Dark Angel: Gentlemen of the Order - Book 4

by Clee, Adele

  Beatrice pushed the plates aside to make space.

  “Bunch your skirts to your waist, love.” He unbuttoned his breeches with an urgency that heightened his arousal. His cock sprang free. Hot. Throbbing.

  She gasped, her greedy eyes devouring every solid inch.

  Relief washed over him when he noticed her white silk stockings, not men’s trousers. “Hold your skirts.” He braced his hands on her waist and lifted her onto the table.

  After a little shuffling, a little repositioning, he took himself in hand, watched the head of his cock ease into her tight channel.

  Their gazes locked.

  A slow moan breezed from her lips as he pushed deeper.

  “You were made for me,” he uttered, lovesick as well as lustful.

  “We were made for each other, Dante.”

  He reached under her gown to clutch her hips, became fixated on her heaving bosom, the way her mouth formed a perfect O as he pushed to the hilt. He could languish inside her for hours, spend his leisure teasing, stroking, exploring. But there would be time for that later. Now, she wanted it hard. She wanted to feel full, wanted to come as he slipped in and out of her.

  With that in mind, he slid his hand between her legs and massaged her sex.

  She reacted instantly, opening her legs, moaning his name, making him drive harder.

  The china rattled on the table, every clink, clink, clink, mirroring his desperate pounding. He stole a quick look at the candelabra, praying Thomas had inserted the candles fully and one wasn’t about to topple onto the table and set the room ablaze.

  “Dante!” was all she cried as she came apart.

  He gave her a few seconds to swim in ecstasy before rocking into her with fierce thrusts, holding nothing back. Strange. He was still fully clothed, yet every plunge into her wetness stripped off another layer, exposing him, the real man, not the construct of his past.

  Lost in a frenzy, he kissed her open-mouthed, sucked her earlobe.

  “Don’t leave me,” he heard himself say against her throat as he powered deep into her body. “Stay. Stay with me.”

  “I can’t stay with you tonight,” she panted, misunderstanding his plea, though she gripped his buttocks like she had no intention of ever letting go. “Miss Trimble will tell Mr Daventry I failed to return home.”

  “I’ll say you’re sick, and I had to put you to bed.” He drove into her, into her again and again. “I’ll say you have a fever. I’ll have to strip off your clothes, bathe your skin with my mouth.”

  “That won’t cool me down.” Another moan escaped her, louder this time. “Harder, Dante.”

  But he was undone.

  An obscenity burst from his lips. He withdrew just in time, took himself in hand and spurted over her stocking and the top of her thigh. The power of it tore a guttural cry from somewhere deep inside. A cry that went beyond physical satisfaction.

  “Forgive me.” His heart pounded in his chest. “I’ll buy you new stockings.”

  “I don’t care about the stockings.” She stroked a lock of damp hair from his brow. “It was quick, but was it making love?”

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  Sex with her wasn’t just about the build-up, the euphoric release. It was about the contact, the closeness, the connection. It was about these unfamiliar feelings of affection, of permanency, of love.

  Chapter 17

  Reminiscent of the night Beatrice attempted to gain entrance to Dante’s house, the dowager’s butler proved just as reluctant to invite them over the threshold.

  “I cannot let you in without an appointment, sir.”

  Dante muttered his frustration. “Sherborne, as Lady Deighton’s grandson, I am confident her instructions do not apply to me.”

  Why did Dante not thrust the letters at the snooty fellow and be done with it? But for some reason, he wished to tighten the man’s coil and watch him unwind.

  Sherborne stared through perfectly straight spectacles. “I’m afraid they do, sir. The night you left to live with the Italian gentleman, Lady Deighton gave orders you were never to set foot in her home again.”

  Dante sighed. “That was ten years ago. Besides, the dower house is in Duke Street, is it not? This house belongs to my uncle, and the only reason my grandmother lives here is because his lordship hasn’t ballocks big enough to throw her out.”

  Unfazed by Dante’s comment, Sherborne raised his chin. “Might I suggest you write and request an audience, sir?”

