Читать книгу Seduction & Scandal - Charlotte Featherstone - Страница 10

Even in death she was beautiful. Her porcelain skin, drained of color, rendered her angelic. Her hair, which was fanned out over black velvet, shone silver beneath the moonlight, reminding him of shimmering silk threads as it dangled over his arm. He lowered his head, inhaling the scent of all that luxurious hair, imagining it gliding along his body, his hands cupping handfuls of curls.

So still she lay that he could not bear it, and slowly he raised his face from her hair to touch the cold alabaster cheeks that were plump, the becoming flush he had seen no longer there. He bent to kiss the lips that were no longer pink. A goodbye. A parting. Their mouths touched, hers cold, his colder. Death’s eternal kiss …

Black awoke in a rush. He was sitting up in bed, the darkness shadowing his walls, a scream burning his throat.

He had dreamed of her. She had been lying dead in his arms, her delicately flushed skin devoid of color and warmth. The pliant body he had felt in his arms was stiff, unyielding. The sparkle in her green eyes gone, replaced with an opaque veil that clouded her eyes.

Dead. He couldn’t bear it.

Breathing heavily, he threw the bedcovers off and stood, reaching for the black velvet dressing gown that lay draped over a chair. Shrugging into it, he belted the sash around his waist, covering his nakedness as he went to the window, resting his forearm on the frame. Flickering light illuminated the window in the mansion across the street and his fingers, which had been lax, curled into a fist. It was her window—Isabella’s.

He still had the scent of her lingering on his fingers. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her as she had been only a few hours before, sitting with him in the maze, her lashes lowering, her lips parting in invitation. She had been a vision there in the dark, in his arms, her softly rounded body melting into his. He had seen desire in her haunting green eyes, had felt it heat the skin he had not been able to resist touching.

The scent of her aroused him, clouded his mind. He’d wanted her. Fiercely.

Damning as the admission was, he could not lie to himself. He would have taken things further tonight if Isabella had not pulled away from him. And what business had he, a man of experience, to pursue an innocent virgin?

For the hundredth time that night, he cursed himself for a fool. Asking her to dance had been a mistake. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself. For so long he had hungered for her, keeping his distance. For too long he had stood at this very window, blending in with the shadows, wishing night after long, interminable night that he might see her beyond the glass.

It was strange, this feeling. His body actually warmed at the thought of her. It had been years since he had felt anything but coldness—emptiness. His life had become one of isolation, rumor and speculation. He was cursed. He knew it, had accepted it and used that comprehension to erect the ice that now surrounded his heart. Yet one glimpse of Isabella was enough to begin thawing the thick, frigid layers.

He’d only ever had a job to do, duties to see carried out. It was those obligations that had brought him back to London. It was those duties he should have been seeing to this evening when he was dancing with Miss Isabella Fairmont.

But she had looked too damn lovely and irresistible to avoid. In her lilac gown, which was sparsely adorned, she stood out to him from amongst all the fluffy, overly embellished women who had flocked to his side. She had been elegant standing there, her hair pulled up in a loose cascade of curls. He had liked her hair like that, enjoyed the way it allowed him to see the long column of her throat, which had been adorned with a diamond and amethyst choker. He had wanted to kiss the bounding pulse that beat a furious tattoo beneath the skin she had perfumed. He wanted to feel the delicate beat of her heart against his lips. Her body against his—her flesh, flushed with passion, warming him. But that was madness.

So was standing here in the dark, hidden away in his home, waiting for a glimpse of her. He smiled, thinking of her sitting on a settee, her legs folded beneath her as she wrote feverishly in her journal.

He had seen her that way before, scribbling away while the wind blew her hair and mist hovered around her. But that had been another place—another time. He could not allow her to know of that—how he had watched her.

Hers was a fertile imagination. And a considerable threat. There was no telling what might happen if Isabella discovered anything about him. In truth, she was too perceptive, and he had spoken too freely tonight.

Still, he could not regret those moments in the maze, or the hunger for her that suddenly felt insatiable. She was young—an innocent. He was older, experienced, a connoisseur of all things forbidden. He had no right to even gaze at her, let alone kiss her in a maze. Even as he realized the dangers of doing such a thing, he knew he would go to her again—soon.

