Читать книгу The Deadliest Sin - Caroline Richards - Страница 7

“He sleeps at last.

“The man known only as Sebastian nodded. He was long and angular, with a high, domed forehead and narrow shoulders. “This episode was not as acute as a fortnight ago,” he said more to himself than anyone else in the room.

They both knew to what he referred. A detritus of broken glass and crockery crunched underfoot, the aroma of a spilled astringent pinching their nostrils. As for the rest, little enough damage had been done. Two rectangular tables lined the room, topped by rows of microscopes, most of which were double-barrelled. Each instrument had a lamp by its side, the beam adjusted so as to illuminate a prepared specimen. Minute and beautiful shells, dredged up from a sea bottom of unfathomable depths, glistened like jewels in their scientific settings. Glass cases were mounted on the walls, from floor to ceiling, replete with intricately constructed creatures, some vegetable, some animal, some dyed with carmine to better display their transparent bodies.

“It was not such a struggle this time,” said Giles Lowther, the larger of the two men. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest. His booted foot nudged a broken beaker aside. Subduing Montagu Faron was never an easy task, a sobering reminder that twenty years earlier one of the world’s finest minds had been destroyed. Whether there were lingering outward injuries was difficult to determine, as Faron was never without his leather mask, shielding the world from the facial tremors that overtook him with unexpected ferocity. For decades, no one had seen his face.

Sebastian grimaced, for a moment looking away from the chaos inside to the ordered park outside, which had been designed by one of Louis XIV’s esteemed landscapers. “I shall have the laboratory set to rights in no time,” he said, making a swift accounting of the disarray with an abrupt glance. “Difficult to understand, this mania. He was perfectly lucid just this morning.” They both knew that the voices in Montagu Faron’s head clamored for his attention, the crashing of cymbals destroying the former orderly music of his mind. In the past, primitive societies would have said the voices came from God or the Devil, but as acolytes of a great man of science and reason, they both knew differently.

“Perhaps it was the daguerreotype in the library. An all too potent reminder,” said Lowther.

“Since this business began, he has been most savagely beset by his demons.” Sebastian lowered his head to examine a flake of coal on the floor, laboriously filed down with sandpaper until it had become as thin and transparent as a sheet of notepaper. He straightened, putting a bony hand at the base of his spine. “You saw to it that Strathmore received the proper directives?”

Lowther nodded. “To the letter.”

Sebastian leaned his hip on the table at his side. He flicked a glance over a small dish at his elbow displaying a frog, its foot spread out and pinned to show the circulation of its blood. He pursed his lips in contemplation of the amphibian. “I fear this is simply the beginning. Faron will never be satisfied. He is manifesting all the signs of morbid obsession, I’m afraid.”

“And we’re to do his bidding, as always. Although I don’t quite understand Strathmore’s involvement.”

Sebastian continued addressing the moribund frog in its distressed state. “You and I both. What I do know is that Faron has been following Strathmore’s progress these years past with feverish intensity. As we both realize, that intensity is prompted by envy, curiosity and, quite possibly, a desire to punish.”

Alexander Francis Strathmore was known as England’s preeminent adventurer and explorer, conversant in at least nine eastern languages, discoverer of Lake Tanganyika in Africa, chronicler of exotic mountain ranges and rushing rivers, a man with a reputation for being both fearless and relentless in his quest for knowledge.

Everything that Montagu Faron had been and was no longer.

Lowther exhaled sharply. “I begin to understand. However, why would Strathmore allow himself to become involved in these desperate machinations? The man has everything he could possibly desire.”

Sebastian flicked a finger over the frog dismissively. “You believe so, do you, Lowther? Then you have not learned as much as I from Faron.” He added abruptly, “Think on it. Clearly Faron has something that Strathmore covets.”

Lowther held up his arms to indicate the room and its contents. “You are suggesting something of a scientific nature?” he asked.

