Nicole Jordan (2 page)

“How remiss of me not to perceive your needs,” Thorne observed wryly.

“Thank you for being so understanding, my lord…. But please, won’t you stay the night? I had intended to make this an occasion you would long remember.”

With a reluctant glance at her luscious nude body, Thorne shook his head. “I think not, sweetheart.”

Reaching for him again, Rosamond gave him one last, clinging kiss, until he gently pried her hands away.

Leaving her sobbing anew, Thorne made his way downstairs and collected his greatcoat, then let himself out the rear door, heading toward the mews behind the house.

Since he’d planned to stay the evening, his horses had already been stabled, and he had to rouse his coachman from a pleasant game of draughts in order to ready his carriage.

Waiting in the frigid night air, Thorne stamped his feet against the cold. This was the harshest winter in memory, and he found himself longing for the golden warmth of Cyrene—the small island in the western Mediterranean where he spent several months of each year. He would have made his home there permanently had not many of his missions required his presence in England.

Oddly enough, he had his father to thank for the drastic change in his fate. Years ago his outrageous behavior so provoked his illustrious sire that Thorne was banished to the Isle of Cyrene, where he was given the chance to redeem himself. He’d joined the secret society of protectors headquartered there—the Guardians of the Sword. The order had been formed centuries ago with the purpose of rooting out evil and tyranny across Europe, its members sworn to uphold the ancient ideals once championed by a legendary leader.

Thorne had not only developed a passion for the golden island, but his recklessness and his love of danger had proved assets in his new career, and he’d become a highly effective Guardian. He had continued, however, to be at odds with his ducal father—despite the affection they bore for each other—since he refused to tame his wild ways.

Watching as his team was harnessed, Thorne recalled the conversation they’d had just last month when the duke called him on the carpet for partaking in a duel.

“Fiend seize it, son, you and your rakehell friends are the scourge of London society. One day you will try my patience too far!”

“I thought I already had,” Thorne replied lazily, discretion forbidding him to explain that the duel had been a calculated step in his current covert assignment.

Since the French Revolution, his father had known the secret order existed, for the Guardians had rescued several of his noble relations from
Madame Guillotine.
Redcliffe had been a willing financial contributor ever since, but wasn’t privy to any real knowledge about the organization. And Thorne was prevented by his sworn oath of allegiance from divulging any details about his missions, even to his own flesh and blood.

In obvious irritation, the duke narrowed his penetrating hazel eyes. “I suppose you won’t be satisfied until you prove the death of me.”

His father greatly exaggerated, Thorne knew. Gossip contended that Redcliffe had been just as wild in his own youth. Everyone said father and son were much alike, both in appearance and personality—tall, tawny-haired, with chiseled, square-jawed features and a natural, roguish charm they’d each wielded practically from the cradle. But a lifelong career in politics had sobered the duke to the point of blandness, and since he’d become a member of the Cabinet several years ago, Redcliffe had been doggedly determined to see Thorne wed.

“No, sir,” Thorne countered his father’s claim honestly. “I would greatly regret your death.”

“Then settle down, Christopher. It is long past time for you to take a bride.”

Remembering now, Thorne shook his head. He was a man of passion, restless and hot-blooded, and the eligible specimens of brides offered for his consideration thus far were decidedly too tame for him.

His friends claimed he had no nerves, but that wasn’t true. He simply loved the thrill of danger. The challenges and risks he faced in his clandestine profession made him feel vital and alive, while pitting his wits and skills against a worthy opponent was more exhilarating even than carnal pleasure.

He enjoyed the chase, not being the prey himself…as he was in the game of matrimony. Long before he reached manhood, he’d been pursued for his face and fortune and title—by frivolous young debs and pretty, grasping widows eager to ensnare him in their marriage nets. He’d grown adept at eluding their pursuit over the years, although defying his father’s designs took more finesse.

For that, Thorne owed his late mother a debt of gratitude. The duchess had left him her sizable fortune specifically so he wouldn’t be obliged to remain beneath the duke’s controlling thumb.

