Viscount of Vice (5 page)

He wanted to deny it, but he could not. Even now he could remember strolling into the drawing room, all swagger and cockiness. He'd been drinking in the carriage to assuage the boredom from the long trip, but he was by no means drunk. He'd been looking forward to the duke's wedding, and the lovely ladies into whose beds he might fall.

And then he'd seen her. She'd been standing near the hearth, wearing a white gown with small yellow flowers. It was a child's gown, and she was that age between childhood and womanhood, but he'd not been able to stop his gaze from settling on her. He'd not been able to stop the rushing in his ears when their eyes met. He had not said anything to her other than the customary greetings, but he had devoured her with his eyes. He hadn't been able to keep her brother from seeing his attraction. Flynn had exchanged no more than five or six words with Lady Emma over the remainder of the week, but she had never been far from his thoughts. He'd lain awake at night and wondered where, in that huge country house, she was sleeping. Had she been thinking of him? Had he, at four-and-twenty, stooped to lechery? How could he desire a girl of no more than fifteen so desperately?

But she was not a child any longer. Gone was the white muslin and the child's body. Gone were the plump cheeks of youth and the ringlets in her hair. Before him stood a lush, desirable woman.

And she wanted him. She
loved
him.
Him
, Henry Flynn, who had never loved anyone in his life, except perhaps Robert.

“Robert,” he said at last, his voice sounding as though it had not been used for years. “He needs me.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. Her hand fell away from his sleeve, and she said, “Then you should go. Be careful. Avon Street…” Whatever warning she had been about to give was left unsaid.

This could not have been the reaction she had hoped for when she imagined declaring her love to him. If she was disappointed, she did not show it. She was truly a duke's daughter in that regard. He bowed, taking her hand and brushing his lips over her knuckles. When he rose, she handed him the vellum and quill. “Good-bye,” he said, turning to the door.

“Yes. You've said that.”

* * *

Emma watched the door to the morning room close. She stared at it for a long moment, listening to Flynn's footsteps as he moved away. She was a fool. Had she really thought this the time and place to show him her heart? She knew he needed to find his brother, but could men never think logically? Would it hurt to wait a few hours and go in the light of day?

But that was her own selfishness. She hadn't—she didn't—want him to go. She wanted him to stay with her. She wanted him to keep touching her and kissing her. She felt alive with him. Most of her life was spent doing what she ought—making calls, chatting idly, dancing with boorish lords. The only time she felt alive was when she could forget she was Lady Emma, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Ravenscroft, and lose herself in her efforts at the charity hospital. No one there cared who her parents had been or how many rooms Ravenscroft Castle boasted. They were grateful for a smiling face and clean bed linens.

At the hospital, for a little while, she could forget Lady Emma and be herself. She felt that way with Flynn. He'd never seemed impressed by titles or lineage. When he looked at her, he didn't think of her ancestors and the “good stock” from whence she hailed. He saw the woman.

Or at least she wanted him to.

Forgetting her note to Katherine for the moment, she walked across the room and stood before the French doors that opened to a small garden where Mrs. Emerson grew vegetables and the doctor cultivated medicinal herbs. Emma knew it was a pretty garden, though the night was too dark for her to see any of it. In the room's lamplight, she saw only her own reflection in the glass. She looked…rumpled.

She was not so naïve as to think a match between herself and the Viscount of Vice would be well received. She would never have him, not in that way. Probably no woman would. What she wanted was a few moments in his arms, a few moments she could cherish some day when she was an old woman with ten children and scores of grandchildren and a lout of a husband she'd never loved hobbling beside her. She wanted to look back at her youth and know there had been one moment, just one, that had been hers alone. One moment that had not been driven by duty and obligation. One moment of pure pleasure filled with love.

She knew Flynn could give that to her.

But whatever the
ton
said of Lord Chesham, the truth was he had more honor and integrity than anyone gave him credit for. If he didn't, she would at that moment be well on her way to losing her virginity, rather than standing alone in the Emersons' morning room.

Emma sighed, closed her eyes, and leaned her head on the cool glass of the French doors. She'd had her chance with Flynn, and it was gone. Now she supposed she would have to look reality in its ugly face and accept a marriage proposal from a man who was not, and never would be, Henry Flynn. The thought made everything inside of her ache, her heart—or where it should have been had Flynn not ripped it from her chest—most of all. She almost smiled at herself. What theatrics! Perhaps she should take up poetry or the stage, or perhaps—

Quite suddenly, the door she rested her forehead upon fell away, and she stumbled forward. She would have fallen if a pair of arms had not caught her. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand settled over it while the other fastened on her arm and dragged her into the dark garden. “Not a word,” he whispered, pushing her back against the wall of the house.

