Lord Libertine

by Gail Ranstrom

  “It was my fault that Cora—”

  “It was not your responsibility. Cora was a grown woman and acted without your knowledge. I doubt you could have prevented her in any case. What troubles me now is what this has done to you. There was more than one victim the day your sister was killed, Bella. There was you.

  “We are more alike than you might imagine, my dear. I went to war. You came to London. We both lost what was left of our innocence and joy—our belief in a happy future and our ability to trust. But, unlike me, you turned to duty rather than pleasure. I wanted to find whatever comfort, whatever enjoyment or gratification I could, because I believed there would be few tomorrows. I had seen too much of the savagery of men, and so I sought the things that would help me forget. You, Isabella O’Rourke, saw the same, but you nurtured the pain of losing your sister. Where I have become shamelessly self-indulgent, you have thrown yourself on an altar of self-sacrifice. Not a pretty thing, my love. A decision as poor as mine, in fact. But I am here now, I understand, and I intend to save you from yourself.”

  Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. She touched his arm, and a shock went through him. “I am still determined—”

  He threw his hands up in exasperation. “And so am I.”

  “I know that I am in danger, and that if…when I find the man I’m looking for, I could pay with my life. But I cannot let that stop me. I want you to stay out of this, Andrew. If you should come to harm because of my resolve—I could not bear that.”

  He had only one more argument. “Though you have no reason to, I am asking you to trust me. Give me tonight and tomorrow, Bella. Stay home. Stay safe. After that, I will…”

  “Allow me to do as I please?” she asked.

  “I will not block your way.” He lied as smoothly and unremorsefully as he ever had. He’d have promised anything to keep her out of the way until after the thirteen Sabbath, and after what he believed would be the thirteenth sacrifice.

  “I do not believe you. There is something you are not telling me, Andrew. What will change after tomorrow?”

  He pulled her into his arms to silence her the only way he could—with a kiss. He expected her to push him away, to beat his chest or stomp on his foot, but she surprised him by matching his passion with an innocent urgency that shook him to his core.

  He struggled with the wave of undiluted lust that swept over him. He pulled her arms from around his neck and stepped back. “Bloody hell, Bella! Just when I want to be noble, you make it impossible! Can you not see what you are doing to me? How can I ask you to trust me when I cannot trust myself?”

  “I do not want you to be noble, Andrew. I want you to touch me and make me forget who I am and what I’ve become. I want to pretend that there is no tomorrow, that there is nothing beyond us and tonight. I want to close my eyes and believe that you…want me, too.”

  He groaned. She wanted him. How could he deny her anything knowing that? He slipped his arms around her and held her so tight that she gasped. “Believe it, Bella. You can always believe that. I will want you until the day I die.”

  She tilted her head up to him and he accepted the invitation. When her lips parted, he was lost. The very earth could have shaken and he would not have been able to stop.

  Before he was quite aware of what he was doing, he had undressed her and lifted her to rest against the pillows of the massive bed. As he shed his own clothes, the candles guttered in a breeze, leaving them veiled in the shadows of the moonlit room.

  She reached out to him as he came down on the bed beside her. Her hand skimmed his arms and stopped at the bandage. “Did it hurt?” she asked.

  “Only for a moment,” he whispered, running his tongue along the rim of her ear. It would cause him far more pain to stop what he was doing at this very minute.

  Her fingers resumed their exploration, tracing the muscles of his chest, and he shuddered at the delicacy of her touch. If she continued lower, he’d be lost. He captured her hand and moved it to his cheek, then turned his face to kiss her palm.

  “Keep that kiss, Bella, and know that there is an endless supply awaiting you,” he whispered. “Wherever you go, whatever you do, I stand ready to give you more.”

  She smiled and she was even more beautiful by moonlight. “What gift can I give you?”

  “This,” he said, nibbling one earlobe. “And this.” He found the spot where her pulse beat at the hollow of her throat.

  She raked her fingers through his hair and held him closer as she squirmed against him.

