Demon's Bride (11 page)
Yet Bram was not entirely satisfied. “And then?”
“And then ... when Whit has nowhere to turn, he will either flee, or attempt to make a stand. At which point”—he smiled grimly at the other Hellraisers—“we will render him no longer a threat. By any means at our disposal.”
A sheet of paper awaited Anne at breakfast. On it, in Leo’s bold, masculine scrawl, was a list of names. She took her tea and rolls in the upstairs parlor rather than the cavernous dining chamber, and as she sipped from her cup, she considered the list.
All of the names she knew, some better than others. Impoverished her family might be, but their breeding was matchless, their connections impeccable. A few barbs might be lobbed in Anne’s direction, given that she had married so far beneath her rank, yet a baron’s daughter she remained. Barring any real scandal, she ought to be admitted to anyone’s home. Welcomed, even.
She picked apart a roll and reviewed the list. Leo had selected the highest-ranking members of Society, men of ancient lineage. Anne mulled over their names, sensing that something connected them, something she could not quite identify, yet lingered at the back of her mind like a distant storm. Dark clouds massing on the horizon.
But what was it? What linked the names on the list?
Anne shook her head. Again, she let fancy run rampant. Leo had revealed much this morning, giving her glimpses of a self she suspected he showed few, if any. How much of his past did his friends know? Men seldom unburdened themselves to one another, as if, like the basest pack of animals, they feared a show of vulnerability meant a challenger would disembowel them and claim dominance.
What Leo had said to her today had been spoken in trust. She could not repay that trust with suspicion. Already she knew her acceptance pleased him. Her mouth and body still resonated with the heat of his kiss.
God, if that kiss was any gauge of what she ought to expect when they finally consummated their marriage ... no wonder she battled fear. For the effects of Leo’s desire could leave her a smoldering ruin. And she might gratefully welcome the conflagration.
Cheeks burning, heat pooling low in her belly, Anne tried to compose herself with a sip of tea. Yet the liquid was too hot, and she burned her tongue. Everything, it seemed, burned her.
She spent the remainder of the morning in correspondence. As she sat at an escritoire in the opulently furnished drawing room, no noise in the chamber but for the scratching of her pen across the foolscap and the pop of the fire, Anne thought she heard a rustling, and the sound of a footstep just behind her. Startled, she dropped her pen, spattering ink across the paper.
She turned in her seat, expecting to see either Meg or one of the servants. No one. The chamber had one occupant: her.
Instinctively, she looked toward the mounted sconces, but the candles were unlit. There was nothing to extinguish.
Chiding herself, Anne sprinkled sand onto the paper in the hopes of salvaging it. The contents of her letter were not irreplaceable, but she was too used to frugal living to readily lose a sheet of foolscap. Paper was dear.
Now she could afford as much foolscap as she desired, and in her letters she would not have to cross her lines anymore as a means of using less paper.
Anne sighed. The letter was beyond repair, and her thoughts too scattered to attempt anything resembling coherent correspondence. Checking the hour, she saw that she was well within polite boundaries for paying calls. She may as well begin crossing names off Leo’s list. No sense in delaying.
Lord Newstead seemed the best candidate with which to begin. Lady Newstead was close in age to Anne, and married only a year. She and Anne might find elements of parallel over which they might form, if not friendship, then a better sense of acquaintanceship. Keeping this strategy in mind, Anne donned her hat and, with Meg in tow, stepped outside.
The sky was mottled, gray clouds streaking the cold blue sky, and an air of hushed waiting hung over the street.
“Mr. Bailey has taken the carriage.” The footman waiting in attendance by the door seemed apologetic, as if having only one carriage seemed a breach of decorum. Anne’s family had to share their carriage with two other families, which kept impromptu journeys to a minimum. “I can summon a hack for you, madam.”
It seemed a dreadful expense, when a sedan chair would suit the same purpose, but she had to remind herself that expense little mattered anymore. She glanced down the street. “I do not see any hackneys.” In truth, almost no one was out, apart from a sweep with his brushes.
“Two streets over, there’s loads of traffic. I’ll just run over. Back in a moment, madam.”
“You may have an admirer, Meg,” Anne said once the footman had run off. “He seemed most eager to show himself at an advantage.”
