The Bride Wore Scarlet

by Liz Carlyle

  “Don’t tempt me,” he growled.

  But inexplicably, he couldn’t stop looking down. The swells of her extraordinary breasts were plainly visible from this angle, and God help him, he was no angel.

  Irritation flashing in her eyes, Miss de Rohan fully righted herself. “Really, my lord, do you mind?” she said, hitching up the front of her shift. “I’m not in the habit of displaying my assets unless they’re corseted into a ball gown.”

  “And that,” he said quietly, “cannot possibly be often enough.”

  Her face colored furiously.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said again. “But you did choose to wear that, Miss de Rohan. And I am, after all, just an ordinary man.”

  She sniffed disdainfully. “Ordinary, hmm?” she said. “I didn’t think anyone here was ordinary.”

  “Trust me, my dear, when it comes to attractive women, all men are the same.” He held out his hand to her, his actions gentler now. “Yet another reason I am afraid for you.”

  “You suggest I’m not safe in this house?” Her voice was sharp.

  “Your reputation is not,” he answered. “But no one here would do you a harm, Miss de Rohan. You may trust each and every one of us with your life—my roaming eyes notwithstanding.”

  With obvious reluctance, she laid her hand in his.

  “Now, about your father.” He kept his voice firm. “I believe you were about to tell me who he is.”

  “Precisely?” For an instant, she caught her lip in her teeth. “He’s a minor Alsatian nobleman. The Vicomte de Vendenheim-Sélestat.”

  Carefully watching those chocolate-brown eyes, Geoff stood his ground. “And imprecisely?” he pressed. “Come, Miss de Rohan. You are London born and bred, I’ll wager. I may be a lecherous lout, aye, but I’m sharp enough to know when I’m getting but half the truth.”

  At last, her gaze broke away. “A long time ago, he was called Max de Rohan. Or just de Vendenheim. He’s . . . with the Home Office. Sort of.”

  Well. So much for gentleness. Geoff stifled a curse, then turned to haul her up the next flight of stairs.

  De Vendenheim! Of all people! Rance must be a lunatic. That little shite from the Chronicle had finally driven him stark, staring mad.

  Geoff didn’t know anything about de Vendenheim’s title, but he damned sure knew the fellow wasn’t the sort of man one antagonized. And he wasn’t “with” the Home Office, sort of. He was the Home Office—or more accurately, the ruthlessness behind it. Politically, he was untouchable—unelected, nonpartisan, and more or less unofficial—the ultimate éminence grise.

  Like a black cat with nine lives, the lean, hawk-nosed fellow had survived one political upheaval after another, having outlived the establishment of the Metropolitan Police, the Reform Bill riots, the bloody work of the London Burkers, and an entire outfield of home secretaries. By rights he ought to be dead by now, so much turmoil, strife, and violence had the man seen firsthand.

  And now his daughter had been trained as a Guardian? And not, apparently, with his blessing?

  Good God.

  “Hurry up,” he said gruffly. “You are going to get dressed now.”

  “A capital notion, given the miserable draft coming up these steps,” she snapped. “Can’t you people afford coal? I thought you were all rich. My feet are bare and my arse hasn’t been so cold since the winter of—”

  “Miss de Rohan,” Geoff managed to reply, “I could not be less interested in the state of your arse.”

  Liar, liar, liar.

  “Why, I am crushed, my lord!” she said mockingly. “Of course, I was supposed to be completely naked, according to the ceremony—but even I couldn’t summon up the cheek to do that.”

  “A tiny sliver of good judgment for which we must all be grateful,” said Geoff through clenched teeth. And he meant it. The last thing he needed on his mind just now was the vision of Anaïs de Rohan naked.

  And yet he was already imagining it. Conjuring up those impossibly long legs in his mind, and wondering if they would reach—

  No. He needed to know nothing about the length of her legs. He needed to get rid of her.

  Thank God they had reached the topmost floor of the house, where Belkadi kept his private apartments. At the door, Geoff rapped twice, hard, with the back of his hand, still holding on to the hellcat. It took all his English civility not to sling her inside and bolt as soon as the door cracked. His Scottish half wanted to tie her to a rock and tip her into the Thames.

