Sweet Revenge (19 page)

“Don’t bet on it,” he growled.

They locked eyes, and the air seemed to echo with the silent clash of steel on steel. Neither of them seemed willing to yield an inch.

And then, to her surprise, the earl suddenly sheathed his sword. “Christ Almighty, I suppose if I don’t tell you something, you’ll get yourself into trouble by charging in where angels should fear to tread.”

“I’m no angel,” she said, tentatively accepting the truce.

“True. If I had to compare you to any heavenly body, it would be one of the figures from ancient mythology—an Avenging Fury, or the Goddess of Revenge.” Saybrook thought for a moment. “There must be one, though the name eludes me at the moment.”

“Nemesis,” she whispered. “It derives from the Greek word νἐμειν, which means ‘to give what is due.’ Or, more simply, divine retribution.”

“With you as the self-appointed Almighty?”

When she didn’t answer, the earl slowly spun his empty glass through several rotations. “You made mention of the Hellfire Club that first morning at my uncle’s town house.”

“Yes, and you dismissed it as a harmless ghost story from the past.”

“So I did. But that phrase you just recited,
Fay çe que vouldras
, was the motto of the original members.” He hesitated, as if carefully choosing his next words. “For you see, those gentlemen considered themselves above any moral restraints.”

“Do what you please,” said Arianna.

“Just so.” He took a deep breath. “As I told you then, the embers were said to have been stamped out long ago. However . . .”

“You think they may have come back to life?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Saybrook. “I will need to poke my nose into a few more deep, disgusting holes in order to answer that.”

Recalling the flicker of the burnished gold, Arianna added, “I suppose I should also mention that there were a handful of the medallions. I took one of them with me.”

“I would like to see it, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well.”
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I’ll fetch it from my room.”

She returned shortly and handed the medallion to him. As for the letter and the other items, she had decided to keep that information to herself. It was always wise to have bargaining chips in reserve.

Saybrook studied it for a long moment. “May I keep this for a while?”

She nodded.

His lashes lifted, yet his eyes remained shrouded in shadow. “In the meantime, bear in mind that men who consider themselves superior to ordinary mortals are very dangerous. You may think yourself tough as nails, Lady Arianna, but if they perceive you as a threat to their interests, these self-styled Lucifers won’t hesitate for a heartbeat to hammer your coffin shut.”

Her skin began to prickle. “You are beginning to sound like one of those gothic novels from the last century. Next you’ll be telling me about deep, dark dungeons and underground torture chambers.” She dismissed the idea with a sardonic smile. “Sorry, but I don’t frighten easily.”

“You should,” he replied gruffly. “Even in your wildest dreams, I doubt you’ve imagined the real evil that man can do to his fellow beings.”

Her mind was suddenly awash in a flood of memories—
the feel of blood, the taste of fear, the roar of fury, the look of lust. . . .

“It’s late,” she muttered, collecting the knives and plates. “And I’m tired.”

The earl rose and draped his caped coat over his shoulders. “Let us both get some sleep. And don’t forget, I’ll expect a full report after the party.”

“Or?” she couldn’t help asking.

“Or not only will you have to answer to the Devil, Lady Arianna. You will have to answer to me.”

P
ropelled by the crescendoing music, the ladies around her whirled faster and faster, their laughter echoing the capering notes of the violins.

Closing her eyes for an instant, Arianna tried to bring her skeetering emotions under control. Now that the time for snaking off to Concord’s party was drawing near, her heart was beating so loudly that it nearly drowned out the music.

“The waltz is exhilarating, is it not, Lady Wolcott?” remarked Sir Leete, dabbing a sleeve to his brow. His protruding belly and beet-red face seemed to signal that he rarely indulged in anything more strenuous than lifting a fork.

“Quite,” replied Arianna, grateful that the dance excused the breathless hitch of her voice. Beads of sweat trickled beneath the laces of her corset, teasing a flare of fire to every tiny nerve ending.

“Might I fetch you a glass of ratafia punch?”

“Yes, thank you.” She turned, angling her gaze across the crowded room.
One, two, three . . .
There, in the fourth arch of the colonnading, stood Concord and several of his friends. Catching her eye, he nodded ever so slightly, a signal so subtle that she would have missed it if she hadn’t been expecting it.

A moment later, the men were gone, leaving naught but a smudge of shadows between the white marble columns.

Dark and light.
Despite what she had said to Saybrook, Arianna felt a frisson of fear.

“May I take the liberty of inquiring as to how you are enjoying London, Lady Wolcott?”

A voice, uncomfortably close, jerked her thoughts back to the present moment.

“We were introduced at the Averills’ soiree,” continued the gentleman, who was now standing by her side. “Though I daresay you don’t remember.”

