A Kiss of Lies

London, England, November 1815

“Get up!”

If not for the fact that the rage-filled voice bellowing in his ear was speaking English, Christian Trent, the Earl of Markham, might have thought he was back in France.

Certainly the press of cold steel at his throat flooded his brain with memories of the war: nightmarish memories, pain-filled memories. Memories he fervently tried, but hopelessly failed, to forget.

Experience had taught him that when one was in such a precarious position, with a sword at one’s windpipe, with the identity and reasoning of the attacker unknown, one was wise to act cautiously.

Without moving a muscle he pried an eye open and tried to focus on the person who was holding the deadly weapon at his neck. The slight movement of his eyeball sent pain stabbing through his head. His mouth tasted like sawdust. Christ, he must have drunk more than he thought last night.

“I repeat,
get up
!”

To emphasize his request, the attacker’s sword point pierced Christian’s skin. A small trail of warmth trickled down his neck.

In a ghostlike voice, so as not to disturb the pounding in his head, Christian answered, “How can I get up with that sword at my neck? I might still be half foxed, but I have enough wits about me not to push myself upon your weapon,” and with his hand he batted away the blade.

The sword immediately swung back into place.

As lethal as the sword itself, the voice uttered, “That would save me the bother of killing you.”

For a split second Christian welcomed the idea of death before he doused it with an exhaled breath.

He ignored the cannonballs rioting in his head as he twisted and turned, desperate to
untangle his limbs from the satin sheets wrapped around his naked body. He did his best to ignore the dizzying weakness his movements evoked. The headache had him willing the contents of his stomach to stay down.

Where was he? The brothel? He recalled he’d paid for a woman. He knew she’d shared his bed. He could smell her lingering scent.

He drew a deep breath and calmed his mind. He had always prided himself on his ability to use his brain more effectively than any weapon to get himself out of predicaments.

“You’re a perverted reprobate,” his attacker sneered.

He tried once more to rise. There was no doubt he’d rather collapse back into a drunken slumber, but through the degrading sickness, his body prickled with stark unease. It was like a second sense, and it had saved his life many a time before.

A movement in the shadows alerted him to a second man’s presence. This silent enemy moved across the floor to throw the curtains wide. Sunlight bounced off mirrors positioned strategically around the room, stabbing at Christian’s eyes like a sharp hunting knife. Christian put his hand up to ward off the sun’s blows.

The presence of the men in his room indicated he didn’t have the luxury of being able to lie down and resume his sleep. So much for drink-inspired oblivion. He’d not endured two years on the battlefields of France to die in a brothel in his own country. Clutching the sheet to his body, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and attempted to lever himself up, gritting his teeth against the hammering in his brain.

He clamped down on his rising panic. Panic did not serve anyone. Fear was the enemy. He’d learned that many times on the battlefield.

“You’ll pay for what you have done.” The second man’s voice indicated he liked to smoke—it was thick and gravelly. Like smoke, his anger was barely contained.

Christian’s throat constricted, as if the proverbial noose were tightening around his neck. He didn’t need a sword under his chin to understand that these men were serious.

His mind quickly evaluated the likely avenues of escape. The windows were the closest options. Although the room was on the second story, if he jumped, he could land safely on the hedgerow beneath. Alternatively, the bedchamber door was wide open, so if he could slip past both men, he could make it down the servants’ stairs.

He
was
still at the brothel. The Honey Pot was high-class, and even though he’d been a
frequent customer there since his return from the war, he had never, ever slept here.

He rubbed the back of his neck. What had happened last night?

Anger cleared the fog clinging to his brain, but only for a second. He ruthlessly clamped down on his temper. Anger was a weakness. When consumed by anger, men lost control. As a child he’d watched his father repeatedly lose control. His father’s rages turned him into a man Christian did not recognize, and as a boy he’d suffered from the consequences. Besides, it led men to make impulsive decisions, and he was anything but impulsive. “Other than taking a little pleasure in this miserable world, what exactly do you—” He paused. “
—gentlemen
think I have done?”

“Pleasure? Pleasure?” The sword finally swung away as the man’s anger overcame him, and he gestured wildly. “
Pleasure?
You brought a young, innocent girl here—here!—and defiled her,” he bellowed.

