Masked Desires (Unmasking Prometheus, #3)

by Bold, Diana

  She gave him a charming, quizzical look. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

  For an instant, he thought to deny it. Since he was a child, and Winters had tormented him for it, he’d kept his art to himself. He wasn’t sure why he’d offered to do the murals, but it felt right. He wanted to create some beauty for these children, and for some reason, he knew he could trust this woman. She would never mock him for his creativity. In fact, she seemed as though she might even appreciate him for it.

  He simply shrugged one shoulder. “I love painting. Doing this for the children... It would make me very happy.” It was the truth. The thought of it gave him the first glimmer of happiness he’d felt in a very long time.

  As though she suddenly realized how close they still were, she backed away, going back to lean against her desk. “Well, that would be wonderful.”

  He nodded, self-conscious as well. Feeling the need to put even more distance between them, he decided it was time to bring up the question he’d been wanting to ask all day. “When can I speak to the girl who was brought here by Prometheus?”

  She flinched as though he’d slapped her. “Is that what this has all been about? Was this all just a stalling technique so you could interrogate a little girl who’s already been through too much?”

  He frowned, wondering why she was so against him asking the girl a few questions. “I want to help out here. I want to paint for the children. But I also want to get to the bottom of who is pretending to be Prometheus. I don’t see why you’re so dead set against it.” He shook his head. “Unless you already know who it is. Are you trying to protect him?”

  She gave an exasperated huff. “I don’t know who this new Prometheus is. I already told you that. But I support anyone who is trying to help children who are sold into prostitution. I don’t understand why you’re trying so hard to stop him.”

  “I’m just trying to protect my family,” he snapped. “I would think that you could understand that.”

  “I do. But I can’t tell you what I don’t know.” She sighed and scrubbed her hand over her face. “How about this? How about I question her for you? She trusts me, and I’m a woman. I think if she knows anything, she’ll be more likely to tell me than you.”

  Although he’d rather do it himself, he couldn’t deny her logic, but he had a feeling she had an ulterior motive, that she didn’t want him to know the truth. Who was she trying to protect? “All right,” he said begrudgingly. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

  She nodded. “Well, I need to get back to my work. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  He shook his head, his earlier euphoria having faded. He didn’t like being at odds with her. He didn’t like it at all. “No. I think I’m done for the day. I’ll get some supplies and return tomorrow.”

  Chapter Five

  The next day, after all the children were sleeping, Fiona made her way to an empty bedroom on the third floor. They’d moved Christina and Bridget, the current occupants, downstairs for the night, so they wouldn’t have to breathe the paint fumes.

  Morgan and his children had been around all day, but she’d mostly managed to avoid them. When he’d paused in her office door to say he was leaving, she’d just smiled and said goodbye.

  Brookhaven’s children had been buzzing about the mural all evening long. It had dominated the conversation around the dinner table. The consensus seemed to be that Mr. Strathmore was the greatest artist who had ever lived, and that Christina and Bridget, beaming with delight, were the envy of all.

  Even though Fiona had been dying to see what he’d done, she’d managed to restrain herself all evening, going about her many duties and helping Marjorie and Judith, the nighttime staff, get the children down for the night. However, it was impossible to pretend she wasn’t aware that the most fascinating man she’d ever met had painted something enchanting in the girls’ room.

  Pausing for a moment outside Christina and Bridget’s door, she took a deep breath, trying to prepare herself in case she was disappointed.

  She shouldn’t have worried. The entire room really had been magically transformed.

  She’d expected that the mural would be confined to one wall. Instead, he’d painted the entire room. The theme he’d chosen—probably after having consulted the girls, since she knew it was their favorite book—was Black Beauty. One wall portrayed Black Beauty as a colt, in the pasture with his mother, Duchess. The next showed him at Birtwick, with Merrylegs, Ginger, and Sir Oliver. Thankfully, he had chosen not to show any of the sadder periods of the horse’s life and instead, had stopped for the night halfway through another scene of Black Beauty happily retired in a field.

  The animals were crafted with stunning detail, so lifelike that they could have walked off the walls. The green fields and lush, bright-colored flowers made it seem like she stood in a beautiful garden instead of a small room in an orphanage.

  “Oh, Morgan,” she breathed, turning in a slow circle. She hadn’t expected him to be this talented. In fact, she’d half-feared that he had no talent at all.

  But this... never in her wildest dreams had she imagined something so breathtaking. The girls would feel like princesses in this room, and they’d had too little beauty and artistry in their lives.

  She didn’t even realize she was crying until the tears were already streaming down her cheeks. Twice in one week! She wasn’t even sure why she was so emotional, except for perhaps that she had just felt so alone for so long. And Morgan’s sudden interest in the orphanage, even if it was only fleeting, had made a little of that loneliness go away.

  Brushing at the tears, she stumbled back and left the room, running lightly back down the stairs and into her office, where she’d already packed her bag for her night’s adventure. It had been nearly a week since she’d rescued Molly, and the clawing need to go back out, to find another child in need of saving, had been building to a fever pitch.