“Yes, of course I do,” said Arianna, covering her flinch with a polite smile. He looked vaguely familiar.

“You are too kind—I imagine you’ve met far too many strangers to keep all the names straight,” he murmured. “I am Lord Ashmun.”

“Thank you for your inquiry, Lord Ashmun. I am enjoying the city and its activities immensely,” she answered.
Now go away,
she added to herself.

“I can’t help but wonder,” he went on. “Are you perchance related to the Wolcotts from Somerset?”

“No,” responded Arianna, hoping the curt reply would discourage any further questions.

Ashmun didn’t take the hint. “No?” he echoed. “Then are you from farther north?”

Something in his tone stirred a sense of unease. “My husband’s family is from Yorkshire, sir. The village is too small for anyone to recognize its name.”

His hazel eyes narrowed, and his long nose seemed to quiver, like a bird dog looking to pick up a scent. “Oh, but having hunted in Yorkshire, I am very well acquainted with the countryside.”

“I doubt you are familiar with this particular place.” She looked away, anxious to escape further interrogation. “Ah, there is Lord Leete with my drink. If you will excuse me . . .”

To her dismay, Ashmun followed. “Might I have the pleasure of taking you in to supper, Lady Wolcott? I should very much like the chance to converse with you—I believe we may have . . . mutual acquaintances.”

“I think you must have me confused with someone else,” said Arianna coolly, though her insides were starting to clench in alarm.

He sidled closer. “I—”

“My apologies for the delay, Lady Wolcott!” exclaimed Leete. “There was quite a crowd around the punch bowl.”

Arianna heaved an inward sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the glass and quickly raising it to her lips.

“Our hostess is renowned for her lobster patties and creamed quail.” Ashmun was proving relentless in his pursuit. “Allow me to escort you to a table.”

“Tempting,” she replied. “But the last week has been awfully fatiguing, so I’m going to take my leave early. Good evening, gentlemen.” Before either of them could reply, she turned and took her leave from the ballroom.

It was foolish to let her imagination run wild, she reminded herself. Her nerves were on edge, that was all. Lord Ashmun was simply a nosy old man, not a specter of impending danger.

Still, try as she might, Arianna couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen him somewhere other than last week’s soiree. Had he been a guest at one of Lady Spencer’s parties? He didn’t seem the type.

Reminded of her own charade, Arianna forced her thoughts to the coming encounter.

Turning up the hood of her cloak, she stepped out into the night shadows and hurried to her waiting carriage. She must hide her jitters, mask her doubts . . .

 

“How delightful that you decided to join us, Lady Wolcott,” called Gavin as she entered the drawing room of Concord’s town house. “May I offer you a welcoming libation?” Detaching himself from a group of men by the hearth, he glided over to greet her. “It’s a unique concoction, a specialty of the house, if you will.”

“How can I resist?” The ornate goblet, made of spangled Murano glass, was filled with a dark garnet-red liquid. “I trust that it’s more potent than the watery punch that was served at the earlier party.”

“Much,” assured Gavin. “Can you guess at some of the ingredients?”

“Something
very
sweet,” she answered with a throaty purr. “Whatever it is, I like it.”

“Ah, I see you have a palette for pleasure,” he said. “The ingredients come from the Caribbean tropics.”

“A world which is unfamiliar to me,” said Arianna. “But I am looking to expand my horizons.”

“You have chosen a good place to start,” said Gavin smoothly.

Before she could reply, a voice interrupted their tête-à-tête.

“Now, now, Gav, don’t be a naughty boy and try to keep our new guest all to yourself.”

Arianna didn’t need to turn around to recognize the chiding laugh.

“Do introduce us.”

“But of course, my sweet.” Gavin pulled back a touch, allowing Lady Spencer to come closer. “Allow me to present Lady Wolcott, who has just arrived in Town from—”

“A dreadfully dull little town in Yorkshire.” Arianna lowered her gaze. A liberal application of kohl had altered the shape of her eyes and darkened her lashes. And as a false mustache had always disguised the shape of her mouth and chin, she had no reason to fear that the other lady might see shades of the fugitive Monsieur Alphonse in her face.

“Oh, I assure you that London is never, ever dull,” said Lady Spencer. “Especially if you know the right people.”

“I am counting on that,” replied Arianna.

“I have a feeling we are going to become very good friends.” Her erstwhile employer flashed a conspiratorial wink and looped an arm through hers. “Come, let me show you some of our host’s Eastern art collection while we get better acquainted.”

Better acquainted?
Arianna repressed the urge to laugh.

Waving off Gavin’s offer to accompany them, Lady Spencer pursed her carefully colored lips. “No, no, no, I must insist on having a private interlude with Lady Wolcott. It’s only fair that she be warned about the dangers of consorting with rogues like you.”