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A polite way of saying that he had a reputation for wallowing in the dregs of London society? A fair enough assessment, he supposed. He took a long drink from his glass before answering. “Which particular interest are you speaking of, Wycliffe?”
The man glanced over his shoulder, ostensibly to make certain they were not being overheard. “The religious underworld, so to speak.”
Andrew blinked. What interest could the Home Office have in religion—underworld or otherwise? His doubt must have shown, because Wycliffe leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“Black Sabbaths, witches’ Sabbaths, covens, satanic rituals. That sort of thing.”
“They are absolute hogwash. Frivolity. Grown men looking for an excuse to behave like naughty lads.”
“Grown men who have gone too far.” Wycliffe cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps men in your stratum, Hunter. Men with a nasty streak.”
He recalled last night. Lapping wine from Lady Elwood’s navel could be considered by some to be naughty, even nasty, but why would the Home Office care about that? “Gone how far?”
“You may as well be warned, Drew. Rape. Ritual sacrifice. That sort of thing.”
Andrew grimaced. Nasty, indeed.
Wycliffe reached into his jacket and brought forth a small scrap of paper. He unfolded it and passed it to Andrew. “Have you ever seen this before, Hunter?”
Crudely drawn, the figure appeared to be an inverted triangle. On the paper below that was sketched a crude dragon—a wyvern, if he recalled his mythology correctly. “You associate these patterns with dark religions?” he asked.
“We haven’t a single notion what they suggest. This is new to us, and completely unprecedented.”
“Where did you find it? And why is the Home Office involved?”
“The triangle was carved into a young woman’s forehead some weeks ago. The flesh had been removed and we did not find it. The dragon had been painted in blood on her lower belly. Her blood. She’d been raped, beaten and left for dead.”
“Human sacrifice, then?” A freezing cold invaded him clear to the bone. Wycliffe was right. This had gone too far. He’d seen savagery like this in the war, but never in London. Civilized London.
“There were other, ah, indications that she’d been used as a ritual sacrifice. We found puncture wounds on her wrists, as if her blood had been drained into some sort of vessel. Yet the girl survived for several hours afterward and expired of her wounds at hospital.”
“Who was the girl? Is there anything in her background that would give you a lead?”
Wycliffe shook his head. “Fresh into town for the season and had never been here before. Good family. And the evidence would indicate that she’d been virgin before the ritual. According to her family, she had no acquaintances.”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Keep your eyes and ears open. Say nothing, not even to your friends. We cannot have the public in a panic over ritualistic murders. You see, this was not the first body we’ve found with such markings.”
Andrew refrained from asking just how many bodies they’d found. All that mattered now was that, if the killer was not stopped, there would be more. “What do you want me to do?”
“Keep your nose to the ground, Hunter. Eventually you will catch wind of the stench.” Wycliffe paused and met Andrew’s gaze. “Do not take it upon yourself to handle this on your own. If you hear anything, see anything, bring it to me.”
He nodded, thinking of a few of his acquaintances who were capable of such monstrous acts. There were some who, quite literally, knew no boundaries. But this went beyond anything Andrew had ever done, and he could not say that about much.
Wycliffe stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew you would not turn me down, Hunter. And I know I can trust your discretion.”
The outcome had never been in doubt. He would always agree to anything Wycliffe asked of him. His guilt over the events in Spain would see to that. He nodded and put his glass down.
At least this would give him another interest this season. Another break from the tedium. Meantime, Lace was waiting.
* * *
Bella found herself in a small sitting room and spun to close the door behind her. Alas, Mr. McPherson had followed her. He must have thought she was summoning him by their shared glance in the ballroom. She would correct that notion at once.
She put one hand up, palm outward. “Heavens, Mr. McPherson! You should not be here.”
He advanced on her, despite her words. “I have not thought of anything but you since last night. You have enchanted me, and—”
“You have misunderstood me, sir.”
“Canny little minx! I want more, and I’m willing to pay for it. Willing, in fact, to set you up in your own place. Name it, and ’tis yours.”
He stepped closer. She stepped back, her hand still in front of her. “I have heard it said, sir, that one will know their true love by his kiss. I am simply trying to find…the right man. I regret, Mr. McPherson, you are not the right man.”
“Come now. Give me another chance. Was I not commanding enough?”
“Sir, that is not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“That I did not feel that you were, ah, the man I am looking for.”