“Whatever else?” Faron was wealthy beyond belief, damned by a family fortune that gave him unrivaled power and had led him down the darkest of paths. Sebastian leaned away from the table with its scientific offerings that many believed blasphemed the work of God. “What we have here is a Faustian dilemma,” he continued, “wherein a man will sell his soul to the very devil to gain the knowledge he craves.”

“What knowledge are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that Strathmore knows Faron has the original Ptolemy maps.”

“I have yet to set eyes on Ptolemy’s Geography,” said Lowther, refering to the ancient Greek astronomer and author of an eight volume treatise on physics, mathematics, optics, and geography. Ptolemy was renowned for having created a world map one hundred and fifty years after the birth of Christ, but it was believed that none of his maps had survived.

Sebastian knew otherwise. “The volume exists, believe me, including the world map.” Scholars in the fifteenth century had recreated Ptolemy’s map using the instructions in his work which explained how to project a sphere onto a flat piece of paper using a system of gridlines. “And it is not a replication but the original,” he emphasized.

“The original? How is that possible and how did Faron come by it?”

“Who knows? But we can be certain Strathmore wants it. He wants it enough to do anything to get it. From what Faron has told me, Ptolemy compiled his geography of Africa based on the writings of Marinus of Tyre who recorded the Greek trader Diogenes’s travels over land from Tanzania. In it he described two great lakes and a snowy range of mountains from which the Nile, purportedly, draws its source. He also made the first recorded rendering of the Mountains of the Moon.”

His heavy brow furrowed, Lowther said, “Understandably irresistible to a man like Strathmore. But the question remains—why has Faron taken such an interest in Strathmore, baiting him with promises of the map?”

“He has his reasons. He always does,” said Sebastian, who had first heard of Faron while studying at the Sorbonne in Paris. “And he requires someone without scruples who will conclude this situation with the Woolcotts.”

“A further mystery—this Woolcott situation. Why a man with the vision of Faron occupies himself with such seemingly petty concerns, stemming from some perceived injustice perpetrated years ago—although it is said that his injuries stem from—”

Sebastian interrupted. “As I said earlier, Faron does nothing without purpose.” Lowther was English and could not begin to understand the complex mind of his French master.

“If I might ask,” began Lowther carefully, “does this matter involve Faron’s…” He searched delicately for the right word.

“Injury?” supplied Sebastian. Without waiting for Lowther’s nod, he continued. “Suffice it to say, your tracking down the Woolcotts at Montfort was much appreciated. Faron has been at a loss for many years, unable to determine their whereabouts.”

Lowther did not fail to notice that Sebastian had not answered his initial question. “Faron has demanded that Strathmore furnish proof of Julia Woolcott’s death. Clearly, he is serious about the matter.”

“Without doubt,” agreed Sebastian tersely. “At least when he is lucid, Faron knows the measure of a man.” He paused deliberately. “You may count on it—Strathmore will not disappoint.”

Alexander Francis Strathmore, the younger son of the Earl of Dunedin, gave Julia Woolcott an hour to prepare.

Procrastination was not in his repertoire but for some reason he preferred to ignore the evidence of the entertainment underway in Wadsworth’s opulent halls below. The subdued hum of crystal and china hung in the air, a backdrop to the troop of silent servile feet making their way through polished hallways. Dinner had been served unfashionably early, to ensure plenty of time for the main course the assembled guests were slavering for.

Not that Strathmore gave a damn. Whatever Wadsworth had planned would hardly be shocking to a man of his experience. Boredom was the more likely enemy. He loosened the unfamiliar tightness of his cravat, shot his cuffs, and hovered in front of the heavy oak door, behind which Julia Woolcott stood prepared. Bloody hell, it was like serving up the proverbial sacrificial lamb to the angry gods. Embarrassingly easy.