“My lord, you’ve been summoned.”

He had not heard the door to his chamber open, a fact that should have disturbed him, but he could not work up the remorse. He’d been too busy reliving his dance with the delectable and highly desirable Isabella Fairmont.

Billings, one of only a handful of servants he employed, padded wraithlike across the Turkish carpet. “I’ve sent round for the carriage. Shall I lay out a fresh suit and cravat, my lord?”

“No, thank you, Billings.” He gazed to the corner where his brindle-colored English mastiff, Lamb, lay snoring by the hearth. “Take him outside, will you, Billings?” A shadow flickered in Isabella’s window, and his gaze was drawn to the spot of movement like a moth to a flame. “No, on second thought, I’ll do it.”

“As you wish, my lord,” his faithful retainer murmured as he backed out of the room.

“I’ve been summoned by the Brethren, then?”

“You have, milord. Sussex’s seal was on the carriage door.”

He snorted, hating to leave his spot by the window and a chance he might see Isabella wearing a transparent nightrail with her hair unbound, spilling about her shoulders. “I suppose the carriage is waiting in the street.”

“It is, my lord.”

“Well then, they shall have to wait, for I have something to see to before I go.”

With a snap of his fingers, he awoke his pet and signaled for him to follow. Dressing quickly in a shirt and trousers, Black moved through the darkness, descending the steps of the winding staircase, and headed for the kitchen, and the door that led to the garden. He knew where he was going and what he wanted.

So did Lamb.

Off into the darkness the mastiff loped, chasing a rabbit that had ventured into the garden. Himself, he made his way down the path to a rosebush. One lone rose bloom wavered on a tall stem that waved back and forth in the chill October breeze.

Carefully he snapped it off and brought the delicate bloom to his nose. It was a heady scent, and he stood there for long minutes with his eyes closed, bringing the sweet aroma into his lungs. Isabella had smelled of roses. The scent had been in his head all night, ever since the moment he had captured her hand during their introduction.

There were few things he was certain of, but of two things he was one hundred percent convinced. He wanted her. And he’d find a way to have her.

“Our greatest fear has come to fruition,” a voice announced behind him.

“We have feared many things since the Brethren Guardians came to rest in our hands,” he replied, savoring the last images of Isabella as they floated away.

“I think you know I’m here on business that cannot be delayed.”

Out of long habit, Black flicked his gaze to each of the darkened corners of his back garden. No place was truly safe. “I will meet you at the lodge and we can discuss it there.”

“I’ve already ensured the garden is secure,” Sussex snapped. “You will meet with me now.”

Irritated by the anger he heard in Sussex’s normally controlled voice, Black slowly turned and allowed his guest to see the savagery in his eyes. “What do you want, Sussex? I thought we decided that it’s not prudent to be seen in each other’s company. Do you not remember the rules of the Brethren?”

“Damn you! I know them every bit as well as you do!”

“Then why are you here? I thought we settled our business upon leaving Yorkshire.”

“They’re gone.”

Twirling the stem of the rose between his fingers, he inhaled the delicate scent as it whirled around him. “What is gone?”

“The chalice and pendant.”

Black’s gaze narrowed, even as the hairs on his neck rose in alarm. “When we took them from Yorkshire, we hid them away where they could never be found—only the three of us know of the catacombs beneath the lodge. How can they be gone?”

“How the hell should I know?” Sussex snapped. “When I learned that Wendell Knighton had unearthed some artifacts from Solomon’s Temple when he was in Jerusalem, I feared he might have come across some information of the existence of the artifacts. Naturally, I went to ensure the chalice and pendant were still hidden beneath the Templar church. They were not there.”

“And what am I to do about it?” Black grumbled. He had never wanted anything to do with protecting the whereabouts of the legendary chalice and pendant. But both Sussex and himself had been charged with their protection, a behest from both their fathers. Sussex’s father had hidden the chalice, and Black’s had kept the pendant. Both artifacts had brought nothing but death and grief to both families since the time their Templar ancestors had returned from the Holy Land, carrying them—charged with the task of keeping them hidden from the world.

