Pride & Passion (12 page)

He snorted. “If only that were true.”

“Oh, it is, darling. I always told you that, didn’t I? How truly worthy of the title of duke, and gentleman you are.”

Indeed she had, and he had never believed it. Still didn’t.

“I have no plans this evening,” she said. “And I have a very good set of ears, despite the fact they are weighted down with these outrageously beautiful earrings you bought for me. Make use of my listening skills, and talk to me, Adrian.”

He glanced at the jewelry he had purchased for her the day after his father’s funeral ten years ago. He had set her free from his father’s grasp, buying her a small house in Mayfair, supplying her with a pension and
monthly allowance, allowing her to keep the small bits and bobs his father had purchased for her. He’d bought the diamonds as a thank-you, not as prelude to anything more than that. He kept her in style, befitting what she was used to when she was his father’s mistress, because she had been his friend. His confidante during those horrible years when his father decided to make him into a Brethren Guardian.

“Well, then, if you have no desire to talk of your lady, then perhaps we might carry on with what brings us here?”

Mentally shaking himself, he downed the remainder of his whiskey, and turned to face her. “Yes, we should get on with things. I have a dawn appointment to attend.”

She gasped, her eyes growing large with alarm. “Adrian—”

Waving off her concern, he said, “Alynwick. Who else?”

Shaking her head, she settled back into the settee. “He will be the undoing of your little group.”

“I know it. I think father knew it, too. Always thought the Alynwicks were a reckless bunch.”

“Your father was a superstitious man, but he was as smart and cunning as the devil. I admired him for that.”

Anastasia Lockwood was the only nonmember of the Brethren to know anything about the Guardians, and he and she were the only ones who knew that. Neither Black nor Alynwick knew of Anastasia’s existence, or her knowledge of their order. By means out of his control, his father had included his mistress, telling her all. It proved just how much his father had trusted her. It
proved how faithful Anastasia could be. After ten years without his father, she was still carrying their secrets.

“That little East End whore won’t tell a soul if she knows what’s good for her. I made her into what she is, and I can break her and bring her back to the little hovel I found her in.”

The previous Duke of Sussex deserved nothing out of the woman he had “made.” Regardless, Anastasia knew Adrian’s most damning secret of all. She would keep it. He would trust her with his life—in fact, he already had.

“Adrian?”

“Apologies, woolgathering, I’m afraid.” He should stop drinking. His mind was getting muddled, and he didn’t like the feeling, the sense he was giving up control. But he confessed he liked the numbness he felt. He hadn’t thought of Lucy for at least…two minutes.

Strolling to the sideboard, he splashed more whiskey into his snifter, watching as some of the amber liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass, landing on the polished rosewood. When he turned around, Anastasia was studying him intently.

“When we met two weeks ago, you shared some troubling news. I trust you have made progress in your search for this Orpheus?”

Nodding, he started to pace the room, indulging in the movement, the way the alcohol numbed him, filled his veins with a sensual lethargy. “Aye,” he slipped, and he shook his head, avoiding Anastasia’s raised brow. “Yes, we have. Black and Alynwick are doing more than I am, I’m afraid.”

“Too busy investigating other things, I imagine?” she said with a laugh, and he joined her.

“Yes, you would be right.”

“Well, since you take such good care of me, and I have had little interest in entertaining offers of male companionship, I have found myself at loose ends.”

“Oh?” he asked, surprised. “What of shopping or going to balls?”

She glared at him. “I have never been one to be amused by an excessive amount of fripperies, Adrian. You know that, but I will forgive you. Yes. In a plain manner of speaking, I’ve been bored to tears. But—” she reached to the side for her reticule and pulled it open, drawing something shining out of it “—there was one heady meeting at a ball last week, a perfectly delicious stranger who found me in a darkened corner. He presented me with his.”

She tossed it at him, and when it landed in his hand, it took everything he had not to drop his full snifter onto the carpet. What he held in his palm was a gold coin, with laurel leaves and a lyre. “The House of Orpheus.”

She smiled triumphantly. “Indeed. I’ve been twice. My companion is…well, let us just say he is rather high up in that little club, and he tends to speak rather freely during the art of amour.”

“Ana,” he ground out. “This is dangerous. It is no game for you to play.”

“Adrian, really, that is quite enough. I won’t have you scolding me like a child. I know what I am doing. Helping you. Like I used to assist your father.”

“Stop it at once.”

She jumped up from the settee, settling her hands on her hips. “Oh, don’t you dare!” she snapped. “Do not think to tell me what I can and cannot do. I know the risks, and I accept them.”

