Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

Venetia studied her friend’s face, the pallor of her skin and shadows beneath her eyes that betrayed a night spent not in sleep, and the triumph and the excitement that radiated from her every pore.

There was an uncomfortable silence, in which Alice had the grace to blush.

‘You have accepted Razeby’s offer.’ Venetia could not keep the disappointment from her voice.

‘He’s offered me two thousand a year, and the house in Hart Street. How can I refuse?’ She paused. ‘Please understand.’

‘You are placing yourself at his mercy, Alice. What happens when he tires of you and takes a new mistress?’

She shrugged. ‘If it happens, then I’ll move on and find another protector.’

‘When it happens.’

‘I’m going into this with my eyes wide open, Venetia. I’ve made up my mind.’

‘Flirt with him, tease him. Sleep with him if that is what you so truly desire, but do not give yourself into his power.’

‘It’s too late,’ said Alice. ‘I’ve accepted him.’

‘It is never too late,’ said Venetia.

‘Really it is.’ Alice’s gaze met hers. There was a small silence. ‘I want him,’ she said simply, as if that explained it all. ‘I want this. Please be glad for me, Venetia.’

Venetia gave a sigh, followed by a smile of resignation. ‘If you are happy, then I am glad.’

Alice smiled. ‘And what of you, last night? Linwood came looking for you. Did he find you?’

‘He did.’

‘And?’ Alice demanded.

‘He walked me home.’ She made no mention of the ruffians who had attacked her, or of Linwood saving her.

‘You really do like him, don’t you?’ Alice looked worried.

She could not like a man like Linwood. Not when she knew the secret he was hiding. And yet… She thought of the way he had not taken part in the feasting upon Miss Vert; the way he had come to protect her, instead. And the dark sensual attraction that simmered between them. ‘He is different to any other man I have met.’ It was the truth.

‘Venetia…’ Alice chewed on her lower lip. ‘You should be careful of Linwood. He’s not a good man.’

A chill stirred in Venetia’s blood. Her gaze sharpened. ‘That is the second warning you have given me of him, Alice. If there is something I should know…’

Alice bit her lip again as she always did when she was uncertain or worried.

‘I concede I have an interest in him, if that makes a difference in your decision to speak.’

‘I swore I’d never tell, but…’ Alice hesitated. ‘I think you need to know, Venetia… the part with Linwood at least.’

Venetia nodded, her senses quickening, her heart beating that bit faster. ‘Go on.’

‘It was when I worked for Mrs Silver. Linwood came to her House of Rainbow Pleasures and—’

Venetia felt her stomach contract and a sudden sick feeling of dread. ‘Linwood was your client?’ she whispered in horror.

‘No!’ Alice glanced up, shocked at the suggestion. ‘Not mine, or any of the other girls. No,’ she said again and frowned as if the memory was unpleasant. ‘He came for information. Offered a fortune for us to betray one of our own.’

‘One of your own? I do not understand.’

‘The identity of one of Mrs Silver’s girls. As you know, none of us ever revealed our faces or our real names in full. But this one girl, well, it was a bit more than that. We were all sworn to extra secrecy over her. Paid a lot of money to keep our mouths shut. So I can’t speak of her, but I can tell you that Linwood offered much money for even the smallest scrap of information on her.’

‘He wanted her?’ Venetia’s voice was quiet.

‘Not in the way you’re thinking. There was a big scandal over the girl and a certain eminent nobleman. Linwood wanted information, for himself, for his father and their newspapers. He owns the London Messenger, you know.’

‘I did not,’ said Venetia, making a mental note to inform Robert of that fact at their next meeting.

‘He’s dangerous.’

‘Did he threaten you?’

‘No, nothing like that. He and his father are reputed to have been up to all sorts of shady dealings. He’s handsome, Venetia, handsome as the very devil, and with something of that same darkness about him. I would that you would take Devlin or Hawick instead.’

‘I do not want Devlin or Hawick.’

There was a silence.

‘Then be very careful over Linwood, Venetia.’ The same words Robert had used. ‘He is cold and untouched by emotion. Nothing affects him. Linwood may make for an exciting lover, but… he’s dangerous.’