Worldly, Miss Woolcott was not, despite her self-proclaimed bookishness. Damned irritating, that. He’d never liked bluestockings or whatever they called women who spent more time with their heads in dusty volumes than was wise. That was it—on the shelf. He wondered whether the term was still in use. It had been some time since he’d observed his own culture, whereas he could discourse at length on the sexual practices in Somalia, the politics of the Sufi order, or the geologic formations underlying the Nile.

Strathmore paused again, crossing his arms across his chest, straining the superfine of his evening coat. What the hell was going on with him? He’d made a life out of being a rakehell, exploiting his unhealthy curiosity and unsettling ability to learn exotic languages and dialects, to scale mountains and cross deserts, to absorb more by living in a place for one month than others would perceive in years. He’d been summarily exiled from Oxford and dishonorably discharged from the East India Company. He was more at home on an expedition disguised as an Afghani physician than at a country house weekend, for God’s sake, saddled with a spinster with nerves as thin as parchment.

Yet something nagged at him. Why had Faron chosen Julia Woolcott? There had to be a reason, though he was damned if he knew. Or if it even mattered. Miss Woolcott was a small price to pay. He allowed images of staggering mountains, cobalt rivers, and sultans’ palaces to shimmer in his mind’s eye, effectively overriding any lingering and inconvenient spasms of conscience.

He gave the door a sharp knock and, not waiting for a response, pushed it open. He took two steps, then stopped. Julia did the same, reaching blindly for her discarded nightshift, crumpled at the foot of the bed. But Strathmore had already received an eyeful, taking in the startling length of slender white thighs, delicately turned calves, as well as the full, lower curve of her buttocks. Her unbound hair fell like a shimmering curtain into a tumble that reached clear to her hips. Arms as slender as reeds clutched the nightshift to her breasts. Her violet eyes blazed beneath raised brows.

It was then he knew that he would not kill her. The realization was as blinding as the sun at high noon in the Kalahari desert.

“This,” she seethed, gesturing violently from her neck to her hips, “is impossible!”

He knew exactly to what she was referring. The midnight blue silk of her gown, if one could call it that, fell in a diaphanous array around what was a totally and unexpectedly lush female form. The acres of gray wool and the muslin shift of the night before had done little justice to the long slender legs and narrow waist now displayed to his eyes. Desire, as unexpected as an oasis in a wasteland, shot through him.

Julia’s eyes widened and her lips emitted deep gusts of outrage. “No shift, no petticoats, not even a corset,” she hissed at him, turning and affording him a magnificent view of her backside. He had thought her too thin, and she was, except where she wasn’t.

He took a moment to consider. True, he hadn’t had sexual relations since his return to England but celibacy didn’t trouble him, at least not since his time in a monastery in Tibet, a transformative experience during which his mind had been trained to rein in an unruly body. So what was it, precisely, that caused him to hesitate?

His eyes slid up her body to her elegant face, which save for the generous mouth, had hardly hinted at such erotic beauty. She eyed him expectantly over one pale, exposed shoulder.

“That’s the idea,” he said, making his voice pleasant. “A certain dishevelment is what’s required. Although I can absolve myself from guilt—I had no hand in choosing your garments.”

“Then who did?” Her reproachful expression indicated her notice that he was thoroughly clothed.

He felt the pull of his black evening coat across his shoulders—a trifle too small. Since he was no longer accustomed to full evening regalia his London valet had done his best to outfit Strathmore in a short time.

For some reason he found himself staring at Julia Woolcott’s lush full mouth, as he stood stiffly, legs braced wide and thighs tensed, just inside the door. Incapable of moving and feeling like an intruder was not at all what he’d intended. He had never claimed to be a gentleman and had long ago made peace with the hypercritical and largely illogical societal standards of his class. It could not explain why he was suddenly undone by the outraged histrionics of a nervous female who should have at least five children and was instead staring at him as though he was the very devil. Which he was, in fact.

