The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1)

by Lara Archer

  Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Do you play chess, sir?”

  “Not that,” cried Lady Barham. “I meant fencing, Sebastian dear. Lord Henry is as much a master as you are. He studied with Alfonse du Magnin years ago.”

  “Du Magnin?” Sebastian’s voice rose with genuine enthusiasm. “At the Académie d'Armes de Paris?”

  Lord Henry gave a modest nod of acknowledgement. “I misspent the entirety of my youth in France before the monarchy fell. And have seized every possible opportunity of return since, whenever I thought I could do so in safety.”

  “A glorious city, Paris,” said Sebastian. “And your teacher the very finest in the French classical style.”

  “Alors!” chimed in du Bourge, flushed with animation. “Du Magnin was the teacher of my own dear father as well, though he retired before I was of age to learn from him myself. I should love to see the style of your attack, Lord Henry, and watch the handiwork of du Magnin once more.”

  “I, too, should like to try myself against a student of du Magnin’s,” said Sebastian. “But the chance may not come for some time, your grace. I leave London within days.”

  “Then tonight!” insisted the duc. “This place is good as any, n’est ce pas? The floor is large enough.”

  “You’d do no damage I could care about,” said Lady Barham, happily flushed as well. “No doubt this place bore witness to a bloody match or two in the olden days!”

  “But we have no weapons,” noted Lord Henry.

  “Tush!” declared Lord Cardross. “I took my exercise at Angelo’s this very afternoon, and have four good foils in my coach, all of Toledo steel. You may each make your choice.”

  “Tout de suite!” cried the duc in encouragement, clapping his hands so his ruby ring flashed in the firelight.

  The assembled guests hurried to clear space on the wide slate floor. Sebastian and Lord Henry stripped off their fine coats and neckcloths, rolled up their sleeves, and removed their evening shoes and stockings.

  The current company might be used to such displays, but Rachel’s belly heated at the sight of so much of Sebastian’s bared flesh. His calves were even more strongly muscled than his evening clothes revealed. The bones of his wrists looked surprisingly broad and hard. The gargoyle, it turned out, had such ordinary human things as ankles and toes, tendons along the tops of his feet, and dark hair shadowing his skin, the same as any country farmer stripped down in the heat of harvest time.

  An unsettling pulse beat deep inside her.

  The whole mood of the room had shifted; the men murmured bets to one another, and the ladies giggled and sighed, palms pressed dramatically to their bejeweled bosoms.

  Lord Henry’s exposed limbs looked tough and ropy as grapevines. He clearly took daily exercise, for he had none of the softness that came to most men with age. Once again his gaze had something hard behind it—the look of a man with a grudge.

  Anxiety quavered in her chest.

  If Sebastian had never met him before, where did that hostility come from?

  Soon, Cardross returned with long cases that opened to reveal thin but quite deadly looking weapons. “I have but the one plastron and mask, I’m afraid,” he said, holding out what appeared to be a thick leather vest and a half-sphere of metal mesh.

  “Lord Henry may have them,” said Sebastian with a small bow.

  “No, indeed,” returned Lord Henry. “If you are to dispense with protection, so will I.”

  Rachel was relieved to see both men set a round metal cap to the tips of their weapons to blunt the points, though the delicacy with which they handled the foils suggested the still-exposed edges were razor sharp.

  They stood opposite one another, turned slightly sideways, backs straight, legs bent at the knees.

  At Lord Henry’s cry, they launched into motion, foils meeting with a hissing ring, like metallic snakes striking. Their speed was astonishing—their weapons a blur, their bare feet beating hard tattoos against the slate, backwards and forwards, as they attacked and parried. Who led, who responded, was impossible to tell.

  The transformation in Lord Gargoyle was amazing: all traces of the dandy had vanished. Only the agile, muscular predator was left.

  The two men struck again and again, turning slowly around some imaginary center. Their foils whistled. For stretches they’d draw apart, circling and watching, then fly at one another again. Always, their gazes fixed on one another’s blades.

  Then, unexpectedly, Sebastian drove forward at high speed, pushing Lord Henry backwards. His weapon struck the older man hard on the chest, and Lord Henry grunted, saved only by the cap on the blade. The assembled ladies squealed.

