Lord of Fire (30 page)

Stafford
showed him the lantern-lit garden paths where lovers held rendezvous when the weather was warmer, and the artificial waterfall that he said was run every night punctually at nine, to the wonder of all who beheld it. They strode into the gaudy main pavilion that throbbed with orchestral music and beamed with bright illumination. Bardou scanned the colorful crowd, ever watchful behind his studied air of high, remote, German pride.

“Ah, there’s Lady Glenwood,”
Stafford murmured, giving him a sly look askance. “I told you she’d be here.”

He followed
Stafford’s nod toward a scantily clad brunette with bouncy curls that framed her heart-shaped face and enormous tits. Bardou raised his eyebrow in most prurient interest. The baroness was surrounded by fawning men.

“What a body, eh?”
Stafford murmured, elbowing him in the ribs.

Bardou gave him a sly look. “But I heard she is involved with someone . . . What was the name? Lucien Knight. Do you know the man?”

Stafford
blinked in surprise. “Of course.” He lowered his voice. “It was at one of Lord Lucien’s parties that Rollo Greene first contacted me about . . . helping you.”

“Oh, really?” Bardou murmured, concealing his burst of rage.
I knew it.
That little lard-ass rat had lied to him, had told him he didn’t know Lucien Knight! Thank God he had sent Sophia to watch the American, he thought in disgust. Sometimes, at any rate, luck was with him.

Having parties!
he thought in scorn.
These English were so arrogant, so sure of their victory.
It filled him with smug satisfaction to know that Lucien Knight was at his country house having parties rather than on his guard. As long as Bardou knew exactly where Knight was and what he was doing, then
he
was the one in control and could strike at his leisure. He had no intention of attacking Knight at his country house, for it was foolish to give the enemy the home advantage. No, Lady Glenwood might be just the means to lure Knight back to
London when Bardou was fully ready for him.

“Is he in love with her?” he asked
Stafford casually.

“Well, apparently, he wanted her so badly that he stole her away from his own brother. I don’t know if that’s love, but it’s something, don’t you think? Personally, I think she’s toying with both of them. With a body like that, she can get away with it,” he added under his breath.

Bardou murmured hearty assent as they sauntered over to the woman. Her rouged lips were moving rapidly with her prattle. As they joined her circle, Bardou frowned slightly. The woman chattered too fast for him to follow her English. He had to translate her words a bit more slowly in his mind.

“I
couldn’t
stay in the country. I tried! Honestly I did, but a child can just as easily recuperate in Town as he can in Hampshire, can’t he?”

The fops were laughing and agreeing with every word she said as they stared at her chest.

“When are you going to bring that pretty sister-in-law of yours back to Town?” one asked.

“Oh, Miss Montague is very ill, the poor dear,” she said, clucking her tongue in regret. “She is confined to her room at
Glenwood
Park
. Influenza. The doctor said she won’t be allowed out for at least another week—so you will have to make do with me,
mon chéri
!”

“Lady Glenwood,”
Stafford spoke up. “My friend here is visiting from
Prussia—”

“
Prussia, eh?” The slightly drunken Englishmen gathered around her hailed him with approval. “A toast to General Blücher!”

“Thank you, sirs.” Bardou nodded stiffly to them. His smile thinned only slightly, but hatred churned within him as the cheerful fools lifted their glasses to the stalwart Prussian general.

Stafford
laughed at their antics and nodded to Lady Glenwood with gentlemanly grace. “As I was saying, the baron has never been to our country before, and I am eager to impress him with the beauty of our English roses. I could think of none better to dazzle him than you. May I introduce you?”

“What a flatterer you are,
Stafford! Of course.” The woman turned her beaming smile on Bardou. Hardened as he was, he was momentarily enchanted.

She might be a hated
Anglaise
, but he knew instantly that she was his favorite type of woman. Besides, she would be very useful.

“Lady Glenwood, may I present Baron Karl von Dannecker of
Berlin
,” he said formally. “Von Dannecker, the beautiful Lady Glenwood.”

“How do you do, my lord? Welcome to our homeland,” she said gaily. “I do not know that I can dazzle you as
Stafford commands, but I will certainly endeavor to try.”

“Lady Glenwood, you have already succeeded,” Bardou replied as he bent over her hand and kissed it.

“Charming,” she murmured, a gleam of aroused interest in her eyes. “You can call me Caro.” Her gaze flicked brazenly across his shoulders and down the length of his body, then locked with his in instant, mutual lust. “I have always been a great admirer of the Prussians,” she purred. “They are so . . . big. So . . . forceful.” The thin, greasy-haired fop beside her snickered at her flirtatious tone. Caro rolled her eyes, looking askance at him. “Lord von Dannecker, allow me to present my little brother, Viscount Weymouth.
Niles, this is Baron von Dannecker.”

Bardou nodded to the stringy, ill-kempt fellow, who swayed on his feet.
Weymouth’s skin had a sickly pallor, and his small brown eyes were glazed. “How d’ ye do,” he mumbled, then giggled into his wineglass.

Opium,
Bardou thought, masking his contemptuous sneer.

“Beau-nasty, will you behave? Pay him no mind, my lord. He is utterly foxed,” Caro scolded, giving her brother’s scraggly chin a fond pinch as though he were a child. “Don’t befriend him or he’ll only ask you for a loan.” She winced in distaste as
Weymouth, quite in his own world, scratched his dirty hair then examined the grimy contents beneath his fingernails.