Never tell what you know. Never say what you are. Never lose faith in your purpose, for the kingdom to come will have need of you and your sons.

It had been the mantra—and curse of his family, and that of Sussex’s. Those words had literally been written on his flesh, branded into his soul. He could never forget, because it was who he was. Who he would always be. What his sons would one day become.

“You forget, we vowed allegiance to hide them from the world. And if someone has found them—if they know of what their true purpose is—”

“I’m fully aware of what could happen, Sussex. I just don’t happen to believe it.” His faith had died years ago—along with any desire to carry on the family legacy.

“Your beliefs are irrelevant. We must find them and make sure that no one discovers their powers. I’ve already summoned Alynwick. He’s coming with the scroll.”

“I know, I saw the marquis at Stonebrook’s soirée tonight. He’s a Highland brute and people were staring. He’ll cause a bloody scene and people will begin to talk. If it’s known he’s associated with either one of us, there could be speculation—especially if Knighton uncovered anything about our forebears in Jerusalem.”

Sussex shrugged. “He is part of this, isn’t he? It’s his knowledge of the old order that we need. He has a right to be here, to help us find the chalice and pendant.”

Indeed he was. Alynwick and his forebears had been in charge of keeping the ancient religious text safe, and well away from the chalice and the pendant. The text, which was in the form of an ancient scroll, was the third artifact that had been carried out of Solomon’s Temple by their Templar ancestors. The scroll was said to have the power of prophecy and alchemy, and contained the secrets of how to bring the powers of the chalice, pendant and scroll together. It was said that to possess all three, and their knowledge and power, was to rule supreme. Black had never believed, but there was that time, once, when he had held the black onyx pendant with its strange symbols marked in gold in his hand, and began to wonder if what his ancestors had passed down from generation to generation, son to son, was not true. He had felt something … heard something … a voice calling, whispering to him, tempting him with all he might have.

He’d been grieving at the time, Death had surrounded him, come in threes to take those closest to him. He’d assumed what he’d heard had been nothing but grief and despair. But now, ten years later, he began to wonder whether the pendant really had magical properties.

“Those are Templar treasures coming,” Sussex reminded him, “and we need Alynwick’s help if we are going to be able to keep London safe in the event that whoever has stolen the chalice and pendant discovers their powers.”

“Safe,” he murmured, gazing at the sky, thinking of Isabella. “Death follows me like a cloud, Sussex. No one is safe from my family’s curse.”

“We’re all cursed,” Sussex grumbled. “But that hardly matters now, does it?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Sussex raked an unsteady hand through his dark hair. “Tomorrow the ship from Jerusalem arrives. Be there to find out what Knighton has unearthed. Report back as soon as you discover anything. We must be very careful, Black.”

“Aren’t I always cautious?”

“Tonight you weren’t.”

He glared at Sussex. “Some could accuse you of the same.”

“Just keeping tabs on what could be a very inconvenient discovery of our involvement.”

Black laughed, a deep sound of jaded weariness. “Is that what you’re calling Lucy Ashton, an inconvenience?”

Resentment flashed in Sussex’s eyes. “You needn’t concern yourself with her, I’ll manage her,” he snapped, and Black felt the duke’s possession in every word.

“You’ve fallen for Lucy.”

“Of course I haven’t.”

“Your tone says otherwise.”

“My tone is exasperation, Black. The young lady is far too intelligent and nosy for her own good,” he grumbled. “I can’t allow her to discover anything about the artifacts—or me.”

“What makes you think she knows anything about the artifacts?”

“She’s been plaguing me with questions about the Brotherhood and the Grand Lodge. She’s enamored of its secrets and I’m afraid she might just uncover that our family has been using Freemasonry as a way to keep the secrets they found in Solomon’s Temple buried. Miss Ashton has a hunger for knowledge, and it scares the devil out of me. She’s started attending séances and spirit meetings, for God’s sake. There’s no telling what lengths that single-minded miss will go to in order to indulge her quest for answers.”

“I’m sure you have charmed her out of seeking any further answers.”

“She doesn’t care for me.”