The maid sniffed. “As if a lady’s maid would ever hold truck with a
footman
. It takes more than a fine pair of calves to turn my head.” Yet Meg cast lingering glances in the direction which the footman had disappeared.
footman
. It takes more than a fine pair of calves to turn my head.” Yet Meg cast lingering glances in the direction which the footman had disappeared.
An icy wind spun down the street. Anne shivered.
“This weather is changeable.” Meg gazed critically toward the sky. “Shall I fetch a shawl for you, madam?”
At Anne’s nod, the maid hurried up the stairs and then into the house. Anne stood by herself, rubbing her hands on her arms. The sweep had turned the corner. No one else occupied the street. She was alone.
“Mrs. Bailey.”
Anne spun around.
Not five feet from her stood a tall, brown-haired man, his clothing fine but verging on threadbare. His brilliant blue eyes shone with intelligence, and though he never took his gaze from her, he seemed acutely aware of his surroundings, as if sensing enemies all around. At his side was a young woman of exotic origin, her skin dusky, her eyes as black as her hair. Like the man, the exotic girl had an air of wariness about her. They had the guarded manner of fugitives.
Though Anne did not recognize the girl, she knew the man by reputation alone.
Her voice came out little more than a croak. “Lord Whitney.”
Chapter 6
The street had been empty, yet Lord Whitney and his companion had just noiselessly appeared. “My ... my husband is not at home.”
“It’s
you
we want to speak with,” said the young woman. Large golden hoops hung from her ears, necklaces draped around her neck, and rings adorned her fingers. Anne had never been this close to a Gypsy in her life, though she had seen them at Bartholomew Fair doing trick riding and telling fortunes.
you
we want to speak with,” said the young woman. Large golden hoops hung from her ears, necklaces draped around her neck, and rings adorned her fingers. Anne had never been this close to a Gypsy in her life, though she had seen them at Bartholomew Fair doing trick riding and telling fortunes.
“Time is in short supply.” Lord Whitney stepped closer, and Anne took an instinctive step back.
“Time for what?”
“To warn you.”
Unease crawled up Anne’s neck. “Truly, perhaps you should return when Leo is home.”
“Leo is the one you should be afraid of.”
Anne did not like the alert tension in Lord Whitney’s stance, nor the way the Gypsy woman kept glancing around the street. Perhaps the Gypsy was ill, for her body gave off a tremendous amount of heat. Perhaps both the woman
and
Lord Whitney were both ill, for they had a kind of fever in their eyes.
and
Lord Whitney were both ill, for they had a kind of fever in their eyes.
“He has been nothing but kind to me,” Anne said.
Lord Whitney and the Gypsy exchanged speaking glances. “She doesn’t know,” said the Gypsy.
“Know what?” Anne’s anxiety gave edge to her temper. “These riddles you speak are tiresome.”
“Leo has—” Lord Whitney broke off when the front door opened.
Anne turned to see Meg standing at the top of the stairs, an Indian shawl in hand. “Madam?”
Glancing back at Lord Whitney and his companion, Anne jolted in surprise when she found no sign of them.
“Did you see them?” Anne asked when Meg came down the steps.
“I heard you speaking with someone, but when I came out, you were alone.” The maid’s forehead wrinkled in concern as she draped the shawl around Anne’s shoulders. “Are you well, madam?”
Anne pressed a hand to her forehead. Had she just imagined that entire bizarre conversation? Manufacturing Lord Whitney—a man she barely knew—and a Gypsy woman—whom she knew not at all? If she had invented that scenario, she could not understand where the details came from, nor why she would construct the person of a Gypsy out of her own imagination.
Perhaps
I’m
the one with fever.
I’m
the one with fever.
“I do not know.” She pulled the shawl close around her shoulders.
Carriage wheels rattling broke the street’s silence. The footman ran beside a hackney coach, and he smiled with ruddy-faced pride at his work when both he and the vehicle stopped in front of the house.
“The missus isn’t going to need that.” Meg deflated the footman’s satisfaction. “She’s ill, and must have rest.” Realizing her presumption, the maid turned to Anne. “That’s right, isn’t it, madam?”
