Lord Libertine. Gail Ranstrom
slackened and her face froze in a concentrated study of Isabella, as if entreating, even in death.
“No…” Isabella moaned as her knees began to buckle. “No…no…”
Lord Wycliffe came forward and braced her. “Come away, Miss O’Rourke. We shall wait for your mother in the matron’s office.”
But at that very moment, her mother and sisters rushed through the ward toward them. “Bella! Bella! Say it isn’t our Cora! Say there has been some awful mistake.”
“Mama…”
Isabella tried to stop her mother and sisters from going to Cora’s bed, from seeing what had been done to her, but they swept Isabella aside, knocking her back against Lord Wycliffe. A long keening wail broke over the ward as her mother threw herself over Cora’s lifeless form. “My baby! Oh, my darling child! Bella, how could you? How could you have let her come to this?”
“I didn’t know—”
“It was your duty to know!” Mama buried her face against Cora’s chest and sobbed, her words barely distinguishable as she said, “Itshouldhavebeenyou. Why couldn’t it have been you?”
The words, stark in their sincerity, cut into her heart and made it impossible for her to breathe. She turned away from the gruesome scene, and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Eugenia and Lilly clutched each other tightly, but Isabella had never felt so alone in her entire life.
Lord Wycliffe, a complete stranger, offered her the only comfort she could find. He slipped an arm around her waist to support her and murmured some indistinct platitude. Grief, anger, pain and loneliness filled her as she silently renewed her promise.
Rest in peace, Cora. I will avenge you.
Chapter One
London, July 2, 1821
“What are we doing cooling our heels at a masquerade when we could be kicking them up at a witches’ Sabbath?’ Tis summer, Hunter. There’s got to be something better to do. Some prank, some diversion.”
What, indeed? Andrew Hunter yawned and scanned the crowded ballroom at the Argyle Rooms. A masquerade, and he and his friends had not bothered to wear costumes or even dominoes. What a sad state of affairs, when he could not think of anything at all to interest him—here or anywhere else. Well, it was bound to have come to this sooner or later. He had not left much undone, untried, untasted.
Henley nudged him again. “There’s going to be a black mass in the tombs beneath the chapel at Whitcombe Cemetery. If you know of another…”
Andrew took a deep draught of his brandy and then shook his head. “None better than the Whitcombe Sabbaths. Go on without me, Henley. I think I’ll make an early night of it.”
“Early night? Are you ailing, Hunter?”
Ailing? Is that what one would call boredom to utter distraction? Aye, then, he had a bloody terminal case of boredom. “It’s all hogwash, Henley. Pretend and make-believe. Witches’ Sabbaths, cock fights, bear baiting, whoring…”
His friend gave him a sage appraisal. “We need to find you an interest, Hunter. A cure for the doldrums.”
“Lord save me!” Andrew laughed. “You are going to suggest a woman, are you not?”
“Nothing like a willing lass to lighten your cares, eh?”
He considered the suggestion for one brief moment. Then even that palled. How many women had he had in the last year alone? How many assignations and seductions? How many illicit flirtations? God help him, he’d lost his appetite for even that.
When his older brother, the Earl of Lockwood, had married barely four months ago, Andrew had taken a small town house. He had no wish to hang about the family manor and watch Lockwood’s domestic bliss—comical as it was. His brothers, James and Charles, had also rented flats to grant the couple their privacy. Whatever restraint had been placed on Andrew by his elder brother’s presence was now gone. Perversely, the freedom to indulge his slightest whim had robbed him of the pleasure.
All the same, he felt an odd restlessness tonight, an air of expectancy. Something unusual was in the offing, but he suspected he wouldn’t find it in the usual places. “No,” he said at length to Henley’s suggestion of female companionship. “Think I’ll see what’s afoot at the club, then stumble my way home.”
The look on Henley’s face was amusing—as if he could not believe his ears. “Have you become that jaded, Hunter? We used to live for nights like this. Why, look! All around us, men and women are looking for mischief.”
Once again, Andrew surveyed the crowd. Spirits were high, it was true. Hiding identities behind costumes and masks gave license to lewd behavior. Or was it summer and the long warm days that loosened one’s morals? Whatever it was, it was present at tonight’s gathering and would likely be present at the many balls, soirees, musicales, fetes, fairs and pleasure gardens in the days ahead. But…
“None of it is new, Henley. Just the same old thing wearing different guises.” Lord, how he wished for something new—anything that would drag him from his constant state of numbness.
“Pshaw! There’s plenty of variety. Why, this is the first year Lady Lace has made an appearance.”
“Lady who?”
Henley inclined his blond head toward a group in one corner. Lively conversation punctuated by laughter carried to them. In the center stood a diminutive woman dressed in black silk and masked by a black lace-edged domino. She was slimmer than he liked, and not nearly as buxom, but she had a certain allure about her. She waved one graceful hand in front of her face in a dismissive gesture, and two fair young men backed away. Two more took their place, including his friend Conrad McPherson.
Andrew narrowed his eyes to peer through the dim candlelight. Yes, she was thin, but not so thin that she could not fill out a gown. And though she lacked a deep cleft between her breasts, milky white swells hinted at what lay beneath the lace ruching that trimmed her décolletage. Chestnut-brown hair tied up in black ribbons would have been drab if not for the gleam and glints of fire in the curls left to dangle down her back.
“Intriguing,” he muttered. “Tell me about her.”
Henley grinned, no doubt pleased he had snared Andrew’s interest. “She is called Lady Lace, always wears black and has, thus far, evaded revealing her true identity. They speculate that she is from the north. Yorkshire, perhaps, or Scotland or Ireland by the faint trace of a Gaelic accent. She has not been long on the scene—a week, perhaps—and some say she is the widow of a country peer. Others swear she is a courtesan looking for her next protector. All we know for certain is that each night she appears, she favors a man with a kiss. And what a kiss! No sisterly peck on the cheek, but one deep and full of promise. Why has she never chosen me, I ask.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “A device designed to make people talk and men anticipate her arrival. She is nothing if not a very canny businesswoman. Mark me, she will make a choice soon, and the poor devil will pay through the nose for it.”
“You are without a mistress at the moment, are you not, Hunter? What say you give it a go?”
“She’s not my usual fare. Not enough meat on her bones.”
“You might want to try something new, eh? What a coup to make away with the most sought-after woman of the season. Quite a difference between her and the schoolgirls invading town to make their bows.”
Did he care about a coup? No. But the thought of revealing what lay beneath the black weeds and lace held a certain appeal. He was not ordinarily competitive, but the idea of claiming a woman who did not behave like a schoolgirl and who would not act coy for a marriage proposal was alluring. Pray she was not a courtesan looking for a protector. He had just paid a generous congé to the last. “Go on to Whitcombe without me, Henley. I’ll catch up to you later.”
Isabella