Debra Mullins (13 page)

“He returned from Leicestershire just today,” Rome said. “I imagine he will call on you soon.”

“Mama will be relieved.”

“Are you?” Even as he said the words, he wanted to call them back.

“I must return to my mother,” she said quickly, ignoring the question.

He noted the tremble in her voice. “Yes, I suppose you must. I will contact you when I have information to relay.”

“I want to talk to your friend.”

“I cannot allow that.”

She arched her brows in haughty command. “I suggest you reconsider.”

“And I suggest you return to your mama before she calls Bow Street.”

“Very well, but I have not given up.”

“Neither have I.”

She threw him a look of exasperation before she swept past him to return to the front of the library.

He stayed where he was a few moments longer, both to prevent gossip and to give his body the chance to settle down. Another few minutes, and he might have taken her right there on top of— what was it? He glanced at the book on the table.
Philosophers of Ancient Greece
.

He traced the embossed letters of the title, reliving the past few minutes in his mind. His heart had melted at the tears in her eyes, and he’d wanted nothing more than to console her. But taking her in his arms, even in comfort, was not his right. Better to focus on the mystery and treat her as a colleague.

But no colleague of his had ever smelled of attar of roses.

Damn, damn, damn! He slapped his hand against the book, struggling to push aside the vision of her big dark eyes and seductive mouth. The woman tied him in knots. His hunger for her grew every time he saw her, and though she had directed him to forget the incident at Vauxhall, he could not.

But neither could he afford to forget that she belonged to Haverford.

The Black Rose Society deserved his full attention, women be damned. The best course of action was to continue the investigation and forget about Anna Rosewood except in the most peripheral sense.

The sooner Haverford offered for her, the safer they would all be.

Anna shut the door to her bedroom and leaned back against it, sagging with relief at finally being alone.

She had returned home from the lending library without a single book to justify her visit.
Her mother had fussed about Robert Chambers’s death the entire way home, and her constant reminders of the tragedy only served to keep Anna’s already precarious emotions on edge. Claiming distress over the incident, Anna had escaped to her room upon their return, waving aside her mother’s suggestions for comfort.

All she wanted now was silence to calm the chaos within her.

She took a deep breath and let it out, then moved away from the door with the slow steps of an elderly woman. Her entire body ached as if she’d been run over by a carriage, but the bruising existed on the inside, not the outside. The events of today had pummeled her like the physical blows of Fate.

Robert Chambers, dead.

Rome, still a nearly irresistible temptation.

She sank down on the chair before her vanity mirror. Death and desire, all in one day. And of the two, desire grabbed her by the throat and shook her until she could barely breathe.

How could she possibly be so attracted to a man who might be using her?

Because she was an imprudent, bedazzled country mouse. The man was handsome, certainly, and charming, and sophisticated beyond anyone else of her acquaintance. She wanted to believe him when he claimed that he wasn’t a member of the society, that he was trying to help a friend. But who was this friend? Where was he? Did he even exist?

Despite the doubts, her body longed for his touch.

Wicked, wicked girl. One evening in his embrace, and you can think of nothing else! What about Anthony? What about poor Robert? Men are dying, and all you can think about is the sinful pleasure to be found in the arms of a man you cannot have!

She looked at her reflection. The young woman in the mirror appeared to be a true English lady, gently bred and proper in every way, but inside a hunger roared that shocked even her. That night at Vauxhall, she had gotten a brief glimpse of heaven, and every time Rome Devereaux came near her, she could think of nothing else.

He’d called her clever. “Foolish” would be a better word. Shameless, even. Her parents had secured her an excellent future with Haverford, and she couldn’t seem to dredge up the fortitude to forgo the joy of Rome’s attentions in order to preserve it.

She wished things had remained simple. She wished she had never heard of the Black Rose Society, that she had never gone to Vauxhall that night.

That Anthony was still alive.

She touched her locket, shoulders slumping as grief pressed down on her. How many more young men would die? How many would she know personally? And would she be able to stop it?

Her actions to uncover the mystery of the society certainly put her relationship with Haverford
in jeopardy, especially with the added complication of Rome. But ceasing the investigation now was not an option. She would simply hope that Rome was telling her the truth, that he would indeed help her. As a man, he could go places she could not. Once he brought his findings to her, they could combine forces to unlock the puzzle.

And such an arrangement would assure that they remained separated for extended amounts of time, leaving her to do her duty by Haverford. There would be no chance for unexpected encounters.

She had risen above her parents’ patronizing disbelief in her theories about Anthony’s death. She had managed to conquer her grief and do what needed to be done. Now she simply must gather the strength to resist the seductive lure of Rome Devereaux long enough to accomplish her goal.