  Safiyah opened the door, her wide, doe-brown eyes sweeping over them. “My lord,” she said, startled. “Where is Samir?”

  “Your brother’s still in the Temple,” said Geoff, hauling Miss de Rohan inside. “It has been a strange night. Sorry to barge in but I need your help.”

  “But of course.” Safiyah lowered her gaze. “Who is she?”

  “The acolyte,” snapped Miss de Rohan. “And I have a name.”

  Safiyah colored furiously, and looked away. “I shall put the kettle on.”

  Geoff’s prisoner looked immediately contrite. “I beg your pardon,” said Miss de Rohan. “You did not deserve that.”

  “No, I did not.” Safiyah’s hands were folded serenely. “Excuse me. I shall be but a moment.”

  “I’m Anaïs,” she replied, thrusting out her hand. “Anaïs de Rohan. Do forgive me. Being manhandled up the steps has left my temper regrettably short. And I should love a cup of tea. By the way, I do have clothes, Lord Bessett. I did not walk in off the street naked. And you are Lord Bessett, are you not? After all, you did not introduce yourself before hauling me from the Temple and up the stairs.”

  “Where did you leave them?” he asked, ignoring the rest of the diatribe.

  Her eyes widened with irritation. “In a little room on the ground floor,” she said. “I came in through the gardens.”

  Geoff went at once to the bellpull, then realized the stupidity of it. “Sit down and be quiet,” he ordered. “I’ll fetch them. And be kind to Safiyah. She may be your only friend here when this dreadful night is over.”

  Chapter 3

  The clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed upon him.

  Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  Anaïs watched her captor go, rubbing almost absently at her chafed wrists. Lord Bessett was proving to be both haughty and pigheaded. But what had she expected? Handsome, rich aristocrats were rarely otherwise. The fact that he was one of the Fraternitas did not necessarily make him a pattern of humility—or humanity, apparently.

  And she—well, she looked like an idiot in her butchered shift—now topped with Bessett’s scratchy, horridly gothic robe. The coarse wool dragged the floor, and could have wrapped twice around her, but she knew she should be grateful for it all the same.

  On a sigh, Anaïs fell back into the deep, comfortable armchair into which Bessett had all but shoved her, stewing in her humiliation. Of course, she should be humiliated. She knew she should. Things had gone about as badly as Cousin Giovanni had warned her they would.

  But now Giovanni Vittorio was dead. Her nonna was dead. Indeed, everyone who had helped bring Anaïs to this strange, otherworldly point in life had gone on to his great reward, leaving her to muddle through the hardest part alone.

  Not that Vittorio had ever believed educating Anaïs was especially prudent. He’d never said as much, of course. Never had he given her less than his full attention. But over the years, as their mutual affection had deepened, Anaïs had come to sense his worry. Once—after that bastard Raphaele had broken her heart—Vittorio had even gently suggested that perhaps Anaïs might prefer a different sort of life. An ordinary life. That perhaps the Fraternitas, the Guardians, and even the Gift itself had no place in the modern world that was evolving all around them.

  But even amidst the heartbreak, she had wanted—no, needed—to honor her great-grandmother’s memory. So they had muddled on, Anaïs doing her best to learn all that was req
uired of her, and her much-elder cousin harboring his unspoken doubt. And just now, it felt as if that doubt had been well-placed. Anaïs realized she was almost blinking back tears.

  She jerked herself up short. Besides, the sense of hopelessness wouldn’t last; she simply wouldn’t let it. Nonna Sofia had always said despair was an emotion for the faint of heart—useful only to damsels who reveled in distress, and poets requiring inspiration.

  Still, for a moment, Anaïs let her eyes fall shut with weariness and drew in a deep, somewhat unsteady breath. But the act merely served to remind her of the arrogant Lord Bessett, for the scent she drew in was unmistakably his, held round her in a warm, oddly comforting cloud by the heavy wool of his robe.

  A robe that he had kindly wrapped round her, Anaïs reminded herself. He might be pigheaded and chauvinistic, yes. He might have swept that bold, searing gaze of his down her once too often. And there was no question he’d stripped her breasts bare in his imagination. But his concern, at least, had been genuine.