  “Touché,” said Lord Henry, and his eyes took on an even colder glint.

  Sebastian gave Lord Henry a moment to recover, and the weapons raised again. Once more, Sebastian drove forward, his back leg stretched nearly straight behind him as, cap or no cap, he came fearfully close to skewering Lord Henry to the wall.

  Lord Henry’s color rose, and he flew at Sebastian in return, slapping his blade aside and scoring a hit against Sebastian’s ribs.

  Sebastian’s eyes flashed, but not, it seemed, with anger. What, then?

  Her fingernails dug into her palms.

  Again and again, Sebastian tried some new approach, sometimes darting in from the side, sometimes looping his weapon in a circular motion, sometimes closing with lightning speed, sometimes moving slowly and methodically. It seemed he was watching for something, concerned with something more than just evading Lord Henry’s sword.

  He made another vicious drive at Lord Henry, his blade clanging hard and quick, and the older man backed up in haste, scarcely managing to fend off the blows. Sebastian's weapon flashed and slipped past Lord Henry's guard. It made a quick, neat slice in the air just by Lord Henry's left arm. The sleeve of Lord Henry's shirt gaped—a slit fell open just above the elbow.

  The blade had touched the fabric only, apparently, for there was no blood, but Lord Henry's eyes went harder than before.

  "Pardon," Sebastian said blandly. He steadied his blade in front of him, but did not strike again.

  Lord Henry tensed. He gave out a sudden bellow and sprang, his blade high and sweeping towards the side of Sebastian's face.

  For a horrible instant, the blow seemed sure to land, but then Sebastian's foil darted and caught Lord Henry's blade with an awful shriek, stopping it dead at the joining of the hilt.

  "Enough!" cried Lady Barham, a shrill of panic in her voice. She ran up perilously close to the combatants.

  Her presence stilled the men, but Lord Henry's stare stayed on Sebastian, an ugly look in the depths of it. A clear desire to hurt. Only after a long, tense pause did he finally disengage his weapon from Sebastian's and lower it to his side.

  Remarkably, the two men bowed to one another then, and shook hands.

  Rachel found that she was trembling.

  Lady Barham laughed, a laugh with a hitch of relief in it. "How ridiculous you are. Like two boys who forget they are merely playing a game."

  "We beg your forgiveness," said Sebastian, with a gallant bow of his head. "Sometimes when the blood is up, we lose hold of our civilized selves."

  "So you do," she said, laughing again and wrapping her arms around Sebastian's waist, a look of wanton invitation on her face. "That's part of the reason I love you so dearly. My savage." She kissed him hungrily on the mouth.

  Lord Henry’s posture was stiff, his lip pinched, and he spoke snappishly to a red-haired young footman who appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to help him back into his neckcloth and coat.

  He gave Rachel a pointedly cold look as he passed her on his way to the door.

  Sebastian, though, seemed in an unaccountably good humor—remarkably unlike his usual elegant self, with his tawny hair mussed and a sheen of sweat on his brow. He smiled as he slid into his coat and slung his neckcloth haphazardly around his throat.

  When at last, despite the petulant protests of L
ady Barham, they took leave of the company, Sebastian leapt up to their coach with extraordinary vigor. His sky-blue eyes gleamed as they had the day Rachel had met him, when he’d nearly goaded the Black Giant into hitting him.

  He enjoyed fighting.

  So this was why a man born to be a marquess had become a spy.

  The moment the coach rumbled forward, she spoke. “Who in blazes is Lord Henry Walters?” she demanded. “And what did you do to make him want to kill you?”

  The second question made him grin. “Who can say?” he said. “A great many people seem to want to kill me, wherever I go.”

  “A perfectly sensible response for anyone who’s spent time with you. But this man never met you before tonight.”

  His eyes sparkled. “I work fast.”

  “He nearly slit your throat.” She broke off, and tried to recover a more dispassionate tone. “Did you at least learn what you needed?”

  Sebastian’s gaze narrowed. “What makes you ask that?”

  “The way you moved, the way you let him hit you—you were testing him, weren’t you?”

