell that will restore it?”

  “I know a ritual that will set things straight.”

  Her expression of disbelief did not change. Either she did not realize he had just proposed, or she chose to ignore him. Well, perhaps that was best for the moment. She already had enough to think about.

  They reached the corner of James Street, and the coach pulled up as Andrew had instructed. He hopped down and turned to lift Bella to the street. She braced herself with her hands on his shoulders and when he set her on her feet, she looked up at him. Faith! She was so beautiful, so vulnerable. How could he let her go?

  He held her at arm’s length. If he gave in to temptation, he’d miss his appointment at the Lion and Bear. He wasn’t doing this for Wycliffe now, but for Bella.

  “I’ll wait until I see you are safe inside,” he whispered, turning her around and giving her a little push in the right direction. “I will meet you tomorrow at Belmonde’s.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Lion and Bear was located on a dark street in the rookeries of St. Giles. Even at midnight, there was no cessation of crime, noise, commerce or drunkenness. Andrew had dodged a pickpocket, refused a street doxy and turned down the purchase of a jeweled snuff box from a street urchin by the time he reached the tavern and pushed his way through an unwashed crowd to find Dash.

  But Dash and Henley were not alone. Somewhere along the way, they had collected Jamie, Elwood, Charlie and Throckmorton. Dash waved him to their table near the back of the public room.

  “Here you are at last,” Henley said. He poured a measure of wine into a waiting glass. “You’ve got some catching up to do, Hunter. No one goes sober, I’m told.”

  Andrew cast a suspicious glance at the rest of them. Elwood and Throckmorton appeared deep in their cups, Dash and Jamie did not seem much the worse for wear, but Charlie and Henley looked to be well on their way to oblivion. He lifted his glass, took a drink and winced.

  “For the love of God, Henley, did you bring a special brew?” He studied the bottle, but it looked like any other wine bottle. “I can understand the salacious appeal of brimstone at a Sabbath, but why imbibe the concoction before we must?”

  “To put us in the mood, my good man. Come, there is not so much in the wine as last time.”

  Andrew couldn’t say. He had only a fuzzy memory of the last Sabbath he’d attended. Could it be only little more than a week ago—the night he’d met Bella? “I daresay they will give us more to drink once we begin,” he murmured, taking another cautious sip.

  “Aye, there’s always free-flowing wine at such events,” Jamie agreed as he finished his glass and shuddered.

  Dash merely sipped his and smiled, and suddenly Andrew wondered if he could be Wycliffe’s covert agent. Why not? He was frequently around, had taken more than a passing interest in Andrew’s supposed flirtation with Bella, and had seemed as interested in blood games as he had. The thought amused him because, after the questions he’d asked, Dash would be wondering if he was the man the Home Office was looking for.

  “You look like the cat who swallowed the canary,” Dash said.

  “Not quite, but I believe I’m creeping up on the cage.”

  Dash laughed and raised his glass again before pulling his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Drink up, lads, and there’ll be time for another before we must be off.”

  Andrew tipped his chair back on two legs as Dash filled their glasses. “I am curious, Henley. Where did you learn of this event? It has been kept on the hush, from what I hear.”

  “This one? Why this one is just a—” He broke off with a frown. “Should be amusing,” he finished.

  Dash poured a little more wine into Henley’s glass. “Tell us the rules, Henle
y.”

  “We are to enter through a secret door, don black robes and keep the cowls raised to protect identities. When we enter the chamber, we are to cease talking and remain silent but for the chants.”

  “Gads!” Jamie gave Henley a belligerent look. “Who do these people think they are? Seems like a lot of trouble over a lark.”

  “I do not believe this is a lark to them,” Dash said. “They seem to be quite serious, do they not?”

  “They’re some kind of secret brotherhood or something.” Henley took another sip from his glass and shrugged. “I wouldn’t ask them too many questions, were I you. We are only allowed because of Hunter and Dash.”

  Brotherhood? Andrew straightened in surprise. There it was again, the reference to a secret brotherhood. Blood Wyvern Brotherhood. He covered his surprise and shrugged. “What? Do I know these people?”