And Venetia meant to discover precisely how dangerous.

Linwood sat in his box in the Theatre Royal that night and watched Venetia Fox upon the stage. That she could absorb him in the story she was weaving upon the stage, even though he had seen the play already, rather than studying the woman herself, was testament to her acting abilities. He dragged his attention away, swept his gaze over first his mother and then his sister sitting by his side. Marianne’s focus was intent upon the play, the emotions that played across her face showing that she was caught entirely in the fate of the character Venetia was portraying. There was a contentment and a confidence about his sister these days, and Linwood was glad of it. His eyes moved to the man responsible, her husband who sat on the other side of the box, Rafe Knight.

He waited until the interval, then left with Knight to fetch the women refreshments.

‘You saw yesterday’s copy of the Messenger?’

‘Of course.’ Knight’s mouth tightened. ‘The Bow Street office has discovered that Rotherham did not die by his own hand.’

Linwood thought of the rumour of suicide, the seeds of which his own newspaper had sown.

‘Murder or suicide, either way there will be an end to it now,’ said Knight.

Linwood shook his head. ‘There will be questions and digging into the past. An investigation risks stirring up that which should remain hidden.’

‘The bastard is causing trouble even from beyond the grave.’

‘Maybe you should leave town, take Marianne to the country for the winter.’

‘We’re better off here, knowing what is happening. If the truth comes out…’

Linwood felt his face harden. ‘It will not come out. I will see to that.’

The two men looked at one another with respect. Neither liked the other, but they were united in a common cause.

Knight gave a nod. ‘You have not asked me.’

‘And you have not asked me,’ said Linwood. ‘It is better if we leave it that way, for Marianne’s sake.’

Knight gave a grim nod of agreement.

It was the night after Linwood had brought his family to the theatre. Venetia’s night off, if attending Fallingham’s ball could be described as such a thing. She was so busy keeping track of where Linwood was in the ballroom that she did not notice Hawick’s approach.

‘Venetia…’ His voice was low and possessive. She felt her heart sink even as she turned to face him.

‘Your Grace.’ She curtsied.

Hawick’s gaze lingered over her breasts as he spoke. ‘Come now, there is no need for such formality between us.’

‘There is every need and I do not wish to insult you,’ she said.

‘As if you could ever do that.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Are we not friends?’

‘In as far as men and women can ever be friends.’

He laughed.

She smiled up at him, her smooth practised smile that held just the hint of seduction.

‘Are you enjoying the ball?’

‘Indeed. It is a sumptuous affair, your Grace.’

‘My name is Anthony, Venetia. I would that you used it.’

She smiled again, as if in agreement, but she did not use his given name. ‘Lord Fallingham has gone to much expense.’

‘It is nothing compared to the ball I will give for you.’

‘We have been through all of this before.’

‘Indulge me,’ he whispered.

She smiled and looked into his eyes. ‘You know that I indulge no one save myself.’

He smiled. ‘You are a cruel woman, Venetia.’

‘But an honest one.’

He laughed again. ‘Come place your hand within my arm and let us take a small promenade around the room.’

Despite the antipathy she felt towards Hawick and his arrogance, she tucked her hand into his elbow and let him lead her round the edge of the ballroom. She was confident in her ability to remain in control, but when they got to the small exhibition room in which Fallingham had his collection of antiquities, Hawick made a quick unexpected move and, before she realised what was happening, he had steered her into the exhibition room.

‘Your Grace! I must protest.’ Venetia had spent a lifetime avoiding situations such as this. She knew that flirting with men in the safety of a crowd was one thing, but being alone with them in private was quite another.

Hawick was dressed more expensively than any other man or woman in the room. With his title and riches and classically handsome looks she supposed he was the epitome of what most women in her position sought. But Venetia had no intention of ever being any man’s mistress. Hell would freeze over before she would put herself in that position—selling herself to some rich man, letting him take everything of her before he grew tired and cast her aside as if she were a worthless piece of rubbish. Echoes of her childhood whispered through her mind, fuelling her determination and disgust all the more.

