Debra Mullins (18 page)

“You must attract his lordship’s interest and hold it long enough for him to offer,” Henrietta whispered as she walked beside Anna to the foyer.

“Yes, Mama.” Dressed in her favorite dark green riding habit, Anna gripped her riding gloves tightly in her hand. She hated playing the
marriage game. It struck her as a huge waste of her time when she had a killer to locate.

“You must converse with him. Amuse him. Time is running out, Anna.”

“I understand.” And she did. Her mother wanted her to flirt with Haverford, to seduce him into the web of matrimony with womanly guile.

Her heart wasn’t in it, but she would do her duty.

“There he is. My, how dashing he looks.”

Not as dashing as his cousin
. “Don’t fret, Mama. I know what to do.”

“Keep him away from Miss Fellhopper,” Henrietta hissed, before putting on her social smile. “Good afternoon, everyone! I hear you’re going riding.”

“We are,” Dennis said. “How are you this morning, Mrs. Rosewood?”

“Not as excited as my Anna. I don’t ride well, though my daughter has an excellent seat.”

“It should be great fun,” Charlotte chimed in.

“A good gallop always clears my head,” Haverford said, smiling at Charlotte.

Henrietta nudged Anna. Rolling her eyes, Anna swept up to the earl and laid a hand on his arm. “I do apologize for holding up the party,” she murmured.

“Nonsense.” Haverford patted her hand. “We are all here now.”

“I trust you will pick out a suitable mount for me, my lord.”

Haverford smiled. “I already have the perfect mare in mind for you.”

“I’m sure she will suit quite well.” Anna kept the smile on her face, though she detested playing the vapid society miss. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother give a slight nod, a pleased smile curving her lips.

“Your comfort is my priority,” Haverford assured her, then sent a warm look to Charlotte. “As is yours, Miss Fellhopper. I take care of my guests.”

Charlotte giggled. With effort, Anna kept her mouth fixed in a smile. “I am eager to see your estate, Lord Haverford. Especially the sheep.”

The earl beamed. “It will be my pleasure to show them to you.” Keeping Anna’s hand on his arm, he led the group toward the front door.

“Have you had any trouble with the spring lambs, my lord?” Charlotte asked.

“Not at all,” the earl replied, then launched into a detailed discussion of the trials of lambing.

Casting a glance back at her beaming mother, Anna made a mental note to learn more about sheep in the coming months. Apparently, she would need it if she were ever to have a conversation with her future husband.

Rome stepped into the darkness of his rooms. He’d drawn the drapes that morning, and the place looked like a tomb. Numb, he went to the window and pulled aside one of the curtains.

The descending sun hung over London, lighting the sky in shades of orange and yellow and bright, bloody crimson.

Peter was dead.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that wanted to come. His jaw trembled with the effort, but finally he won the battle and pushed the emotion back into a small, safe place in his mind.

There would be time for that later.

For the moment, he still had his duty. He had failed in his promise to Richard, had failed to keep Peter alive. But how? He’d been so careful, had planned every step meticulously. And still the society had found Peter—had found him and murdered him.

He’d failed Peter. But he would
not
fail in bringing Peter’s murderers to justice.

He clenched his fingers into the material of the curtain as the grief struggled to rise up again. Had he the luxury, he would indulge in the cleansing emotional breakdown over a bottle of strong whiskey. But if he were to punish the Black Rose Society for their crimes, he needed to be clearheaded and focused.

He had allowed himself one drink to control his emotions after the discovery of Peter’s body. Now he needed to think like the soldier he was and track down the murderous dogs who had so callously slain a barely grown youth.

He changed his clothes, requiring something
more casual than a morning coat for ease of movement. He settled on his favorite riding coat, then went to his trunk and took out his pistol, his derringer, and a wickedly sharp knife. These he concealed on his person.

A familiar, cold detachment settled over him as he armed himself. He’d watched comrades fall in battle, and he’d grieved even as he’d continued to fight. But this was different.

The Black Rose Society took advantage of youth, exploited it, then cut it down without a hint of remorse. They were a different sort of enemy from the foreign armies he’d fought in the past. They were vermin, a disease that had spread for far too long. They had no honor, no principles.

Therefore, neither would he.