Faron. The name pulsed silently through Strathmore’s mind. The assignment was relatively simple for a man who had crossed a desert on foot, had lived for six months with a tribe of Bedouins, and could recite the Lord’s Prayer in Sanskrit. More than anyone, Strathmore knew the random nature of life and death. He needed to distill his goal to its essentials. He parsed it out to himself. Ensure that Julia Woolcott met a spectacularly sordid end. Earn Faron’s trust and gain entry to his inner circle.

But he would not kill her.

There was no time to examine his motivations. “No doubt Wadsworth’s hostess for the evening chose your gown,” he said finally. Before she could protest further, he offered her his arm. She looked as enthusiastic as a cat approaching a tub of water.

“The hostess is not his wife, obviously,” she said. “I can’t be seen in public like this.”

“Then you’ve changed your mind.”

She slowly turned to face him, her arms covering her breasts. Her lips met in an unforgiving line. “I didn’t say that exactly. What I would require is at least a chemise. My own is soiled and would not fit beneath this garment.” He saw the problem—the sheath she was wearing was so tight it wouldn’t allow but the finest layer underneath.

In fewer than thirty minutes, it wouldn’t matter. Because she would be naked anyway. But Strathmore didn’t think it was the right time to apprise her of that eventuality. He recalled that Miss Woolcott could be surprisingly volatile. Keeping her calm and compliant would make his task all the easier. In a fluid motion and before she could dissent, he slipped off his evening jacket and placed it over her shoulders.

It enveloped her instantly and he bit back an expression of regret. He’d enjoyed the sight of those slender legs outlined in silk the color of midnight. He did not want to begin to imagine her breasts. It was a disturbing juxtaposition, the elegance of her face and the sumptuousness of her body.

Startled, Julia clutched the lapels of his jacket.

“Better?”

She nodded but her eyebrows rose cynically. “Of course. I’m feeling much more comfortable like this.”

“We can always say you are chilled,” he supplied.

She cleared her throat, her slender fingers whitening against the dark superfine of his coat. “Before we depart, perhaps you can enlighten me as to the evening’s…program.”

Perhaps the opiates would have been a better choice, he thought darkly. Instead, he said, “You strike me as an intelligent woman, Miss Woolcott, so surely you must surmise the tenor of the evening, judging from what you saw last evening.”

Her chin moved up a fraction. “We shall take dinner with the other guests…”

Except that they had already finished with the charade of food. Strathmore guessed they would be deep in their cups and ready for their play to begin. Miss Woolcott’s inquiries highlighted his dilemma now that he’d decided he would not kill her. As was his norm, he made a quick decision. “Indeed,” he lied crisply.

“Who are these guests, Alexander, this august circle of Wadsworth’s?” Dwarfed by his jacket, she said his name carefully. Her tone was light but her words flickered with tension, reminding him that he didn’t know her and couldn’t presume her mood or predict her actions. Hers was an unusual temperament, equal parts volatility and reticence. Why she was important to Faron, or more specifically, why her death was important to Faron, mattered little, he reminded himself. The story, like so many other stories, was ultimately insignificant.

The large four-poster bed with its heaped pillows loomed in the background. Strathmore had already dismissed the idea that Julia Woolcott was the Frenchman’s former lover. His instincts were infallible, and the woman had clearly known no man. That she would come to a sordid end disturbed him, and suddenly, he fought an overwhelming urge to quit the opulent room and the baroque plans awaiting Julia Woolcott at his hands.

Her low voice cut through his thoughts. “I have decided my wisest course will be to make the rounds, meet Sir Wadsworth’s guests, and then plead a headache as an excuse to bid a quick good night and make a hasty retreat.”

He glanced at her sharply, the back of his neck tightening. The ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantle seemed louder. “I shouldn’t have thought you interested in the identity of Wadsworth’s guests, Miss Woolcott.”

“Then you supposed incorrectly,” she said stiffly.