Sussex sounded hurt—and defeated. Oddly, Black found he relished the knowledge. Misery did love company, for his desire for Isabella was just as hopeless as Sussex’s for Lucy.

“She is only playing at the supernatural, Sussex. It’s in vogue, after all, and Lucy Ashton is a forerunner in society. It is innocent curiosity and a cure for interminable boredom. Trust me, the girl hasn’t stumbled upon anything.”

“Oh?” Sussex reached into his jacket pocket, then tossed something into the air, which Black caught. Uncurling his fingers, he studied the gold coin that sat in the palm of his hand.

Facing up was the image of laurel leaves and a lyre. On the other side was a six-pointed star with the words The House of Orpheus imprinted around the coin. Frowning, he stared at the image, wondering where he had seen it before. There was something very familiar about it.

“Still think we have nothing to worry about?” Sussex snapped. “I told you back in Yorkshire that someone was after the chalice and pendant. I could feel it.”

Black looked up sharply. “What is this?”

“I found it in Lucy Ashton’s reticule. So, you tell me, is it nothing to be concerned about?”

Black had no desire to question why the blazes Sussex was snooping in Lucy’s purse, but he was curious about the coin, and its ominous nature.

“I’ve seen this before—not in the past, but recently,” he murmured. “The image has been modified, but only slightly.”

“So you remember the House of Orpheus, and its rogue leader?”

How could he not? Sussex’s and Alynwick’s fathers, not to mention his own father, had been the ones to shut down the club that had been created to mirror the old Hellfire Club of the last century. The leader had been a rogue Mason, but more importantly, he had been one of them. He had been the fourth Templar—the one whose ancestor had ambushed the other three while they lay sleeping before they left the holy city after stealing the artifacts. He’d been killed, or so they thought. All three Templars had believed their secret safe, buried with the body of the fourth. But then, after discovering the House of Orpheus, their fathers had been confronted with the fact that there was someone else out there, someone who knew of them and what they protected—and the prophesized powers they contained. Someone had wanted the artifacts twenty years ago—and someone wanted them now. Perhaps they even had them in their possession.

“Our fathers put an end to the infamous cult years ago. It cannot be the same one.”

“Damn you, Black, because you wish it to be so doesn’t mean it is. Whether you want to believe it or not, the club has been resurrected. Along with the coin, I found a piece of paper. On it was written, ‘Now you have died and now you have come into being. O thrice happy one, on this same day. Tell Persephone that Orpheus has released you.’”

Black froze. “That was the initiation rite.”

“Indeed. Someone knows of us—there are too many similarities to be a coincidence.”

“Who?” Black growled. “Who could have learned of the club and resurrected it? Who could know of the relics besides us—or the fact that the catacombs beneath the Masonic lodge lead to the crypts of the Templar church? Our fathers made certain its existence was kept secret. Perhaps this new House of Orpheus has no connection to the relics.”

“That is the answer we must discover.” Sussex’s eyes grew unreadable. “We must take every precaution, Black. No one can learn of us, or what our families are responsible for.”

Black tossed the coin back to Sussex. “You think Lucy is involved, don’t you?” And dear God, if Lucy was involved, there was every possibility that Isabella was, too.

Pocketing the coin, Sussex glanced up at the sky, to the moon that was being overtaken by a thick, black cloud. “I do not know what to believe. But if this club is returned, and the artifacts are missing, then we have much larger problems than I first thought.”

“I’ll go to the docks in the morning and search the ship.”

“Alynwick will meet you there. I’ll continue to research this coin. The next Masonic meeting we’ll talk. We’ll meet in private after it and discuss what we’ve learned.”

He inclined his head and made to move past Sussex. Lamb was standing on the path, his huge tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. The dog was as ugly as a demon, and his name a bit of folly, but the canine gave him some amusement. He found himself wondering what Isabella would think of his pet beast. She was a kind and loving person; he was certain she would smother Lamb with a shocking amount of affection. It was strange how ordinary things suddenly made him think of Isabella. And after only one dance.

Sussex reached for the sleeve of Black’s shirt as he went to pet the dog’s head. “Find a way to keep Knighton close to you. I don’t trust him.”