“Balderdash! That’s a bunch of feminine nonsense!” McPherson closed the distance between them and jerked her against his chest.
“Stop!” she squeaked as one of her hands became caught between them.
On the contrary, Mr. McPherson crushed his mouth against hers in a bruising kiss. He used one arm to hold her so close against him that she could not gain leverage for her trapped hand to wedge him away. His other hand cupped the back of her head, preventing her from turning away from his mouth.
She tried to protest, but all that came out was a muffled, “Mmm-ph…”
She wasn’t aware of the door opening until she heard the clearing of a throat. She staggered backward and caught her hip on the corner of a chair when Mr. McPherson released her.
“I say, Hunter, rather bad timing of you.”
With a sinking feeling, she turned toward the door. Yes, her rescuer was the man from last night. The one who’d stolen her wits and whose kiss had been open to doubt. He was studying them both, a glass of something amber in his hand, his dark eyes judging and assessing.
“McPherson,” he acknowledged. “Should I excuse myself?”
Heavens! She could not decide if it would be safer to remain with Mr. McPherson or make her escape with Mr. Hunter. She glanced away and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She thought she tasted blood from the way Mr. McPherson’s teeth had mashed against her closed lips.
“Yes, damn it,” Mr. McPherson said. “And close the door on your way out.”
She turned back and saw that Mr. Hunter had his hand on the doorknob. He met her gaze and stopped. With a lazy smile, he dropped his hand to his side and shook his head. “Actually, McPherson, I like the quiet here. Why don’t we all sit down and have a chat?”
Mr. McPherson’s face suffused with color. He seized her wrist and pulled her toward the door.
“Leave the lady here, McPherson.”
She held her breath while the two men faced each other down. In the end, Mr. McPherson made the decision she would have. He left, slamming the door behind him.
“You are welcome,” Mr. Hunter said, the hint of a smile in his voice.
Was he pleased to see her discomfort? She chafed her wrist and refused to look at him. “Thank you,” she grumbled. “I do not know what got into him.”
“Truly?” His laugh was a low, warm rumble. “I have a few ideas, madam. Allow me to indulge them. Perhaps he did not appreciate the promise you made with your lips that you later recanted. Or perhaps you have so enchanted him that he could not help himself. Or—and this is just conjecture, you understand—perhaps he did not realize you were just making sport of him.”
“I did not intend…that is, I did not know he would follow me tonight. I did not mean to encourage him in the least.”
“For many men, once is enough.”
She rubbed her hip to still her trembling hands. “Is that why you are here, sir? To renew your offer? Will you, too, devil my every step?”
His glance dropped to her hands, then moved back up to her eyes. A flicker of emotion passed over his features, but she could not tell what he was thinking.
He came forward and pressed his glass into her hand. “Drink,” he said. “It will calm your nerves.”
He stepped away from her, as if he were uncomfortable being close. “As for me, I may devil your footsteps, but set your mind at ease—I will never force myself upon you. I have already said, have I not, that I will wait for your answer?”
She frowned. What an odd blend of concern and anger he possessed, that he could both assist and insult her in the same moment. And she did not care for the touch of antagonism in his voice. “You confuse me, Mr. Hunter. One moment you are pursuing me most ardently, and the next you sound as if you do not even like me. You have taken great care to warn me against you. Is this sport? Are you trying to make your conquest of me more difficult, so the winning will be sweeter?” She lifted his glass, took a swallow and winced as the whiskey stung a little cut on the inside of her lip.
“I think you drink that whiskey a wee bit too eagerly for a lady. Do you have a drinking problem, madam?”
“Not yet, Mr. Hunter, but I am working on it.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I daresay you will get there. You appear to be deucedly determined. But I should warn you that a drunken woman loses her attraction.”
She looked up and studied the handsome face. No. Whatever concern he might have had for her was gone. Now there was just a challenge. “What would I have to do to make you go away, sir?”
“Come clean. Tell me what you are about. Or say, ‘Yes, Mr. Hunter, I will be delighted to take you to my bed.’”
Bella was discomfited to learn that she could still blush—if the heat in her cheeks was any indication. She covered it with an extra measure of defiance. “Then would you go away? Truly?”
But he only shrugged—not that she would have told him the truth anyway. “Money, then?” she asked. “If I paid you, would you go away?”
He looked surprised, then a little insulted. “This is a first for me. How droll. No one has ever attempted to buy me off before.”