  “And that,” he groaned, making a Herculean effort to slow himself down. This time he would not cheat her. This time he would be certain she found pleasure.

  He kissed a path down from her throat and cherished one firmed nipple. She moaned and lifted one knee to skim along his leg and hip. She was open to him now, vulnerable in a way she had never been. He slipped his hand along the curve of her bottom toward her center, trailing one finger along the moist cleft.

  “Drew!” she gasped.

  He grinned. “Hush, Bella. I am unwrapping my gift.”

  “But…”

  “Too late to take it back. I’ve already made it mine.” He found the tight bundle of nerves and caressed it with a sure and gentle touch.

  She gasped again and stiffened. “What…”

  “An interesting discovery, eh, pet?” He created a gentle rhythm until he felt her relax and begin to open to his touch. He realized that she had been too innocent, too frightened, the first time, and he had been too caught up in the urgency, to fully appreciate what he was doing. Poor pet. He would make up for that now. “What other secrets do you hide?”

  “I think…you know that better than I,” she admitted in a breathy sigh.

  He chuckled as he dipped one finger lower, finding her damp and ready. He invaded her, savoring her sweetly naive response.

  He relinquished her breast with one final nip and kissed his way to her navel, where he traced his tongue in a circle. Her thighs began to tremble. She was near…so near. But not yet.

  He opened her wider and trailed his tongue and his kisses down to the delectable mound of his final destination. Holding her hips steady, because he knew she would protest in maidenly shock or twitch with surprise, he found her with his tongue.

  She arched and made a soft keening sound that sent shivers up his spine. She was panting now and he knew she was near. Oh, but not yet. Not until—

  “Please, Andrew! Please. I cannot stand much more.”

  —she begged.

  He raised himself above her and fit himself to her. She was so aroused, so ready, that he entered her easily. She stiffened, but not with shock or pain. Her internal muscles rippled and clenched around him, gripping him in an erotic tightness that was insanely pleasurable. Before she could recover from her first orgasm, he began moving again, finding her pace and taking her with him to a higher pinnacle.

  Still, he held back until he knew that she had reached her own release. And then, in a rush of dark explosive pleasure, he seized his own completion. And he found Bella waiting for him on the other side, her eyes closed and her cheeks glowing, a smile curving her kiss-swollen lips, fully a woman in every sense of the word.

  He recognized her languor. She had fallen into a swoon, la petit mort. Yes, he’d satisfied her, and that was the greatest gift of all.

  He eased his weight from her and pulled the coverlet over them. He’d let her sleep yet awhile, then wake her to take her home before dawn.

  And then he’d meet Farrell and find Cora O’Rourke’s killer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dawn was staining the eastern horizon a pale pink by the time Andrew left Bella at her doorstep. He had straightened her hood and kissed her forehead, evidently unconcerned that anyone might see but the early tradesmen with their carts of fruits and vegetables fresh in from the countryside.

  “Stay home tonight, Bella. I will call on you Saturday afternoon and we shall settle your future.”

&nb
sp; “My future? But—”

  “Hush. Do not argue with me so early in the morning. I have business to tend.”

  With that admonition, he departed and reality set in. She wanted to think about his hint as to her future, but there was something more pressing she had to deal with. She turned the key in the lock and slipped through, closing the door with a faint click behind her. The house was silent, but Nancy would be down soon to begin her chores.

  She hurried up the front stairs and paused at Gina’s door. It was ajar and she pushed it open. Nothing. Not a single wrinkle on her coverlet, not the faintest sign of a presence. Panic welled in her chest and she nearly screamed her anxiety. She would have to raise an alarm, and her head spun at the thought of Mama’s hysterics and Lilly’s tears.

  She went to her room to leave her cloak, and there, in the center of her bed, sat Gina. She leaped off the bed and flew into Bella’s arms.

  “Oh, Bella! Where have you been? I’ve been waiting forever.”

  Relief washed over her. Thank heavens Gina was safe. “Where were you? Mr. Hunter told me he intercepted you when you left the house last night.”