  “They know you and Dash by reputation, so they think they can trust our group. I wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

  Dash grinned and ruffled Henley’s hair. “Why, Henley! Are you afraid? Or merely jealous?”

  “Neither, you dolt.” He held up one hand for silence. “There’s more.”

  Charlie groaned and rolled his eyes. “If I drink much more of this wine, I won’t recall a single rule.”

  “At the beginning of the ceremony, there is an oath of fealty and secrecy. After that, we’re to follow the chants, and drink from the chalice each time it’s passed around the circle. You’re to watch the master and do as he does.”

  Throckmorton snorted. “Master? We are supposed to swear fealty to some oaf in a monk’s robe? Lord, this is rather more amusing than I’d thought.”

  “Sounds satanic,” Jamie said.

  “More like a witches’ coven.” Andrew forced down a bit more of the bitter wine. He looked around the table and wondered which of them, if any, were involved in this. “One o’yer friends,” Wilson had said, and that warning had been echoed by Devlin Farrell.

  Dash stood and dropped some coins on the table while Henley corked the wine bottle to take with them. “Witches, Satanists, mysterious brotherhoods—it’s all nonsense. Mere taradiddle to lend cachet to the proceedings.”

  Andrew silently agreed with him. Whatever was going on at the ceremony tonight was not likely to have anything to do with worship of any kind and was far more apt to be sponsored by some tonish dilettante rather than the group he was looking for. A large number of clubs participating in lewd ceremonies and orgies had sprung up of late.

  They entered the street, and a surge of excitement coursed through him. Whatever was to come of this night, it was bound to be interesting.

  Charlie sneezed. His words were slurring together when he asked, “Where you taking us?”

  Henley glanced over his shoulder as he led the way. “Not far, if we cut through St. Giles churchyard.”

  They walked in silence for a time, then cut across the churchyard as Henley suggested and found themselves at the door of a warehouse. The lack of a more conventional location bothered Andrew. The “passion plays,” as he thought of the salacious ceremonies, were almost always held in ruined abbeys, mausoleums or tombs beneath deserted churches. Warehouses were easily changed—easily converted and easily vacated. And harder to find. He’d be willing to wager that this location would never be used again after tonight.

  Henley knocked three times and the door was opened by a robed figure. The cowl was deep and drawn far forward, so Andrew couldn’t tell if their host was male or female. The figure swept one hand toward the interior where a single candle burned, the light swallowed by a yawning darkness.

  Following previous instructions, no one spoke. They were led to a small anteroom where another single candle burned in a lantern suspended from the high ceiling and black hooded robes were hung on pegs along one wall. The candle flickered and Jamie stumbled, disoriented by the shifting light. Andrew began to feel slightly dizzy himself.

  Charlie leaned against one wall as he shed his jacket and struggled to pull a robe over his head. If Andrew was any judge, his brother was quite a bit the worse for drink. There would be more wine during the ceremony and Andrew looked forward to it. The bitter brew from the tavern had left him thirsty. He hung his jacket on a peg and struggled into a robe, then took the bottle from Henley so he could do the same. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d pulled the cork and taken a deep swallow. By the time he glanced around again, he could not recognize a single one of them. Their robes guaranteed anonymity.

  Another robed figure appeared to lead them down a steep flight of uneven stairs. He nearly tumbled headlong when someone ahead of him stumbled, and he threw himself backward to compensate.

  The room below had been a cavernous storeroom. Now it was empty but for an altar draped in a crimson cloth and a dais behind it with a raised throne. Upon the throne sat a woman dressed only in filmy white gauze, which hid nothing. Every curve, every subtle shade, was clearly visible. The woman’s chestnut hair was unbound and fell in waves all around her—truly her crowning glory. She appeared nervous but unafraid. There was something oddly familiar about her and he tried to recall if he’d met her before or had seen her in passing. But then she smiled and exposed a few broken teeth. No, he would have remembered such a thing. She blurred in his field of vision and he shook his head. There was something he couldn’t quite grasp, something just out of reach—

  Their host led them in a circle three times around the altar, and Andrew noted two wickedly sharp blades laid crosswise at the long ends of the altar. Behind them, a brazier blazed to life, adding to the dark magic atmosphere. Incense permeated the air and Andrew realized that whoever had produced this passion play was a dab hand at showmanship.

