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They stared at one another through the darkness, both their breaths loud and ragged in the still silence of the night. The tension hummed in the small space between them. She did not trust herself to speak, only to turn and slowly walk away into her bright-lit hallway. Only then did she glance back to find him still standing there, watching her. Their eyes met once more before the door closed and her butler turned the key.
She sagged back against the solid support of the thick oaken barrier, wondering if he was standing out there still. Her legs felt weak. She touched a finger to her kiss-swollen lips.
‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ Albert, her elderly butler, peered at her with concern.
She nodded. ‘Perfectly.’ She forced a smile to allay the worry from his face. But it was a lie. Venetia was not all right. She felt hot, aroused and more disturbed than anything by her reaction to Viscount Linwood.
‘There is no need for a night porter tonight. Miss Sweetly will not be home until tomorrow,’ she said and made her way towards the large sweeping staircase.
‘Very good, ma’am. I’ll send Daisy up to attend you in your bedchamber.’
‘Thank you.’
But even when her maid had helped her to change into her nightdress and Venetia had climbed beneath the bedclothes she could not sleep. She could not even lie still, let alone close her eyes. There was a tension throbbing through her that had not been there before. Her body felt restless and twitchy, her mind, milling a thousand thoughts.
The after-dinner entertainment was not to my taste. Linwood’s words seemed to have etched themselves upon her brain. It should not have mattered to her in the slightest. Even if he had climbed upon Razeby’s dining-room table and ridden Miss Vert before them all, such an act paled in comparison to what he had done. And yet Venetia found that it did matter, very much. He had not stayed to indulge a base appetite with the other men. He had come after her. And only because of Linwood was she lying here safe now within her own bed. There was a heavy irony in that. And in the fact that she was attracted to him… and he to her. She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that it made her objective both more difficult and easier at once. The sooner she discovered something useful against him, the sooner all of this would come to an end. But she would have to be careful, careful in a way that neither she nor her brother had ever contemplated. Careful not of Linwood, but of her own response to him.
Chapter Four
Linwood stood alone in his rooms, gazing down into the dying embers of the fire. The open newspaper still lay on the table behind him, the London Messenger, the newspaper that Linwood owned, discarded where he had left it earlier that day. The last rallying flicker of the flames danced upon the crystal glass held within his hand, burnishing the brandy within a rich deep auburn. He swigged a mouthful, relishing the smooth aromatic burn against his tongue and the back of his throat, and for the first night in such a long time he had not given a thought to Rotherham.
Her image was etched upon his mind. It seemed that he could still smell the faint scent of her perfume and taste her upon his lips. And just the memory of that kiss, of her body against his, and all that had flared between them, made him hard. He wanted Venetia Fox. He had wanted her since that first night on the green-room balcony. Linwood had had his share of women, but none compared with her. She was a woman more beautiful than any other. Intriguing. Irresistible. And it seemed that the attraction that he felt for her was reciprocated. There was definitely something of a connection between them. Desire rippled through him. Maybe Razeby was right. Maybe a little distraction would be no bad thing. Maybe then he would be able to sleep at night without first drinking half a bottle of brandy.
He set the glass down on the table, and as he did so his eye went to the article uppermost on the neatly folded page; the same article he had read and reread since yesterday. Lord Dawson of Bow Street announces that the shooting of the Duke of Rotherham was murder. His arousal was gone in an instant. His mind sharpened. The problem was not going to go away. He had the horrible feeling that instead of the ending it should have been, Rotherham’s death had started something, something that, if not contained, would destroy them all. He could not afford distraction, even distraction as enticing as Venetia Fox, not when he had a murder to hide. He lifted the bottle of brandy and topped up his glass.
Venetia was still out of sorts the next afternoon. Because of what had happened the night before with Linwood. Because he had not yet called upon her, even though, had he called unannounced, she would not have received him. And because of what Alice was now saying as she sat opposite her in their drawing room.
Venetia studied her friend’s face, the pallor of her skin and shadows beneath her eyes that betrayed a night spent not in sleep, and the triumph and the excitement that radiated from her every pore.
There was an uncomfortable silence, in which Alice had the grace to blush.
‘You have accepted Razeby’s offer.’ Venetia could not keep the disappointment from her voice.
‘He’s offered me two thousand a year, and the house in Hart Street. How can I refuse?’ She paused. ‘Please understand.’
