“I’m afraid I’m not fond of that custom,” she said with too much venom on her tongue.
“Do forgive me. Your noble beauty requires more, but that is all custom allows.”
Katherine despised when men driveled on about her beauty. She sometimes wished she’d never inherited her mother’s flaxen hair and high cheekbones or her father’s pale green eyes and regal brow. It was what had drawn Clyde to her from the first.
“Come now, Lord Radcliff,” she said. “A man of your stature and charms can do better than that.”
Radcliff’s smile broadened into an obscene smolder. She didn’t know why, but she felt as if she’d just poked the devil with his own pitchfork.
The violins lilted into a new strain.
“There’s our waltz, Lady Katherine,” said Lord Thornton at her side, offering his arm.
Before she could protest, he placed her hand where it belonged and swept her away without a backward glance.
“This isn’t our waltz, sir. You never asked.” They squeezed through the last crush of bystanders to the open floor.
“It is our waltz.” With a sharp turn, he held her hand in the palm of his and gripped her waist with the other. Katherine hitched in a breath, unsteady with his proximity, swirling in the heady scent of expensive cologne and confident man. “This is our dance, my lady. Our first. But not our last.”
With that, he swung them out onto the floor, leading them into the first turn. To her utter distress, her body obeyed his every command.
“You are being impertinent, Lord Thornton. I am a married woman.”
“By law.”
She gasped at his candid reply, then proceeded to watch the crowd whirl by, refusing to give the rabid gossipmongers a reason to think this dance was anything but an amiable encounter between two acquaintances newly met. It was undeniably more. Fire rushed through her blood.
“You shouldn’t taunt a man like Radcliff,” he warned. “Or believe his charms.” His easy smile had slipped away.
“Why not? They were charming charms.”
Another turn.
“He’s a wolf.”
“And you’re not?”
The look he shot drilled her straight to the heart. “I am not.”
Katherine looked away, her party smile in place. He gripped her more tightly, his hand branding her through the silk fabric at her waist.
“You don’t fool me, my lady.”
“Fool you? About what, pray tell?”
“You’re wearing a perfect mask of contentedness, but there is deep sorrow in your eyes.”
She smiled more widely, realizing this man could see straight through her no matter what mask she wore. “You would save this damsel from her distress?” she asked with carefree inflection.
“I would. If I could.”
She let him shift her closer in the next turn. Or perhaps it was she who inched farther into his embrace. For the briefest of seconds, their bodies brushed together. She missed a step. He kept her from stumbling and lifted her smoothly into the last turn. No one could’ve detected the falter. Except him. She gathered her wits before she lost them altogether.
The strings drew the last note of the waltz to a close just as Clyde’s tall figure strode into the ballroom. Katherine winced at the sight of him.
“I would remove all sadness from those eyes, Lady Katherine,” Lord Thornton said for only her to hear.
She faced her partner, knowing etiquette would draw them apart in a matter of seconds. She should have scorned this stranger’s familiarity. She should have ignored his imploring gaze. But instead, the always guarded Lady Katherine opened her heart for one moment and let him see the pain she hid away from the rest of the world. Even from Jane.
Lord Thornton sucked in a tight breath.
“I’m afraid that is too great a feat. For anyone.” She pulled out of his arms and curtsied, knowing this gallant gentleman would not always be there to catch her when she fell. “Thank you for the dance, Lord Thornton.”
Chin held high, she maneuvered through the horde toward her waiting husband.
Chapter Two
George tracked Lady Katherine across the room, where she joined a tall gentleman with an arrogant tilt to his chin. He could only presume that was her husband, who hardly acknowledged her at his side, continuing to entertain his circle with some haughty nonsense. Fool that he was. While George wanted to watch her all night, and even pull her aside for another dance, he wasn’t here for the party or the dancing or the lovely company of a beautiful woman.
He was here for demons.
He wove through the crowd and into the next room, where smaller groups of the more elegant gathered. Scanning the parlor, he spied precisely whom he sought, near the pianoforte. No one was singing but a stunning woman of middle age, who leaned with her black hair coiffed elegantly, her scoop-necked bodice revealing more than ample décolletage, her simpering smile a delectable invitation to the young golden-haired man standing a foot away. It was not proper for a lady to lean in such a way, offering an improper view of her assets, but she was no proper lady—not in the real sense of the word. The widow Kingsley hunted the London scene for a new lover, and she’d unsheathed her claws for the one George planned to protect from the likes of her. If he could. He could guarantee the man standing to their left was the instigator of this devilry.
In his few weeks back in England, George had managed to gain plenty of information from the Periwinkles, who’d had him over for tea almost every day. Mrs. Periwinkle was as fond of gossip as she was of strawberry tarts. Lord Radcliff was often the topic of whispering rumors. His description on more than one occasion had alerted George that this Lord Radcliff could be the one he’d been searching for among the ton. And now he knew for certain that the Viscount Radcliff was indeed Damas, the demon prince of the underworld and his greatest enemy.