  Beatrice’s patience had worn thin. She’d barely slept, had spent the night pacing the room, wavering between lustful thoughts of Dante and worries about the daunting task ahead. The need to lay the blame at the dowager’s door, and not her father’s, weighed heavily, too.

  “Sherborne,” Beatrice began calmly, “tell your mistress we’ve come about the letters Daphne D’Angelo brought here the day she died. Tell her we’ve been to see Mr Coulter and that if she refuses to see us today, our next call will be at the offices of the Herald.”

  Dante gave an arrogant sneer. “I’m sure my grandmother would prefer not to have her secrets sprawled across the front page of the broadsheet.”

  The man’s face remained cold, stone-like, though fear flickered in his eyes. He strolled away as if he had a lifetime to waste, not years he could count on one hand.

  “Dante, you need to approach this as an agent, not a man with a personal vendetta. What if Lady Deighton is innocent of any wrongdoing?”

  But he had already found the dowager guilty, had donned his black cap and delivered the sentence. For Dante’s sake, she hoped the dowager was innocent, else he would always be troubled by the past. But then the blame would fall to Henry Watson, and Beatrice’s hopes and dreams would be left in tatters.

  “Innocent?” Dante snapped as they waited like begging guttersnipes at the door. “She made my life a living hell, and I’ll never forgive her for that.”

  “No,” Beatrice agreed, hoping the dowager might say something to make amends. “Still, we should try to remain civil.”

  “The woman hasn’t a civil bone in her body, as you will soon discover.”

  Sherborne returned, his pasty cheeks flushed. “If y-you will kindly follow me.” The butler seemed unnerved and had probably received a veritable ear-bashing.

  They were led through the hall to the dayroom at the rear of the house, which by definition should have been a bright place overlooking the garden. A place filled with natural light where one’s spirits were uplifted. Yet, with the heavy curtains drawn, the room was dark and dismal. An anteroom to hell.

  The Dowager Countess of Deighton stood near the marble fireplace, her penetrating gaze finding them in the dimly lit space. Dressed in black as if in mourning, and with her white hair piled high in a style fashionable forty years earlier, the lady cut a menacing presence.

  A woman wearing a drab mauve dress, with bony features and scraped back hair, hovered in the background like a member of a sacred order. A fanatical zealot so loyal to her mistress, she would sacrifice herself to further the cause.

  “Leave us, Sherborne. Our guests will not be taking refreshment.” The dowager glanced at her emissary, one flick of the head a silent instruction.

  The servant stepped forward. “My lady would like you to sit.” She gestured to the chairs positioned awkwardly near the far wall, put there to ensure they felt unwelcome.

  Beatrice glanced at Dante. On the surface, he appeared the strong, capable man she had fallen in love with. Indeed, every taut muscle said he was desperate for a fight. Yet she saw the terrified boy who’d witnessed the worst of horrors, been denied love and any form of compassion.

  Her heart ached to console him.

  But anger reared.

  Beatrice curtseyed to the dowager. “Good morning, my lady. Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

  The servant—with skin stretched so tight over her cheekbones it would be impossible to smile—said, “My lady says you left her with little choice. She asks me
to remind you that blackmail is a crime.”

  “A crime?” Dante sneered at the dowager, hatred in his eyes.

  “Help me move the chairs closer, Mr D’Angelo. Lady Deighton must be hard of hearing, which is why her maid speaks on her behalf.”

  “Who is this?” The dowager pointed at Beatrice. There was to be no greeting for her grandson, no questions about his health or where he’d been these last ten years.

  “Miss Sands,” Dante replied coldly. “She is an enquiry agent working with Sir Malcolm Langley to solve the murder of George Babington and the murder of my parents eighteen years ago.”

  The dowager pursed her lips as if she had caught a whiff of something foul. “Well, you’ve your mother’s blood and clearly like frolicking with riffraff.”

  Sensing Dante was about to explode like a firework at Vauxhall, Beatrice gripped his forearm. “The chairs, Mr D’Angelo. Please help me move them.”

  “You’ll leave them there, gel,” came the dowager’s harsh command.