The image of Wendell Knighton flashed before him. He was courting Isabella, a fact that made him see red. Black wanted to tear the young archaeologist from limb to limb, not take tea with him. One thing was certain, he would not attend Knighton while the fool was wooing Isabella. There were limits to what he could stomach, and Isabella falling for Knighton was not one of them.

“Your word. Keep him with you—alive.”

“Of course,” he drawled. “But you will remember that I’m cursed. Death has a way of following me.”

Sussex’s dark gaze met his. “He follows us all. Let us hope that this time, we have a head start.”

“Sussex,” Black said, “I’ve seen that very image on the coin, in the last few days. I can’t for the life of me remember where, but I’ll trace my steps and see where it leads me. I’ll let you know.”

Nodding, the duke raked a hand through his hair, then leveled his gray gaze upon him. “I have your word that if you discover any connection with Miss Ashton and this club, you will keep it to yourself. Lucy’s—er—Miss Ashton’s reputation must be protected at all costs.”

Sussex disappeared amongst the shadow and the faint glow of the gas lamps that lined the street. Glancing down at his hand, Black lifted the bloom to his nose, and began to think of the coin and the familiar image. Where had he seen it? The scent of rose almost immediately made him forget about Sussex and the Templar artifacts that were missing, and instead, brought him back to the dance he’d shard with Isabella.

“The last rose of summer,” he murmured idly as his finger stroked the velvety petals, and he knew just what to do with it.

“MISS FAIRMONT,” Isabella’s maid, Annie, announced from the door. “There’s a gentleman here to see you. I’ve put him in the back parlor, for he smells like the Thames.”

Isabella’s brows raised in curiosity as she glanced at the clock on her rosewood writing desk. “It’s only eleven.”

“A trifle early for calls,” Lucy moaned as she flung herself back onto the heap of pillows that lay on the bed. “Doesn’t Mr. Knighton realize that there is a proper way to call, and it is not before a lady is breakfasted, or dressed?”

“Should I send him away, miss?”

“No,” Isabella announced, rising from her chair in a froth of white sateen and lace. “Help me out of these bedclothes, Annie. It won’t take me long to dress and be ready to receive him.”

“I will return right shortly, miss. Just let me go and tell the gentleman that you are at home.”

The door shut behind Annie, and Lucy groaned. “Men! They do know how to put a pall on a perfectly good morning, do they not? I was utterly enchanted by your story, Issy. Now I must wait to hear what happened when your heroine sat on the bench, suffering beneath Death’s lascivious stare.”

Isabella glanced at her open journal. There was much more there than her story of Death and his mysterious lady on those pages. There were her penned memories of last night, in the maze with Lord Black—which somehow had found their way into the newest writing of her novel.

Closing the cover, she shut the tiny lock with a click and wrapped the key around her wrist, which she held on a delicate bracelet of black jet. She trusted Lucy not to go prying into her personal writing while she was below, taking tea with Wendell. Still, though, she could not allow the events of last night to get out. While she knew that she was not yet in love with Wendell, she cared for him, would not want to jeopardize what might possibly turn out to be a marriage proposal. She also didn’t want Wendell to discover that she had been out with Lord Black, allowing him unmentionable intimacies—and enjoying them. More than enjoying them, she finally admitted, but dreaming of another evening with him and perhaps allowing even more scandalous intimacies than a lady of good breeding and sound sense would ever dare think of allowing a gentleman.

But dream she had. All night, in fact. Her sleep had been fitful, the dream at times sensual, but then turning darker, dangerous. Black had featured in her dreams, and this morning she was paying for the hours of restlessness. She had the beginnings of a headache, the type that were brought on by her dreams. She didn’t believe it to be one of those dreams—the sort that had plagued her since she was twelve.

“I’ll come down with you,” Lucy announced as she rolled onto her side and slipped from the bed. “I’ll fetch Sibylla and meet you downstairs.”

At the mention of Lucy’s maid, Isabella felt compelled to ask, “Has Sibylla arranged for you to attend any more séances?”

Lucy’s green eyes shone as brilliant as emeralds. “Sibylla has the same deep interest in mysticism and spiritualism as I do. I do not care a fig that she can’t dress my hair for anything, for she can find the most diverting amusements. Where she hears of these things I’ll never know—but I won’t be the one to ask her, for she has kept me amused for a month.”

