Nero's Fiddle (13 page)

“Oh, good thinking,” Cara said. “Let’s tie him up before he comes around.”

Nate walked past the unconscious thief. The silken rope slid between his fingers. “He’s not the one I am interested in restraining.” The devil smiled.

A tingle started in Cara’s toes and crept up her body as Nate’s intentions blazed over her.

“You can’t be serious.” She took a step backward but heat already bloomed over her skin. “We’re at the opera in an open box with an unconscious man on the floor. Plus, you will miss the ending.” She waved a hand toward the stage where the soprano began her climatic song.

“You started this by telling me about your lack of undergarments. I find I cannot wait until the ride home.” He stepped closer and pulled her hands toward him, making a loose loop with the cord around her wrists. “Besides, he won’t wake for some time, you made sure of that. No one can see in here because of the loose curtain and I’m certain the singer will cover your cries.”

Cara’s back touched the plush wallpaper and the first few strains of the aria flooded the box. Nate raised her hands and hooked the cord over the light bracket. She tested the bonds; if she wriggled her hands, she would be free. Her restraint was an illusion. Nate bound her but would never imprison her. A charge pulsed through her body as she surrendered control of her own volition.

He claimed her lips in a languid kiss as the music rose beneath them. Her body responded as though he were the conductor, setting the tempo with his hands. As he stroked her through the velvet of the gown, liquid heat ran through her and pooled in her core. Each musical note washed through her as Nate coaxed her higher, her desire building with the song of the soprano.

He unbuttoned his trousers, then his hands drew her skirts up to her waist. He lifted her and settled her knees over his hips. She sighed as with a single thrust he claimed her. They stilled for a moment, bound together as the violin played, drawing out each note before plunging once more into the desperate composition.

Cara flicked her hands from the light and dropped them over Nate’s neck. She grasped the silken cord and stretched it over his back, using it to pull him closer as he began to move. Their bodies followed the cue of the music below, each ebb followed by a higher and higher peak. The final crescendo played; she gave a cry as release crashed through her and pulled Nate over the edge.

ate did use the curtain tie on the thief. Eventually. The gash on the man’s head had stopped bleeding and now sported a lump the size of a small egg.

“He’ll have quite the headache,” Cara said.

A smile spread over Nate’s face as he looked at the silver cooler with the large dent on the side. “Champagne will do that to you.”

The man stirred and moaned as they lashed his hands and feet together. A check of his pocket found a choker made of rubies and a pair of diamond cufflinks. Cara was not his first visit of the night, but definitely his last.

“Brick is outside. He can take this fellow downstairs for a chat about how business is conducted in London.” In the corridor, Nate gestured for Brick to enter the box. “Are you all right to navigate these waters solo, while we clean up?”

Cara kissed his cheek. “Give me a champagne bucket and I can deal with anything. Plus I haven’t been slipped a plea for help from anyone in a while. I’ll circulate and see what troubled birds I find.”

Well-dressed nobles emerged from their boxes; the men in black tails with snowy cravats, the women in brilliant silks and satins and dripping with jewels. Cara touched a hand to her neck; none had diamonds that flashed as brilliantly as hers, nestled against the fire dragon’s scales. The modiste draped her form in ways that other women did not dare replicate. They preferred their crinolines and stiff skirts.

She headed down the stairs and out into the foyer. The grand entranceway was a crush of bodies. Her skin was still overheated from her encounter with Nate and she longed for a blast of cool air. Automaton waiters circulated as refracted light from the overhanging lights played over the polished steel of the mechanical servants and clothed them in ever changing hues, their plain forms elevated to gliding paintings.

She passed the lone men, waiting for partners freshening up in the Ladies’ Room. They looked like they were lined up for neutering. Each darted nervous glances at the others, hoping not to make eye contact with anyone they knew, as they clutched delicate shawls and throws, and tiny reticules in rainbow shades.

Long-ingrained instinct made her turn toward the assembled noble ladies. They stood in a loose group, gossiping behind their fans. The older matrons formed the head of the shape, their minions ranged out around them. One spotted Cara and curled her lip in a sneer. She turned to her closest companion and nudged her. The warning shot along the row of women like an electrical current dancing from head to head. One by one, their eyes narrowed.

She froze in place. If she continued to advance, they would turn their backs and deliver the ultimate public cut. Cara’s breath caught in her throat; even married to Nate with a title to add to her name, they still would not recognise her or give her the time of day. Never in public. Only in private would they approach her with their sordid problems.

The unloved child deep inside curled further into a corner.
I should have grabbed Helen of Troy’s fan out of Nate’s pocket, then they would have liked me.

Her brain whirled, trying to locate an escape route that would minimise the oncoming humiliation, when a hand slid through her arm and arrested her disastrous course.

“Don’t give those boring old toffs the satisfaction.” A soft feminine voice whispered from beside her. “A moment of your valuable time, Lady Lyons,” her rescuer continued in a louder tone, audible to the matrons and ladies poised to deliver their killing blow.