She met her own eyes in the mirror. She had always accomplished every task she set out to do.

Resisting Rome Devereaux’s rakish charm would be no different.

Rome returned to his rooms, his feet dragging as if bound in iron. He had thought that staying away from Anna would soothe the ache in his heart, but today’s encounter had proven him completely wrong. The attraction hadn’t dimmed a whit; if anything, it had only grown stronger in the short time he hadn’t seen her. He couldn’t for
get her taste or the feel of her in his arms. Curse him for a fool, but he wanted her even though she belonged to another man.

The best thing to do was to stick to their new bargain. Her notes had proven invaluable, and he was starting to get a good picture of the Black Rose Society by using them as the basis for his own investigation. He would have to share some of his findings with her, he decided, stopping before the door to his rooms. Certainly not everything, but definitely enough that she felt he was keeping her involved.

He would keep her safe, no matter what.

The matter of Edgar Vaughn, for instance. How could a man so steeped in honor and tradition turn colors so quickly? His second appointment with Vaughn was scheduled for tomorrow, and he would use that time to discover what he could about Vaughn’s connection to the society.

He entered his rooms. She had been right earlier when she’d said the attraction between them must not be encouraged. He was not his father, to be sniffing after another man’s woman. The first time had been an accident; he hadn’t known her true identity. Anything after that, however, he could not excuse.

He slammed the door, both the physical one to his rooms and the mental one marked “Anna Rosewood.”

A movement in the darkness claimed his attention. He froze, already formulating how to get
to the desk drawer where his pistol lay. “Who’s there?”

“It is I. Peter.”

His tense muscles relaxed. “Peter, what are you doing sitting here in the dark?” He moved to the table to light the lamp.

“I need your help, Roman.”

Hearing the tremble in the boy’s voice, Rome quickly lit the lamp and turned to look at him. “Dear God, Peter, what happened?”

His clothes stained and dirty, his hair uncombed, Peter watched him with the eyes of a condemned man. “I don’t know what to do.”

“About what?” As Rome came closer, the stench of the lad hit him like a board in the face. “Bloody hell, boy! What the devil have you been about?”

“I haven’t been home.” He swiped a hand over his unshaven cheeks. “Apparently I spent the night asleep on the table in a taproom.”

“Or inside a wine bottle.”

“Roman, please.” He spread shaking hands in supplication. “I need help. I don’t know what to do.”

“Just tell me what the problem is.”

Peter gazed at him with torment in his bloodshot eyes. “I killed a man last night.”

“W
hat did you say?”

“I killed a man. Oh, God.” Peter stumbled back a step, fell back into his seat. His pale face resembled a Greek mask, eyes huge and dark with the shock of truth. “I didn’t want to. It was supposed to be a game.”

Cold to his bones, Rome sank down on the edge of a chair. “Tell me what happened.”

“I didn’t expect it. I thought it was a game.”

“Peter!”

The young man flinched. “Sorry. Sorry. What was the question?”

Rome jerked to his feet and went to his brandy decanter. “What happened?”

“I got called.”

“Called? By the society?” Sloshing a healthy
amount into a glass, Rome turned back to Peter and pressed the drink into his lax fingers.

The boy wrapped both hands around the goblet, as if he didn’t trust his own grip. “Yes. I got called.” He lifted the glass to his lips, teeth chattering against the rim as he managed a swallow.

“You probably don’t need any more alcohol,” Rome said, folding his arms, “but it will steady you long enough to tell me the way of it.”

Peter licked drops of brandy from his lips and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“You’re not the only man who’s come to me after his first killing,” Rome said quietly. “It’s quite common on the battlefield.”

“Richard told me,” Peter agreed. Then his face crumpled. “I wish he were here. I wish he could tell me what to do.”

“Easy, soldier.” Rome squeezed his shoulder once, then guided the glass back to his lips. “I’m here in his stead. Remember, he asked me to guide you since he couldn’t be here to do it himself.”

The boy nodded, one tear escaping his welling eyes as he took another sniffling sip of the brandy. He lowered the glass and swiped a hand across his cheek to obliterate the telltale track of moisture. “What was I saying?”

“You got called by the society.”

“Yes. My first match.” He gave a hollow laugh. “I was excited. Yes, yes, I know. I was supposed to tell you when I got called. You didn’t trust the society.” He laughed again, higher pitched and
tinged with hysteria. “You were right. Damn it, Roman, you were right.”

Rome sighed. “I wish I hadn’t been.”

“The note with the symbol arrived in the post three days before the match.”

“With directions to the duel, I assume.”

“Actually, no. When you receive the note with the symbol, you are to go to the agreed-upon place and wait for further instructions.”

“What place is that?”

