Lord Libertine. Gail Ranstrom
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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.”
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.”