“My master bids me to give you this. He awaits you. Tonight.”
Lucy followed the footman as he swiftly melted out of sight and disappeared amongst the crowd. She glanced down at her palm, and immediately closed her fingers around the gold circle. Her gaze found Sussex, who was still heading toward the door of the music room with Alynwick alongside him. He was not paying her mind. He had not seen.
Carefully she uncurled her fingers and stared down at the coin, with its lyre and laurel leaves.
The House of Orpheus…Thomas.
Excitement mixed with dread. She did not want to discover any connection between Thomas and Orpheus. She wanted there to be no question of his innocence in Sussex’s mind, or in hers.
There was only one way to know the truth. She must go to him, and Sussex must never discover that fact.
ALL THE WAY HOME, as the carriage rocked and swayed through the dimly lit streets of Mayfair, Lucy wondered—and worried—what the remainder of the night would bring, considering the duke’s strange mood. The coin was pressed against her palm, inside the glove, and she felt it, a reminder of what the night would bring.
She worried that perhaps Sussex would discover her plan, but he was preoccupied—with thoughts of the marquis, no doubt.
Stealing a glance at her friend, Lucy could well believe that it was not only the duke who was brooding about the marquis, but it was evident that Elizabeth was, too.
Lucy had found them in a darkened hall, Alynwick looming over Lizzy like a menacing shadow. Reluctantly he had pulled away, but not before he’d leaned down and whispered something that had caused Elizabeth’s delicate pink flush to drain from her face. Something had passed between them—Elizabeth firmly denied it, but Lucy had seen the lie in her friend’s eyes. Something had transpired to make Lizzy quiet—too quiet—and worried, too. Her friend was still biting her lower lip and clutching her reticule tightly in her hands. Lucy had tried numerous times to draw Lizzy from her thoughts with talk, but her friend seemed oblivious to her attempts. The only thing left to do was to reach out and grasp Elizabeth’s hand, holding it tight in her small gloved one. With a gentle squeeze, Lizzy recognized the small comfort, but still did not speak.
What had that brute Alynwick done or said to her? Any number of vile things, she supposed. The marquis was known for such things, and he had hurt her friend before… Well, she would not stand for it this time. Brethren or no, Alynwick would not be allowed to further hurt Elizabeth.
Before she knew it, the magnificent ducal coach pulled up before her house. Sussex, without any sort of pretext, handed her down from the carriage, and escorted her up the tall steps of her home. When Jennings opened the doors, the duke bowed and bid her good night, then turned and disappeared into the fog-shrouded night.
“Good evening, miss, I trust your evening has been an enjoyable one?”
Jennings took her cloak, and waited for her gloves, which Lucy had no intention of giving up. “Very enjoyable, Jennings. And my father?”
“Not at home, miss. Lodge meeting tonight.”
That’s right. She had forgotten.
“Well, then, Jennings, I think I shall retire. I am tired tonight.”
With a bow, the butler withdrew. “Very good, miss.”
Lucy forced herself to climb the curved staircase with dignity and decorum. She could feel the austere stare of the butler following her progress. When she was out of sight, she lifted the hem of her dress, running down the long corridor, the silk of her gown making a rustling, sifting noise as her heeled slippers, muffled by the thick carpet, tapped against the floor.
At last she was there, slightly winded as she threw open the door then slammed it behind her. Tossing her reticule and gloves onto her dressing table Lucy rushed to her window, pulling aside the heavy brocade curtains, she saw that the Sussex coach was already rolling down the street.
She tried to think of the coin pressed to her flesh, the excitement that was to come. But she caught a glimpse of the ducal crest emblazoned on the carriage door and it made her think back on the events of that evening.
By God, how I want you…
Dratted man.
It had been uttered in the deepest, darkest, most velvety voice she had ever heard, and it had made her whole body shiver. It was most definitely perfect, and full of passion, and quite the most arousing thing ever said to her—and it would have to be the duke who said it.
“Well, to hear this door slam, it can’t be good news.”
