Lord Libertine

Gina nodded. “The sooner we leave, the better, say I. Not only has London killed Cora, but it is stealing you away, too.”

“Hush, sweet,” Bella soothed. “London is not stealing me away. I am simply seeking Cora’s murderer. He shan’t get away with it. I promised.”

“But, Bella, you have changed. You…you are drinking too much strong spirits, you are going out without a chaperone and staying out late. You will be ruined.”

She gave a choked laugh. Will be? If Eugenia found out about the kisses… “Cora is dead. Dead. The scandal will ruin us all—you, Lilly and me. I only hope we can leave London before the news filters to the ton, which it is sure to do when Lord and Lady Vandecamp arrive in London. They will withdraw their sponsorship in quick order. When Mama is well enough, we will return to Belfast, likely never to return.” She sighed. “So, do you really think I care what a bunch of London popinjays think of me? We are already ruined.”

“That isn’t fair. It wasn’t our fault. And, no matter what society will think, it was not Cora’s fault, either.”

“That will not matter.’ Tis always the girl who is blamed. What fast behavior! Why was she unescorted? What was shedoing there? Somehow it will be twisted to be Cora’s fault. Now go on to bed, dear. I am home safe now, and I shall come up presently. I just want to look in on Mama and Lilly.”

Gina stood and gathered her robe around her. “Do not fall asleep on the sofa again. Cook will find you when she comes down to prepare breakfast. She’ll tell Nancy, and Nancy will tell Mama.”

Bella nodded absently. Nothing was secret from the servants. When Gina was gone, she returned to the bottle on the sideboard. A sip? Just a tiny dram? Enough to let her sleep without dreaming? Or was Nancy reporting her drinking habits, too? Measuring the level of liquid in the bottles?

What was wrong with her? She’d never even tasted anything stronger than watered wine before Cora died, and now she was using it liberally and undiluted. To forget the pain. To sleep without dreams. To wash away her self-loathing and the taste of too many kisses, too many strange men.

She went back to the sofa, leaving the decanter untouched. She just needed a moment to close her eyes and make plans for tomorrow, and to rest.

First, she’d rise early, with her sisters. With Mama unable to cope with even the slightest unpleasantness, Lilly and Gina needed guidance. She could not have them wandering off alone as Cora had done.

Cora. Tragic, beautiful Cora.

How she wished she could remember Cora beautiful now—with her honey-blond hair and blue eyes so like Lilly’s, and so unlike Gina and Bella in coloring and temperament. But she could only remember Cora as she’d last seen her in Middlesex Hospital—a grotesque parody of what she had been. And, dear Lord, how could she ever forget Cora’s sightless eyes entreating her beyond death? Be brave. Avenge me, Bella.

In the weeks following Cora’s death, she’d made daily visits to the Home Office and begged for information. But in the end, there had been no leads, and the case had been put aside. Lord Wycliffe had been too busy, she’d been told, and was working on “other things.” They’d sworn they had done all they could, but admitted that Cora’s killer might never be brought to justice.

But Bella couldn’t accept that. His kiss, Cora had said. Always…always wets his lips after his kiss. As if tasting…andhe tastes of…something bitter. So, for the last week, she’d gone out in society, found men who matched Cora’s description and urged a kiss—the only avenue the authorities had not pursued. The only one left to her.

That man tonight—Mr. Hunter—had turned away after their kiss. Had that quirk simply been a reaction to her catching him by surprise? But she couldn’t recall if he tasted bitter.

The mere thought propelled her to her feet and sent her back to the sideboard. No small dram would do, but a full half-glass. She drank it standing there, and did not move until the little trails of fire tingled all the way to her toes.

Which dream did she most dread? Those of Cora, or a new one of that one impossible kiss?

Chapter Two

Garish sunbeams pierced the heavy draperies around Andrew’s bed. It must be afternoon. He winced, his head throbbing in concert with his heartbeat. His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth and he could not rid himself of the foul taste. What had he partaken of last night? Sulfur?

Ah, yes. The witches’ Sabbath, sans witches. A chalice containing wine laced with brimstone had been passed from hand to hand as the robed and hooded group stood around the altar where Lady Elwood had lain naked in voluntary submission. She’d giggled when Throckmorton poured wine in her navel and proceeded to lap it away. Rather than finding the scene arousing, Andrew had only wondered where Lord Elwood was.

He sat up and rubbed the grit from his eyes, trying to remember the rest of last night. Henley, Throckmorton and Booth had abandoned themselves to the sexual excess of the orgy following the Sabbath, and Andrew had left them in favor of prowling the taverns, looking for carousing friends. He hadn’t wanted to go home after all. His encounter with Lady Lace had left him restless and unsettled. He was not ready for sleep, and neither his valet nor his cook were particularly good company in the wee hours.

He snapped the bed curtains back and stumbled to his washstand. The cold water he splashed on his face brought him fully awake. This business of being a libertine was rather more taxing than he’d first imagined, but he’d thrown himself into it with enthusiasm.