He slipped a pouch with all his available funds into his pocket. Before the night was through, he might indeed have to flee the country. The authorities took a dim view of killing, even if done for the right reasons.

Once he was ready, he stood for a moment, taking in the modest comfort of his home and making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

Then he turned and left his rooms, shutting the door behind him without looking back.

It was time to find Edgar Vaughn.

H
er mother would have considered the riding outing a disaster.

Anna sat before her dressing mirror as Lizzie arranged her hair. She had tried her best to attract the earl, but their conversations had stumbled along awkwardly. Lord Haverford was a serious man, not one skilled in the art of flirtation.

Not like Rome.

Her heart clenched at just the thought of him. She closed her eyes for an instant, searching for strength, then opened them again and met her own gaze in the mirror.

She had shadows beneath her eyes. The dark smudges gave testament to restless nights, the dreams that had plagued her when she had managed to find a rare few moments of slumber. Most
nights, she lay awake for hours, thoughts spinning through her mind like autumn leaves in the wind.

She missed Rome.

It was wrong. She was promised to another man and had no right to such traitorous longings. But her heart would not listen; it yearned for the man who could make her blood sing with a touch.

She had tried to flirt with Lord Haverford today, but a simple pleasure that came so easily with Rome had proven a chore with the earl. Her gaiety had been forced, and she hated loitering in the country while her mission stagnated back in Town.

Rome had once called her clever.

Lord Haverford had seemed much more interested in the Fellhoppers and their talk of sheep than her attempts to amuse him. How was a woman to enchant a man whose only interest was the wool market? He had not been rude about it; in fact, he had tried to include her in the conversation. But she was an admiral’s daughter, not a farmer’s. His entire discussion on shearing had lost her almost from the beginning.

Was this her future then? To listen to dissertations on sheep farming for the rest of her days? Would he talk of the dratted beasts even in their marriage bed?

Every moment with Rome had left her feeling vibrant and alive, sizzling with passionate emotions and new ideas. With Haverford, her brain had gone numb with talk of sheep and farming. His gentlemanly touches—helping her to mount
and dismount, touching the hand she rested on his arm—left her unmoved.

Her future loomed before her, predictable and safe. The earl’s money and title would grant her a life of comfort in exchange for the heirs she would bear, but would she suffocate wrapped in such luxury?

She loved Rome. Passionately. Unreasonably. His very presence made her skin tingle and the blood rush through her veins in merry ecstasy.

But Haverford was her future. A good man. A wealthy man. They would probably rub along tolerably well for the most part, but would that lead to love?

Or would she go to her grave with only the distant memory of real love to comfort her?

She was doing the right thing. But even as she tried to convince herself, her eyes welled with tears. Her looking glass reflected every emotion as her face crumpled, and the illusion of strength dissolved. She caught a brief glimpse of Lizzie’s expression of alarm, then rested her head on her folded arms and cried out the sorrow she had carried with her since the day she had bid her love farewell on the steps of Lavinia’s home.

Lizzie patted her shoulder, making soothing noises, as Anna wept, the loss of her romantic dreams more than she could bear.

Rome arrived at the building that housed diplomatic affairs just after five o’clock. Most of
the offices were closed up and dark, but light shone from Vaughn’s office, and the door stood open. The stalwart Pennyworthy was nowhere to be seen.

Vaughn himself sat bent over his desk, carefully scrutinizing a stack of papers in front of him. Rome slipped into the room, then closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Vaughn’s head came up in alarm. “Devereaux! What the devil are you doing here at this hour?”

“I couldn’t wait until Wednesday for our appointment.” Rome took a chair across from the desk. “Let’s talk now instead.”

Vaughn’s eyes narrowed. “What are you about, Devereaux? Are you foxed?”

Rome gave a short bark of laughter. “Hardly, though the notion holds a certain appeal, I must admit.”

“I don’t have time for cryptic discussions, my boy. I have quite a bit of work to do. You can see yourself out.”

“I think you can make time for this conversation, Vaughn. Let’s talk about the Black Rose Society.”

“Ah.” Abandoning his papers, Vaughn sat back in his chair, a cool smile curving his lips. “I wondered if you had recognized the ring that day.”

“Oh, I recognized it.” Rome stretched his legs out before him in a casual pose, knowing he could leap to his feet at a second’s notice.

“You know what it is, what it means.”