‘I am sure that you will agree it is far beyond the time that we spoke with a degree of privacy, Venetia.’ His eyes, so clear and blue, bored down into hers. ‘Enough of letters and notes and conducting our negotiations in public.’

The moon lit the gallery in soft silver, casting shadows before the carved marble statues, gifting them with a life they did not possess.

‘Stay here and contemplate what you will. If you will excuse me, I have other dances to dance.’

He caught her wrist as she turned to walk away, pulling her back to him. ‘Not until we have spoken together.’

She raised her eyebrow and looked pointedly at where he gripped her, before shifting her gaze to his. There was nothing of enticement now, only cool wrath.

‘Please, Venetia,’ he begged, but he did not ease the tightness of his fingers around her wrist.

‘Very well,’ she said, trying to control both her anger and the little germ of panic. ‘As you are so impolitely insistent.’

‘Let us not prevaricate any longer. You know that I want you, that I have wanted you for months. I have offered you more than any other woman and always it seems the sum is never quite enough.’

‘You misunderstand, Your Grace—’

But he held up his other hand to stop her. ‘And now Devlin is on the scene, bidding against me.’

‘You are mistaken.’

‘I do not think so, Venetia. Your ploy has worked.’

‘Ploy?’

‘Using Devlin to drive up your price.’ He smiled. ‘I know the game as well as you, and, indeed, I commend you on the way you have played it. I bow to your shrewdness.’ His fair hair glinted silver in the moonlight as he bowed his head to her in acknowledgement. ‘You win. You shall have whatever you want. Carte blanche. I am yours to command. Name your price and I will pay it.’

‘As I said, you misunderstand me, Your Grace.’

‘On the contrary, I think I understand you very well, Venetia.’

‘I am not for sale.’ She spoke slowly, coldly, all the while holding his gaze with an implacable force that matched those of the words. ‘So if you would be so kind as to release my wrist I do not believe we have anything more to say to one another.’

She saw the flare of incredulity in his eyes.

‘What new tactic is this?’

‘No tactic. It is the truth.’

‘We have been in negotiations for months.’

‘No, we have not. You have sent me letters making offers. I have never replied to a single one of them.’

There was a silence in which the light in his eyes hardened. ‘You led me to believe…’

‘If I did, then I apologise, for it was never my intent.’

‘Never your intent?’ The incredulity was still there, but laced with anger this time. ‘I beg to differ, madam. You have been teasing me, cultivating my interest all of these months past.’

‘I have made my position clear.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Have you already reached an arrangement with Devlin?’

‘I have not,’ she said with a calmness that belied the harried beat of her heart and the prickle of fear that was driving it even faster. ‘Although it would be none of your business were I to do so.’

‘You think to make a fool of me before all of London. To dangle me from your fingers for yours and the ton’s amusement.’

‘This conversation is at an end.’ She tried to wrench her wrist from his grip, but Hawick’s fingers tightened, imprisoning her.

‘Not yet, Venetia.’

She felt the spiralling panic and quelled it with a will of iron.

‘You go too far, sir.’

‘Or not far enough.’ He leaned closer and the brandy was strong upon his breath. His eyes stared down into hers for a moment and she could see in them both anger and lust.

‘Unhand me!’

‘I do not like to be made a fool of.’

‘The ballroom is full,’ she threatened.

‘But we are all alone in here, Miss Fox.’ His free hand ranged over her hip, over her buttock, pulling her close enough that her thigh brushed against his arousal. ‘Besides, they all know the situation between us.’

‘No!’ she snapped. Her mind was whirring. She knew she could not start screaming like a débutante. And he was right, no one would believe her. She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Release me,’ she said again, more fiercely this time, and struggled against him, but his mouth was already moving to take hers.

‘I believe the lady does not wish your attentions, Hawick.’ The familiar voice came from the shadows, low in volume, but loud in menace.