Lucy turned to see her maid, Sybilla, enter the chamber. Every time she saw her, the effect was the same. Sybilla was breathtaking, with dark, thick hair, and exotic almond-shaped eyes. Her skin was the color of amber honey, and her faint accent most alluring. She had come from France with her last employer, who had died not long after arriving in London—succumbing, no doubt, to the damp weather. Lucy had immediately snatched her up—not because Sybilla was beautiful, or gifted with needle and thread, or heavens above, pins and brushes, but because she shared a very unique interest with her.
The occult.
Lucy’s interest had only been budding when Sybilla came into her life. Now, and with Sybilla’s uncanny ability to discover the most diverting occult gatherings, and séances, Lucy could definitely say that her interest was far more than merely fleeting.
Sybilla knew most of the details of Lucy’s affair, and it had been her maid who had suggested they use the occult as a way of communing with her dead lover.
With a sigh, Lucy let the drapes fall back into place. “Elizabeth had a wonderful time. And that is the most important thing.”
“And you did not?” Sybilla asked as she picked the discarded gloves up from the table and smoothed them out. Lucy still held the coin in her tightly curled fist.
Sinking to the chair that sat before the dressing table, Lucy sighed once more and gazed into the mirror. “I don’t know if I did or didn’t. Does that sound strange?”
Sybilla smiled, and started pulling pins from Lucy’s hair. “It sounds like a man was involved for you to give such an answer.”
“Mmm,” she mumbled as she picked up a pearl hair clip and started twirling it mindlessly. “Have you had a chance to get those books at the library I requested?”
“Oui, I put them on your nightstand. They were very heavy, and dusty, I might add.”
“I don’t doubt they are all dusty old tomes. I highly doubt there are many readers in the city eager to read up on the crusades.”
“Then why are you?”
Their gazes met in the mirror, over a mound of Lucy’s red hair that looked wild and untamed as it was released from the pins. “Something compels me,” she replied. “Something I feel I must know.”
“About what?”
Lucy didn’t dare breathe a word about such things to her maid. Not that she didn’t fully trust her, but because she had given her word to Black, and by extension to Sussex. She had sworn not to speak of the Brethren Guardians, or their Templar lineage. She had promised not to reveal that the three of them—Sussex, Black and Alynwick—were linked by something beyond anyone’s imagination. And for that reason alone she kept her council, stating only, “I had heard that they dabbled in the occult, and I wanted to do research on the matter, that is all.”
Sybilla nodded briskly, telling Lucy she accepted the answer, but the maid’s dark eyes said something completely different.
Despite this, Lucy knew what must be done. She must learn more of the Guardians, and she must tell Thomas about them—tonight.
“You are in blue spirits, I think,” Sybilla muttered.
“Nonsense,” Lucy replied. She was just… She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She had had a very steady, very sure course set for herself, until tonight. Until the duke had given her a surprising—and shocking—glimpse of another side of him. And it was far from polite—or dead boring—and she couldn’t stop thinking of it, despite the fact the coin she held was warm in her hand. Thomas…think of him. Eight mo
nths of being parted was about to end….
“Mrs. Fraser sent her card around,” Sybilla announced as she pulled the remainder of Lucy’s pins from her hair. “I did not send a reply, as I was uncertain of your thoughts.”
She had thought never to call upon the Scottish Witch ever again, but that had been weeks ago, before Sussex had returned the handkerchief, before everything had seemed to blur and change.
“I think I’ll leave it for now,” she murmured, unsure of what to do. Ever since that night she had visited the mystic, she had been possessed by dreams of her vision, and those gray eyes, and the portent it might mean. She had thought of her childhood friend more than she had in years, and she didn’t like how it stirred up the old feelings that she had tried to suppress.
“I think I have something that will make you happy.”
Lucy looked up into the mirror, and saw that her hair was not hanging free of the pins, but rather had been redressed. Curiously her gaze found Sybilla who was once more reentering the room, carrying a missive.