“I do. I just want to hear it from your lips.”

Vaughn cocked his head to the side. “Just what is this about, Devereaux? Why do you come to me now when you saw the ring days ago?”

“I have my reasons.”

Vaughn sighed and rose from his chair. Rome tensed, but the man only prowled from behind his desk, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Lad, we’re not going to get anywhere with these mysterious answers of yours.”

“I came here to question you, Vaughn, not the other way around.”

“We’ll see about that.” He’d always known Vaughn looked older than his years, and the diplomat proved it by yanking a sword from the wall and falling into a fighting stance in the blink of an eye.

Expecting such a movement, Rome drew his pistol at the same time.

Vaughn glanced down at the pistol pointed at him. “Not very sporting of you, Devereaux.”

“This isn’t about sport.” Rome rose, keeping the weapon trained on the other man. “This is about death. And you will answer my questions.”

“I see all that I heard about you is true,” Vaughn said, with a bark of laughter.

“The Black Rose Society,” Rome began. “What—”

Vaughn’s leg came up. Numbing pain shot up Rome’s arm as the kick connected with his wrist. The pistol flew out of his hand and hit the floor, skidding across the room.

“Yes, let’s do talk about the Black Rose Society.” Vaughn pointed the sword at Rome’s throat. “I’ve been watching you, Devereaux. Waiting for this moment.”

“And here it is. You must be pleased.”

Vaughn’s eyes narrowed. “’Tis I who will ask the questions, my boy, and you will answer them.”

“As you wish.” Quick as a blink, Rome swept a heavy book from the desk. The resounding thud broke Vaughn’s concentration for only a moment, but it was all Rome needed. He darted away from the sword and grabbed its mate from the wall.

Vaughn’s expression of shock melted into one of pleased challenge. He saluted Rome with his blade. Rome did the same, and both men eased gracefully into fighting stance.

The battle began with the first tentative scraping of metal on metal, each of them exploring the other’s skill. Swish, scrape. Swish, scrape.

Vaughn thrust unexpectedly. Rome parried. They stood frozen there for a moment, eyes locked as fiercely as their weapons. Then Vaughn slowly smiled. Rome gave a nod, and the duel exploded.

Vaughn attacked. Rome countered a wicked slash, and the vibration of sword meeting sword traveled up his arm. He tightened his grip and came back at his opponent, forcing the older man backwards with a thrust.

Vaughn dodged the blade, then came back with rapid swordplay that demanded all of Rome’s
concentration. They moved around the room in the intricate dance of combat, nearly equal in their skill, fiercely matched, blades glittering in the candlelight.

“They taught you well,” Vaughn admitted, sweat beading his brow.

“The battlefield taught me.” Rome drove Vaughn back a step.

“I can claim the same.” Vaughn pressed onward again with a surge of strength.

Rome parried the attack. “Death is more than you deserve.”

“I welcome death, if it means I take you with me.” Vaughn pushed forward, his blade lightning fast.

“Haven’t you sent enough men to meet their maker?” Rome panted.

“More than you, I’d imagine.” Red-faced with exertion, the older man still fought with surprising vigor.

“Bastard.” Grim-faced, Rome stepped up his pace.

“I cede that title to you.” Vaughn twisted in an unexpected maneuver that wedged them together, face-to-face, blades locked at the hilt. “Only the most vile of villains could murder a boy like Peter Brantley.”

“I agree.” Rome shoved against Vaughn, but the other man spun and locked their weapons together again. Rome leaned in, putting pressure on
the other man’s grip. “And I will avenge his death with your own, old man.”

Vaughn blinked. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Peter Brantley. You murdered him.”

“I didn’t.” Puzzlement etched his face. “You did.”

“What game is this?” Furious, Rome shoved the other man away.

“No game.” Vaughn held up his hand when Rome would have charged forward. “Hold a moment. I thought you killed Brantley.”

“No, you did. Or someone else in your Black Rose Society.” Rome leaned into fighting stance again. “Now let’s finish this.”

“My society? Hardly.” Vaughn lowered his sword. “I am not a member.”

“You have the ring.”

“I do. I removed it from a member of the society that we captured some time ago.”

“Lies. Raise your sword, coward.”

“I’ll forgive you that because I believe you to be grieving. Devereaux, I was under the impression that
you
were a member of the society.”