  Perhaps it was stupid to risk it, knowing that Morgan Strathmore could very well be out there waiting for Prometheus to make a move, but she felt the possibility of helping someone outweighed the risk, and she couldn’t bear to be alone with her rioting thoughts.

  Stealing out through the back door once again, she kept to the shadows, skirting the edge of the property and then hailing a hack once she’d reached a more populated street. As she gave an address in the East End, she leaned back against the seat, which smelled of smoke and sweat, wondering if she truly had the courage to keep doing this.

  Every time she did, the memories of her past nearly overwhelmed her. If she were ever forced back into the life that Adrian had rescued her from, it would kill her. She would literally rather die.

  Forcing those grim thoughts away, she focused on the copious research she’d done for weeks before she’d actually worked up the courage to take Molly. There was another auction tonight. Virgins, some of them mere children, would be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Somehow, she had to find a way to get into the building where it was being held and free as many of those girls as she could.

  MORGAN SAT DOWN IN the third row of seats that had been arranged in front of a makeshift stage. It had taken quite some finagling to earn himself an invitation to this scurrilous affair, but with Adrian’s knowledge of the horrid underground society that hosted such events, and the greasing of the right palms, he’d finally managed it.

  One would never have known by looking that this room in a nondescript house on a quiet residential street was full of monsters. The two dozen or so men who were taking seats around him or helping themselves to drinks at the small bar in the corner appeared perfectly respectable. He recognized several members of the nobility.

  But they were all here to bid upon the chance to take a young—very young—girl’s virginity. He’d been assured by the overzealous proprietor, Mr. James, that the youngest girl was only eight. The thought made bile rise in his throat, and shame at even being here had nearly overwhelmed him. But he’d had to see fo
r himself. He had to know what Adrian and Fiona had been fighting against. And it had occurred to him that if the new Prometheus truly cared about the children and wasn’t masquerading for some entirely other reason, he might show himself tonight.

  Before long, Mr. James took the stage, glancing around the room with obvious delight. “I’m happy to see such a wonderful turnout for tonight’s auction. I’m sure you’re all happy to be among those with similar predilections and are well aware that what goes on here must never be discussed with anyone.” He gave a rough laugh that curdled Morgan’s blood. “Payment must be made in full as soon as the sale concludes. Let’s get started, shall we?”

  A young woman, no more than fifteen or sixteen, was led out onto the stage in shackles. Her blonde hair had been coiffed elegantly, and she wore a scarlet negligee that barely covered her young body. Her green eyes darted from one man to another with pleading terror, and it was all Morgan could do to remain in his seat. He knew he’d accomplish nothing by protesting, but it was simply abhorrent to watch this girl be treated like an animal to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

  He shifted uncomfortably as Mr. Jones extolled the girl’s attributes, then ripped the front of the negligee down to expose her breasts. The girl shrieked and tried to cover herself, only to be viciously struck, which caused an ugly ripple of laughter and jeering from the men who surrounded him.

  It took all of his self-control not to react to the abuse of the girl, but he knew he had to bide his time. The mere thought of such a thing happening to Hannah or Felicity turned Morgan’s blood to ice. Although he’d understood in theory why his brother and Fiona had been so passionate about these children, it was something altogether different to actually witness it in person. Evil lurked in this room, sat right beside him, and yet, these men would walk out of here tonight, after committing atrocities, with no consequences whatsoever. For them, it was just a harmless night of fun.

  The desire to stop it, to make them pay, rose within him as one girl after another was paraded out before them, each a bit younger than the one before. Each girl, in turn, drew a little more money, and he realized the younger the girl, the more she was worth. They were obviously counting down to the star of the show, the eight-year-old virgin. He choked with rage at the thought of her being referred to in that way. Every eight-year-old girl should be a virgin. The fact that any man would ever see a girl that young in a sexual way viscerally disturbed him.

  He sat stoically through it all, trying to hide his revulsion, blocking it out with ideas of what he could do to make sure it never happened again. It occurred to him that he could bid on the girl, purchase her services, and then spirit her away, but just as quickly realized that he was too well known. The goons who ran this place would come looking for him if he stole someone they considered their property.

  His thoughts were disrupted when he became aware of shouting and chaos from behind the stage. The men around him stirred as Mr. James stopped his spiel to turn and see what was happening.

  But Morgan already knew.

  Prometheus.

  He’d been absolutely right to think that Prometheus, fake or not, would try and stop this. And when it became clear from the loud conversation coming from behind the curtain that the youngest girl had disappeared from the room where she’d been held, he surged to his feet and quickly left the building, just in time to see a flash of crimson as a caped figure jumped into a hackney waiting at the far end of the block.

  Luckily, the vehicle turned at the next street and vanished just as more men erupted from the building behind him, determined to track down their prey.

  Don’t get caught. Please, don’t get caught.

  Whirling around, he strode for his own carriage, which was parked down the block. If Prometheus had taken the girl, there was only one place he could be headed. He would find him at Brookhaven, and instead of demanding that he stop, Morgan was determined to find a way to help him in his mission.