Passing it to her, she smiled secretively. “This will bring a smile, non?”
Tearing open the wax seal, Lucy breathlessly read the words she had prayed for and longed to hear these last long months. The coin fell from her hand, and Sybilla picked it up, holding it for her until she had read the missive.
A carriage will await you at the corner of Mount and Green at one o’clock. Bring the coin and show it to the footman, who will direct you to me.
Yrs, as ever,
Thomas
“It is from him! I told you, Sybilla, that I had seen him, that he hadn’t died at all!”
“You must go to him, but when?”
“Tonight! Now!” Lucy cried, jumping up from the chair. “I’ll need a heavy cloak, a bonnet—with a thick veil.” She paused, met Sybilla’s gaze. “My father—”
“I will tell him you are indisposed.”
“That will arouse his suspicions, and he’ll come to check on me when he gets home.”
A glint reflected in the maid’s dark eyes. “Not if I tell him it is female in nature.”
“Oh, how clever, he’d never dare enter after learning that.”
“Most men won’t.”
“You are brilliant, Sybilla.”
Lucy ran from the room after her cloak and bonnet had been carefully secured. The gold coin was safely in her palm, back beneath her glove. “My lady, you will have a care, won’t you?”
“Of course. There is nothing to fear. I will be back by morning, safely in bed, with none the wiser.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THICK FOG SWIRLED around the lampposts, a gray specter mingling and coiling in the dim light of the gas lanterns. Senses alert, Adrian prowled down the cobbled street, his fashionable walking stick with its concealed knife at the ready for anyone who might wish to make a rush at a gentleman, prowling the empty streets alone at this time of night.
It was an impulsive, not to mention foolish, decision to walk to the little house he kept on Mount Street. Had he been in control of his faculties and not still reeling from his evening spent with Lucy, and the perplexing arrival of Alynwick, he would have seen the plan for the reckless, foolhardy idea it was. But his temper and considerable lust were charting this particular course and once either of those emotions were aroused, not much persuaded him to ignore his inclinations. He was in a strange mood, dark and brooding, his thoughts leading him to things he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell upon in years. Engrossing himself in such thoughts only made the fear come back. The feeling that he deserved nothing of what he had been given rose up like bile. The fear of discovery had always been there, his constant companion. He had learned to cope with it, to accept it as a part of himself and the life he lived. Secrets were a Guardian’s companion, his secrets no less so.
“Damn it to hell,” he muttered, stabbing the cobbles with the end of the stick, if it wasn’t the secret he tried to keep buried, the one thing that could ruin him in the eyes of everyone he cared for, it was Lucy driving him stark raving mad.
One minute he wanted to ravish her, the next he wanted to shake her till her teeth rattled and she couldn’t think clearly enough to toss out her impeccably placed barbs.
She thought him boring, staid—and passionless. If she only knew how his gut burned with unabated passion, if she could see inside his mind and realize that he was not just a stuffed shirt, but a flesh-and-blood man. But she refused to see it, and worst of all, she would refuse him the right to be alone with her, so he could show her just what sort of passion he was capable of.
Of all the gall, he spat, shooing away a stray cat that was stopped on the cobbles staring at him with its watchful green gaze. Had he any reasoning at all, he’d put any thought of Lucy and her lovely eyes and fiery temper right out of his mind and fix himself on other more willing, and far more accommodating, company. He could have any woman he desired, not just as a mistress, but as a wife. But he had fixed on Lucy. His heart would countenance no other. If it were only a matter of speaking from his heart, he would have done so by now, but he was quite certain that Lucy would not listen—and if she did, she would not believe that he had fallen irrevocably in love with her. She would think it yet another scheme to force her into marriage.
Besides, she had made her thoughts quite clear, and a man’s heart was a fragile thing, despite what women thought. It was difficult enough for a man to admit he loved someone; he didn’t need to say it knowing the feeling was not reciprocated. That did smack of pride, but he was only human after all.