George strode toward the trio without pretense. The three turned at once when he joined their party, as if he’d been invited and welcomed.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Kingsley, but I believe Lady Helene asked for you.”
She angled her long-lashed brown eyes at him. “Pardon me. Who are you?”
“Earl of Thornton.” He gave a stiff nod.
“George Draconis, I believe, is it not?” added Damas.
George didn’t acknowledge him, repeating, “Forgive the intrusion, but Lady Helene was most insistent.”
All a lie, of course, but he needed a reason to be rid of her. Lady Helene would only excuse the errand as foolish nonsense, then go about her business.
“Whatever for, I wonder,” said the widow.
“Something of dire import, apparently,” added Damas, a bemused expression quirking his mouth up on one side.
“Very well.” She flicked her fan open and pressed close to Alexander. “Don’t go too far.”
George examined Alexander, noting the familiar line of his profile as the young man watched the scintillating Mrs. Kingsley walk away. George cleared his throat.
“Mr. Godfrey, would you be so good as to give me a moment of privacy with Lord—what is it these days—Radcliff?”
Alexander’s brow furrowed. He aimed his question at Damas, a sign he was certainly under his spell. “Do you know this gentleman, Radcliff?”
“It’s all right, Godfrey. Why don’t you follow after Mrs. Kingsley? I have the distinct notion Lady Helene didn’t need to see her at all.”
Still frowning, Alexander backed away and headed through the archway into the ballroom.
“Now that you have me all to yourself, what is it that I can do for you?”
George wanted to punch the grin off his face, but that wouldn’t do. Not here. “I should expel you right now for what you’re doing with Alexander.”
Damas tsked with a shake of the head. “I’ve not broken any laws. So I’
m afraid that’s out of the question. Besides, you’d be in a spot of trouble displaying your extraordinary talents in front of all these lovely gentry.”
“I’ll find you alone eventually.”
“Perhaps. But you must understand that I’ve not broken the rules either. I’ve used no essence at all, so you can’t touch me. Even though you want to,” he said with a smirk. “So desperately.”
Demon lords carried the ability to use their own essence to twist the minds of others. If caught, it was a one-way transport back to Hell. If Damas was telling the truth, then George could not, in fact, expel him.
Damas stepped closer. “Don’t mistake me for my brothers, Slayer. I prefer surrender, not coercion. It makes the victory that much sweeter.” His gaze drifted to the open archway, where Lady Katherine walked alongside her friend, Miss Karroway. “Mmm. Delicious, isn’t she?”
George focused on keeping his breathing even. Though a spark of fury lit him inside, he couldn’t allow Damas to see that the woman he’d just met and held in his arms meant anything to him.
“She’s of no consequence. I’m more concerned with your plans for Alexander.”
“I’m sure that you are,” he said mockingly. “Alexander is my protégé of his own free will. What a delightful gift these humans have for falling this way and that. It’s so fascinating to watch them waver between what they know is right and what they know is wrong, and then finally choose the darker path all the same. Truly fascinating.”
“Leave him alone, Damas. You’re only toying with him because of me. And you know it.”
The demon prince straightened, his jaw hardening into the cruel line George recognized so well. “You are right. I plan to teach him all the pleasures a high-born gentleman may acquire with the right means, then topple him from his ivory tower. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Mrs. Kingsley is only the beginning. Enjoy the show.” Damas raised his brow with a genuine look of surprise, as if he’d just remembered something. “And I know you have an affection for the blonde. Exquisite creature.”
With a wink, the foul beast George had hated for centuries sauntered off in search of his protégé. The demon’s last threat confirmed that George had endangered Lady Katherine with one simple waltz. The irony was that the King of Lies could easily see through the deception of others. He already knew the woman meant something to George.
Remaining on the periphery of the ball, he watched and waited until he saw the Blakelys leave in safety before he left for Thornton. He did not miss Lady Katherine’s backward glance at him in the foyer, nor her partial smile before she was enveloped by the night.
George swirled his brandy in the tumbler, staring out the window of his second-floor parlor. He’d loosened his cravat but was still in evening dress. As he gulped down the second glass and poured a third, he wasn’t surprised to see a fast rider on a black steed galloping up the long drive.
He heard the hall door open below and the murmurings between his guest and his butler, Duncan. The sound of heavy boots on the stairs, four long strides, and his parlor door burst open. George swiveled smoothly, glass still in hand.
“That was quite the dramatic entrance. You’ll have the servants talking,” said George with a nod of welcome at the new arrival.
“Better that than appear like a ghost on the doorstep.”
His guest sauntered into the room and fell into the wingback chair next to the fire, shifting the sword scabbard attached to his waist and propping a boot on the ottoman. Gentlemen of this age didn’t wear swords on their person as a rule, but this was no ordinary gentleman. The man seated by the hearth looked like one who had been to Hell and back. And of course he had been. Several times. And it showed. Unruly but not unkempt dark hair and piercing black eyes along with his aggressive demeanor gave Jude Delacroix the appearance of a lone highwayman or a reckless pirate. But he was neither. He was a warrior. One of the finest. And while an aura of darkness always kept him company, George wouldn’t trust his life with any man more than he would Jude.