  Beatrice inhaled a calming breath. “No. I am going to move the chairs so you can hear my questions and deliver your response. Or we can leave, give the letters to the relevant authorities.”

  The dowager’s pale face positively glowed with rage. “You impudent creature.”

  Dante suddenly woke from his trance. The hurt child and the angry man gave way to the skilled enquiry agent.

  “Insult her again, and I shall ensure our next line of enquiry involves proving Lord Summers fathered your children.” Dante grabbed a chair and slammed it down closer to the countess. “You will answer our questions, madam, else I shall tell the world Benjamin Coulter is the son you abandoned.”

  The dowager made no reply but gripped the arm of a nearby chair as if it were a chicken’s neck and she was about to wring it dead.

  The servant looked at her mistress, confused. Her script only went as far as relaying the dowager’s disdain.

  Dante moved the second chair and invited Beatrice to sit.

  They dropped into the padded seats. Dante fixed his gaze on his grandmother while Beatrice found her notebook and flicked to the relevant page.

  After mumbling her annoyance, the dowager had her servant help her into the chair closest to the hearth. Ah, now she deigned to play the frail widow.

  “Pour me a small sherry, will you, Mabel.” It wasn’t a question.

  Beatrice forced a smile. “Let us know when you’re ready, my lady, and we shall begin.”

  “Begin?”

  “With our questions relating to the death of my parents and George Babington,” Dante countered. “And the death of Henry Watson.”

  “I don’t see what any of it has to do with me.”

  “Which is why we will ask questions, present evidence.”

  “Yes, you’re a boy who likes to play in the gutter.” The dowager peered at Dante. “A boy with tainted blood. A boy who works as an agent because he lacks what it takes to be a gentleman.”

  “If being a gentleman means I sire children with my mistress and discard them without thought, then I’d rather be a dock worker.”

  Beatrice couldn’t help but jump to Dante’s defence too. “If I may, it doesn’t matter what the world thinks of us. All that truly matters is what we think of ourselves. Mr D’Angelo knows he is superior to most men of the ton.”

  The dowager’s laugh revealed her contempt. “Ah, your strumpet fights your corner. How long before she is with child and your bloodline is as foul as sewage water?”

  Shocked at the depth of the woman’s vehemence and having to grip her notebook for fear of lashing out, Beatrice was beginning to understand how the dowager used insults as weapons.

  “Your affair with Lord Summers is common knowledge,” Beatrice said, reading from her notes. “We have evidence to prove you bore him a child while visiting Lancashire, that you paid a cousin to relieve you of the burden.”

  The dowager opened her mouth to speak, but Dante interjected.

  “We have a letter detailing the financial provisions made, but you’ve seen these letters before. My mother brought them here when she questioned you about her lineage.”

  “This is preposterous!” Snatching the glass of sherry from Mabel, the dowager drank down the contents and demanded another. “It’s all lies. Lies manufactured by that disreputable fellow to extort money. Blackmail, that’s what it is.”

  “Disreputable fellow?” Dante challenged. “You mean your son, Benjamin Coulter?”

  “Mr Coulter is not my son. Heaven forbid. He’s the son of my second cousin Wilfred. He’s forged documents, forged my signature. The man wants money.”

  Beatrice cleared her throat. “Mr Coulter wrote to Lord Summers, and we have his reply. A reply written on paper embossed with his family crest.”

  Sometimes an agent had to manipulate the truth to gain a confession.

  “Mr Coulter was collecting evidence to prove all your children were sired by Lord Summers,” Dante added. “He visited my mother at Farthingdale, told her the truth. And you had her killed to prevent her from revealing your secrets.”

  “Killed!” The dowager thumped the arm of her chair. “Murder my own daughter? Oh, you’ve your father’s wickedness in you, boy. I saw it the night the constable brought you here, and I see it now.” She turned to the servant hovering at her shoulder. “Mabel, I said get me another drink!”

  “You were being blackmailed,” Beatrice said while the countess downed her sherry. “Not just by Mr Coulter, but by Mr Babington. He stole the letters from Mr Coulter, immediately saw their value and came to demand money.”