‘You are placing yourself at his mercy, Alice. What happens when he tires of you and takes a new mistress?’
She shrugged. ‘If it happens, then I’ll move on and find another protector.’
‘When it happens.’
‘I’m going into this with my eyes wide open, Venetia. I’ve made up my mind.’
‘Flirt with him, tease him. Sleep with him if that is what you so truly desire, but do not give yourself into his power.’
‘It’s too late,’ said Alice. ‘I’ve accepted him.’
‘It is never too late,’ said Venetia.
‘Really it is.’ Alice’s gaze met hers. There was a small silence. ‘I want him,’ she said simply, as if that explained it all. ‘I want this. Please be glad for me, Venetia.’
Venetia gave a sigh, followed by a smile of resignation. ‘If you are happy, then I am glad.’
Alice smiled. ‘And what of you, last night? Linwood came looking for you. Did he find you?’
‘He did.’
‘And?’ Alice demanded.
‘He walked me home.’ She made no mention of the ruffians who had attacked her, or of Linwood saving her.
‘You really do like him, don’t you?’ Alice looked worried.
She could not like a man like Linwood. Not when she knew the secret he was hiding. And yet… She thought of the way he had not taken part in the feasting upon Miss Vert; the way he had come to protect her, instead. And the dark sensual attraction that simmered between them. ‘He is different to any other man I have met.’ It was the truth.
‘Venetia…’ Alice chewed on her lower lip. ‘You should be careful of Linwood. He’s not a good man.’
A chill stirred in Venetia’s blood. Her gaze sharpened. ‘That is the second warning you have given me of him, Alice. If there is something I should know…’
Alice bit her lip again as she always did when she was uncertain or worried.
‘I concede I have an interest in him, if that makes a difference in your decision to speak.’
‘I swore I’d never tell, but…’ Alice hesitated. ‘I think you need to know, Venetia… the part with Linwood at least.’
Venetia nodded, her senses quickening, her heart beating that bit faster. ‘Go on.’
‘It was when I worked for Mrs Silver. Linwood came to her House of Rainbow Pleasures and—’
Venetia felt her stomach contract and a sudden sick feeling of dread. ‘Linwood was your client?’ she whispered in horror.
‘No!’ Alice glanced up, shocked at the suggestion. ‘Not mine, or any of the other girls. No,’ she said again and frowned as if the memory was unpleasant. ‘He came for information. Offered a fortune for us to betray one of our own.’
‘One of your own? I do not understand.’
‘The identity of one of Mrs Silver’s girls. As you know, none of us ever revealed our faces or our real names in full. But this one girl, well, it was a bit more than that. We were all sworn to extra secrecy over her. Paid a lot of money to keep our mouths shut. So I can’t speak of her, but I can tell you that Linwood offered much money for even the smallest scrap of information on her.’
‘He wanted her?’ Venetia’s voice was quiet.
‘Not in the way you’re thinking. There was a big scandal over the girl and a certain eminent nobleman. Linwood wanted information, for himself, for his father and their newspapers. He owns the London Messenger, you know.’
‘I did not,’ said Venetia, making a mental note to inform Robert of that fact at their next meeting.
‘He’s dangerous.’
‘Did he threaten you?’
‘No, nothing like that. He and his father are reputed to have been up to all sorts of shady dealings. He’s handsome, Venetia, handsome as the very devil, and with something of that same darkness about him. I would that you would take Devlin or Hawick instead.’
‘I do not want Devlin or Hawick.’
There was a silence.
‘Then be very careful over Linwood, Venetia.’ The same words Robert had used. ‘He is cold and untouched by emotion. Nothing affects him. Linwood may make for an exciting lover, but… he’s dangerous.’
And Venetia meant to discover precisely how dangerous.
Linwood sat in his box in the Theatre Royal that night and watched Venetia Fox upon the stage. That she could absorb him in the story she was weaving upon the stage, even though he had seen the play already, rather than studying the woman herself, was testament to her acting abilities. He dragged his attention away, swept his gaze over first his mother and then his sister sitting by his side. Marianne’s focus was intent upon the play, the emotions that played across her face showing that she was caught entirely in the fate of the character Venetia was portraying. There was a contentment and a confidence about his sister these days, and Linwood was glad of it. His eyes moved to the man responsible, her husband who sat on the other side of the box, Rafe Knight.