“Care for a drink?”
“When do I not? Scotch whisky, if you please.”
George smirked at the rolling burr dipping into his friend’s voice. Jude’s accent wavered between the French of his birth and the Scottish of his upbringing. Jude wore an eternal mantle of darkness, residual evil of the demons he cast back into Hell. Only Flamma of Light or Dark could see he was no ordinary human but a hunter of the damned. Even so, the man managed to bear his burden in silence. Perhaps it was because he believed he deserved this penance.
“Why didn’t you come to White’s after the ball?” asked Jude. “I’ve been waiting all night to hear the news.”
“I’d had my share of London society for the evening.” He put the glass stopper back in the bottle. “Besides, those walls have ears.”
George joined him by the fire and passed him a glass of amber whisky but remained standing. Both gentlemen stared into the flames as if they might find answers to their questions and prayers sifting out of the smoke.
“So?” Jude finally spoke. “Did you see Damas?”
“Yes. He’s masquerading as a viscount here in the human world, going by Lord Radcliff.”
“Ha!” Jude knocked the whisky back in one shot. “He’s demoted himself from prince to viscount? How humble of him.”
George sat in the wingback chair opposite his friend, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, glass cupped between both hands. “Quite.
Lord Radcliff was one of the most powerful demon princes—debaucher of innocents and corruptor of souls. But he wasn’t like his brothers, whose evil seeped into the very air around them. No, Damas was a seducer, a master of deceit. He particularly enjoyed watching the pure of heart fall from grace. His new playground was the aristocracy of London. And George Draconis, commander of the Dominus Daemonum, the Master of Demons, planned to rid this world of him altogether.
“And has it worked? Has he escaped the scrutiny of London society?”
George downed his glass. “I’m afraid not. He’s already earned a blackguard’s reputation, it seems.”
“How so?”
“The hostess was none too fond of him, and others whispered their discontent with Godfrey as his protégé.”
Jude leaned forward and set his glass on the ottoman. “So it’s true. He has taken Alexander under his wing.”
“So it seems.” George stood abruptly and lifted Jude’s glass. “Another?”
Jude nodded, eyes narrowing. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Do you think Alexander is being controlled by demon spawn?”
“No,” George answered. Damas might not have infected Alexander with his essence, but it still might be too late to pull him back from the abyss. Damas was right about one thing. The human will was a hard thing to control. “We’ll have our work cut out for us.”
George poured another whisky for his guest. He set his own glass aside. The brandy had loosened the tension constricting his chest, but the worry, the fear, had not disappeared.
“George, we knew all this before. You’ve only verified what we suspected all along. So what is it that plagues you like a lovesick sailor?”
George cut him a nasty look. “There’s another complication.”
“Oh no.” Jude stood, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you’re right. But how could you know? And I’m not lovesick.”
“You have the look of every man I’ve ever known who is being tortured by a woman’s beauty or other…assets.”
“That’s enough. She is—”
Both men froze. They’d sensed the needles-and-fire sensation crawling over their skins. Demons were near. George glanced toward the window.
/> “On the lawn.”
Without another word, George disappeared, sifting through time and space, through an in-between place called the Void. Here, he could move freely from one place to another simply by will alone—a power given to him by their maker, Uriel the Archangel.
He appeared on the lawn with Jude a split second later in a crackle of electricity. George had drawn a short dagger from under his waistcoat. Jude held his sword at the ready.
Five red-eyed fiends lurked in the misty darkness, circling them. Farmers and merchants, four were local men from the village, whom he’d spoken to on a number of occasions and knew well. One was his own stable boy, Daniel. They’d been possessed by lower demons who had the power to hide in human hosts so they could walk the earth and do their masters’ bidding. But they couldn’t hide their demon eyes, the telltale sign of lower demons. George’s blood raced. These were men in his care, being used as pawns to attack him.
“Your wards are slipping,” said Jude, swinging his sword in a dramatic arc. The closest demon hissed—the skinny stable boy, Daniel, who’d only ever looked at him with a friendly smile.
“No blades,” commanded George, sliding his dagger back into the harness. “I know them. They mustn’t be harmed. We’ll fortify the wards after dispatching the demons.”
Jude swung his sword again, nearly missing another encroaching fiend with straggly hair.
“Jude! No blades. Didn’t you hear me?”
“Quite clearly. Just having a bit of fun.”
“Bloody hell,” mumbled George, charging the oafish demon, who happened to be the village blacksmith.
George summoned the fiery power from within his chest, chanting the mantra “Flamma intus.” A burning vibration pumped from his core straight through his arm and his fist as he landed a single blow to the blacksmith’s jaw, knocking him out cold. George knelt at the blacksmith’s side, sensing a second attack on his flank. Raising a hand, fingers spread wide, George charged the air with his Flamma power. The wheat farmer bounced back off the invisible shield George had erected, beating against the barrier to no avail.
The Deepest Well Page 2