Hawick’s gaze shot round as Linwood stepped from the corner of the room. The moonlight cast his features in stark relief, making his dark hair look only darker and his eyes as black as the devil’s. His features were as perfect and cold and sculpted as those of the marble statues that surrounded them. The wolf’s eyes in his walking cane glittered as hard as his own. In the moonlight and shadows, he looked like the most handsome, most dangerous man in the world. Danger and threat exuded from his every pore. Everything of his stance, everything of his posture was sleek, poised and watchful, and yet with that underlying edge of aggression.

‘This is between me and Miss Fox. You are not stupid, Linwood. I am a powerful man, a rich man.’ Hawick glared at Linwood. ‘If you know what is good for you, you will turn around and walk away.’

‘That sounds like a threat.’

‘Take it as you will.’

The tension in the small gallery bristled. Venetia’s heart was beating so fast she felt sick. She held her breath, waiting for Linwood to do just that. Turn. Walk away. Leave her to Hawick.

‘I am not going anywhere,’ Linwood said in his quiet, dangerous voice.

The silence that followed was tight and tense. The two men watched one another, like two dogs with hackles raised.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Hawick with the air of a man making a discovery. ‘It’s not Devlin bidding against me, after at all, is it? It’s you.’

‘Step away from Miss Fox.’

‘And if I choose not to?’ Hawick said.

Linwood looked at Hawick and the expression in his eyes was one of absolute violence, a declaration that nothing was too far, a promise of death. She felt her blood run cold just at the sight of it. Hawick must have seen it, too, for where he held her still she felt the change in him.

‘Get out,’ Hawick said to her and, releasing his grip on her, pushed her across the gallery towards the door. ‘But know that this is not finished between us, Venetia.’

‘It is more than finished, Hawick,’ said Linwood darkly.

‘We will see about that, Linwood.’

‘Close the door behind you, Miss Fox,’ said Linwood.

She hesitated to leave, afraid of what might happen between the two men. Hawick was taller and heavier than Linwood, but Linwood was lithe and lean and strong, and with such dark deadliness about him.

Linwood’s gaze met hers for the first time since he had interrupted Hawick.

She gave a nod and, turning, hurried from the gallery, leaving the two men alone.

Venetia took her time threading her way around the periphery of the floor, as if she were as cool and unfazed as ever when the truth was quite the opposite, until at last she found Alice.

‘You enjoying yourself?’ Alice looked happy.

‘As ever.’

‘Bleedin’ hell!’ Alice blurted, but she was no longer looking at Venetia. She was staring instead at a point somewhere in the distance over Venetia’s shoulder with a look of fascinated horror.

The faces around them were staring, too, at the same thing that held Alice transfixed. The music came to a natural halt and in the gap there was the spread of the hushed murmur like a wave across the ballroom.

Venetia felt the shiver of foreboding ripple across her scalp and all the way down her spine. She did not want to look, but she was already turning, just as everyone else was.

Hawick was making his way through the crowd towards the door. The white of his shirt and cravat was splattered scarlet with blood and he was holding a large bloodied handkerchief to his nose.

Venetia’s eyes widened.

‘What on earth happened to him?’ Alice whispered.

Venetia gave no reply, even though she knew the answer very well. She watched Hawick like every other person in that ballroom.

‘Devlin?’ Alice murmured almost to herself. A number of others must have been having the same thought, for once Hawick disappeared through the door, all heads turned to find Devlin. But Devlin stood at the farthest side of the room from the gallery, by the French windows, looking as shocked as the rest of Fallingham’s guests.

Venetia took a deep breath and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman, even though inside she was still shaking and her mind was reeling from the shock. All she could think of was how close she had just come to ruin, and that the man who had saved her was the one man she had thought would not. To shoot a man, unarmed and with his leg not yet fully recovered from a hunting accident, as he sat at his own desk—it took a certain type of villain to do that. Across the ballroom chatting to Razeby she saw Linwood. His dark gaze met hers across the floor and held. It lasted for only the briefest of moments, then the dance progressed and the bodies of the dancers hid him from her. And by the time the dance progressed again he was gone.

Her heart was beating fit to burst, her blood rushing too fast. She lowered her gaze, composing herself, conscious that Miss Fox must maintain her cool, collected air. So she held her head high and nodded as if she were listening to Alice’s chatter. The music played on, sweet and loud and vibrant, but all that Venetia could hear was the echo of Linwood’s voice playing again in her mind. I am not going anywhere.