“Lucy …” Isabella warned. “You’re evading the question.”

“Oh, all right then, yes. There’s to be a séance tonight, and guess where? Oh, it’s going to be so brilliant,” Lucy cried as she ran to her and reached for her hands, squeezing them hard in her exuberance. “Imagine this, Issy, a séance in Highgate Cemetery! First we will do our séance, and then at midnight, and beneath the full moon we will walk amongst the headstones and see if we might not conjure up an apparition! The medium is to be Alice Fox, directly descended from the Fox sisters. So you know it’s not going to be a sham. Oooh, I can hardly wait.”

“Uncle will forbid it.” And thank heaven for that, because Isabella had no desire to spend the night at Highgate Cemetery, with anyone directly or indirectly related to the three sisters who were considered responsible for making England crazed with spiritualism.

“Father is at his Masonic lodge meeting tonight. So he won’t even know.”

“Lucy—” Isabella began as her headache began to thump in her head.

“There’s to be an initiation tonight, I heard father telling his valet this morning. You know he’s out at the lodge all night whenever there is an initiation. He won’t even know about me going out, and we’ll be home well before father returns in the morning.”

Dread suddenly consumed her, while her head pounded mercilessly. At first Lucy’s interest in spiritualism had been amusing, and nothing concerning. Mysticism was fashionable, and Isabella had assumed that Lucy was following suit. But lately, Isabella had noticed a change in her cousin. She wasn’t quite as jovial and laughing. Her conversation seemed focused solely on séances, and spirit meetings, and all other kinds of things that Isabella had no desire to dabble in. Who, or what, was Lucy searching for when she went to these things? It was a bad omen to court the dead—and Death, she added.

Isabella could no longer put aside her intuitive feelings. She could not help but notice that Lucy’s increasing hunger for séances had seemed to begin with the arrival of Sibylla a month ago, which also coincided with Mr. Knighton’s courtship.

“Lucy,” Isabella said softly, trying to find the right words. “Are … are you by any chance … lonely?”

“Of course not!” her cousin gasped, but Isabella saw the widening of her eyes. “I have far too much to do to allow loneliness to get in the way.”

“You would tell me, wouldn’t you, if … if …”

“Goodness, Isabella, I’m just fine. Now, allow me to dress and take tea with your Mr. Knighton. A rousing rendering of the contents in those dirty old crates from Jerusalem will be just what I need to liven up my morning.”

“Lucy, please do not make a jest of Mr. Knighton. It is only that he is very proud to be the one to have discovered the secret tomb beneath the temple. His treatise has been published in all the history papers, you know.”

“I know,” Lucy drawled, “and really, I am rather excited to discover what he’s brought back. Honestly,” she said with a laugh. But Isabella stuck her tongue out, and Lucy let out a very unladylike snort. “All right, I’m wondering how I’m going to stay awake and not snore or drool while he’s enlightening us yet again with stories of his Holy Land escapades. Really, Issy, how many times have you heard them?”

“A few,” she admitted, “but I take comfort in the fact that Mr. Knighton can undoubtedly carry on a conversation. I’m quite certain that we will not be sitting across the supper table staring at each other in stony silence.”

“Issy,” Lucy whispered. “I think I’d prefer Mr. Knighton’s silence to another story of the Holy Land.”

“Lucy!”

Her cousin stuck out her tongue and ducked before the pillow Isabella threw could hit her. Lucy, drat her, did have a point. It was rather difficult to keep smiling and laughing when she had heard the same story for well over a month now. Certainly something of import, or excitement, would soon come along to make Mr. Knighton’s conversation not quite so … singular.

ISABELLA SENSED something was wrong. Wendell was pacing the length of the parlor with long, agitated strides. He’d removed his hat, and carried it in his hands, which were clasped behind his back. His dark chestnut hair was rumpled, as well as his suit jacket and trousers.

The air in the parlor smelled strongly of fish, seaweed and the musty hull of a ship. Three things that were not conducive to the temperament of a hungry morning belly and aching head.