“Me?” Completely startled, Rome carefully rose from his stance. “You’re the villain here.”

“No, I’m investigating the villains.”

“So am I.”

The two men faced each other across the oriental carpet, wary.

“Does this mean,” Vaughn finally asked, “that we are fighting on the same side?”

“Unless you’re lying.”

Vaughn shook his head and threw down his sword. “There is my weapon. I can show you the notes I have kept of my investigation to prove the truth to you.”

“I might be lying, in which case you’re foolish for discarding your weapon.”

Vaughn simply pinned him with a look. “Are you lying?”

“No.”

“Then we will simply have to trust each other.”

“That could prove hazardous.”

“My instincts tell me you are on the side of right, Devereaux.” Vaughn stepped backwards toward his desk, keeping his eyes on Rome. “I just can’t fathom how you became involved. Was it Brantley?”

Rome nodded, grief and confusion clogging his throat. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“I will.” Vaughn moved behind his desk and removed a thick set of papers from a drawer. “I have friends in the Home Department, and one of them asked for my assistance in this matter due to my years of experience and fascination with swords.” His expression grew stony. “I have seen too much of death to allow these miscreants to murder our bright youth.”

Rome said nothing, merely stepped forward
and glanced at the papers. Names, dates. Going back over a year.

Rome remained silent, the memory of Peter’s lifeless eyes still too fresh. He raised his gaze to Vaughn’s. “Tell me about the ring.”

“We had an informant for a brief time, a boy who wanted to leave the society. One night he got word to us that a duel was about to occur, and I took a team of men to stop it. Everyone got away but one man.”

“Whom you interrogated, I assume.”

Vaughn nodded, then sighed. “He refused to talk. He wore that ring, so we believe he was a high-ranking member of the society.”

“The Triad.”

Vaughn raised his brows. “Yes.”

Rome turned away, sword at his side now. “What happened to him?”

“He managed to hang himself, the cur. Gone without ever telling us a word.” Vaughn shuffled the papers. “I suppose Brantley involved you.”

Rome gave a stiff nod. “I made a deathbed promise to his brother on the battlefield.”

“We thought you were a member. You attended a dinner party at Vauxhall Gardens not long ago.”

Again Rome nodded. “You had men there?”

“One. They discovered him quickly.” His mouth thinned. “And murdered him.”

“I’m sorry.”

Vaughn accepted the sympathy with a bob of
his head. “You walked out of that party with no mask, so we were able to identify you.”

“And thought I was one of them. I would have done the same.” Rome leaned the sword against the desk.

“Your name and the rumor of the lost note were the only trail we had to follow.”

“Lost note?”

“It was the talk of the party. I’m surprised you didn’t hear of it. It went missing about a year ago.” Vaughn gave a hard little laugh. “The precious Triad was mad to find it. It was a trail, you see. Evidence that they existed. They would kill to get it back.”

Even the breath in his lungs stilled. “Does it contain the symbol of the society?”

“Yes, it matches the rings the members wear. Apparently, when someone received the symbol in the post, he was supposed to report to a predestined meeting place to be taken to the duel.”

Anna
.

That day on Lavinia’s steps replayed in his mind like some horrible nightmare. Anna possessed the missing note, a scrap of paper the society would kill to recover. Her life was in danger, and she had no idea.

Vaughn peered at him, brows beetled in concern. “Devereaux? Are you all right?”

“Fine.” He studied Vaughn’s face, torn. He’d admired Edgar Vaughn all his adult life—until he’d suspected him of belonging to the Black
Rose Society. Even with all of Vaughn’s research laid out before him, he remained unsure of the diplomat’s allegiance. Was he indeed an ally? Or was he a clever foe trying to mislead Rome with cunning words and believable details?

Did he dare confide in Vaughn? Or would he be knotting the noose around Anna’s neck by doing so?

Her life was too precious to be wagered on a guess.

“What is it?” Vaughn asked, studying Rome’s face with narrowed eyes. “Come, Devereaux, we must work together if we are to put an end to the society.”

Time was running out. “I know who has the note”

Vaughn’s face lit with interest. “Tell me.”

“I believe it’s at Haverford Park.” Rome crossed the room and picked up his fallen pistol, then tucked it safely away.