The newcomer continued to swing around and Cara was forced to follow. She now stood with her back to the assembled ladies. She met the warm gaze of a petite woman with vibrant red locks.

She gave a wink and continued in a hushed tone. “Now they are staring at you, unsure what to do. They titter amongst themselves. They were about to cut you down, but if you’re not looking they cannot deliver their insult. Whatever will they do?” Laughter burned in the woman’s eyes.

“Who are you?” Cara asked. The woman’s face itched at a vague memory.

“Catherine Walters, but you can call me Skittles, everyone does.”

Ah. The infamous courtesan and current darling of half of London.

Her focus slid over Cara’s shoulder. “The old birds are abuzz now, the vultures have seen their feast snatched away from their claws. You didn’t want to talk to them anyway.”

Relief ran through Cara’s body at the offered lifeline. “Thank you, but why are you rescuing me?”

“They don’t want you and it’s their loss. Come to our side, where you can tell us what desperate acts your delicious viscount lets you perform upon him. He has not given any of us so much as a second look since you arrived in London last year.” Skittles looped her arm through Cara’s and drew her into the brightly lit world of the birds of paradise.

“Surely you don’t want all the sordid details of our life.” Cara made a mental note to find out all the sordid details of Nate’s dealings with the courtesans.

Skittles laughed. “We most definitely do. Don’t we girls? Who wants to hear what our villainous viscount has been up to since abandoning us?”

Women laughed and surrounded her and Cara heaved a sigh. These women accepted her for who she was, not for any title or endowment. Sparkling women pressed her with scandalously intimate questions and welcomed her into the world of the demi-monde.

“I see Nate still has quite a bite,” one said, tapping a hand to the side of her neck.

Cara raised a hand to the spot on her body and flushed. Nate had bit down on her skin to stifle his cry of release.
Trust this lot to notice.

Laughter rang out and the questions became even more impudent. Men circled the group, eager to participate in the conversation or to be cast a favour. The more seasoned men, who had proven the depth of their pockets, were admitted to the inner circle. The young bucks looked on with envious eyes. They had yet to buy their way into the glittering world of pleasure.

“You have more titles surrounding you than the old matrons can drum up,” Cara said, casting an eye at the cream of society vying for attention. Fragile noble girls stood tethered to their chaperones and could only sigh as the most eligible bachelors preferred the company of the vibrant courtesans.

“Even royalty waits upon us.” Skittles pointed out one tall and wan-looking gent. “That’s Edward, the Prince of Wales.”

“He looks forlorn, like a child no one wants to play with.” Two uniformed men stood at his back and made him seem even more out of place, his every move watched and guarded.

Skittles took a champagne flute from a passing tray and pressed the drink into Cara’s empty hand. “We are not sure of him yet, he is young and unproven. This is his first season out in public. We will probably admit him, he is royal after all and is in want of someone to help him spend his allowance.”

Cara shook her head at the power these women wielded. Common born, yet by their position they could cut the Prince of Wales. She looked around at the variety of shapes and sizes before her. Even the plainest demimondaine glowed with a vibrancy that proved irresistible to the men fed a diet of bland and shallow beauty. Their worth not based on physical appearance; although that was an advantage, men valued their wit and intelligence. These women sparred with the men, cutting them down with choice words, and the wounded lapped it up and crawled back for more.

“Ah,” Skittles said. “Here is one who is most definitely not of our group, but he looks like he wants a word with you.”

Following Skittles’ line of sight, Cara found Inspector Hamish Fraser, out of place in his day suit. As usual, he twisted the brim of his bowler hat round and round with his long fingers. She wondered if tormenting the hat was a form of nervous twitch and how many a week he destroyed with the constant fidgeting.

“Inspector.”

“Lady Lyons.” He gave a stiff bow. “Could I trouble you for a moment?” He glanced around at the curious stares his presence drew and gestured for her to follow him to a quieter corner.

She broke away from the gay group. “I’m sure it will be trouble coming from you, Hamish.”

He rocked back on his heels and gathered his thoughts before proceeding. “There have been two recent deaths in London, of rather unusual circumstances.”

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow, wondering where he was leading and hoping she hadn’t raced to the top of his list of murder suspects. Or Nate. She glanced around the busy foyer. Still no sign of her husband.

“It is called spontaneous human combustion. The individual is completely burned and rendered to ash while the surrounding room and furnishings remain untouched.”

Vague facts surfaced from a newspaper article. “I do recollect seeing a report in the newspaper. Divine justice, I think the reporter called it.”

“Quite.” He gave a soft smile, the one that lured you in, thinking a gentle demeanour lurked beneath, when actually a barracuda sat with bared teeth ready to strip your flesh from bone. “But spontaneous human combustion is so rare, to have two such deaths in the last few weeks is highly… unusual.”