She blinked up at him, momentarily confused. For just an instant, she had thought he might be Flynn. There was something about his voice, about the way he looked in the spill of light from the morning room. But it was not Flynn. This young man looked too rough, too thin. He was almost painfully thin. His dark hair fell in dirty strings to his shoulders, and his clothes were caked with something she did not want to examine too closely. His hand was rough and cold on her lips, while his other hand pushed her hard into the stone. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could not catch her breath.

“If I lift my hand, will you scream?”

Emma shook her head, but he must have seen she was lying, because he gave her a dubious look. “Was that Henry Flynn you were talking to?” he asked. “Nod yes or shake your head for no.”

She swallowed with some effort and attempted to tamp her panic down. She must be calm. She must think if she were to escape. She nodded.

“Are you his wife?”

She shook her head. If the man thought the Viscount of Vice was married to her, he did not know Flynn very well.

“Who are you?” he asked. “If you scream, you will be sorry.” He lifted his hand away from her mouth the tiniest fraction, while his other hand pushed her harder into the stone of the terraced house.

“Emma Talbot,” she said quickly. She did not think any good could come of adding
Lady
to her name. Perhaps if he thought she was unimportant, he would let her go.

“How do you know my brother?”

She started, and his hand came down on her mouth again. “Your brother?” she mumbled around his fingers. “
You're
Robert Flynn?”

His eyes narrowed, and he lifted his hand again. “I am asking the questions. How do you know my brother?”

“He's a friend of my brother.”

“It looked to me like the two of you are also good friends.”

She felt her cheeks heat then. He had seen them kissing in the morning room. They had been talking of him, and he'd been outside all along. “He's here for you. He's going to find you.”

“I know,” Robert said, wrenching her away from the wall. “And you're the bait to lead him right where I want him.”

She saw the rope and struggled to free herself of his punishing hold, but he had strength in his wiry body, and it did not take long for her to realize she was doomed.

“We have a problem,” Dr. Emerson said, stepping into his office. Flynn and Derring looked up from the crude map Derring had drawn.

“What problem?” Flynn asked. He had all he needed to find his brother, and nothing—nothing at all—would stop him from going this instant.

“I fear Lady Emma has been abducted,” the doctor said.

Except that.

“What?” Derring roared, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

“She's in the morning room,” Flynn said, stuffing the map into his waistcoat. “I saw her a few moments ago.”

“And my page just reported he saw her being carried away.”

“What the devil?” He didn't believe it. What was more, he didn't have time for it. Flynn ignored Derring, who was trying to rise, and the doctor, who was scolding him for it, and pushed past the men and out of the room. He arrowed for the morning room, and shouldered past the housekeeper and a maid to enter. He stopped completely and stared at the empty room.

The French doors were open to the garden, and he saw Hervey standing without.

“What's this about Lady Emma?” Flynn asked, striding through the room to the page.

Hervey gave him a suspicious glance and then pointed to the open gate at the edge of the small garden that led to the mews. “He took her that way.”

“Who?” Flynn demanded, not waiting for an answer. He ran to the gate and skidded into the small alley behind, Hervey close at his heels. He looked left and then right, but he didn't see so much as a groomsman.

“I tried to chase him, my lord, but he was too fast.”

“Who?” Flynn demanded again. “Who took her?” He had visions of unsavory men who wanted to ransom the sister of a rich duke.

“I didn't get a good look at him, my lord,” Hervey was saying, “but from what I saw he was a man like most of them. Long brown hair, not too clean, and looked like he could use a good meal.”

Flynn clenched his fists in frustration. The description was next to useless.

“Did Lady Emma appear to have been harmed?” another voice asked from behind them. Flynn turned to see a pale Derring hobbling toward them, his hand pressed to his side, supported by Dr. Emerson. Apparently the doctor had lost the battle to keep Derring in bed.

“No, Sir Brook,” Hervey answered. “She were fighting and kicking, but he had her tied up, I think. Her arms were behind her back, and he were carrying her sort of like a sack of flour or potatoes.”

Flynn closed his eyes. This could not be happening. Ravenscroft would murder him when he learned Flynn had lost his sister—no matter that Flynn had told her to stay at the assembly room. “What the bloody hell is going on?” Flynn roared, more angry at himself than anyone else. How could a woman be simply carried off from the morning room of a perfectly respectable doctor's home? “Does this sort of thing happen all of the time? I thought we were in bloody Bath, not Seven Dials.”

