“Please allow me to introduce my wife, Mrs. Matilda Calliban.”
The beautiful woman swiveled her glassy-eyed gaze on Katherine and dipped a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure,” she said with a sweet voice, though there was no life in it. She appeared like an automaton—a breathtaking machine of feminine perfection.
“I did not know you were in town, Radcliff,” said Mr. Calliban. “You should’ve let me know you were here. I could’ve given you a proper welcome.” The man spoke with a warning in his tone, not a welcome.
“I knew we’d bump into each other sooner or later, Calliban.”
The entire time this odd interaction was taking place, Katherine’s heart threatened to beat right out of her chest, her pulse racing like mad. Clyde did nothing but stand to the side of Mr. Calliban as if he were the man’s lapdog. She couldn’t stop feeling as if this entire exchange was a façade of some kind, hiding a truth she could not detect.
“May I take your glass, my lady?” asked a servant at her elbow.
“Yes. Thank you.” As she placed the flute onto the platter, she spotted Lord Thornton on the opposite side of the foyer. Watching. His dark gaze intense on the men at her side made her hitch in a breath.
Mr. Calliban swiveled as if he sensed the man at his back. Lord Thornton tipped his own glass in salute, although his expression was anything but friendly. The man who glared with contempt and hatred at her circle was not the man she’d walked alongside in the park. Then she noticed his friend, Mr. Delacroix, at his side, wearing the blackest scowl she’d ever seen.
Mr. Calliban laughed. “Quite a party of us at the opera tonight, is it not, Radcliff?”
“Quite.”
What was going on? Katherine felt as if she’d stepped onto the stage herself, where everyone knew the parts except for her.
“I believe the second half of Faust awaits,” said Lord Radcliff. “Shall we see how it all ends?”
“Indeed. Now we shall witness the lovely, imprisoned Marguerite, who falls into madness by the hand of Mephistopheles,” said Mr. Calliban. “Nothing more beautiful than a virtuous woman in peril.”
Katherine shivered when he directed his comment at her with a crooked smile.
“Come, Katherine,” said Clyde, demanding she take his arm, which was a direct snub to Lord Radcliff. She did so, as was her duty. When she glanced back over her shoulder to look for Lord Thornton, he was gone.
Chapter Five
George stood in the shadows across the street from Harron House, brooding with dark intent. Cloaked as he was in the cast of illusion, the happy couple parading under the moonlight without a care in the world didn’t even notice he was there. If they knew their city was quickly being overrun with demons, they might not relish late-night walks. George was so focused on his target, waiting for their arrival, he didn’t flinch a muscle when Jude appeared right beside him in a rush of wind, having sifted from his own mission.
“And?” asked George.
“Not far outside London.”
“Did Damas go home with him?”
“No. Calliban had only the Vessel.”
“His wife,” said George, shaking his head in disgust. “I’d wager all of Thornton on the fact that he orchestrated that poor girl’s parents’ deaths so he could hole up in their mansion.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. You can’t be everywhere at once. You can’t protect everyone.”
George turned to his friend, letting his gaze drift away from the front door of the house across the street for the first time. “And what if his wife were the one, Jude? What if it had been her, before Calliban got his hands on her?”
There was a prophecy among all Flamma of Light and Dark, one that had been torn in half ages ago, the second half lost or hidden. What was known was that a Vessel would be born into this world who would become a powerful weapon for the heavenly hosts in the Great War to come, whenever that might be. Upon her full awakening of power, she would turn the tide against the demon horde. There would be no match for her. She could destroy with a word. However, if a Vessel was corrupted and possessed by a high demon—one of the aristocracy among the damned—not only would she forfeit her power for good, but she would become an instrument of evil—body and soul. In the possession of a Vessel, a high demon could disobey the laws of Flamma forbidding them to possess the weak on holy days or walk on holy ground. By channeling the Vessel power toward evil, he could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, to whomever he wanted. And the greatest sin of all was that the Vessels became the ultimate victims—bewitched by their demon lord to do his bidding without any will left of their own. The Vessel’s power became forfeit, amplifying the power for her demon lord.
This was all certainly true of the vacant-eyed woman on Calliban’s arm tonight.
“I should’ve been here,” said George. “In London.”
“You can’t be everywhere at once. Haven’t we been over this?”
“Then we need more hunters.”
“Speak to Uriel about that.”
Uriel the Archangel was their maker. Most archangels and angels never set foot on earth, biding their time till the Great War came, when they would battle the demons upon this middle ground. But Uriel was not like all archangels. His disgust for demons lording over and corrupting unsuspecting humans while the heavenly hosts flitted about in their otherworld seemed unjust. So he began by making George, who was not a Dominus Daemonum at all. His bravery in death had caught Uriel’s eye, and so the archangel had begun building his own army…here on earth.
But it was not large enough to combat the growing hordes of demons mixing with the human population, swarming in to do their ghastly deeds.