He waited until the interval, then left with Knight to fetch the women refreshments.
‘You saw yesterday’s copy of the Messenger?’
‘Of course.’ Knight’s mouth tightened. ‘The Bow Street office has discovered that Rotherham did not die by his own hand.’
Linwood thought of the rumour of suicide, the seeds of which his own newspaper had sown.
‘Murder or suicide, either way there will be an end to it now,’ said Knight.
Linwood shook his head. ‘There will be questions and digging into the past. An investigation risks stirring up that which should remain hidden.’
‘The bastard is causing trouble even from beyond the grave.’
‘Maybe you should leave town, take Marianne to the country for the winter.’
‘We’re better off here, knowing what is happening. If the truth comes out…’
Linwood felt his face harden. ‘It will not come out. I will see to that.’
The two men looked at one another with respect. Neither liked the other, but they were united in a common cause.
Knight gave a nod. ‘You have not asked me.’
‘And you have not asked me,’ said Linwood. ‘It is better if we leave it that way, for Marianne’s sake.’
Knight gave a grim nod of agreement.
It was the night after Linwood had brought his family to the theatre. Venetia’s night off, if attending Fallingham’s ball could be described as such a thing. She was so busy keeping track of where Linwood was in the ballroom that she did not notice Hawick’s approach.
‘Venetia…’ His voice was low and possessive. She felt her heart sink even as she turned to face him.
‘Your Grace.’ She curtsied.
Hawick’s gaze lingered over her breasts as he spoke. ‘Come now, there is no need for such formality between us.’
‘There is every need and I do not wish to insult you,’ she said.
‘As if you could ever do that.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Are we not friends?’
‘In as far as men and women can ever be friends.’
He laughed.
She smiled up at him, her smooth practised smile that held just the hint of seduction.
‘Are you enjoying the ball?’
‘Indeed. It is a sumptuous affair, your Grace.’
‘My name is Anthony, Venetia. I would that you used it.’
She smiled again, as if in agreement, but she did not use his given name. ‘Lord Fallingham has gone to much expense.’
‘It is nothing compared to the ball I will give for you.’
‘We have been through all of this before.’
‘Indulge me,’ he whispered.
She smiled and looked into his eyes. ‘You know that I indulge no one save myself.’
He smiled. ‘You are a cruel woman, Venetia.’
‘But an honest one.’
He laughed again. ‘Come place your hand within my arm and let us take a small promenade around the room.’
Despite the antipathy she felt towards Hawick and his arrogance, she tucked her hand into his elbow and let him lead her round the edge of the ballroom. She was confident in her ability to remain in control, but when they got to the small exhibition room in which Fallingham had his collection of antiquities, Hawick made a quick unexpected move and, before she realised what was happening, he had steered her into the exhibition room.
‘Your Grace! I must protest.’ Venetia had spent a lifetime avoiding situations such as this. She knew that flirting with men in the safety of a crowd was one thing, but being alone with them in private was quite another.
Hawick was dressed more expensively than any other man or woman in the room. With his title and riches and classically handsome looks she supposed he was the epitome of what most women in her position sought. But Venetia had no intention of ever being any man’s mistress. Hell would freeze over before she would put herself in that position—selling herself to some rich man, letting him take everything of her before he grew tired and cast her aside as if she were a worthless piece of rubbish. Echoes of her childhood whispered through her mind, fuelling her determination and disgust all the more.
‘I am sure that you will agree it is far beyond the time that we spoke with a degree of privacy, Venetia.’ His eyes, so clear and blue, bored down into hers. ‘Enough of letters and notes and conducting our negotiations in public.’
The moon lit the gallery in soft silver, casting shadows before the carved marble statues, gifting them with a life they did not possess.
‘Stay here and contemplate what you will. If you will excuse me, I have other dances to dance.’
He caught her wrist as she turned to walk away, pulling her back to him. ‘Not until we have spoken together.’
She raised her eyebrow and looked pointedly at where he gripped her, before shifting her gaze to his. There was nothing of enticement now, only cool wrath.
‘Please, Venetia,’ he begged, but he did not ease the tightness of his fingers around her wrist.
‘Very well,’ she said, trying to control both her anger and the little germ of panic. ‘As you are so impolitely insistent.’
‘Let us not prevaricate any longer. You know that I want you, that I have wanted you for months. I have offered you more than any other woman and always it seems the sum is never quite enough.’