“Wendell,” Isabella murmured as she closed the door to the parlor. He stopped pacing and whirled around to look at her. With a laugh, he threw his hat onto the rose-colored settee and in three strides reached her, wrapped his arms around her waist and twirled her around in a rather uncharacteristic show of mirth and impetuousness.

“My goodness,” Isabella gasped, then laughed. “It must have been quite a haul in those crates.”

His brown eyes flashed as he set her back onto her feet. “You are looking at the newest recruit to the Masonic Grand Lodge, London.”

Isabella’s mouth dropped open. “Did my uncle—”

“Black,” Wendell announced as he sat on the settee and crossed one long leg over the other. “I encountered Lord Black on the docks this morning. We chatted for a bit and he invited me to the lodge. He’s sponsoring me, Isabella. I can hardly believe it. A Mason. A member of the Brethren.”

He clapped his hands and whooped in delight and Isabella couldn’t help but notice how young and handsome he appeared, with the sunlight filtering through the windows, casting him in a brilliant glow. “My first meeting will be tonight. I can hardly wait. You know of my interest in the Templars, and it’s no secret that the Freemasonry, or at the very least, Black’s lodge, practices the Templar ways. Rumor has it, that this particular lodge was opened by members who could actually lay claim to being descended directly from Templar knights!”

“Something must be very exciting,” Lucy announced as she breezed into the parlor, wearing a celadon-colored morning gown. “I could hear the enthusiasm from the hallway.”

Wendell stood and bowed. “Good morning, my lady. Forgive the early hour of my call, but I could not contain myself.”

“Well, I can understand why. Isabella does look astonishingly lovely in pale pink. Ethereal, wouldn’t you say?”

Wendell’s smile faded as he cast a glance in the direction of the chair where she was seated, pouring the tea. Her outfit was a lovely pink bodice made of pleated silk, adorned with an ecru high lace collar that was at once extravagant but beautiful. The bodice fit snuggly, emphasizing her full bust, and the overskirt of pink silk damask was edged in thick velvet. It was something a grand lady would wear, not a poor Yorkshire girl. She felt like a sham wearing such beautiful things, but Lucy had made it for her, another one of her particular designs. Her cousin certainly had an eye for fashion, and the sewing skills to match. Lucy was a forerunner of fashion, and every debutante and fashionable lady strove to uncover the modiste who outfitted Lucy in such wonderful clothes. Little did they know, the modiste was Lucy herself. A fact that would shock society. No society lady would ever deign to make their own clothes—that was for the middling classes. Herself, she didn’t see what all the fuss was about, especially since her cousin’s sense of fashion and ingenious designs outshone anything she had seen done up by the seamstresses that outfitted the cream of the ton. But then, she had never been able to afford to contemplate such things. She’d counted herself lucky if she possessed a cloak without holes in it. Which very rarely happened.

A masculine cough ended her rumination. “Oh, yes, yes,” Wendell said hurriedly. “In my excitement, I forgot myself. You look lovely today, Miss Fairmont. Pink is a very fetching color on you.”

She handed him a cup and saucer, made out of Wedgwood china, which was so fine and delicate she could see through it as the sun’s rays sparkled through the salon windows. “Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Knighton. Really, my vanity can survive a morning without it being complimented.”

She sent Lucy a warning glance, which her cousin, of course, ignored. Sinking onto the chair beside hers, Lucy reached for a cup of tea and brought it to her mouth for a delicate sip before replacing the cup in the saucer with a slight chink. “You must tell us what is so exciting, Mr. Knighton.”

“I am to be initiated into the Brotherhood, my lady. The Masons,” Wendell said with a mix of pride and awe.

“Are you?” Lucy asked. “Did my father offer to sponsor you?”

“In fact, no. Lord Black did.”

“Black?” Lucy asked, her auburn brow furled as she glanced at her.

Wendell took a sip of his tea, then nodded. “Indeed, Black. Very amiable fellow. There is to be a special meeting tonight, an initiation which I will not be privy to. But before that, Black will offer to sponsor me.”

Lucy slid her gaze to Isabella. “Well, then, I do believe you are free tonight, cousin.”