Anastasia had come from the rookeries of St. Giles parish. She knew danger, and had an uncanny knack for avoiding it. She was tough and smart, and if anyone could infiltrate the club for them, Ana could. But as a gentleman he couldn’t allow her to do so. As a Brethren Guardian, he needed her to.

“While you think of appropriate excuses to curb me from going, allow me to tell you what I know.”

Rubbing his thumb over the raised markings of the coin, he drank from his snifter as he watched her.

“Now then, my man’s name is Eros.” She winced. “The Greek God of Love he is not, but he believes himself to be, and I play along—it quite loosens his tongue.”

Adrian winced. He preferred not to hear anything along these lines, but he would endure it if only to discover what Ana had learned.

“The club is a reincarnation of the old Hell Fire Club. There’s food and music and debauchery. Plenty of debauchery, but it’s mixed with the new sensation for dabbling in the occult. There are soothsayers and séances, opium and absinthe to make the visions and séances more compelling—and other things, as well.”

When he was going to interject, Anastasia held up her hand. “There is an initiation ceremony two nights from now, and I have been invited to join. Orpheus, the leader of the club, is the master. He’s the one who inducts all the new members.”

Adrian saw where this was leading. “You’ll have a firsthand account of him.”

“And his weaknesses, plus any secret passages that might be of use to you and the other Guardians. I suspect that I shall even be able to get you in.”

He shook his head, glanced down at the coin. “I don’t know, it’s not safe.”

“Life is always a gamble, Adrian, and I believe this is a cause worth risking life and limb for. Don’t you?”

He had vowed on his life to hide the chalice, to uphold the order of the Guardians, to protect the world from an evil they had no idea lurked amongst them.

“Never tell what you know. Never say what you are. Never lose faith in your purpose for the kingdom to come will have need of you and your sons,” she said, repeating the Brethren oath.

“I remember,” he muttered, thinking of the oath, the way he had been held down by his father, the old Marquis of Alynwick and Earl of Black. Their sons had been there, too, Alynwick with his unreadable gaze, and Black with his eerie blue-green eyes.

He still felt the burn of his flesh as he was branded with the image of the Brethren Guardians, the way his body had twisted and lifted from the stone slab. He had screamed, the sound echoing off the coved ceiling of the Masonic Lodge, the hallowed place where the Brethren Guardians had initiated their sons for centuries.

“Keep it on his flesh longer,” his father had growled, “until he ceases to scream like a child and bears it like a man.”

He could still smell his burning flesh, feel the
way his father’s big hands anchored his wrists in a steely hold.

“You disgust me, weakling,” his father had later said as he came to the room where Black and Alynwick had been adding salve to the burn in preparation of bandaging it. That was the way it went: the old order caused the pain, the fledglings, as they were known after initiation, were left to the menial task of soothing and bandaging. “Did you think it was only me that noticed the tears in your eyes? God, you humiliate me, boy!”

His father had swatted him across the head, and he had sat there, cold, unmoving. Numb. A poor reflection of a man and heir in his father’s eyes.

“You had better prove of use to me,” he’d growled, “or you’ll pay for it.”

“Think of something else,” Iain had suggested after his father had left in disgust, and the salve burned its way through the tender, singed flesh. “It always helps.”

“Think of what you’ll get out of this,” Black had said. “Think of the power.”

And he did. He thought on it, what he would obtain after the ordeal. It had sustained him; it still did.

The world of the Brethren Guardians was cold and isolated. Only the sons and fathers were to know of it. His father had broken a centuries-old silence by bringing his mistress into the fray—and to a certain extent, his daughter, who had discovered the truth through his drunken rages. Their world was at times violent and dangerous—like now.

But things were changing. Isabella knew of Black’s involvement, and Black took solace from his wife when he needed it, when he needed to talk. Now Ana, who
had always been involved, was standing before him, wanting to help.

“You know, I will never listen to what you think, Adrian. I am determined.”

Closing his fingers over the coin, he gazed at her. “Then we welcome your assistance, Anastasia.”

A smile lit up her face. Hugging him, she pressed herself closely to him. “I will aid you in any way I can.”

“First, you can promise that you will stay safe, and come to me if you suspect you’re in any sort of danger at all.”

“Agreed.”

“And you will report daily, do you understand? Even if you have nothing to report. I want to know you’re safe. And damn it, Ana, send word whenever you go to that godforsaken club.”

