Lord Libertine

A polite way of saying that he had a reputation for wallowing in the dregs of London society? A fair enough assessment, he supposed. He took a long drink from his glass before answering. “Which particular interest are you speaking of, Wycliffe?”

The man glanced over his shoulder, ostensibly to make certain they were not being overheard. “The religious underworld, so to speak.”

Andrew blinked. What interest could the Home Office have in religion—underworld or otherwise? His doubt must have shown, because Wycliffe leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“Black Sabbaths, witches’ Sabbaths, covens, satanic rituals. That sort of thing.”

“They are absolute hogwash. Frivolity. Grown men looking for an excuse to behave like naughty lads.”

“Grown men who have gone too far.” Wycliffe cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps men in your stratum, Hunter. Men with a nasty streak.”

He recalled last night. Lapping wine from Lady Elwood’s navel could be considered by some to be naughty, even nasty, but why would the Home Office care about that? “Gone how far?”

“You may as well be warned, Drew. Rape. Ritual sacrifice. That sort of thing.”

Andrew grimaced. Nasty, indeed.

Wycliffe reached into his jacket and brought forth a small scrap of paper. He unfolded it and passed it to Andrew. “Have you ever seen this before, Hunter?”

Crudely drawn, the figure appeared to be an inverted triangle. On the paper below that was sketched a crude dragon—a wyvern, if he recalled his mythology correctly. “You associate these patterns with dark religions?” he asked.

“We haven’t a single notion what they suggest. This is new to us, and completely unprecedented.”

“Where did you find it? And why is the Home Office involved?”

“The triangle was carved into a young woman’s forehead some weeks ago. The flesh had been removed and we did not find it. The dragon had been painted in blood on her lower belly. Her blood. She’d been raped, beaten and left for dead.”

“Human sacrifice, then?” A freezing cold invaded him clear to the bone. Wycliffe was right. This had gone too far. He’d seen savagery like this in the war, but never in London. Civilized London.

“There were other, ah, indications that she’d been used as a ritual sacrifice. We found puncture wounds on her wrists, as if her blood had been drained into some sort of vessel. Yet the girl survived for several hours afterward and expired of her wounds at hospital.”

“Who was the girl? Is there anything in her background that would give you a lead?”

Wycliffe shook his head. “Fresh into town for the season and had never been here before. Good family. And the evidence would indicate that she’d been virgin before the ritual. According to her family, she had no acquaintances.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Keep your eyes and ears open. Say nothing, not even to your friends. We cannot have the public in a panic over ritualistic murders. You see, this was not the first body we’ve found with such markings.”

Andrew refrained from asking just how many bodies they’d found. All that mattered now was that, if the killer was not stopped, there would be more. “What do you want me to do?”

“Keep your nose to the ground, Hunter. Eventually you will catch wind of the stench.” Wycliffe paused and met Andrew’s gaze. “Do not take it upon yourself to handle this on your own. If you hear anything, see anything, bring it to me.”

He nodded, thinking of a few of his acquaintances who were capable of such monstrous acts. There were some who, quite literally, knew no boundaries. But this went beyond anything Andrew had ever done, and he could not say that about much.

Wycliffe stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew you would not turn me down, Hunter. And I know I can trust your discretion.”

The outcome had never been in doubt. He would always agree to anything Wycliffe asked of him. His guilt over the events in Spain would see to that. He nodded and put his glass down.

At least this would give him another interest this season. Another break from the tedium. Meantime, Lace was waiting.

* * *

Bella found herself in a small sitting room and spun to close the door behind her. Alas, Mr. McPherson had followed her. He must have thought she was summoning him by their shared glance in the ballroom. She would correct that notion at once.

She put one hand up, palm outward. “Heavens, Mr. McPherson! You should not be here.”

He advanced on her, despite her words. “I have not thought of anything but you since last night. You have enchanted me, and—”

“You have misunderstood me, sir.”

“Canny little minx! I want more, and I’m willing to pay for it. Willing, in fact, to set you up in your own place. Name it, and ’tis yours.”

He stepped closer. She stepped back, her hand still in front of her. “I have heard it said, sir, that one will know their true love by his kiss. I am simply trying to find…the right man. I regret, Mr. McPherson, you are not the right man.”

“Come now. Give me another chance. Was I not commanding enough?”

“Sir, that is not the point.”

“Then what is?”

“That I did not feel that you were, ah, the man I am looking for.”

“Balderdash! That’s a bunch of feminine nonsense!” McPherson closed the distance between them and jerked her against his chest.

“Stop!” she squeaked as one of her hands became caught between them.

On the contrary, Mr. McPherson crushed his mouth against hers in a bruising kiss. He used one arm to hold her so close against him that she could not gain leverage for her trapped hand to wedge him away. His other hand cupped the back of her head, preventing her from turning away from his mouth.

She tried to protest, but all that came out was a muffled, “Mmm-ph…”

She wasn’t aware of the door opening until she heard the clearing of a throat. She staggered backward and caught her hip on the corner of a chair when Mr. McPherson released her.

“I say, Hunter, rather bad timing of you.”

With a sinking feeling, she turned toward the door. Yes, her rescuer was the man from last night. The one who’d stolen her wits and whose kiss had been open to doubt. He was studying them both, a glass of something amber in his hand, his dark eyes judging and assessing.

“McPherson,” he acknowledged. “Should I excuse myself?”

Heavens! She could not decide if it would be safer to remain with Mr. McPherson or make her escape with Mr. Hunter. She glanced away and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. She thought she tasted blood from the way Mr. McPherson’s teeth had mashed against her closed lips.

“Yes, damn it,” Mr. McPherson said. “And close the door on your way out.”

She turned back and saw that Mr. Hunter had his hand on the doorknob. He met her gaze and stopped. With a lazy smile, he dropped his hand to his side and shook his head. “Actually, McPherson, I like the quiet here. Why don’t we all sit down and have a chat?”

Mr. McPherson’s face suffused with color. He seized her wrist and pulled her toward the door.

“Leave the lady here, McPherson.”