  “Oh, that.” Gina released her and stepped back, affecting an air of nonchalance.

  “Yes, that. We agreed that you would stay at home and keep watch over Mama and Lilly.”

  “No, Bella. You agreed. I merely remained silent. Just because you are the oldest, you think you can tell me what to do. Well, I miss Cora, too. I want to find her killer as much as you do. And I am terrified every time you leave the house that I will not see you alive again. I remember Cora…and I fear that is what you will look like when I next see you.”

  Bella’s heart twisted. She had never considered how her activities might affect Gina. The memory of Cora’s ruined face haunted her sister’s dreams, too. She sank into the chair and watched as tears sprang to Gina’s eyes. “I am so sorry. I swear, I shall keep safe. Give me another day or two and, whether I find the man or not, I shall stop.”

  Gina looked doubtful. “You swear?”

  “Upon my life.” She said a silent prayer she’d be able to keep that promise.

  Gina sighed and her shoulders sagged as the lines between her eyes softened. “Thank heavens. I have been so afraid for you. And, then, tonight…”

  “What happened tonight?”

  “I went back to the theater and found some of the same people. Mr. Henley was there, and he remembered me. We all fell in together and went to a…a…oh, Bella! Men and women were posing on a dais. Mr. Henley called it a tableau vivant.”

  Bella had heard of such performances, where participants dressed in costume and enacted a scene from a famous painting or some historical event. “What scenes did they portray?”

  “There was one of the painting of Ares discovering Aphrodite with Adonis.” Gina lowered her voice as if someone might overhear them. “And they were completely naked!”

  She blinked. “Gina, you must not go anywhere with Mr. Henley again. I do not think he is of good character.”

  “Faugh! You think I did not know that? But he is the sort who might know what happened to Cora. And the last scene the actors portrayed was an example. I do not know the painting. Perhaps it was a scene from a story, or a drawing from Dante’s Inferno, or a variation of the sacrifice of Isaac. But when the curtains were opened on the last tableau and the lights came up, there was a girl, naked I think, lying on a table draped in red to look like an altar. In the background, there was a large triangle where a cross might have been. Inside the triangle was a circle with the outline of a dragon. A man dressed in red robes with a black dragon on the chest stood over the girl with a curved knife lifted above his head as if he were about to strike.”

  Triangle! Cora’s forehead! Bella leaned forward. “What else, Gina? What else did you see?”

  “The man struck! Blood ran everywhere. I nearly cast up my supper, but then the girl stood and bowed with the man.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I thought it was real until that moment. Mr. Henley said it was a trick with a sheep’s bladder, and that when the priest struck with the knife, he cut the sheep’s bladder and released the blood. Oh, ’twas awful.”

  It was more than awful. It was terrifying. And it was surely what had happened to Cora. “Who was the priest? Did you recognize him?”

  “He never unmasked. He was tall. Taller than Papa. As tall as your Mr. Hunter. And his laugh…’twas frightening. Almost mad.”

  “Can you remember anything else, Gina?”

  She looked down. “Mr. Henley said that, if I found that tableau titillating, I might like the real thing. He asked me…”

  “What, Gina?”

  “Nothing. I…everyone was talking at once. I couldn’t hear.”

  Bella’s mind whirled. This is what she’d been looking for. Something that would link the ton to Cora’s death. Certainly there were too many details in common to be mere coincidence. “When? Where do you meet them, Gina? Outside which theater?”

  “Covent Garden,” she said. “The Royal Opera House. Before the performance.”

  Then tomorrow night she would be outside the Royal Opera House at approximately eight thirty, before her meeting with Lord Humphries at Belmonde’s. If Mr. Henley did not acknowledge her, she would speak to him. She would do whatever she must to get an invitation to the same event, and hopefully to the “real thing.” And then she would send word to Lord Wycliffe. And Andrew. She would discover who the robed man was, and if he had anything to do with Cora’s death.

  But first she would have to make certain that Gina did not interfere. “Listen carefully, Gina. You must promise me to stay at home until this is over. Swear you will not meet Mr. Henley tomorrow.”