  If the dowager had worn an evil expression before, she looked downright devilish now. “That reprobate deserves to rot in hell. I told him the letters were forgeries, but he knew people would cast aspersions.”

  Finally! Something substantial to explain Mr Babington’s demise.

  “I paid that devil five hundred pounds. You can write that in your notebook, Miss Sands. Tell the magistrate I am the victim, not the criminal.”

  At the mention of the magistrate, Mabel’s eyes widened a fraction. She shifted ever so slightly, but with obvious unease. The servant seemed devoted to her mistress. So devoted, had she taken care of the matter?

  “Indeed, I am delighted he’s dead,” the dowager added. “Thrilled, in fact.” She held out her hand. “Now, give me the forged letters so I may dispose of them accordingly.”

  Dante sat forward. “As an agent of the Order, I have a duty to present them at Bow Street. They’re evidence in a murder investigation.”

  “As my grandson, you have a duty to protect your family.”

  “Had you made me feel like a member of your family and not a scamp you’d been forced to take in off the street, I might agree.”

  The dowager’s light laugh faded quickly. “Dante, you were disobedient and unruly. A mischievous sprite lacking breeding and manners.”

  “I was a heartbroken boy, lost and alone. You denied me supper when I couldn’t stop crying. You referred to me as ‘the orphan’ in front of the staff.”

  “I saved you, made you strong, tough. Look at you now.”

  “You made me angry, bitter. Made me feel I was at war with the world.”

  “Nonsense. Your mother pandered to your whims. That was the problem.”

  “It’s called love,” Beatrice blurted. “Daphne loved him, loved him and Alessandro, loved them more than her reputation or position in society.” Before the dowager could reply, Beatrice fired another question. “How long has Mabel been in your employ?”

  “Mabel? What has that to do with anything?”

  The servant must be in her forties. The women shared a comfortable familiarity which must have been nurtured over many years.

  “My guess is Mabel has served you most of her adult life.”

  “Mabel was here when I arrived eighteen years ago,” Dante confirmed. “Mabel solves all your problems, does she not, Grandmother?”

  The dowager’s c
heeks ballooned, reddened with outrage. “That’s enough of this nonsense! As your grandmother, I demand you burn those letters now.” She stabbed a finger at the fire blazing in the grate. “I demand your friends at Bow Street arrest Mr Coulter for fraud and defamation.”

  Dante jumped to his feet, his face twisted in anger. “Did you hire thugs to kill Babington? No doubt Mabel is familiar with the process considering she used the same method to kill our parents.” He motioned to Beatrice. “No doubt you had my mother followed the moment she wrote to you to beg an audience. Instructed the men to obtain the letters and return them to you.”

  Mabel shot forward. “No! No! I would never have hurt Lady Daphne, sir. You must believe that. She was the kindest, dearest soul and did not deserve to die so tragically.”

  The comment had a noticeable effect on Dante. All anger dissipated, and he hung his head, whispered, “Yes, she was.”

  A sober silence descended—a moment to contemplate human fragility.

  The dowager’s sharp tone cut through the quiet. “Our parents?” Her suspicious gaze swept over Beatrice. “What do you mean?”

  A prickle of fear raced across Beatrice’s back. “My father was murdered, too, my lady. Henry Watson. He was hired by Alessandro to prove or disprove Mr Coulter’s claim.”

  This time the silence landed with a thud. Shaking the room with an invisible force. Mabel looked at Dante, panic flashing in her eyes.

  And then the dowager leant forward and set her hate-filled eyes on Beatrice. “You dare bring that murderer’s spawn into my house! You dare accuse me of hurting my daughter when you’re keeping company with the offspring of the person responsible.”

  Beatrice wished the ground would open and swallow her whole. Guilt slithered through her veins. She glanced at her gloves, imagining them stained red with the blood of innocent people.

  Your father was a scoundrel who lost his way when your mother died.

  Her uncle’s words rang in her head.

  “Shame on you, boy!”

  Beatrice couldn’t look at Dante.