  Chapter Six

  Fiona hurried Ginny, the child she’d just stolen from a horrible fate, into Brookhaven’s kitchen. The little girl had obviously been drugged with something. Her eyes were wide and glassy, and she didn’t seem aware of her surroundings.

  Heart still racing with fear and adrenalin, Fiona guided Ginny into a chair and then collapsed beside her. This time had been even more terrifying than the last. She’d managed to make her way into the building through a service door, then stole down the hallways until she’d found a housemaid who had told her where the young girl was being kept. She’d disguised her voice, trying to make it sound rough and manly, but she wasn’t sure the woman had been fooled. However, she’d still helped, which had been a small miracle. Fiona was all too aware of how badly things could have gone for her.

  She’d made another mistake by keeping the cape and mask on when she’d run down the street toward the hack. The driver had seen her as Prometheus, but since she’d paid him to wait there for her, he’d also seen that she was a woman. He’d picked her up and returned her to Brookhaven, so if he was questioned, or if he chose to go to the authorities, she was caught.

  But once she’d spirited the girl through the window and almost immediately heard the alarm sounded behind them, she hadn’t been thinking of anything but escape.

  Her only hope was that the sight of the little girl and her hurried explanation of what had happened had touched him. She’d begged him to keep her secret, and he’d promised that he would, but she had no reason to trust him.

  She had no reason to trust anyone.

  Scrubbing her hand over her face, she tried to find the energy to get up and get Ginny settled. It was two in the morning, and she’d get little enough sleep as it was.

  Before she could move, however, someone tapped lightly on the kitchen door behind her. She jumped, her heart lurching in her throat. She whirled around, fully expecting all of Scotland Yard to be standing on the other side.

  “Mrs. Bohannan,” a familiar voice called instead. “Mrs. Bohannan, it’s me, Morgan Strathmore.”

  Heart still racing, she glanced back at Ginny in consternation. There was no hiding her. Besides, Morgan already knew that Prometheus had been bringing children to her. All she could do was try to bluff her way through this.

  Girding herself, she crossed the kitchen and then opened the door. Morgan was impeccably dressed, as though he’d been to the theater, and he strode quickly inside, his blue gaze scanning the kitchen and fixing on Ginny.

  “Is Prometheus still here?” he asked without preamble.

  She blinked, wondering how he knew, and realized he must have followed her here. She put one hand on the back of a chair to brace herself, then squared her shoulders. “No,” she whispered, her voice rough. She cleared her throat. “He feared someone was following him.”

  “It was me,” Morgan admitted. He shook his head, then cursed softly under his breath. “I really wanted to speak to him.”

  “Why?” Fiona asked, forcing herself to go to the stove and put the kettle on to boil. It didn’t appear that Morgan intended to leave anytime soon, and she needed something to keep her busy so he couldn’t see how shaken she was. “I wish you and your brothers would just leave him alone and let him do his work.”

  “I was there tonight,” Morgan said, a strange note in his voice. “I wanted to understand why you and Adrian were so passionate about these children. I wanted to see...”

  She looked at him over her shoulder and found that he was kneeling beside Ginny, tilting her head so he could stare into her eyes. The little girl didn’t react at all.

  “Those bastards drugged her, didn’t they?” he muttered, aghast. Then he sat back and met Fiona’s gaze. “It was terrible. They treated those girls like they were animals, and the things they planned to do to them...”

  She shuddered and finished lighting the fire, then placed the kettle on the burner. “I know. I deal with the aftermath of those horrors every day.” And she’d experienced those horrors herself
, though she’d never admit that to him.

  Silence fell between them for a long moment and then he was right behind her, putting his strong hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. “I’m so sorry for the way I behaved that first night,” he whispered softly in her ear. “I didn’t really know such ugliness existed. That children were sold like cattle...”

  She stiffened at his touch, and her first reaction was to pull away. She’d not been touched by a man in so long and never with... tenderness. He meant to comfort her, and the strength and warmth he infused into her with his gentle contact was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. She found herself melting back into him instead of pulling away, content for the moment to accept what he was offering as he cautiously wrapped his arms around her and then hugged her tightly.

  For an untold time, they remained that way, but then the kettle whistled, jerking her out of her momentary weakness. She lurched away, face flaming with embarrassment. “I don’t need your pity.”

  “It’s not pity,” he assured her, staring at Ginny with a troubled gaze. “What you said the last time I was here... you were right. I was only worried about how this false Prometheus affected my family. But now... having seen what I saw tonight, I would like to help him.”

  She stared at him suspiciously, wishing she could trust him as she did his twin. “This isn’t something you can dabble in, Morgan. You can’t play at this just because you’re bored or searching for something.” She cut herself off from saying what she really wanted. Don’t make me count on you and then fail me. I couldn’t bear that.

  “I know that.” His blue eyes were imploring. “I don’t mean to play at anything. If you knew me at all, you’d know that whenever I commit to something, I do it wholeheartedly.”

  “That’s just it,” she said, busying herself with making three cups of steaming tea, hoping the scent and warmth would rouse Ginny to some degree. “I don’t know you at all. I certainly can’t trust you with my children.”