As the second son of an earl, he was not heir to the title, had few familial responsibilities and had enough wealth to render him independent. After Oxford, when he’d still been trying to find his way, he’d bought a commission in the Light Dragoons, been sent to Spain to rout Boney, been decorated for bravery and then been spit out again on the shores of Britain.

By the time he’d returned to England, there was no corner of his soul left untouched, unsullied. He’d tried to drown his memories at first, then realized they’d always be a part of him. He should have changed, should have recognized his debauchery and stopped. Ah, but it was years and years too late to turn back now. There was no redemption for Andrew Hunter, Lord Libertine.

He dried his face, threw his towel down and dragged his fingers through his hair. He’d go to a barber today and then to his fencing master for exercise. And tonight, one more time, he’d go through the motions of polite society. At least the arrival of Lady Lace on the scene had broken the monotony. Yes, she’d be a fine, if temporary, distraction.

Bella slipped into the midst of a large group of revelers entering Marlborough House for a ball, wrapping her paisley shawl more closely around her. She edged closer as the men presented engraved invitations, knowing it would be assumed that she was included in the group, then followed them into the hallowed halls.

As unobtrusively as possible, she separated herself from the group and wandered away. She returned a hesitant wave from Mr. McPherson. He would not come talk to her tonight. He was in the midst of a group of women, and she knew full well that her behavior had put her beyond the pale of polite introductions.

She took her bearings, feeling a bit like a country mouse surrounded by such splendor. Marlborough House literally glittered with crystal and candlelight. The richness of the furnishings and decor took her breath away. Before she could turn around, she had a glass of champagne in her hand and was caught in a stream of guests entering the ballroom.

All the gaily colored gowns she and her sisters had ordered would remain in their boxes, and Bella, the most reserved of the sisters, was wending her way through the ton as a wanton. Not precisely the figure the O’Rourke girls had hoped to cut.

She put her melancholy aside and tried to look serene and approachable. If she looked helpless enough, some gentleman was bound to take pity on her. And once that was done, she could manage a few introductions.

She gazed quickly over the sea of people. So many dark-haired men! Before she could take another step forward, she was struck by the sudden, crushing realization that she’d never kiss them all. She had to find a better way to narrow the possibilities.

Bile rose in her throat and she whirled back toward the foyer, her instinct to flee nearly overwhelming her. She needed a moment alone to control her racing heart. She could not think what was behind these sudden bouts of panic, but she could not allow them to control her.

Finding her way blocked by the flow of arriving guests, she turned down a corridor, praying there would be a ladies’ retiring room or private sitting room where she could collect herself.

* * *

Arriving at Marlborough House, Andrew caught a glimpse of his quarry. Fortune had favored him quickly. Lady Lace. Again, she had dressed in black. A black silk sheath with a black lace overdress and a décolletage that dipped scandalously low. Stunning. He glanced toward the reception line and back down the corridor where she’d disappeared. He’d pay his respects to his host later. But first…

He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when he was brought around by a hand on his shoulder. Lord Wycliffe, his former commanding officer and a close friend of his older brother, gave him a canny smile.

“You have the look of a man on the prowl, Hunter. Is some luckless lass in for a run?”

Andrew grinned. “How did I give myself away?”

“The eagerness in your step,” Wycliffe told him. “I hoped I would see you here tonight, though it would have been easy to miss you in the crush. I’ve been meaning to have a talk with you. No time like the present, eh?”

“Actually—”

Wycliffe shook his head and turned Andrew toward the library, where men were clustered in low conversation. “She will not get away from you, Hunter.” He went to a tea table where bottles of liquor were waiting, poured them both a small draught and handed one glass to Andrew.

He took the glass and narrowed his eyes. What had he done to put Wycliffe in a mood? “Make it quick, sir. I wouldn’t want to give her too much of a lead.”

Lord Wycliffe laughed. He edged toward the far side of the room, nearer the fireplace and away from the possibility of being overheard. “Now then, when your brother retired from the Home Office, it left a bit of a hole. And I thought—”

“I’m not Home Office material, Wycliffe. I might have helped Lockwood out once or twice, but if you think I can fill the hole he left, you are mistaken.”

“Come, now. Do you forget that I know just how well you work and how discreet you can be? Your service in Spain proved that. It is, in fact, because I know you so well that your name came to mind. After all, who better to catch a scoundrel than another scoundrel?”

Andrew grinned in spite of the veiled insult. “Scoundrel, eh? How are you thinking I can help?”

“We have a case that is rather troubling. We are stymied at the moment and thought you might have an insight.”

“You mean, I gather, that you wonder if I know anything.”

“It is not a stretch, Hunter, to think that you might have knowledge of a crime. Not that you committed it, mind you, but that you might have heard or seen something. This particular case is the sort of thing that is in keeping with your…er, wide range of interests.”