“Really? Your company is so tedious that I would have thought you could make a rather nice living from it.”
He took his glass from her and raised it as he gave her a crooked grin. “It would seem you’ve taken my measure, madam.”
Heavens! Was there no discouraging the man? She sighed and started to push past him on her way to the door. He caught her arm when she was beside him and leaned sideways to whisper in her ear. “Have a care, Lace. I may not always be around to save you, and the way you are heading, you are going to need saving.”
Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes and she blinked them back quickly. “What business is it of yours what I do? Do you devil everyone you dislike? Everyone who has ever done something of which you do not approve?”
He gave her that slow smile again. “Did I say that I dislike you, Lady Lace? I do not recall that. On the contrary, it is my devotion to you that will keep me at your heels.”
Chapter Three
Drew’s hand tightened around his glass as he watched Lady Lace wind through the crowds when she returned to the ballroom. He wished he could call her graceless or gauche, but she held her own with a quiet dignity that belied her apparent purpose—to kiss every eligible male in society. He eased his grip on the glass before he could break the stem, but his stomach began to tighten.
How many times had he pitied men who’d fallen victim to Cupid’s arrow? Who followed their ladylove’s every move and sigh? God save him that indignity. Lace was a slow burn in his blood, and as soon as he satisfied his need, he would be himself again. And now, to make matters worse, he’d have to find McPherson and make amends. He’d be damned if he’d lose a friend over a skirt.
“My! Such a dark look, Hunter.”
He turned and found Viscount Bryon Daschel and Percy Throckmorton standing behind him. “Then my look matches my thoughts.”
Daschel, whose good looks accounted for his nickname, “Dash,” followed the line of his gaze and nodded. “Ah, yes. Lady Lace. Quite the comer, that one.”
“You do not seriously believe she will be a force in society?”
“Male society, at least.” Daschel grinned. Throckmorton sniggered and nudged him.
For some unaccountable reason, Drew wanted to put his fist down Daschel’s throat. Lace was his new obsession, and his interest had become proprietary. He took a deep breath and assumed a look of unconcern. “She is trouble, Dash. You’d do well to stay away from her.”
“No doubt.” Daschel gave him a rakish grin. “But when has that ever stopped me? And why do I have the feeling that you intend to disregard your own advice?”
“You know me, Dash. As a…connoisseur of beautiful women, I am immune to her charms. My interest in the woman is…shall we say, more cerebral.”
Daschel laughed. “And here I was thinking it was located in another region entirely.”
Again Throckmorton sniggered. “I say, Hunter, we all ought to have a go at her. Only fair, wouldn’t you think?”
“No. I wouldn’t.” In fact, if Throckmorton wanted to have a go at Lace, he’d have to “go” through Drew.
“Come, now. Let’s not quarrel,” Daschel soothed. “Let Hunter indulge his fascination.’ Tisn’t as if the chit is in danger of losing her reputation, is it? That, I gather, is too far gone for retrieval, though I haven’t spoken to anyone who has made her a conquest yet. Give Hunter a chance to break her in for the rest of us, eh? I warrant he’ll do as good a job of it as he always does.”
Break her in? Lace might be unfettered, but he was beginning to suspect she was not quite a tart. There’d be no profit in debating the fine points with Daschel and Throckmorton, however. He decided a change of subject was the safest course of action. “Did you come to discuss the woman in question, or did you have other business with me?”
“Thought you might like to come along on a jaunt tonight,” Daschel said.
Jaunt. That was the word Daschel always used for an excursion into the opium dens near the wharves. Last year, when Drew had been searching for a solution to his ennui, and for a way to feel anything at all, he’d spent a considerable amount of time and money as a lotus eater. The only thing he’d gained was the knowledge that he did not like being in a helpless state and at the mercy of others.
“Thank you, but no, Dash. Not for me.”
“Last year—”
“Was last year. This year I prefer a different poison.”
“Do tell.”
Drew lifted his glass with a self-mocking smile. “Mundane, perhaps, but steadier. Easier to control.”
Daschel nodded. “As you will. But you must come with us tomorrow. Throckmorton has arranged a private tour of Bedlam. Should be quite amusing.”
“Amusing?” Drew doubted observing the unfortunate inmates of an asylum could provide entertainment. He shrugged. “Perhaps. Where and when?”
“Outside the entrance at midnight. Bring your ready. There’s bound to be wagering.”