  Her sister glanced away and sighed deeply in resignation. “I swear.”

  This was not the first morning Andrew had found himself in Whitechapel at dawn, but this was the first time he’d observed that the rookeries looked better by night than in the harsh light of day. Some things, he mused, were better left in shadows.

  Patrons of Farrell’s had been expelled for the morning scouring. Andrew barely dodged the contents of a mop bucket as he approached the entry.

  “’Ere now, chappie, we’re closed, we are,” the toothless scouring woman told him, trying to close the door in his face.

  “Get Farrell,” he told her as he shouldered his way past and slipped her a shilling for her trouble.

  “Ain’t receivin’. ’E’s just gone up.”

  “Good. Then he will not be in bed yet. Where are the stairs?”

  She stared at him in mute surprise. Evidently, one did not disturb Mr. Farrell once he had “gone up.”

  “Come now,” he urged, tossing her another coin. “I will not tell him you sent me up.”

  She tilted her head to the left, and Andrew went in that direction. He found the narrow stairway behind a closed door and followed it upward to another closed door. He tried the knob, but it was locked. He gave three sharp raps and waited. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t the shabby but proper valet who answered his knock.

  “Sir?” he asked.

  “Mr. Farrell, please. Tell him Andrew Hunter is here to see him.”

  The valet inclined his head and closed the door, leaving Andrew on the dimly lit landing.

  Devlin Farrell was full of surprises. Who would have suspected a valet in apartments over a gin house? Was this pretension? Or necessity?

  The door opened again and the valet stepped back to allow Andrew to pass. “Mr. Farrell will see you, sir.”

  The rooms appeared to be spotless, and none of the sour smell of stale beer and rotgut gin carried up the stairs, thanks to the double doors and generous insulation between the floorboards. The furnishings were tasteful and of the highest quality—the best that money could buy—and completely unexpected in an apartment in the Whitechapel rookeries.

  The valet led the way down a wide passageway and indicated an open door on the right.

  The room w
as a study or gentleman’s parlor. Gleaming, polished floors, heavy draperies to filter daylight for an occupant who slept days, overstuffed furniture and overflowing bookshelves gave the impression of a Mayfair town home. He certainly hadn’t expected Devlin Farrell to have such refined taste.

  “I feared I’d seen the last of you, Hunter. I looked for you all night, and when you did not come, I thought you’d been killed for your questions.”

  Andrew grinned. Farrell was holding a cup of coffee and indicated the pot on a sideboard with a wave of his hand. Andrew poured himself a cup and went to sit in a chair across a low table from his host.

  “I was delayed,” he said. “But after what happened to Hank, I am glad to see that you are still among the living.”

  “I’ve got more lives than a cat, Hunter.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  There was a long pause as Farrell seemed to consider his words. Finally, “Quite a bit more than I wanted, and yet not enough.”

  “That is a little too cryptic for me. Care to explain?”

  “Aye. Have you heard that Wilson is dead?”

  Andrew nearly choked on his coffee. He put his cup down and shook his head. “What happened?”

  “Took a knife to the gut. Typically, no one saw anything, heard anything or knows anything, despite the fact that the killer would have had to walk down the passageway between the cribs.”

  “When?”

  “Not long after you paid him a visit. Myself, I suspect a connection.”

  “Hank and now Wilson,” Andrew mused.

  “Quite a puzzle, is it not?” Farrell asked. “I would have suspected Wilson of ordering Hank put out of the way, but whose reach is long enough to end Wilson’s life?”

  Farrell’s reach was long enough. “If Wilson knew anything, he did not give it away. He hinted at involvement from someone in the ton, but that is all I could get from him. Perhaps his murder was not related to my questions.”

  Farrell grinned and rubbed the dark stubble along his jaw. “Wishful thinking. Death follows close on your heels, Hunter. I’d say Wilson had to trust his killer to allow him close enough to strike. That would suggest a measure of trust and some sort of conspiracy, would it not?”