Christian’s fists clenched the sheets. His voice held steady, his tone even. “I beg your pardon. Brought a girl here …? I did no such thing. I’ll call out any man who utters such scandalous allegations.” But because he was not stupid, Christian felt his world slipping out from underneath him.

He’d changed at Waterloo, and not just physically. The puckered, reddened flesh of his neck, upper right arm, and torso was a constant reminder to him, and everyone else, that he was no longer the man he once was. The ugly burns on the right side of his face twisted his mouth and eye, making him a monster. But it was his inner soul that had changed the most. He’d grown sick of the pain, the pity, and the nightmares. At first, the laudanum he took was a necessity due to the agony of his burns. Now he used the drug not only to dull the lingering pain of his wounds but also to soothe his inner torment. The memories of the flames peeling his skin haunted him still.…

He’d been weaning himself off the opiate gradually—had he overindulged last night? He swore under his breath. Why couldn’t he remember?

He wiped a hand over his eyes, attempting to clear their drunken haze and get a clear view of his accusers. Christian swallowed back more bile. He was in trouble—the man before him was none other than the Duke of Barforte, with sword drawn. Looking past the Duke, Christian noted that the Duke’s eldest son, Simon—an acquaintance more than a friend—was the second man in the room. His sword was also drawn. Simon’s pale blue eyes looked at him with a
coldness that made his insides recoil.

Barforte moved back to the bed. “We shall see the proof!” He pulled the sheets away from Christian’s disfigured body. “She’s marked you,” he said, gesturing down at Christian’s naked body, “with the blood of her innocence.”

Christian knew before looking upon his nakedness what he would see. But still he had to look. He glanced down past his horrific scars, and the bile he’d earlier kept down rose again and entered his mouth.

Blood. Dried traces of blood.

Snippets from last night suddenly flooded into his head. Vivid images, erotic images that turned into confusion. He’d paid for a woman to come to his bed—Carla. Had there been more than one?

Christian gulped air into his tightening chest.

Yes, he’d drunk a lot last night. But he would have sworn he’d not taken laudanum. He had drunk enough to ignore the look of revulsion on his paid companion’s face. Before Waterloo, although brandy used to leave him slightly befuddled, he’d always remembered where he was and, most important, who he was with. The fight against Napoleon had ensured that he learned to keep his wits about him at all times. Then he’d been badly burned. Now he seldom remembered what day it was.

He ran a hand over his mouth.
Think!
He turned toward the two men and summoned to his face a calmness that his rollicking insides did not feel. “Gentlemen, I think there has been some kind of grievous mistake.”

“Mistake? Everyone saw my daughter leave the Duchess of Skye’s ball in your carriage!”

Real fear clawed at his chest, but he stayed calm. “Grayson Devlin, Viscount Blackwood, took my carriage last night. I walked and hailed a hackney.”

This was absurd. He had never even met young Harriet Penfold, the Duke’s only daughter. He did not attend balls any longer. A man whose face sent children running from the room was an object of pity and embarrassment at such events.

He tried to stand up, but the Duke pushed him back down. Christian repeated his denial, snapping, “I did not bring Lady Penfold here.”

“The state my daughter was in, I could get very little out of her except your name.”

“It was not me. She is mistaken.”
Think, damn it
. Why would a chit he’d never met
accuse him of such a crime? She couldn’t possibly be trying to trap him into matrimony.

The cold spread and coated his skin. Could he have done this heinous act during one of his blackouts? Could she have gotten into his bed, and then, in the throes of one of his nightmares, had he …?

He shook his head. The dense fog on his brain would not clear.

Simon spoke, his voice razor sharp, slashing at Christian’s already fragile conscience. “Now she’s a liar too. I would never have thought a man of your honor could do such a thing.” He coughed. “But I know of your condition. If not for that, and the fact you saved my brother William’s life on the battlefield at Waterloo, you’d be dead by now.”

The Duke didn’t look as if that counted for anything. “Pah! Previous heroics be damned.” He spat on the floor. “His father’s blood flows in his veins. I’m going to see you ruined. If I didn’t have to save Harriet’s reputation, I’d have you hung, drawn, and quartered. My daughter is hysterical, covered in bruises and cuts where you beat her, and is so traumatized she cannot be left alone.” He was purple with rage. “Like father, like son.”