Isabella hid a groan. Not that séance business again. Her head was paining her, and she felt queasy, and the thought of attending Lucy’s morbid curiosity only made her feel worse.

“Oh, yes, please,” Wendell said as he rose from the settee. “Please, Miss Fairmont, go out and enjoy the evening. There will be few nice ones left before the winter comes. Do not let my plans interfere with yours.”

Isabella accepted Wendell’s hand and allowed him to help her from her chair. With a chaste kiss, he kissed her hand, then reached for his hat. “Good day, Miss Fairmont. Please do enjoy it.”

They watched him leave the parlor, and when the door closed behind him, Isabella sunk into an ungraceful heap onto the chair. She felt … let down for some reason, but why, she could not fathom. Wendell’s visit had been like all his other ones, and she had never felt anything less then satisfied when he had left.

Lucy must have known her thoughts, for she kept her lips pressed firmly together as she toyed with an imaginary speck of lint on her skirts.

“I wonder what Lord Black is playing at, sponsoring Mr. Knighton?”

Isabella took a sip of her tea. “Perhaps he is just being kind, Luce. Not everyone has ulterior motives.”

Lucy’s gaze met hers. “Think back to our conversation last night, Issy. Did I not tell you that Black would not be deterred?”

“Deterred from what?”

Like a sly kitten, Lucy smiled. “You know very well from what.”

“In fact, I don’t. What is it you’re trying to say?” Isabella asked, irritability making her voice sharper than she intended. The mild headache she had been suffering under all morning became a loud and painful throbbing. Now she knew for certain, it was one of those headaches, she thought. Rubbing her temple, she tried focusing on her cousin.

“What I am trying to make you see, dear Issy, is that Black has just removed an obstacle.”

Isabella dropped her hand from her temple. “I beg your pardon? I’m not following your line of thinking.”

“He has removed Knighton from your side, and quite effectively, in fact, for Mr. Knighton will be studying for weeks to make it through the first degrees, thereby leaving you alone, and available for the evenings.”

The door opened, thankfully relieving Isabella of the task of rebutting Lucy’s wild suggestion. Stonebrook’s butler, Jennings, appeared, his face austere and wrinkled. He was ancient and frightfully proper. Isabella had been terrified of him when she had first come to live with Lucy and her father. But since that time, she had softened to crusty old Jennings.

“For you, miss.”

Jennings presented a silver salver with one perfect bloodred bloom, with an ivory card attached to the stem by a black satin ribbon.

“For me?” she asked, even though she could read quite clearly that the card had her name written on it, in bold, black lettering.

“Indeed,” Jennings murmured.

“Thank you,” she returned as she lifted the delicate flower from its resting place. Oh, it was perfect. And the sender had removed the leaves and thorns as well.

Jennings departed, and with a quick glance at her cousin, who was pressing forward in her chair, Isabella turned the card over and noted that there was no seal imprinted on the wax. The only thing keeping the edges together was a large blob of black wax.

“Well?” Lucy asked. “I can hardly bear the suspense, Issy. Open the blasted thing.”

“Your language,” Isabella reprimanded her, feeling every bit as anxious as Lucy.

“Oh, get on with it,” Lucy commanded. “It’s only you and I, for mercy’s sake.”

The wax seal broke, and she opened the card to more of the elegant black script.

‘Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh

To reflect back her blushes

To give sigh for sigh.

I dreamed of your sighs last night, Isabella—a most haunting, beautiful sound that I hope, most fervently, I might hear again very soon.

Your servant, Black

Isabella tried to hastily fold the card before Lucy could read it. But her cousin was too quick, and managed to read Lord Black’s missive before she could hide the card.

“Well,” Lucy drawled with amusement, “how could Lord Black know that you have a fondness for Thomas Moore’s poetry?”

Puzzled, Isabella looked up at her cousin. “I don’t know.”

With a smile Lucy breezed past her then stopped at the door. With a glance over her shoulder, she said, “You know, Issy, I would bet my dowry that Lord Black would not command you to see to your own amusement in the evenings—not like Mr. Knighton. Something tells me that Black would keep you exceedingly busy, and delightfully amused, all night long.”