Perhaps what he needed to do was to show her, through action and deed, the proof of his love. It was too soon for the words; she wasn’t ready to hear them. But there were other ways to make her understand that he meant to have her as his duchess—and it had nothing to do with an arrangement made with her father.
God Almighty, he would make her more than willing; he’d make her burn as hot for him as he did for her.
A cat hissed at him, arching its back as he motioned with his stick for it to move aside. In a state of distemper, he hissed back, sending the animal racing for cover in the gutter. If only he could send Lucy scurrying with his bared teeth and bad temper. But the damnable woman had risen to the challenge, had refused to back down and let him win their joust of words.
A smile flitted across his lips despite his foul mood while he fished around his pocket for the key to the house. Hell, he had to do nothing more than think of her and his unruly cock came to life. No courtesan, no matter how beautiful or talented, had ever done that to him.
Never had a woman challenged him so. Never had he endured so many sleepless nights due to unrequited passion and longing. He was utterly smitten and it was all one-sided.
Fitting the key into the lock, he let himself into the darkened hall; Adrian knew emphatically Lucy was going to be the death of him. There was nothing healthy about the feelings she aroused in him. He needed her, and he had never needed anything or anyone before, not like this.
What he wanted above all else was Lucy’s good opinion—for her to see beyond the title to the man. He wanted her to come to him of her own volition. He cared about what Lucy thought—cared a great deal.
Stalking to the study, he opened the door, thankful that the man he paid to look after the place was not about to hover over him or see him in his present state of confusion. He liked letting himself into his home. He enjoyed the solitude, the feeling of being nothing but a man in his own home. He’d purchased the little house as a means to meet with Alynwick and Black in relative secrecy when it was necessary. But tonight he was meeting someone else there. Lord, he hoped he could put on a better face than he now presented.
The door to his library was already opened, and the soft shadow of gas lighting seeped into the hall. Quietly he entered, surveyed the room, his eyes instantly drawn to the sideboard where a decanter of good Scotch whiskey sat awaiting his arrival. Ah, that was what he needed—that would banish any lingering thought
s he had about Lucy, and the beastly mood he found himself in.
“Good evening, your grace,” a woman purred behind him, her voice a mixture of husky female entreaty and an Eastside London accent was rather alluring. It conjured up all sorts of titillating images, and possibilities.
He straightened; why, he had no idea. They had planned to meet here, at precisely this hour. She had her own key, for God’s sake. But still, he jolted. Trying to hide it, he glanced at her, saw her sprawled on the leather settee, her long, dangling diamond ear bobs scraping against her shoulders, the soft lighting making them as brilliant as prisms.
“Anastasia,” he mumbled. Acknowledging her with a curt nod, he moved to the sideboard, poured a whiskey and tossed it back in one long swallow. The burn down his throat felt good, settling him. He poured another, and proceeded to swallow it like before. Normally he did not drink to excess, but tonight he didn’t give a damn. He felt reckless and wild…maybe even feral. He had not felt like that in twelve years—he thought he’d curbed that distasteful tendency. But old habits die hard, and he had acknowledged reluctantly that he had never really been completely civilized. The image society saw, and bought into, was nothing but a sham, a fraudulent image of a duke.
“You are not yourself tonight,” his guest observed.
He glanced at her as he poured his third whiskey. “Am I not?”
She smiled, and he blinked, temporarily taken in by her beauty. She had dazzled many a man, not only with her beauty, but her confidence and knack for knowing what men desired—in and out of the bedroom. She shrugged, making her breasts nearly spill from her low-cut gown. “I have known you a long time, Adrian. You can’t hide from me.”
Sighing, he ran his hand through his hair as the whiskey warmed in his hand. “I suppose not.” She knew too much. Knew what he was.
“We have known each other for so long,” she murmured as she tilted her head to study him. “Will you not confide in me?”
Lowering himself into a comfortably stuffed chair, he let out a groan and tossed his head back, resting it against the scrolled wood carved frame. Closing his eyes he sought the words. “It’s nothing. Pay me no mind.”
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