Anne did not feel sick in the slightest, yet she must be, to believe she had conversed with people who were not truly there. And she had had that peculiar incident earlier in the drawing room, that sense of being watched. This morning had been a collection of eldritch moments. “Yes. I think I will lie down.”
The footman looked crestfallen as Meg led Anne up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, before going inside, Anne glanced back out to the street. Movement near the mews caught her eye, yet when she peered closer, all she saw were shadows caused by shifting clouds. Shaking her head at the strange convolutions of her mind, she went inside.
Meg lit candles against the onset of darkness. Yet as soon as the maid left Anne’s chamber, the same thing happened. One by one, the candles went out. Not wanting to summon Meg for something she could easily accomplish on her own, Anne tried to relight the candles, but they continued to extinguish themselves. She checked the windows. They remained secure. The door to her chamber stayed closed. There were no drafts, no gusts. Again, she had the oddest sensation that something, some
one
blew the candles out. Yet she was completely alone.
one
blew the candles out. Yet she was completely alone.
On the third try, the candles stayed lit, as though whoever had blown them out either left or grew weary of their labors. She gazed around the room, uneasy.
Full dark fell by the time Anne heard Leo’s footsteps on the stairs. She set her book aside as he entered the bedchamber, looking slightly windblown yet striking nonetheless.
Seeing her reclining in bed, he took long strides until he stood beside her.
“What ails you?” He sat down and, frowning with concern, took her hand between his.
“Nothing. A momentary complaint.” Indeed, after spending the remainder of the day in bed, with the walls of the chamber—of the house itself—close about her, restlessness danced through her. She barely remembered the incident outside the house, and now began to wonder if all of it had been some strange, momentary folly brought about by too little sleep and too much idleness.
Yet Leo was solicitous. “I’ll fetch a physician.”
“It isn’t necessary. Truly, Leo, if there was a crisis, it has passed.” He looked skeptical, but she could be as obstinate as he, when required. She tried for a diversionary tactic. “I hope your day of trade and commerce proved fruitful.”
If she had not been studying the angles and contours of his face, she might have missed the slight movement of his gaze—the barest flick to the side. But her husband was at all times a subject of fascination, and so she did see this tiny movement, and could only wonder what it meant.
“A hectic day.” He smiled, and pressed her hands closer within his.
It was not precisely an answer, but she decided not to push for specifics, since she did not want an accounting of her own actions today. They would maintain a mutual blindness.
As they gazed at each other, realization crept over them both. The last time they had been in each other’s company, he had kissed her. The kiss resonated now like unheard music, the beat of a drum steady and compelling beneath the silence. Her gaze drifted to his mouth, just as his did to hers. Both of them wondering, each asking themselves,
Did that truly happen? Could it happen again?
Did that truly happen? Could it happen again?
Beneath his hands, the pulse in her wrists quickened.
He released his clasp of her hands. As if to distract himself from the potential of his wife in bed, he glanced over to the small table beside the bed. Extending his long body so that he stretched over her, he took hold of some of the squares of thick paper piled there. His body spread warmth through hers as his torso brushed hers.
He straightened, his cheek darkening beneath golden stubble. Riffling through the cards, he read aloud. “
Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Bingham. Sir Frederic and Lady Wells. The Lord and Lady Overbury humbly request the honor of your presence
.” He looked up at her, baffled. “What are these?”
Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Bingham. Sir Frederic and Lady Wells. The Lord and Lady Overbury humbly request the honor of your presence
.” He looked up at her, baffled. “What are these?”
“Calling cards. Invitations. Sending them is rather a mania for Society. The cards arrive every morning, especially after a wedding. Have you never received them?”
“Some requests to dine from business associates but not this. Never anything so ... reputable.” He seemed unused to speaking such a word.
She laughed. “My nefarious respectability. I am afraid you may have caught it from me, like fever.”
“Have you responded to any of these invitations?”
“Not as of yet. I wanted to consult with you first. I did not know if you would want to attend such ... reputable entertainments.”
He stared at the cards as though he held messages from beyond the grave. Cautious, curious. “This world,” he murmured. “It’s strange to me.”
It touched her that this man, so proud and forthright, could feel even the slightest whisper of trepidation, and that he trusted her enough to reveal it.
“What you need,” she said, “is a guide.”