“It has never happened before, my lord, I assure you,” Doctor Emerson said.

“Then what the devil do we do now?” he looked at Derring, who appeared far too calm for Flynn's taste. “How am I supposed to find her?”

“You already know where she is,” Derring said.

Flynn gave him a look. The man had spoken quietly. The small garden was filled with people now—the doctor's wife, the housekeeper, and other concerned servants. “
I
know where she is?” Flynn repeated urgently. “What the devil are you suggesting?”

“Not that you had anything to do with Lady Emma's abduction,” Derring said, “but that she was taken to garner your attention. I should have seen this coming. He was desperate. I should have known he would follow me.”

“Who?” Flynn demanded.

“You said you saw her in the morning room a few moments ago?”

“Yes.” Flynn didn't know where Derring was going with this line of questioning, but he felt time was running out. Every second they wasted talking was another second longer Emma was in danger.

“The man undoubtedly saw you together and took her, assuming that she meant something to you.”

“Are you saying an enemy of mine did this?” Flynn hadn't considered the possibility, but it was not altogether unfounded. He did have many enemies—men he'd cuckolded or won money from at the gaming tables. Too often he spoke his mind when he should have kept his thoughts to himself. Flynn wished he was the sort of man who preferred spending an evening alone. Instead, he craved human interaction, and that generally ended with him in some sort of scandal or debauchery.

In this way he'd built the reputation that earned him his sobriquet. One that led to more invitations. Society hoped he would do something shocking, so they could all say they'd been there, and dine on the story for a week. But Flynn generally confined his antics to Town. He could not think who would despise him in Bath, except his mother, and she certainly hadn't taken Lady Emma.

“No,” Derring said hesitantly.

Flynn frowned. “If not an enemy, then who?”

“Your brother.”

* * *

Emma had fought as best she could, and actually thought she might have a chance to escape when the man set her down for a moment in front of one of the mews not far from Doctor Emerson's residence in the wealthy King's Circus. He'd hissed at her to stay put, but she'd ignored that directive as soon as he was out of sight. She struggled to rise and dashed back toward the doctor's. Her hands were tied and her mouth gagged, but her feet were free. She was able to progress several feet before she heard the thunder of hooves and was pulled up, rather awkwardly and painfully, and laid across the front of a horse. Her gag came loose, the cloth falling about her neck. Before she could protest the rough treatment or adjust to a comfortable position, the horse turned and started in the opposite direction from the one she'd been going.

“You stole this horse!” she accused, making an effort to glance up at her captor.

“I borrowed her.”

“But you can't—” Her words were interrupted when the horse turned sharply and almost reared. “Do you even know how to ride?” she screamed.

“I'm learning.”

And then before she could protest further, a heavy blanket smelling of horse and leather was thrown over her, and it was all she could do to keep breathing and not cast up her accounts. After what seemed an eternity, the horse slowed, and she raised her head again. She could see nothing with the blanket over her head, and there was even less light now than there had been before. She thought from the smells she detected above that of the horse blanket that they were nearing the river. She wished she could take one deep breath that did not smell of sweaty horse. Her arms screamed in pain from being secured behind her back, and her breasts were sore from bouncing chest-down on the trotting horse.

But when the horse did stop, she found herself wishing it would continue to move. At least when they were moving, Robert Flynn couldn't do anything to her. Now he dismounted, removed the blanket, and pulled her down. Immediately, she fell to her knees, pain screaming through her at the impact. Her hair had come loose from its pins, and she shook it out of her face and peered through the tresses. Her eyes had not adjusted from the darkness of the blanket, however, and she could see very little.

She blinked in confusion and then started when her abductor grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. Her already sore arm shot needles of pain through her, and her knees buckled. The man did not pause. He continued moving, leaving the poor horse standing God knew where, and pulled her through some sort of opening and into a room.

If possible, it was darker and colder inside the room than outside. She tried to peer about her, and had the sense they were not alone. She thought she detected shadowy shapes. “Help!” she said. “I've been abducted!”

The man dragging her yanked her savagely, tugging her through the room and another door. “They don't care who you are,” he told her. “They have their own problems.” He slammed the door shut and pushed her forward. She stumbled and fell against a piece of furniture, then lost her balance and toppled onto what felt like a mattress. A moment later, she heard the unmistakable sound of steel and flint struck together, and light blossomed. She looked down and noted she was on a mattress covered with a threadbare blanket. She pushed off the floor, rising and then turning to face the room. She didn't know what she expected to see. Perhaps she thought the man might be coming to ravish her. Perhaps she thought he would brandish a knife and cut her into a thousand pieces.