He had saved her. Again. The uneasiness stirred all the more in her breast and she wondered if what she had learned of Linwood so far would disquiet her brother as much as it did her.

Chapter Five

There was a note from Linwood the next morning.

If it is not presumptive of me, may I request the pleasure of your company this afternoon for a drive in Hyde Park?

Your servant,

L.

His letters were angular, sharp, boldly formed by a pen nib pressed firm against the paper, the ink a deep opaque black, expensive as the embossed paper upon which the words were written. As she read the words it seemed that she could hear the rich smooth voice speaking them, the slight irony of his reference to ‘presumption’ following her taunt the night he had saved her from the ruffians, and see the dark handsome face, all cheekbones and harsh angles, with its lips that could drive every last vestige of sense from a woman’s head.

She screwed the cut sheet of paper into a ball, her fingers curling tight, crushing it within, tempted to throw it onto the coals of the fire and watch it burn away to nothing. She did not want to go driving with him, not when, against all rhyme and reason, he made her feel the way he did. Aroused. Attracted. Out of control. She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that she could not refuse him. This was part of what she had agreed to do, the game she had willingly entered into. With a sigh, she carefully eased the paper open, smoothing out every crease she had inflicted upon it. She stood by the window and stared at the paper for a long time in the cold autumn light, thinking of the man who had written the words and of the man he had murdered in cold blood. Then, taking a deep breath, she sat down at the small desk within her little parlour. She slipped Linwood’s letter into the drawer, then set a clean sheet of paper before her. Taking up her pen, she dipped it into the inkwell and began to write.

When Albert told her Linwood was waiting in her drawing room she felt a sense of dread and beneath it, for all she would deny it, a stab of satisfaction that he had come. Part of her wanted to have Albert send him away, and part, for all she was loath to admit it, was eager to see him. She felt unusually unsettled and told herself that she could not send him away, that she had a job to do here, that that was the only reason she must see him. She sat in front of her dressing table, staring into the oval peering glass and seeing nothing. Deliberately slowing her actions, she took her time inserting the wire of the pearl-drop earrings through the lobes of her ears, before smoothing butterfly fingers over the soft white-rabbit fur of her hat and checking the pins that held it in place.

Her dress and matching pelisse were of icy blue silk, the same colour as the sea on a sunny winter morning, clear and pale as her eyes. She was stalling, making him wait, calming herself as she did just before any performance, except that she had never felt this nervous before any other role. Taking a deep breath, she moved to resume the game.

‘Lord Linwood.’

He was standing by the fireplace, dressed in a midnight-blue fitted tailcoat, buff-coloured breeches and glossy black riding boots, as if he had known the colour of her outfit and dressed to complement it. Every time she saw him she felt that same small shock at the effect his dark handsome looks had upon her. Her eyes moved over him, noting that his hat, wolf’s-head walking cane and gloves, were still in his left hand, even though Albert must have offered to relieve him of them. The dark eyes met hers and she, the famously cool, calm and collected Miss Fox, felt herself blush. And that small betrayal made her angry and determined—which was exactly what she needed to be when she was with him.

She saw his gaze rove over her.

‘You are beautiful.’

‘You flatter me.’

‘You know I do not.’

They looked at one another and all of her body seemed to shimmer with the memory of the kiss they had shared.

‘Hyde Park,’ she said.

‘Unless you have another preference.’ And there was that same darkness in his eyes that had been there before he had kissed her. The air seemed too thin for her lungs, making it hard to breath and the atmosphere was thick and writhing with sensual suggestion. Images flashed in her mind. Too real. Too potent. His lips on hers, their tongues entwining, breathing his breath, tasting him, feeling the hard muscle beneath her fingers, her palms; the flickering flame of desire that just the scent of him seemed to fan to an inferno. She stepped back from him, from temptation, from danger.

She shook her head, the small lazy smile that curved her lips in such contrast to the race of her heart and the simmer of her blood. ‘All in good time, my lord.’