  He was also beautiful enough to make a girl swoon—if a girl were given to such theatrics. Anaïs was not. She’d cut her teeth on handsome men, and knew that they were invariably aware of their looks—and never above using them. Her wisdom, however, did not lessen the clean, hard lines of the man’s face, and that perfectly turned jaw that looked to have been carved out of marble.

  His eyes were cold and glittering beneath dark, straight brows, and his nose was faintly aquiline. Only a lush, almost hedonistic mouth saved Bessett from unbridled masculinity. Nonetheless, there were no smile lines to indicate he made much use of it. In fact, Anaïs got the oddest impression the man was entirely without humor.

  Perhaps a man did not need humor when he smelled so enticingly. Again, she drew in the scent of male skin and clean citrus. He had shaved recently—within the last two hours, she guessed, which likely meant he shaved twice a day. Apparently, he took great pride in those good looks, the preening peacock.

  Actually, that was unfair. And spite, Giovanni had always warned, was beneath her.

  The truth was, Lord Bessett seemed almost unaware of his looks. Indeed, he moved like some lean jungle creature, instinctively elegant and smooth, as if he owned the world and spared it scarcely a thought. Vain, self-absorbed men were easy to understand—and easy to manipulate, Anaïs had learned.

  Suddenly, it dawned on Anaïs that Bessett mightn’t prove so simple. Assuming she meant to try to get her way with him.

  But what choice did she have? He was a leader here. Giovanni had told her that much early on. Indeed, he had been deeply grateful for Bessett’s efforts to reestablish the Fraternitas, and center it in London—here, in this house, the so-called St. James Society. And judging from the opulence that was apparent throughout, he’d spent quite a lot of money doing it, too.

  Just then, a faint sound roused her. Anaïs sat fully upright to see that the beautiful, dark-haired woman had returned, carrying a tray with a tea service and two cups.

  She set it down wordlessly, then with the faintest bob of a curtsy, moved as if to go.

  Anaïs found the idea of such a lovely, regal creature curtsying to her vaguely amusing. “I am sorry,” she said again. “I was frightfully rude earlier, and you are very kind, Mrs.—?”

  At last the woman lifted her gaze to meet Anaïs’s, but she did not look the least bit humbled. “Belkadi,” she said quietly. “Miss Belkadi.”

  “And you live here?” Anaïs asked. “In this house?”

  “With my brother, Samir,” she said.

  “I am surprised they permit you,” Anaïs sourly remarked. “There has been a great deal of fuss and nonsense over my being here.”

  Miss Belkadi let her gaze drift over Anaïs’s scantily clad state, but did not remark upon it. “My brother is the house steward,” she replied coolly. I keep the accounts, and manage the small female staff.”

  Like a housekeeper, Anaïs thought.

  Except that this woman looked about as much like a housekeeper as Queen Victoria resembled a costermonger. But she was dressed plainly, in a gown of dark gray merino that covered her to the neck, and her dark brown hair was caught up in the simplest of arrangements. Despite all the severity, however, she could not have been much older than Anaïs herself.

  “Won’t you sit down, Miss Belkadi?” she blurted. “Really, I know my manners are lacking, but I could do with a kind face just now.”

  Somehow, Anaïs had known that her unwilling hostess would be too gracious to refuse. “Very well,” she answered, sweeping her skirts neatly beneath her as she sat. “Shall I pour?”

  Anaïs smiled. “That is a lovely accent,” she said. “Are you French?”

  Miss Belkadi’s gaze flicked up but an instant. “Partly,” she said. “Do you take sugar?”

  “No, nothing, thank you.”

  The tea was hot, and incredibly strong. Surprisingly, Anaïs found it restorative. For all her bold words, tonight’s ceremony had taken a greater emotional toll than she cared to admit, and a part of her was relieved it was over.

  Except it wasn’t over.

  Anaïs was down, but not defeated. How many times had Nonna Sofia warned her that this life would not go easily for her? There hadn’t been a female within the Fraternitas in centuries; perhaps since the great Celtic priestesses died out.

  Once tonight’s shock was over—for all of them—Anaïs must simply try to convince the Fraternitas in London to take her. Or she could return to Tuscany, she supposed, and fall back on Cousin Giovanni’s contacts. The Vittorio family had many. But like so much of Europe, Tuscany had grown increasingly unstable, and the Gift—well, there was no one left who needed her. The few who were still known had been sent abroad; to relatives, to other Guardians across the Continent, all off to higher ground in an ocean of political turmoil.