How utterly resolute she looked, despite her absolute fragility. He could crush her if he so chose. Swathed in his coat and barefoot, she seemed no older than a child and she exuded a ridiculous vulnerability that set his teeth on edge. It occurred to him she might be foolish enough to search for Faron among Wadsworth’s coterie. Why? He said carefully, “As I mentioned earlier, knowledge can be dangerous. At evenings such as this, discretion is highly advisable.”

“Discretion? In this instance, isn’t that the same thing as looking for a curate among a den of thieves? Since you are so reluctant to divulge the reason for my being here at Eccles House, I have little choice but to find answers on my own.”

Her gaze sharpened and he was suddenly beset by an image of her behind the camera’s lens. He had, of course, witnessed examples of the craft of daguerreotype, but his experience had not included encounters with women brandishing lenses, shutters, and related paraphernalia. With one hand still on the lapel of his evening coat, she continued to examine him with what he could only call a practiced eye, reflexively coiling her hair into a simple knot at the base of her neck. The woman was not in the least vain, he noted, and recalled his mother, whom he hadn’t given a thought in years. Outrageously beautiful, monstrously flighty, and monumentally empty-headed, Lady Alicia Broughton Strathmore had led his father in an evil dance.

Miss Woolcott fastened her hair with a final twist of her free hand, not bothering to look for a mirror. “You are, I take it, exceedingly comfortable with the mores of such events,” she said, “but then, of course, why else were you chosen to be my escort?” She huffed away from him, sweeping up a pair of slippers from a cushioned settee. Still clutching the lapels of his coat over her breasts, she slid her narrow feet into first one and then the other shoe.

Why indeed? Strathmore smiled tightly. He was beginning to believe she might prove more valuable to him alive than dead. Perhaps Julia Woolcott would lead him to Faron. The strategy held a strong appeal, suddenly.

“Let’s be done with this, shall we, Miss Woolcott?” He proffered his arm, his muscles tensing against the cool of her hand where it rested on the cambric of his evening shirt.

“And all will be well?” She turned her face to his, her skin as finely grained as silk, her wide eyes as shuttered as a camera’s lens.

“You have my word,” he lied smoothly. And judging by her small smile, they both knew it.

“Here you are at last,” boomed a surprisingly little man, almost as rotund as he was tall. “Keeping our Miss Woolcott to yourself, you devil. Now you know that is simply not permitted.”

Reluctantly, Strathmore handed Julia to Sir Simon Wadsworth, who proceeded to settle her into one of the salon’s deep chairs. Around them elegantly attired couples perched on sofas or chairs, some braced against the richly paneled walls, all sipping from delicate crystal flutes filled with champagne. To the last one they exuded a look of louche boredom, unimpressed, despite the lavish surroundings and the impeccably attired footmen catering to their every whim.

After several discreet introductions, Wadsworth fixed his eyes, underscored with heavy, purple pouches, upon Julia. “Now, my dear, I heard of the contretemps yesterday which, I take it, has been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. Unfortunate that you missed yesterday’s entertainments.”

She bowed her head slightly, feigning embarrassment. “Most assuredly,” she murmured. “I was overcome by the strain of travel,” she demurred then lifted her gaze to glance admiringly at her surroundings. Her gaze fixed on the hall’s enormous panels, each depicting a different scene from Greek mythology. There was winsome Persephone, a beauteous Diana, spear raised. And in the far corner, Hera staring off angrily into the clouds.

Wadsworth chuckled meaningfully. “The strain of travel? I thought perhaps a little lovers’ quarrel? Adds spice, does it not?” he continued. “Regardless of the reason for your absence yesterday evening, I am pleased that you’re quite recovered, dear girl.”

“Miss Woolcott tends to high spirits at times,” added Strathmore and then for good measure, “It’s her penchant for drama that attracted me to her in the first instance, I believe.”