“A posting house just outside London. They told me when I joined the society that when I received the symbol, I was to go there and wait for contact.”

“And since there are no words on the note you receive, they do not betray themselves. Which posting house was it?”

“The Vernon Crossing Inn.”

“Do you still have the note?”

“No.” At Rome’s exasperated look, the boy straightened defensively. “We have to bring it with us! It’s part of the instructions.”

“Convenient.”

Peter let out a weary sigh. “I heard that someone lost his letter once, and there was a big fuss about the secrecy of the society being compromised. So now we all have to bring them.”

“Fine. So you received a letter with a symbol that meant you were to go to the Vernon Crossing Inn. I assume the duel was not at the posting house.”

“No, one of the Triad picked me up in a carriage.”

Rome nodded. “Clever. I take it the carriage took you to the site of the match.”

Peter nodded. “He blindfolded me before we left so I wouldn’t know where we were going.”

“Clever again, curse it! They make it impossible to retrace your steps.” Rome began to pace. “Continue your story, Peter.”

“We arrived at the site—it was a clearing near some backcountry road. The other members of the Triad were there waiting for us, along with my opponent. I guess they picked him up at a different posting inn. Everyone wears masks, even the duelists.”

“So there can be no accusations at Almack’s or Bond Street or anywhere else outside the battleground,” Rome said, shaking his head at the ingenuity of it. “The secret society remains utterly secret.”

“Everything was fine at first,” Peter continued, staring down into the dregs of his drink. “It was a good duel. I drew first blood. I thought I had won.”

He fell silent and rotated the glass in his hand as if it were his only world. Then he threw back the last mouthful of liquor in one, desperate swallow.

Rome closed his eyes for a moment, knowing without hearing it what had happened next. But Peter needed to speak of it, needed to accept what he’d done. “And then?”

“And then I killed him.” His voice broke, and he sagged forward as if unable to cope with the weight of his monstrous deed. He cradled the goblet to his chest like an infant. “God save me, but I killed him.”

“Just like that?” Rome kept his voice steady, his tone practical. “You drew first blood, then you decided to kill him?”

“No!” the boy gasped. He sat up, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that!”

“So what happened then?”

“The Triad. They said it wasn’t over, that we would fight to the death.”

“Ah.” Rome nodded, unsurprised.

“I refused! Roman, I swear by all that’s holy, I refused!”

“And your opponent?”

“He didn’t want to do it either, at first.” He slumped against the chair back, the empty glass nearly tipping from his fingers. “But then they said they would kill both of us if we didn’t do what they said.”

“And they were three to your two.”

“Plus the two carriage drivers. They had pistols.”

“Five to two, then.”

“Five to two,” Peter agreed. “The other fellow, he started at me like a madman. Guess he was afraid.” He frowned, as if working the situation out in his mind. “Nothing I said would stop him. I had to defend myself.”

“Of course you did. You were outnumbered, and you were being attacked.”

“We fought, but in the end I killed him.” He shook his head and placed his empty glass on the table. “I keep saying it, but it seems too fantastic to be true. I killed a man, Roman.”

“I know.”

“I stood there staring at him, bleeding on the ground. Even when they handed me the purse, I could barely believe—”

“Wait.” Rome raised a hand, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “What purse?”

“My winnings. Even with the society’s cut, I won quite a bit. But it wasn’t worth it. I took that purse to the nearest tavern and got stone drunk.”

“You mentioned a membership fee. You never said that you were dueling for money.” Though his tone remained calm, anger clenched his gut and burned its way through his veins, boiling hotter than a blacksmith’s fire.

Someone was getting rich off the lives of unsuspecting innocents.

He longed to vent his rage, punch something, fight someone, but the lad needed comfort and direction, not a demonstration of temper. He forced his wrath beneath iron control, knowing he would pay the price later for suppressing such consuming emotion.

“It’s true that when you join the society, you have to pay a membership fee,” Peter was explaining. “But then you have to provide a stake. Every
time you fight a match, you win half your opponent’s stake. The other half goes to the society.”

“How much is this stake?”

“Mine was three hundred pounds.”

“Three hundred pounds! Good God, Peter, that’s nearly a month’s allowance!”

“Allowance,” Peter sneered. “I’m two-and-twenty—a grown man! And yet I cannot control my own fortunes until I reach the age of twenty-five. Why Richard set such a ridiculous condition, I shall never understand.”

“How can you not understand?” Rome cast him a look of disdain, fury pressing to escape the boundary of his will. “Look at the mess in which you have landed yourself. Richard was wise to set such a condition, else you would certainly have found yourself in Fleet prison by now!”

“It’s
because
of the restriction that I joined the society!” Peter jumped to his feet. “I want to control my own money, not have it doled out to me as if I were still in short pants. The society promised me a sound return on my initial investment.”