  Miss Belkadi cleared her throat, recalling Anaïs to the present, and to her duty as a guest. “How marvelously strong this tea is,” Anaïs remarked. “Is it something special?”

  “It is a black tea from Assam,” said her hostess, “near the Himalayas. Lord Ruthveyn has it sent.”

  “Ah, Ruthveyn,” said Anaïs musingly. “I saw him tonight. What is he like?”

  But Miss Belkadi’s gaze shuttered at once. “He is a gentleman.”

  “And is he . . . a sort of Hindu?” Anaïs pressed, never one to give up easily.

  Miss Belkadi visibly stiffened. “I believe he is a Christian,” she said, “but I never thought it my place to ask.”

  “No, I meant is he—”

  Anaïs stopped, and shook her head. It did not matter what she had meant. “I beg your pardon yet again, Miss Belkadi,” she said. “I am not ordinarily so rude. I can plead only a stressful night.”

  For the first time, Anaïs saw curiosity flicker in her gaze. “I am sorry to hear it,” she said softly.

  Anaïs looked down at her strange attire. “And I daresay you must wonder . . .”

  Miss Belkadi sat serenely, one perfect eyebrow lifted.

  “ . . . about my state of dress,” Anaïs managed to finish. “About what I’m doing here.”

  Miss Belkadi’s expression remained passive. “It is not my place to wonder any such thing.”

  Just then, a swift tap-tap sounded on the door, and Lord Bessett slipped back inside.

  Somewhere along the way he had donned his coat, which was rather a shame when he had looked so fine in his shirtsleeves. He had rolled her clothing into a neat bundle and tucked it under his arm, somehow leaving the lace flounce of one drawer leg peeking out the bottom.

  She wanted, suddenly, to laugh. Lord Bessett, however, already looked indignant enough. Doubtless he was not accustomed to playing lady’s maid.

  “Is there someplace, Safiyah, Miss de Rohan might dress?” he said without preamble.

  “Of course.” Miss Belkadi motioned toward one of the doors that opened off the small sitting room. “In my bedchamber.”

  Bessett dropped the bundle in Anaïs’s
lap. “I’ve called my carriage to take you up to Henrietta Place,” he said. “I can walk home so—”

  “Thank you, but I don’t live in Westminster,” Anaïs interjected.

  Lord Bessett looked at her oddly.

  So he did indeed know who her father was, even where he lived. She had suspected as much from the shift in his demeanor on the stairs. “In any case, my parents are abroad at present, Lord Bessett,” she said. “At their vineyards. But I live in Wellclose Square.”

  At that, his eyes widened. “In the East End?” he blurted. “Alone?”

  “No. Not alone.” Anaïs kept her face emotionless, having decided there was much to be learned from Safiyah Belkadi. “And my coachman awaits at the Blue Posts. I’m to meet him there.”

  The odd glint was back in Lord Bessett’s eyes, and Anaïs found herself suddenly wondering what color they were. In the sitting room lamplight, it was hard to judge.

  “Well, what an interesting evening this has turned out to be,” he finally said. “But you aren’t walking alone to a common public house. Not at this time of night.”

  Miss Belkadi was looking back and forth at the two of them. “It is rather late,” she said, rising gracefully from her chair. “I shall walk up with Miss de Rohan. Perhaps you, my lord, might follow me?”

  Bessett seemed to hesitate. “If your brother agrees, yes. Thank you.”

  “My brother agrees,” said Miss Belkadi. She had folded her hands neatly together again, and for the first time, Anaïs saw the strength and stubbornness in the gesture.

  Bessett turned his gaze on Anaïs. “Well, it’s settled then,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Now kindly hurry, Miss de Rohan. If another hour gets past us, we’ll be sharing the street with the morning’s vegetable barrows.”

  The following morning, the mood within the hallowed, silk-hung walls of the St. James Society’s coffee room was an odd one. Lord Ruthveyn stood at one of the wide bow windows, one hand set at the back of his neck as he stared across St. James’s Place at the entrance to Ned Quartermaine’s gaming hell—which was, ostensibly, a private club for the most dashing amongst the ton.