Wadsworth’s eyes bulged with anticipation. “A highly spirited filly, eh? Hot blooded? But clearly not an actress, what with that innocence about her. From the countryside, eh?” he speculated, clearly pleased. The countryside, in his experience, offered discreet but reliable entertainments. Governesses turned out on the doorstep because of an ill-advised affair with the scion of the family or even, he licked his lower lip in anticipation, fallen daughters of ministers, or young widows impoverished by hard times. This one had that look about her, a debauched innocence what with those lips and legs. “I encouraged everyone to find an escort with the proper, shall we say, temperament for our little soiree.” He leered enthusiastically, his short-sightedness an excuse to move in closer to Julia. “Well done, Strathmore.”

Julia’s shoulders stiffened. Whether from first hearing his family name from his unflattering description of her temperament, or from Wadsworth’s proximity, Strathmore wasn’t sure. But he did know, instinctively, that it was his opportunity to set the groundwork for what was to come. Word would get back to Faron that Julia Woolcott was given to fits of pique, perhaps even possessed of an ungovernable temper.

Julia lowered her lashes, hiding a blaze of awareness. Strathmore. The name meant something to her as it did to most of England. Although it was most likely his older brother who came readily to mind, not the younger scion who had decamped for exotic climes over a decade ago.

“I much appreciated the invitation from Lord Strathmore,” she said, coolly addressing Wadsworth. “It does one good to get out and about, does it not? Rather than rusticating in the countryside as is my tendency. Please do tell me a little about Eccles House and your guests.”

Julia did not know what she was asking. Wadsworth launched enthusiastically into a lascivious tale about the estate, which had hosted, not quite one hundred years earlier, a colorful array of rakes, libertines, courtesans, and adventurers who had enjoyed despoiling the manor house with alarming regularity. “Indeed yes, my great grandfather’s guests raced through the dark forests of the countryside for frenzied couplings or libidinous meetings in ruined abbeys, erotic gardens, and underground tunnels. I should be pleased to be your host at any time, my dear, should you care to see some of the more interesting follies.”

Julia remained amazingly composed. “What an interesting family, sir. I do recall hearing of your great grandfather who, it has been written, fornicated his way across Europe on two Grand Tours, causing scandals from St. Petersburg to Constantinople.” She added serenely, “As I understand it, he was also a member of Parliament.”

“We do try to keep up the tradition,” chortled Wadsworth, whose family continued to hold the seat though he never bothered to attend Parliament. “Why, I recall old Edgar, as we in the family call him, would use Eccles house for all manner of carnal misbehavior.” He warmed to his subject. “From what we know, he would gather his guests for twice weekly bacchanals and my goodness, there are stories of aristocratic women traveling from London to join the frolics dressed as nuns. Comely local nymphs were enticed, so it is told, to lie quite bare on the altar of lust.” His jowls trembling, he continued heartily. “And of course there were the caves.”

Julia tilted her head to one side inquiringly. “The caves? I do recall hearing of abandoned chalk mines in the area.”

Wadsworth, thought Strathmore with a twinge of irritation, was more than pleased to oblige his captive audience with an excruciatingly detailed explanation. “You are quite the scholar, my dear,” sighed Wadsworth admiringly, his cheeks ruddy with enthusiasm. “My great grandfather had ordered the caves built in the 1750s, converting a chalk mine into elaborate tunnels and grottoes going down over three hundred feet. He was very imaginative, I must say, with a bridge built over a subterranean river which they christened the Styx, naturally, and an elaborate entrance with a façade to evoke the nave of a church. Quite an exemplary effort, and as I offered earlier, I should be delighted to be your escort should you choose to experience some of our unique sights first hand, my dear.”

“Most kind of you to offer, sir. But I do believe the evening’s entertainments hold enough excitement for the moment, as do your guests with whom I should like to become better acquainted.”

Strathmore experienced an unexpected flare of temper. Julia Woolcott was indeed looking for someone. Faron. Dangerous for her, of course, but easier for him. He tamped down his inexplicable irritation.