  He shifted somewhat uncomfortably in his seat. “Observant of you. You’re more like your sister than I thought.”

  “Well?”

  Sebastian hesitated, brow creasing, as if in debate with himself. Then his forehead smoothed. “I learned a great deal, in fact. Lord Henry's not a liar about his fencing, in any case. He truly was trained by du Magnin—the style is unmistakable. And well trained, too.” He made a quick series of gestures in the air with an invisible sword. “His fausse-attaque, his parade composée, his coulé, his enveloppement, all were most elegant, and quite masterful, and so very much in the French style. What’s more, there were several idiosyncratic elements to his footwork which suggest he studied for some time with Don Pedro Medina-Alvarez in Toledo itself.”

  “In Toledo?” A chill trickled through her. “So he’s been in Spain as well as France?”

  “Yes.” Sebastian grinned again, and stretched his arms out comfortably across the leather squabs of his seat. “For sufficient stretches of time, and with sufficient social connections, to train with one of Spain’s most exclusive fencing masters. A fencing master who didn’t come to prominence until six or seven years ago. When Iberia was already under the influence of the French. Intriguing, isn’t it?”

  So she’d been right to feel uneasy about the man—his ties to France were worrisome. “You’ve truly never met him before?”

  “Never, though I’ve tried and failed to track him down abroad.” A muscle twitched in Sebastian’s cheek, leaving a dark hollow. “Helm’s longed for years to get Lord Henry Walters in a locked room for . . . well, for a few hours’ careful questioning.”

  “You think Lord Henry is a spy?”

  Sebastian shrugged. “He doesn’t work for Whitehall, whatever he does. But he travels with remarkable freedom across large swathes of the world, through places it should not be safe for a civilian to go. His holdings in York shouldn't yield anywhere near the money he appears to spend. He’s certainly had the acquaintance of a great many powerful men in France, both before and after the Revolution, and he seems to have developed the ability to disappear at will, often for months at a time.” His shoulders lifted again. “But if he works for the French, we have no proof of it. No captured agent or intercepted document has ever betrayed his name.”

  “Then he could be an entirely innocent man.”

  Sebastian’s mouth stretched into something like a smile. “And I could be a capuchin monkey. One thing’s for sure—that man’s no coward. He’s a determined fighter. Remarkably strong for his age. I will be a mass of bruises come morning.” Sebastian’s spread arms folded tight to his ribs again, and he bent forward, suddenly very serious, hands clasped between his knees. “You must understand something, my dear. I cannot think it a coincidence that Lord Henry turned up in London at an obscure party, where you were promised to be in appearance.”

  "How could he have known I’d be there? Only Lady Barham knew we were coming.”

  “Lady Barham likes to chatter. And she knows everyone, which is why I find her such a useful source of information. I suspect Lord Henry befriended her for precisely the same reason."

  She remembered the odd looks the man had given her, and her stomach tightened. “Why would he have any interest in me?”

  “Not in you. In Sal.” Sebastian fixed her with a hard look. “Listen to me, Rachel. There's a very good chance that, the moment he leaves Lady Barham’s, Lord Henry will report your presence to . . . well, to someone tonight.”

  Her heart skittered, and the temperature in the carriage seemed to drop. “You mean to the people who killed my sister? Victoire de Laurent? You think Lord Henry works for her?”

  “He might have a thousand reasons to do so, prompt cash payment likely first among them. His money comes from somewhere. So put your guard up, my dear. You’re out in the open now.”

  She shivered. “Well, that is the point, is it not? To lure out our enemies?”

  Sebastian’s mouth had become a very hard line. “Yes. Of course it is.” He gazed toward the roof for long minutes before finally speaking again. “Incidentally, my dear, you handled yourself well tonight.”

  She took that in quietly. From Sebastian Talbot, Marquess of Hawkesbridge, such words felt like high praise indeed.

  “However,” he continued ominously, now lowering his head to look straight at her, “there is one improvement we might make.”

  “And what is that?”

  “It’s best if you and I become lovers.”

  Her heart flipped, nearly leapt out through her throat. “What?”

  Had she not been convincing enough after all, in her role as courtesan? Did he really plan to continue their lessons?