A separate world existed in the respectable hours of evening, one with which Leo rarely rubbed shoulders. Lit by hundreds of candles, it was brighter than the world Leo knew, and yet more obscure.
He and Anne stood at the side of a large chamber, watching the complex convolutions of human relations— the subtle gestures, the layered discourse with more gradations than shale. The room itself showed signs of recent remodeling, for Leo noticed plaster dust collecting against the ornamental baseboards, but the interactions within its walls bore the weight of history.
A small assembly at the home of Lord Overbury. There were refreshments and mannerly games of ombre and a girl in the corner picking out a pretty tune on a fortepiano. The guests were rich, genteel, powerful, and far, far from the company Leo normally kept. He had attended a few events like this with the Hellraisers, but he had paid such gatherings little heed, his thoughts on wilder sport later in the evening. Now, he finally observed that the movements of the aristocrats were even more cunning and artful than anything he had witnessed or engaged in at the Exchange.
By angling his body just so, one guest indicated that he refused to acknowledge another’s presence. A woman whispered into another woman’s ear as they both watched a laughing female guest. Three men stood in a group, their conversation as portentous as their waistcoats. The very air buzzed with influence.
“I feel like a naturalist accompanying a Royal Society expedition.”
Anne smiled over the rim of her glass. “There’s more treachery here than in the jungles of Suriname or Guiana.”
“Spoken as one having experience with both places.”
“Not personal experience.” She glanced away. “Barons’ daughters are seldom taken on Royal Society expeditions.”
He suddenly found her much more fascinating than the tangled encounters of the assembly. His gaze traced the slim line of her neck as she kept her face averted. “But you want to go. To Suriname or Guiana.”
She shrugged. “Having never been on a ship in my life, especially traveling somewhere over four thousand miles away, I couldn’t say if I would find the experience enjoyable.”
Interesting that she would know the distance between England and the distant northern coast of South America, when few men let alone women could locate Portugal on a map.
“There is no way to know until you try,” he said.
“I am not a fanciful person.” She turned back and her eyes were very clear. “I don’t entertain ideas that cannot come to pass.”
“Yet ...”
“Yet.” His wife glanced around the chamber, as if concerned any of the guests might be within earshot. Seeing that no one paid too much attention, she continued. “I don’t long to travel. Not so far. However, on the rare occasions I was given pin money, I spent it at print shops on the Strand. On maps.”
He could only regard his wife with genuine surprise. “Maps. Of South America.”
“Or the Colonies, or Africa, or the East Indies. Maps of anywhere. Even England. It isn’t the places so much as the drawing of the maps.”
“I had not pegged you for a lover of cartography.”
She studied him, looking, he believed, for signs of mockery or dismissal. Yet what she saw in his face must have encouraged her, for she admitted, “It is ... an interest of mine.”
“An unusual interest for a young woman.”
“I had not cultivated it on purpose. It just seemed to happen.” She smiled softly, an inward smile at some remembrance. “I recollect the day, I couldn’t have been more than eight, and I was with my father at a print shop. The printer was trying to get my father to buy a map of the Colonies. A special reduced price because the map was no longer accurate. New discoveries had been made, territory west of a great river, and there were new settlements, too. It fascinated me that something as stable and immense as land, as a whole country, could suddenly change. Not because of an earthquake or a flood, but because of human knowledge.”
She caught herself. Her voice had grown stronger, less hesitant, as she had spoken. Her eyes gleamed, and the flush in her cheeks came not from the wine nor the overheated room, but from the fire of her passion.
Leo was enthralled. The quiet beauty of his wife became altogether vibrant. And it wasn’t unnoticed. He glowered at several men who sent her admiring glances, and they averted their gazes quickly.
“Did your father buy the map?”
She shook her head. “Such things were unnecessary, and the expense profligate. In truth,” she confessed, “I never had enough money to buy maps, but I did annoy the shopkeeper by endlessly browsing.”
“Thus your knowledge of far-flung places.”
“The same places from which you buy your coffee, cotton, and spices.” She waited, then glanced at him, a faint crease between her brows. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“This is when you chide me for my decidedly unfeminine interests. My parents certainly did.”
Leo’s sudden, unadulterated laugh drew more curious glances from the assembly’s guests. “Hell, I’m the very last person to lecture anyone on acceptable behavior.”
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