“Indeed yes, my dear, I should be more than pleased to make introductions. As I am certain Lord Strathmore has informed you, we hew to a certain protocol that requests we do not divulge names once we leave the estate. We endeavor to keep our diversions private. To protect the innocent.” With that last statement, Wadsworth let out a bark of laughter.

Strathmore tensed, watching Julia survey the room. Faron had chosen her for a reason—and she, no doubt, knew it.

“That includes you as well, Strathmore, despite the reputation that precedes you,” said Wadsworth, continuing with a bonhomie that made Strathmore think of a snake charmer he’d once met in the Sindi province of India. “You’ve been outside the country for a time. Up to all manner of interesting diversions, no doubt.”

“I’ve been away some years,” Strathmore said, accepting a glass of claret from a passing footman who glided by as discreetly as a ghost. He preferred brandy but finished the claret in one mouthful. It had been some time since spirits had warmed his belly.

Wadsworth chuckled. “Indeed, indeed. I’ve been keeping abreast of your explorations, young man. Is there any truth to the rumor that you infiltrated the walled city of Ethiopia, Harar to be exact, a land forbidden to foreigners? That would make you the first white man to enter and leave alive.”

Strathmore nodded. He didn’t add that he and his followers had been hunted through the desert back to the safety of the coast, barely surviving the trek. If Miss Woolcott was surprised at the revelation, she let on with only a slight tightening of her full lips, which curved in seeming appreciation of Wadsworth’s prattle.

The older man, flushed with brandy and anticipation, continued. “More specifically, we’ve heard tittle-tattle about your latest project, the news of which has already made the rounds in select circles. Although I should suppose the Royal Society won’t be quick to invite you to discuss it publicly.” Wadsworth stroked his belly, tautly encased in blue velvet. Then he turned to the elegant blonde who had appeared behind him. Her delicate fingers clasped around her flute, she sipped slowly, all the while keeping her gaze glued on Strathmore with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Quite a rousing read what, Felicity?” continued Wadsworth, with a wink toward the blonde before turning back to Strathmore. “Is it any wonder I saw fit to invite Strathmore to my little gathering?”

“You have found me out,” said Strathmore smoothly, assuming the characteristic air of a man who took without asking, a man as at home in luxury as he was in a bedouin tent. He knew his size and demeanor alone commanded the attention of the room, precisely what Faron had intended. Two other gentlemen drifted into their circle, scenting new prey, their gaze all but pinning Julia to her seat. She almost looked relieved, her eyes darting around the room as if to reassure herself the evening was proceeding along rather pedestrian lines. No one had yet divested themselves of clothing or flung themselves buck naked on one of the overstuffed divans lining the wall.

A narrow-faced, balding man, who introduced himself only as Robertson, gave Julia a lingering nod before lifting his flute high as if to toast the revelries to come. “I have not read it myself although I have heard that your translation captures the flavor of the original brilliantly, Strathmore,” said Robertson, snagging another flute of champagne from a passing footman and offering it to Julia with a familiarity that bespoke intimacy. She released the grip on Strathmore’s evening coat to accept the drink.

Wadsworth’s smirk widened. “Expect you’ll be able to show us a thing or two, eh Strathmore? Living with savages does have its benefits, I should say.” Like an orchestra’s conductor, Wadsworth lowered his numerous chins to cue laughter all around. Strathmore didn’t have to confirm that Julia had paled beside him, her eyes glowing with an abnormal intensity.

She took a sip of the champagne and then said, “Clearly, the younger son of the Earl of Dunedin is a talented man.”

“You pay me a great compliment,” Strathmore murmured, acknowledging to himself that she knew very well his family provenance. “You’ll have me blushing any moment now.” She stole a sharp glance. Their eyes met and he had the distinct feeling she had been awaiting the opportunity to glare at him. “Of course you know of my illustrious family,” he murmured with hushed intimacy meant to send a shiver through her. His fingers closed over hers on the arm of her chair.