Pulling away, she smiled and kissed his lips—like a mother with a son, or perhaps just two friends parting. When she moved back, she ran her fingers through his hair, tilted his face so she could look deeply into his eyes.

“Everything but the cruelty,” she whispered once more. “Lucky girl.”

She moved past him, reaching for her cloak that was draped over the arm of the settee, then her reticule. He tossed her the coin; she caught it and smiled. “It’s the ticket in,” she said, studying the coin. “You show it to the doorman at the Adelphi, and he has a footman escort you up to the club.”

Slipping away, Adrian watched her walk to the door, where she paused and glanced back at him.

“Thank you, for allowing me this opportunity to repay you for all you have done for me.”

He growled. “There is no need. I’ve told you—”

She waved off his remark. “Till we meet again.”

S
WIFTLY
, L
UCY
maneuvered herself down the street, the heels of her half boots clicking in time along the cobbles, echoing against the bricks of the fog-shrouded town houses that loomed around her.

A dog howled, making her shiver as she cast her gaze left then right, searching through the misty gloom for any sign of danger. She must be mad to be out here at this hour of the night. What fool would risk her reputation, and her very life, by walking the streets of Mayfair at one in the morning? It wasn’t even the Season, after all, when Mayfair would still be bustling with carriages and elegantly dressed couples strolling from ball to ball. No, it was November, and the West End was all but deserted, its residents at home, tucked warmly before their hearths, or beneath their down bedding.

And here she was, on a fool’s errand. Or so many would believe.

Come to me tonight. Walk to Mount Street and round the corner, where a carriage will await you at one.

There would be no better timing. Papa had not been home, out as he always was. More and more, her father had taken to spending his nights at the old Lodge, for what purpose she could not fathom.

Ever since her mother had died, Stonebrook had taken to spending his days and nights away from their
home. They had not even left the city for the country and the Stonebrook seat. But then, in the country, her father would be obliged to adhere to country hours, and country living, which meant he would be home—in proximity to his daughter. The child he had nothing in common with. The one person in the world he had no clue how to talk to.

It did not take any amount of brilliance to reason out that her father chose not to be at home for any length of time because he wished to avoid her.

Painful as that admission was, Lucy had forced herself to admit the truth. By the age of ten she had realized she was alone in the world, and this little jaunt tonight, walking the dim gaslit streets with nary a soul around, only served to reinforce the sentiment. And it was that very thought that had propelled her into action tonight.

Thomas was alive and he wanted her to come to him. She needed answers, to know why he’d allowed her to believe him dead. Surely he would have thought she would grieve for him. That she would, at the very least, be upset by the news. And she also needed to hear that Sussex was wrong, that Thomas was the not the man he hunted for. The only reason Sussex believed that her former lover was Orpheus was that he carried her lace. It was only a coincidence, and she would prove it.

“And where would you be off to at this time of night?” The voice reaching out to her in the quiet was like a lance down her spine. “Who’s there?” she asked, searching the shadows, careful to remain beneath the light of the lamppost. She wasn’t far now from the corner. Just feet to go, then she would round the corner
and find the carriage Thomas had sent for her waiting there.

Nothing but the rhythmic tapping of rainwater dripping from a drainage pipe met her question, and she hurried on, clutching the braided strings of her reticule tighter between her gloved hands, while her hurried stride sent the velvet skirts of her gown swirling around her boots as she moved quickly down Mount Street.

She sensed the man following her, and she picked up her pace, her lungs burning in her chest as her rapid breaths blew against the black veil she had used to disguise her identity. Tightening her hand on the strings of her reticule, she strove for composure even as her nerves took flight in the darkness.

Casting a fearful glance over her shoulder, her gaze caught something golden, a fleeting flash, and she stopped, stared into the darkness, her gaze narrowed as she tried to peer deeper into the inky blackness.

“Thomas?”

Something reached out of the darkness—for her—and she shrieked, the sound muffled by a large hand encased in leather. Pulling her into the shadows, Lucy felt her body held in place with something viselike around her midriff. Behind her, through her woolen cloak, she could feel steel beneath skin, a tower of unyielding muscled flesh that pressed unmercifully into her small frame, while the hand across her mouth stayed frozen.

“Is that who you’re meeting? I’d wondered.”

The voice was deep, husky in the darkness as the villain lowered his head, allowing his breath to caress her throat.

Frozen, she could not process what was happening. She was terrified as she was pulled deeper into the shadows between two houses. In the silence, she heard the distant echo of horses’ hooves clopping along the thoroughfare followed by the clacking of carriage wheels. The sound became fainter, telling her that the carriage was moving away, not coming to her rescue.