Even Bardou was revolted. “Lady Glenwood, would you do me the honor of a dance?”

“Why, I’d love to.”

“Best to do as he says, sister,”
Weymouth mumbled. “Mustn’t trifle with those Prussians.”

Bardou gave him a warning look and offered her his arm. She took it with a smile.
Weymouth’s tittering laugh followed them as Bardou led her toward the dance floor. She gave him a curious look as she noticed his slight limp, then stopped and turned to him.

“We needn’t dance if you would rather not,” she said prettily.

“But I don’t wish to disappoint you,” he replied in a low tone.

She cast a quick, meaningful glance below his waistline, then peered up at him through her lashes. “Oh, my dear von Dannecker,” she murmured, “I don’t think that would be possible.”

CHAPTER
TEN

Three days passed. Miraculous days. Lucien and Alice became inseparable. If the world still existed beyond the limestone pinnacles that encircled the valley, neither of them wanted to know of it. She complied with his wishes about not asking questions; he refrained from seducing her; and together they achieved a precarious joy that was artless, simple, and chaste. Their days were full of mellow autumn sunlight and country pursuits: fishing, riding, shooting at pheasant and hare. They lived off the land and feasted like the kings of the earth upon the harvest’s abundance, drank much wine and talked themselves hoarse before the fireplace into the wee hours of the night. Sometimes they played chess. Sometimes they read poetry. On Tuesday it rained, so they played a jolly game of bowls in the dusty old ballroom, then explored the rambling Tudor mansion, for Lucien himself had not yet seen all the bedrooms. At other times, they merely sat holding each other in warm silence, staring into each other’s eyes, each pondering the mystery of the other and of their deepening bond.
How narrowly,
Alice often thought,
they might have missed out on their chance meeting
.

She could no longer imagine how life had been before she had known Lucien. She must have been sleeping like the princess in the fairytale, waiting for his kiss to awaken her. She felt as though he had always been a part of her—in her blood, in her heart. On Wednesday night, she reclined on the leather couch in the dim library, her head resting on his lap while he sang her to sleep, petting her hair. Her last thought before drifting off was that she had fallen irrevocably, irretrievably in love with him. The joy of it was shadowed only by the swirling undercurrent of danger she sensed in the silences of

She knew Lucien cared for her, but his regard for her apparently had not dulled his appetite for depravity; preparations were taking place for another bacchanalia in the Grotto. Huge quantities of wine were delivered. In the courtyard, she saw a few of the black-coated guards cleaning their guns. The image haunted her, whispering to her that something hidden, perhaps even darker and deeper than the orgies of the Grotto, was going on at

She was not sure if she suspected Lucien of criminal activities or sacrilegious ones, or for that matter, which was worse. She was afraid to ask, for fear of dashing the enchantment of their growing love, and of rousing the dangerous side of Lucien that she had faced that first night in the little room behind the dragon’s eyes. He was the perfect lover, provided she did not cross him. One rule, one forbidden thing. Plagued by fears, she paced in her room while he practiced at swords in his studio with his band of hard-eyed young rogues. She had befriended them the day before, but soon discovered that trying to get information out of them was futile. She was still uncertain of their role. They were too highborn to be servants and a bit too young to be merely his friends. They seemed to be connected to the Grotto.

Devil take it, why did he have those parties at all?
she wanted to yell. If only someone would trust her with the truth. Why did he squander his money and time and taint his good name with such wildness? None of it fit the man she knew.

Trust me,
he had said. She reminded herself for the umpteenth time. The Lucien Knight she knew was a sensitive man of great intelligence and strength. She had to withhold judgment until he was ready of his own accord to tell her everything. If he really had wanted to deceive her, he would have made up some cock-and-bull story to explain away all her fears, she reasoned with herself, but he respected her too much to fill her ears with lies. Did that not count for something?

In any case, the end of their promised week together was drawing near. Would they part? Would they stay together? She did not see how she could stay with him unless he gave her the answers she needed. Even if he had begun to consider offering marriage, she was not prepared to spend the rest of her life in the dark about his activities. The uncertainty of her situation agonized her in dizzying counterpoint to her euphoria in his presence. She knew she should not stand for this, being kept in ignorance, but she refused to give him up. She could understand now why Caro had forsaken even Harry to be with Lucien. A woman could become as addicted to that man as an invalid was to her laudanum drops.

Hanging onto hope for all she was worth, she thrust her fears away and hurried out to join him in his studio. Nothing routed her fears faster than his smile. Watching him at his practice, his sheer male beauty made her yearn with desire. Yet, as she watched the dazzling speed of his sword and saw the wolfish snarl on his face, she wondered why, if it was merely practice, he fought with such savagery. If only one of the boys had fought him alone, Lucien would have made mincemeat of him. Surely, here was a man struggling inwardly against something—or someone, she thought, gazing at him rather helplessly. If only he would confide in her. She knew that he suffered, but he would not speak of the cause. She had seen the hatred that blew like smoke through the depths of his eyes when he sometimes sat staring into the fire, brooding and far away. She had learned how to bring him back from that dark place inside himself by drawing him gently into the deepest, most soulful kisses she had to give. Perhaps the mystery of what troubled him was the source of all the secrets that stood like a wall between them.