“I will speak to him,” said George. “But for now, we are the only ones here to stop Calliban and Damas in whatever they’re up to.”
“Are you certain Damas is in league with him? They aren’t nesting in the same place.”
“The princes are more territorial than any of them. They wouldn’t. But Lord Blakely is at the center of something nasty.”
“Do you believe he is a sentinel for Damas?”
“No. Blakely may have become acquainted with Damas, but his loyalty is to Calliban. And I don’t believe the man has any idea who or what he is toying with.”
“I’ll watch Calliban’s place, see if I can detect any comings and goings.”
George glanced up at the sliver of moon peeking through a sheath of clouds. “Good. I’ll stay here.”
Jude shoved both hands in his coat pockets, mumbling something under his breath.
“What was that?” asked George.
He cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you were watching for Lord Blakely or Lady Katherine.”
George stepped forward out of the shadows, taking a closer look at Harron House, wondering if Katherine’s bedchamber was at the front or the back of the house. He should not be wondering where her bedchamber was. He should not be thinking of her at all in the direction his mind wandered. But a fierce beast clawed within his chest, urging him to protect her. George had never felt that way for any woman. Not even his own wife.
“Jude,” he said, pausing as his inflection dropped with sincerity. “I will watch Blakely to discover what the hell he has gotten himself into with Calliban. And I will watch Lady Katherine to keep her from harm’s way. That is all.”
Jude shifted forward into the moonlight, his dark eyes glittering like black stars. “You are a guardian, George. The best of guardians. I do not doubt your intent is true and good.”
He paused.
“But?” asked George.
“But, there is something about her that has you behaving unlike yourself.”
George said nothing in protest. He was not a liar. He knew that the moment he’d met her, there was something compelling and alluring about her, something that spoke t
o the man, not the guardian.
“I’ve known you for fifteen hundred years. And in all that time, you have never, not once, taken a woman for a stroll through the park.”
“Is there a crime in taking an interest in a woman after all this time?”
Jude combed a heavy hand through his tousled hair. “Of course not. But she’s different. And you’re different around her.”
“Bloody hell, Jude. You’ve seen me in her company one afternoon.”
“And it was enough.”
George considered Jude’s words carefully. He always heeded advice. The only reason he was still alive after all this time was the wisdom accumulated from other wise men. He wasn’t immortal, after all, only ageless. He could die from a blade to the heart like any other man, as he had the first time. Uriel would not be bringing him back a second.
“I appreciate your concern—”
“But it is none of my business?”
“Of course, it is. You are the oldest, dearest friend I have. I will tread carefully. I assure you.”
Jude watched a coach coming up the cobblestone street. “Well, here comes your mark. I’ll be off to watch mine. Meet you at Thornton in the morning.”
George gave him a nod before the man sifted away, leaving him alone. His stomach twisted into a tight knot as the coach drew up in front of the house and stopped. Having seen Katherine in the company of Calliban was one thing. But seeing her conversing jovially with Damas had nearly ripped him in half. She had no idea whom she was dealing with: the master of deception himself, the king of lies. George vowed he would protect her at all costs. And he wasn’t a man to break his promises.
The coachman hopped down and opened the door, but immediately stepped away from the carriage and averted his eyes from whatever he saw inside. George couldn’t bear the suspense. Casting himself in illusion, he sifted into the shadows near the door for a closer look.
Chapter Six
Clyde had ignored her nearly the entire ride home, which was much to Katherine’s liking. However, she realized his silent treatment only meant a storm was brewing. He was angry, though she didn’t pretend to know why. When they turned the corner of Hanover Square, making their way up the drive, he finally spoke. She wished he hadn’t.
“Look at me.”
The seething rage in his voice compelled her to face him, since he had chosen to sit by her side rather than across from her, as was his custom.
“You will not make a cuckold of me.”
“What?”
“With that Lord Radcliff. I know his game. You will regret every intimate embrace you’ve had with him before the night is through.”
Stunned silent for the briefest of moments, she finally said, “You are utterly mad. I have not nor have I ever made you a cuckold.” She didn’t dare mention his own brazen hypocrisy, while she had to defend her virtue to the most disgraceful husband any woman could possibly have.
“But you plan to.”
“I do not.”
He gripped her by the shoulders and pressed a rough kiss to her lips, pushing her back against the side of the cab. The carriage rolled to a stop.
“You are mine, Katherine. You will not give yourself to any other man.”
One of his hands fumbled under her skirts. She could not believe what possessed him to attack her so violently, and in the carriage on their doorstep. The cab door opened.
“Stop it,” she whispered, managing to elbow him to the temple, hard enough to stun him and give her the chance to escape the cab.
“Thank you, Peter,” she called, whisking herself up the steps and through the open door. “Good night, Edmund.”
“Good night, madam.”
She sped up the carpeted stairs, her skirts rustling with each step.