That she knew his identity was of little import. Even he had difficulty attaching himself to his family name. From a young age, he’d thought himself a foundling, tall and dark while his older brother was slight and fair. He had little in common with his father, the absent-minded wraith, who frittered away his time on gentlemanly pursuits, forever unable to capture and hold the attention, or the fidelity of his beautiful wife.

The blonde hanging over Wadsworth’s rounded shoulders sighed with admiration. “Do tell us more about the translation of this exceptional compendium,” said Felicity Clarence slowly, a strange half-smile twisting her thin red lips. Her sloe eyes narrowed on Strathmore. “From what I understand, there are several chapters on the stimulation of desire, types of embraces, caresses, kisses, marking with nails, biting, slapping by hand and”—she paused with the drama familiar to an actress—“on copulation.” She leaned over to present the full thrust of her smile and heavy bosom. “Or better still, you could demonstrate.” Her eyes glittered like diamonds. “Later.”

The man at Robertson’s side, who called himself Beaumarchais, concurred. Tall, with a lacquered elegance that extended from the brilliance of his pomaded hair to the patent shine of his shoes, Beaumarchais gave a guttural sigh. “A superb suggestion, my dear. Who knows what the night will bring?” he said, directing his words at Julia. But it was the lifting of his dark brow, the insolent drifting of his eyes over her form that prompted the subtle yet defiant uptilt of her chin.

Strathmore felt another unfamiliar spurt of irritation. Julia’s face was unreadable when Beaumarchais’s gaze seemed to linger on her breasts hidden in the shadows of Strathmore’s evening coat. Normally, he was slow to anger, but something in the cool hauteur of Julia’s face set off a series of small explosions in his chest. He clenched his jaw, the annoyance a foreign emotion. Wadsworth droned on while Strathmore began contemplating the more concrete details of getting through the evening successfully. He reached for another drink—brandy—and studied Julia over the rim of his glass, then drained it.

He was getting soft. He’d already decided that he wouldn’t kill her and now he was hesitating fucking her.

God damn himself to hell and back. He was not an unlucky man but for some unforeseen reason, all logical thought had fled him the moment he’d laid eyes upon a dreary spinster who trailed in her wake the aroma of musty books, copper, and iodine. He was acting like some damned Lothario, strung as tight as a bow, because of a woman who conjured, of all things, feelings of protectiveness. He nearly spewed his last gulp of brandy onto the carpet. Protectiveness? He knew better than anyone women’s capacity for cruelty. They truly were the stronger sex.

He considered Julia Woolcott, meeting her eyes for a moment, like the glancing of fencers’ foils. She was untried, his gut told him. He hadn’t expected that. He hated virgins, never had one before in his life, not even when he was offered the youngest daughter of the Sultan of Perak, and he was not about to start.

He pretended to listen but didn’t hear the words tumbling from Miss Woolcott’s lips as Beaumarchais and Robertson leaned over her like two slavering dogs with a bone. He listened as Beaumarchais regaled her with details concerning Wadsworth’s cache of lewd memorabilia including erotic drinking vessels and phallic sculptures made of precious stone. Robertson invited her to join him the following day to discover the contours of Wadsworth’s secret garden wherein the shrubbery resembled the female form, with two hills topped with pink flowering shrubs and a tightly cropped triangle of forest.

Strathmore forced himself to straighten away from her chair. Nothing marred the serene innocence of her expression. No coquettish guile. No flirtatious smile. Only the concentrated, intelligent gaze that, he convinced himself, hid more than it revealed.

Fuck. What was he going to do?

Somewhere in his peripheral vision, the sinuous Felicity hanging on his arm, Wadsworth clapped his meaty palms, his pronounced jowls and heavy joviality urging his guests to be seated. The heavy double doors dividing the salon, embossed with cavorting nymphs and satyrs, began to open slowly, as if by unseen hands.