The reality of what was happening to her began to sink in, and she struggled, only to be held tightly—and oh so easily—by one thick arm.

“Don’t think to struggle,” the voice growled, and she tried, through her terror and panic, to place the voice. Different, yet somehow familiar. Even the scent of him was familiar, but fear fogged her mind, and she found herself stilling in his arms, if for nothing other than self-preservation. Good God, she was terrified!

“Please, sir,” she mumbled beneath his hand. “Pl-please don’t hurt me.”

The body which had been so stiff, so unforgiving in its strength suddenly yielded the slightest bit. She was no longer held rigidly against him, but rather more softly, as if he were molding her body into his.

“Never,” he said, his voice still husky, but filled with a deep sensuality. His breath was warm against her cheek, the scent of whiskey strong, yet strangely, not at all offensive, but rather…alarmingly enticing.

Time stood frozen for what seemed like minutes, but then, through the tendrils of fog, she saw the image of a man, tall, dressed in black, carrying a torchlight, and realized it was the night watchman making his rounds. Invigorated by the sight of safety, Lucy whimpered, kicking and flailing, fighting her assailant with every
thing she had, but he subdued her with his arm, pulling her tighter against him so that she was lifted up from her toes, to press along the length of his body.

His palm, she realized, was just beneath her breast, his hand, so large that the tips of his fingers touched her other breast. He could crush her, she realized. Do unspeakable, horrifying things to her in this alley…

“Who’s there!”

The night watchman’s gravelly voice echoed between the houses. She saw his arm rise, preparing to lift his torch and sweep the alley with the light. He would find her there, held in the brutal arms of her assailant, her eyes wide with terror, as the brute’s hand covered her mouth.

“I hear ye,” the watchman growled. “Come out, now.”

To her horror, Lucy found herself lifted effortlessly against him as her assailant pulled her deeper into the bowels of the narrow alley. She reached out, her arm outstretched, pleading in muted silence for the watchman to see her—to save her. But his light did not reach this deeply, and she was being pulled back as if everything was in slow motion.

She would die tonight. She knew it. But it would be a painful, agonizing death, for she knew what the villain wanted from her. She could feel it, the hardness of his body pressing insistently against her.

Well, she would not be a victim—not without a fight.

Lucy waited until the right moment, the second when he found a wall and turned her to face him, bracing her against it. In the darkness, she could not see him—only smell him, the scent of linen and wool, and the fresh
ness of mint, and rain. The warmth of whiskey as his mouth came closer to hers.

She did not fight him then, she was too small. Too weak. She waited…waited until he was closer, until his leather-encased hand caressed her chilled cheek, then down to her jaw, where his fingers curled gently around her throat, and his breath rasped in excitement. She waited until his mouth was descending, angling…until she raised her arm up between their bodies, a show of submission and desire, as she curled her fingers into the breadth of his shoulder. And then, while she was anchored to him, she tipped her head back, surrendering to the feel of his whiskey laced breath against her mouth.

“Christ, how much I want you,” he breathed.

“Yes,” she replied, feeling his body almost fall into hers. And that was the moment, when someone like her, small and insignificant, could overpower a man who was well over six feet.

His head lowered to hers, blocking out the faint shaft of moonlight, cocooning her in his warmth and scent. His breath—hot mist—bathed her lips. Pressing her fingers tighter against him, she heard his growl of desire, and she raised her leg, making him think her wanton. When he moaned in approval, she lifted it higher, thrusting her knee between his legs. With a savage upward thrust, she forced her knee against him a second time, making him groan in agony.

But he did not let go of her like she supposed, and she tried again, but his hand found her knee, stopping her as his fingers cupped her leg, squeezing it.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped as he struggled to gain air
through pained breaths, “you’ve managed to kick my cods to my throat.”

Time stood still, and the blood blanched from her face. That voice…she knew that voice.

“Your…grace?” she asked incredulously.

He gagged, doubling forward in pain, but never once lifting his hold on her leg.

“What the blazing blue ’ell are ye doin’ ’ere,” he gasped, his accent taking on a rougher, courser edge, surprising her.

“Were you following me?” she asked in relief and outrage. “Oh, I cannot believe this. Let me go this instant!” she demanded, but his fingers only tightened.

“Like hell!”

With remarkable recovery, he caught her up against him, and carried her in his arms into the deepest, darkest part of the alley. What he was going to do with her now, Lucy had no idea, and feared to guess. She only knew nothing good would come of it.