“Katherine!” he called like a madman.
He was coming after her…to her bedchamber. “No.” She picked up her skirts and fled down the hallway as fast as she could, though she could hear his pounding steps behind her.
“Katherine! I’m not finished.”
She rushed through her door and swung it shut, but it stopped four inches from closing. His foot blocked the door.
“Step aside, Katherine, before I hurt you.”
“Go to bed, Clyde. You’re drunk.”
He burst into the room, flinging her onto the floor with the force of his push on the door. “I simply plan to show my wife who she belongs to.”
He jerked off his coat and dropped it to the floor.
Katherine tried to scramble back, caught in the layers of silk and muslin. “Please, Clyde. You’re not yourself.”
It was true. He had been cruel and even rough with her before, but he had never forced himself on her. This was a new animal altogether—a crazed, vicious one with violence shining bright in his eyes. He fell upon her, ripping open the top of her gown, fury lacing his every move.
“Please! Plea—”
He backhanded her across the cheek, her head snapping left with startling pain. Then his weight vanished. A brief noise of grappling. Someone else was in the room. Edmund? Three punches to Clyde’s face, then he thudded to the floor beside her.
Still breathing heavily, Katherine whispered, “Edmund? Is that you?”
The tall figure moved to the candle beside her bed, struck the tinderbox and lit the candle. The golden light illumined the handsome and enraged profile of George Thornton. She was rendered speechless, stunned and confused as to why he would be in her home at night, saving her from her husband’s so-called affections.
Without pause, he leaned down and lifted Clyde like a rag doll. “Show me to his bedchamber.”
“How…but why—”
“Now, Katherine. Before I toss him out the window and hear the pleasant sound of his skull cracking on the pavement below.”
She leaped to her feet and peeked out her door, finding no one in the hall, as expected. No one would have come to her aid. Clyde ruled this house with fear and intimidation.
“This way,” she whispered, ushering him down the hall to the last bedchamber on the right, the master suite.
She held the door open, standing at the entrance as Lord Thornton unceremoniously flung Clyde on the bed. George paused, staring at the door leading to the adjacent suite.
“Why is this room not your bedchamber?”
She cleared her throat. “This is my father’s room. I decided to keep my own from childhood when Clyde and I married.”
He strode across the room, a formidable silhouette contrasted against the moonlight streaming in from the window. “I’ll escort you back to yours.”
She guided him back down the dark corridor and into her bedchamber. He did not stop at the entryway but let himself inside. Still shaken from the incident, she shut the door in case a servant happened to have heard something and come to see to her. She’d never had another man in her bedroom, only her father and her husband. She stood with her back to the window, twisting her hands together in agitation.
“Lord Thornton, how are you in my home at this hour?”
He stood at her washing table and poured water into the ewer. He dipped the washcloth in the basin and wrung it out before returning to her side.
“Lord Thornton?” she asked, still shaken.
“I believe you can call me George from now on. In private.”
He tipped her chin up gently toward the candlelight and pressed the cool cloth to her cheek. She winced at the sting. He clenched his jaw at her reaction but held the cloth steady.
“He did not break the skin.” His voice rumbled low. “If he had, I would have broken his neck.”
“Lord Thornton—”
“George.”
She struggled for a moment, unused to speaking to men by their Christian names. “George.” His name sounded like heaven on her lips. “How are
you in my home? How are you in my bedchamber? Did not Edmund stop you at the door?”
“Edmund wasn’t there when I came in. Does your husband always treat you thus?”
She met his fiery gaze, ashamed that he would see her in such a way. His expression softened the moment she glanced upward. His hand was still pressed to her cheek, the cloth between their skins. She placed her hand atop his.
“Thank you. I’m recovered now.”
He paused, then slowly removed his hand so that she held the cloth. His gaze dropped to her torn bodice, then shot in the other direction. He paced toward the window and stared out, hands low on his hips. Katherine glanced down to see how much of herself she’d revealed to him unaware. With one hand, she tried to cover her cleavage, though the gown was quite ruined.
“You didn’t answer me,” he said with patience and a gentle voice.
While he had rescued her at a moment that could have been, no, would have been disastrous, she wondered why he found it his duty to pry into her personal business. But then she remembered their first dance. She had invited him into her personal business with one honest look. She had welcomed him to save the damsel in distress. And so he had…for the moment.
“No,” she finally answered. “He is not a good husband. He is the source of all my disappointment and unhappiness. But he is not always thus. Something has happened to him. Changed him for the worse. Much worse.”
He turned from the window. Hard lines carved his face in shadow and candlelight. Katherine longed to reach out and touch that face, cradle him with a gentle hand and assure him she was all right, and force that hard expression to melt away. The man appeared to be gripped in utter torture at the sight of her, his shoulders tight as a bowstring. She then realized he wore no coat. Tossed aside somewhere before he punched her husband into unconsciousness?
The Deepest Well Page 5