  “Relax, ma belle.” His eyes now gleamed with mischief. “If the idea horrifies you so much, it need only be in word, not in deed. Unless you simply can’t help yourself, that is. But I mean to set the rumor abroad that I’ve claimed you for my own, so you won’t have to fight off the likes of Cardross and du Bourge. I’m known for jealously guarding what’s mine. As well as for my skill with a sword. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.”

  She couldn’t argue with his logic, and she wasn’t eager to be groped again by either of those men. But she wished she could wipe the look of amusement from his face.

  And she wished she could stop the bloom of heat and the odd sense of thrill that coursed through her flesh at his words. I’ve claimed you for my own.

  Damn it all, more than anything, she wished he wasn’t studying her face so closely, his expression that of a cat with a mouse. “Why the hesitation, love?” he asked, teasingly. “I assure you I’m an excellent protector. I’m ridiculously wealthy, and keep my mistresses in lavish style.”

  Arrogant man. Her body could thrill all it wanted; her mind was in command. “Spread the word to your charming friends,” she bit out. “But rest assured I’ve no actual interest in your money, nor anything else you might wish to lavish on me.”

  He shot her a rakish grin. “No? Still, we’ll have to make the charade convincing. It might be wise to practice a bit, just so we’ll look comfortable together.” He shifted forward in his seat again, as if about to cross to hers and make his offer good. “We have the better part of an hour before we’re home, and I promise you my blood is most definitely still up.”

  She flung her fan at him, aiming square at his chest. The fan half-unfurled in flight, and the outside spoke cracked when it hit him.

  He merely chuckled, low in his chest, the bastard.

  Damnably inefficient weapons, fans.

  The image of Lady Barham came back to her, the sight of Lord Gargoyle’s face pressed between her breasts, and the hands of all those women pawing him. “You know what you are, Lord Hawkesbridge?” she said, leaning forward herself in defiance. “You, sir, are . . . ” She blinked, realizing she had no reasonable word for what she meant. “You, s
ir, are a trollop.”

  At that, he burst into an outright guffaw.

  She chose to ignore the laughter, turning her head to stare out the window at the dark city rolling past. Hard as it was to believe, she actually found Lord Gargoyle more bearable in his bad moods.

  Blast it all, though—she could feel his gaze still poring over her.

  The longer she tried to ignore him, the thicker the silence around them felt. When he spoke again, the sound of his voice actually made her jump.

  “Rachel,” he said, low and terrifyingly earnest. “I wasn’t joking about you needing some practice. You really must grow more comfortable with me. When I put my palm on the small of your back tonight, your spine was stiff as a board.”

  “That was good posture.”

  “That was fear.”

  Her eyes snapped back to his face again. “I’m not afraid.”

  “No?” A smug smile played about his lips, and he stretched out a hand towards her. “Then come here.”

  Oh, the look in his eye was hypnotic—a blend of challenge and heat. The force of it tugged at her, as surely as if he’d seized her wrist and were pulling her physically towards him.

  Her pulse quickened, began to throb. The heat of it bloomed up her throat, spread over her cheeks. Damn him. No doubt he could see the effect he was having on her, and no doubt he was enjoying the sight.

  His smile broadened. “When I said I was an excellent protector,” he murmured, “I wasn’t just talking about my generosity with money. I assure you my mistresses are always more than satisfied in my bed.”

  Oh. All those sprawling couples at Lady Barham’s party tonight flashed back into her mind—and the gasps of pleasure they’d made.

  More than satisfied.

  Her chin lifted. Hopefully, Sebastian would see her resistance, and not her trembling hands. “Are they indeed?”

  “Most definitely.” He still held out his hand in invitation. His arm was rock-steady, his eyes gleaming, his expression so utterly confident.

  She swallowed hard. Against all her efforts to steel herself, her nerves began to thrum, and suddenly it was as if she still felt the pressure of Sebastian’s hand against her back—and worse, far worse—as if she still wore that plum-colored gown she’d worn that night in the bedroom of his townhouse, when his hands had stroked her arms and breasts and even slid between her thighs, when she’d nearly surrendered everything to him.