Thorne had no desire for a marriage like the one his parents had known—an alliance of social and political convenience—because it had been so completely dull and ordinary. If he ever did marry, it sure as the devil wouldn’t be to a milquetoast miss his father chose for him, but to a woman with the courage and passion to be a Guardian’s life mate.

A woman who could prove his match.

He would never settle for less.

Nor would he tamely acquiesce simply to satisfy the duke’s political ambitions and late-born sense of propriety. Understandably his father worried that he wouldn’t live long enough to provide a successor to the dukedom. Yet, Thorne rationalized, it would hardly be fair to offer marriage to an unsuspecting gentlewoman when he might not survive one of his missions.

Someday, in the distant future, he would be obliged to sire an heir to carry on the title. But
he
would be the one to decide when that day came. And who his bride would be.

Meanwhile, he fully intended to enjoy his bachelorhood along with his “rakehell friends,” and to continue to pursue his frequently dangerous occupation as a Guardian.

Just then his groom held open the door to his town coach for him.

“Home, my lord?” his coachman queried.

The question reminded Thorne that he had just been rejected by his mistress. Rejection was a novel experience for him. Usually he could have any woman he wanted.

“No, not home. Take me to Madam Venus’s club.”

Climbing inside, he sank back against the velvet squabs. Venus’s sin club on Mount Street was part gaming hell, part high-class brothel. There he could find delectable female companionship if it suited his mood, or a high-stakes game of faro or hazard amid excellent company. A number of his friends regularly patronized Venus’s establishment, all well-born hellraisers—as his father would dub them.

One of his closest friends, Nathaniel Lunsford, was a fellow Guardian. Nathaniel had intended to call at Venus’s club later this evening, Thorne recalled. He himself had declined, for he’d expected to spend the entire night in the silken arms of his beautiful—now former—mistress.

Wincing at the memory, Thorne settled in for the half-hour drive, focusing primarily on cooling the savage ache in his loins that the lovely Rosamond had intentionally aroused, curse her.

By the time his carriage came to a halt, Thorne had himself well under control. Soft lights shone from the windows of the large mansion as he mounted the front steps, and he could hear the convivial chatter of contented guests as he was admitted by a hulking brute of a footman.

Venus’s nightly soirees were famous for their superb wines, exhilarating games of chance, and titillating sexual indulgences, but she employed several ruffians as bruisers to maintain order should any of her patrons become too inebriated or unruly.

The large, elegant drawing room was the center of the club’s activity. One end boasted a low stage for erotic performances and an orchestra that played quietly for the benefit of the patrons who enjoyed dancing. The remainder of the room was decorated with plush brocade sofas and card tables. Additionally, Thorne knew, there were several smaller salons on this same floor for the serious gamesters, and private bedchambers above where guests could retire with their chosen partner—or partners, in many cases.

Now, as at every other soiree, a dozen nubile, bare-breasted beauties circulated the drawing room, their lips and nipples rouged provocatively, as they offered both refreshments and themselves to the gentlemen present.

Accepting a brandy but declining the carnal services, Thorne stood a moment surveying the company. There was no immediate sign of Nathaniel, nor did he see the lovely madam of the club—the statuesque, flame-haired Venus.

Hearing his name hailed, he advanced toward one of the card tables.

“Hah! You owe me twenty guineas, Hastings!” a seated gentleman proclaimed. “I told you he would show.”

“My dear Boothe,” Lord Hastings drawled. “The wager was whether Thorne would concede victory to his illustrious papa. So tell us, Kit, did La Rose refuse you her favors?”

Technically Rosamond had done just the opposite tonight, but Thorne didn’t intend to mince words. Instead he flashed a self-mocking grin, admitting his defeat. “Sadly lowering, isn’t it?”

“And you did nothing to fight back?”

Evidently word had already gotten around about his father’s latest attempt to force his hand. Not only had the duke bribed his mistress, he had also spread the tale about town—and his friends meant to rag him about it.

“I fear not,” Thorne replied. “It would have required too much effort.”

Drawing up a chair, he joined the table, even though he had no particular desire for cards at present. For the next round, he pretended an interest in the play while conversation flowed around him:

“His grace won’t win in the end. Thorne has slipped out of more marriage traps than an eel out of nets.”