She did not expect to see him leaning over a rough table with a small bottle, measuring drops of liquid into a spoon.

She stared at him in disbelief. He seemed to have forgotten her for a moment, and as she watched, he drank the contents of the spoon and made a face. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, the bottle clutched to his chest as though it were a priceless artifact.

For a long, long moment, he did not move. And then slowly his eyes opened, and he focused on her.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Are you truly Robert Flynn?”

He gave a low chuckle. “Perhaps a better question is what am I? I'm hardly human anymore.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“Not what you're thinking. If you cooperate, you won't be harmed. At least not by me.”

That didn't reassure her. “Cooperate?”

“Don't try to escape. We wait here until he comes for you.”

Emma stared at him, watched as he measured out another drop from the bottle. Laudanum. That's what it was. She'd seen Doctor Emerson give it a hundred times, probably more. It had a bitter taste, which accounted for the face he made after ingesting it.

“Until who comes for me?” she asked, but she already knew. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she saw again why she'd initially mistaken the man for Flynn. “Viscount Chesham?”

The man looked at her sharply. “He's the viscount now?”

She nodded. “You really are his brother.”

He gave her a low bow. “Robert Flynn,” he said. “Opium-eater.”

Emma supposed he expected her to faint dead away. But opium-eaters did not scare her. She'd seen them at the hospital; she'd tried to help some of them overcome their addictions. “If you wanted to see your brother,” she said calmly, “you needn't have abducted me. He was coming to find you. You might already be with him if you hadn't stabbed Sir Brook.”

“I didn't stab him.”

“Then who did?”

His dark eyes met hers. “Someone who's taken in interest in you and the new viscount.”

“What do you—no, wait. If we are going to have a conversation, the least you could do is untie me.” She turned and showed him her hands, which were still bound behind her back. He did not move for a long moment, and then he crossed to her and pulled a knife from his boot.

As he sawed at the rope, he said, “I have the feeling you aren't a mere
miss
.”

Emma didn't answer. She did not trust the man and thought it better to refrain from revealing her connections. “I cannot think any person would enjoy being bound, whether titled or not.”

The ropes came loose, and slowly she lowered her arms. They'd gone numb, but now the blood rushed back, causing her to wince at the sharp pricks of sensation.

“Yes, but no one without a title would demand to be released. You forget
I
abducted
you
.”

She would have retorted if she had not been in so much pain. Instead, she moved her arms slowly, waiting until the pain subsided before speaking again. “You've abducted me to lure your brother here, so we might be ransomed by the man you work for. Do I have the right of it?”

His silence was confirmation.

“How could you betray your own brother?”

“My brother?” He gave her a weak smile. “Until a fortnight ago, I didn't know I had a brother. Your Sir Brook found me and told me I was not Robbie Smith at all, but Robert Flynn, son of Viscount Chesham.”

“You didn't know?”

“No. I don't remember anything from my childhood except hunger and fear and fighting to stay alive. In my world, you worked, and you had better do your share, or you'd be punished.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“Not the sort I want to talk about.”

She raised her brows. “A pickpocket? Highwayman?”

“Among other things.”

She glanced at the thin mattress on the floor, which seemed to be the only place to sit. It appeared clean enough, or at least not filthy. Gingerly, she lowered herself to sit on the edge of it. “And yet you do not sound like a common thief.”

“I learned to mimic my betters,” he said. “I can talk common enough when it suits me.”

Outside she heard shouting, and Flynn's brother held up a hand and moved to the door, pressing his ear to the wood. Emma tensed. Could Flynn have arrived so quickly? Had he even noticed she had been taken? And if so, how would he know who had taken her?

Two men were arguing, and what sounded like blows came next. Flynn's brother looked back at her. “Not him,” he said quietly. He leaned back against the door and closed his eyes. Perhaps the opium was taking effect. If he fell asleep, then what would she do? She didn't think she was brave enough to try and venture out alone onto Avon Street, for surely that was where he'd taken her.

“One more question, Mr. Flynn,” she said.

He cracked his eyelids.

“If Derring told you a fortnight ago who you really are, why did you not go to London yourself? Why wait for Lord Chesham to come for you? Why not go to him?”

He gave a short laugh. “You think I can just walk away? Just leave whenever I want?”

She looked pointedly at the door. “It's not locked.”

He pushed away from the wall and moved toward her, crouching down so his face was level with hers. “If you think he'll just let me—or you—walk away, then you don't know Satin.”