  Throckmorton’s giggle, an absurd sound in this setting, came from somewhere behind him. A new figure clad in a robe as crimson as the altar came forward out of the darkness. This must be the “master” Henley had told them about. He held a large chalice in both hands and lifted it to the woman on the throne, who drank deeply and gave it back. Then the chalice was handed to the man closest to the master to begin the ritual passing of the cup to symbolize their brotherhood. Their robes made it impossible to identify any participant, and Andrew had lost track of where Charlie and Jamie were. The diminutive size of some of the participants hinted that they might be females.

  The woman on the throne stood and spread her arms wide, the filmy gauze draping from her slender figure like some present-day Egyptian princess. “Drink deep, My Lords, before laying claim to me, your vessel.”

  There it was again—that out-of-place feeling of familiarity. He narrowed his eyes and peered at her again. Through the gloom and the rising smoke from the brazier, she looked like…almost like…Bella?

  “Malaise?” Lady V. repeated with an elegant lift of her eyebrows. She glanced around at Lilly and Gina, too, as if to include them in her annoyance. “You haven’t time for such niceties. As I have repeatedly told you, your entire future depends upon making a favorable impression this season.”

  Bella put her teacup aside and smoothed the fabric of her napkin over her lap. A glance at the parlor door, slightly ajar, told her that Nancy was eavesdropping and would probably report to Mama. “I am grateful for your concern, Lady Vandecamp, but I do not feel in the least amusing or engaging.”

  “I understand your loyalty to your sister, Isabella, but you mustn’t squander the scant time left to you. You must pull yourself together and make appearances.”

  “Surely I will not attract attention when I am in such a funk.”

  “That is not so. Why, I have had an inquiry about you already.”

  She tried to think what man from Lady V.’s dinner or Lord Lockwood’s small party could have had the slightest interest in her. None of them had made a lasting impression on her—at least, not lasting enough to be recalled now. “I…think you must be mistaken, madam. No one has paid me more than passing interest. Perhaps you misunderstood and it was Eugenia or Lillian
they inquired about.”

  Lady V. sniffed. “My mind is not gone yet, child. I think I know who I have had discourse about. And I give you fair warning that I have granted Mr. Franklin permission to call upon you. Properly chaperoned, of course.”

  “Mr. Franklin? Our factor?”

  “Yes. It seems he finds you sensible and intelligent. I have had my husband make inquiries, and he is quite well off. He could make you very comfortable, Isabella, and your mother, too, if she should choose to reside with you. I would not dismiss him out of hand when he comes to call.”

  Her head swam. Mr. Franklin? But they had never exchanged a single social sentence. They had only discussed business. The man was presentable, for all that he was at least twenty years her senior. But…But he was not up to the standard against which she measured men. Andrew Hunter.

  “There, there, Isabella.” Lady V. leaned forward and patted Bella’s hands as they lay in her lap, still smoothing the napkin. “He is not such a bad match. I think you might be able to do slightly better, but Mr. Franklin is settled. He has need of children, and you are young enough to give him that. You could do worse than a man who would cosset and spoil you. Only give him a chance to woo you. Then, if you cannot bear the thought of marriage to him, I will not press you, though your mama has already given approval of the match.”

  “You have not told him that, have you?”

  “No, of course not. But I have given him permission to call upon you this afternoon. I will expect you to receive him and to be civil. Eugenia, you will chaperone, of course.”

  Gina’s lips twitched as if she were trying to keep a straight face. “Of course,” she agreed.

  “And you, Lillian,” Lady V. said, turning her attention away from Bella for the moment. “I’ve had inquiries about you, as well. But I think you can do better. Thus far, Lord Olney is the only one I’ve given permission to address you. He is the Duke of Rutherford’s heir. Just think! You could become a duchess. Do be on your best behavior, Lillian.”