“Never knew a gentleman so wary of getting leg-shackled as you, Thorne. The married state ain’t so bad.”

“Might as well give in gracefully. Redcliffe has deep enough pockets to buy off all your mistresses from now to eternity.”

“Know what you should do, old trout? Take refuge on your island. Foil your sire’s damnable plots. He cannot reach you there.”

“I might consider that,” Thorne said with all sincerity.

A moment later he felt a light touch on his shoulder. He looked up to find the strikingly beautiful Madam Venus gazing down at him with a sympathetic smile.

Bending low, she murmured in his ear, using the sultry voice that had won her legions of admirers. “How very tiresome of his grace to insist that you take a bride. He should know that you are not a man to find wedlock appealing.”

“Indeed,” Thorne agreed, although realizing her attempt to soothe his wounded vanity was merely the savvy strategy of a woman who understood how to make men dance to her tune.

Venus drew a finger along his jawline in a caress meant to be arousing, while her voice dropped to a whisper. “I have just the perfect consolation for you, my lord. A sensual experience guaranteed to make you forget Rosamond Dixon.”

Feeling the spontaneous response of his body, Thorne had no need to wonder how Venus had made such a great success of her sin club. She made a man feel like a king and a panting slave at the same time.

He supposed she was offering him one or more of her
filles de joie,
since Venus rarely consorted with her clientele. But the beauties she employed would be talented enough to ease his male ache until he settled on another mistress, Thorne reflected.

“I could be persuaded, my lovely Venus,” he began.

Just then a commotion sounded above the genial din of the drawing room, and he heard someone shout his name.

“Thorne! Are you here? Thorne!”

He glanced beyond Venus to see a young gentleman pushing his way through the crowd, and recognized Laurence Carstairs, one of his longtime acquaintances. Laurence prided himself on being a fashionable buck, but just now his cravat was askew, and he was breathing hard, as if he’d run some distance.

“Thorne, you need to come at once!” Grief shone in his eyes. “It’s Nathaniel…. He has been…He…”

“Take a breath, man, and tell me what happened. What about Nathaniel?”

“He is…merciful God…Nate is dead.”

Not comprehending at first, Thorne simply stared. Yet he felt Venus’s fingers clench on his shoulder, and a brief upward glance showed that her face had drained of all color.

It must be some mistake,
he thought, dazed. His friend could not possibly have been killed.

“Dead?” Thorne repeated in a hoarse voice that sounded nothing like his own.

“Knifed…in the ribs. In an alley off St. James Street.” Laurence’s voice cracked in a sob. “Robbed, most likely. His body lies there still. I summoned the Watch…but Thorne, you should come.”

“Yes,” he muttered, staggering to his feet.

Blood rushed to his head so swiftly that for an instant he feared he might pass out. He felt Venus’s fingers clutch his elbow, whether to offer support or to ease her own dizziness, he couldn’t say.

In a stupor, he brushed off her grasp and turned blindly to follow Laurence from the club.

The frigid night air instantly pierced the elegant superfine of his cutaway evening coat, yet Thorne scarcely noticed the cold as they hastened along the dim streets toward nearby Mayfair. A half dozen blocks later, Laurence turned off St. James and into a dark, grimy alley.

His heart pounding, Thorne involuntarily slowed his footsteps. The alley reeked of slops and refuse, but his inability to breathe had nothing to do with the stench.

Ahead he could see the flickering glow of an oil lamp held aloft, while several bystanders hovered near a supine figure.

Even as his mind rebelled, he forced himself to move closer, till he stood over the body. He had no difficulty recognizing his friend’s features.

Shock buffeting him, Thorne sank to his knees.

Nathaniel’s evening cloak was open, as was his black coat and brocade waistcoat. His white shirtfront was dark with blood.

With shaking fingers, Thorne reached down to touch the side of Nate’s throat.

“ ’Is purse is gone, guv’nor,” someone muttered.

His pulse is gone, as well.

God in heaven. Nathaniel looked so damned peaceful, as if he were merely sleeping off a night of too much carousing, as he had so many times in their younger days when they had sown their wild oats together.