“Yes,” Rome snapped back. “And all you had to do was kill for it.”

“I didn’t know that at the time!” Peter spun away, rubbing his head. “Damn, but I’m starting to feel that brandy.”

Rome grabbed his arm and yanked him back around. “Be glad you won this time, boy,” he said, leaning in until their noses practically
touched. “Or else I’d be planning your funeral right now.”

Peter jerked away from Rome’s hold. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of that.”

“Yes, you did.” He waved an impatient hand to dismiss any further apologies. “Right now we need to decide what to do with you.”

“What do you mean?” Panic sharpened his words. “You don’t expect me to go to the magistrate?”

“And swing for a death you were forced to cause? Hardly. That would serve no purpose, especially since you have no way to prove your tale.”

“Thank God.” Peter let out a long breath.

“You’ll have to leave the country.”

“What!” he squeaked.

“There’s no other way.” Rome planted his feet and folded his arms. “You were foolish to become involved in this thing, Peter, but you must accept the facts. You killed a man. That’s a crime punishable by death.”

“Perhaps the magistrate will listen to reason.”

“I doubt it. Imagine the look on the judge’s face as you try to explain about a secret society of duelists. If they don’t hang you, they’ll cast you in Bedlam.”

“Oh, my God.” Peter sank weakly into his chair. “You’re right, I must leave. If I stay, the society will expect me to do this again.”

“True. Could you do it, Peter? Could you kill for money again?”

Revulsion flickered across his face. “No. Never.”

“Which means if you stay, you will die, for they will surely kill you if you refuse to fight to the death.”

“I have to leave England.”

“You have to leave England,” Rome agreed. “Under normal circumstances, I would insist you board the first ship out of the country, but these are not normal circumstances.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Usually duels take place in front of witnesses, forcing the victor to flee immediately if a death occurs. But this time the secret society works in our favor.”

Understanding dawned on Peter’s face. “Oh, I see. No one knows about the match except the Triad.”

“And they would hardly run to the magistrate,” Rome said with a curt nod. “Why don’t you go home and pack some belongings? Have a bag ready to go, then just go about your normal business until I contact you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Arrange passage for you so we can slip you out of England safely and secretly.”

Peter’s whole body sagged with relief. He grabbed Rome’s hand and shook it. “Thank you, Roman. You’ve arrived at the perfect answer.”

“Just be careful, Peter. The society may have spies, and if they think you are getting ready to
flee, they may try and stop you. Do nothing differently, and be ready to go at my word.”

“I will.” Peter took a deep breath and let it out again. “Thank you again, Roman. Richard could not have come up with a better arrangement.

Rome gave a tight-lipped smile. “I’m flattered. Now off with you.”

“I’ll be waiting for your signal.”

Rome rolled his eyes. “This isn’t espionage, just an escape plan.”

Peter grinned, for an instant looking like the carefree young man he used to be, then headed for the door. “I’ll still wait to hear from you.”

“Oh, Peter.”

The boy paused with his hand on the door latch. “Yes?”

“Take a bath, will you?”

Peter chuckled, then ducked out the door, shutting it behind him.

Left alone, Rome let the smile fade from his face.

The Black Rose Society had changed in his estimation from merely a dangerous group of hotheaded young bloods to a most despicable sort of organization. Clearly this was no game of strategy created by students, but a manipulative deception controlled by adults whose greed fed off the lives and fortunes of gullible young men longing for adventure.

The mere notion of it sickened him.

How many times had he witnessed this sort of
exploitation during the war? People stealing from the bodies of the dead, women abused by soldiers fevered by battle, brother betraying brother for the price of a few pounds. To find something so contemptible here, in England…

The bastards. How dared they force a green youth like Peter to murder?

Taking a life sank into a man’s heart and soul, marred it like a rotted spot on an apple. Some people were made of stern stuff, able to handle the bone-deep changes that came about after such an experience. Others could never honestly cope with such an invasion of self, and they lived day after day with misery and guilt as their constant companions.

Peter would never be the same.

That knowledge, certain and irreversible, burned like hot coals in his gut. He couldn’t turn back time for Peter and undo his heinous act. He couldn’t fight the villain who had lured the unsuspecting lad into the trap. He couldn’t change the law so that Peter could stay in England.

But he could track down the leaders of the Black Rose Society and ensure that they paid for their crimes.

And he would start with his only living lead— Edgar Vaughn.

Anna would want to know about this. She would want to be with him every step of the way to watch the society crumble.

He couldn’t allow that. Peter’s tale had convinced him that these were ruthless men who killed without mercy, and he would do everything in his power to protect her from that.

No matter what it cost him.