The ringing of bells pierced the dream, and Isabella came awake with a start. The bells were the chimes of the library clock, the hour midnight. She was not alone. She sensed that. And when she opened her eyes, she discovered she was sitting bolt upright on the chaise longue. Her gaze flew to the right, to the wall behind where she sat, only to see that she truly was not alone. As the twelfth bell of midnight sounded, Isabella saw in the reflection of the mirror, the man in her dreams—Death. It was not Death, but Black.

She wanted to scream, but the sound would not come out. It was midnight, the moment when darkness was at its height and light at its lowest ebb. The exact moment when the mortal realm was linked to the other worlds. It was the time of day associated with chaos, the underworld and Death—and the creatures of darkness were most potent. It was also a time when it was most dangerous to look in the mirror in case the devil looks back at you.

And, dear God, the last chime had barely faded and here she was, gazing into a mirror, and seeing Black standing there, watching her, his pale eyes so reminiscent of the man in her dreams. The hero in her story.

“You’ve had a dream.”

The sound of his voice broke through her silent horror, and she allowed herself to fall back against the settee. “I did.”

“I tried to wake you when I realized it, but you couldn’t hear me.”

“Did I say anything?” Oh, how she would be utterly horrified if he had heard her sleep talking.

He shook his head, and came to sit beside her. He was sitting far too close, but his warmth, and the security she sensed in him, were welcoming.

“Tell me about it?” he asked. “Perhaps it might help to share what frightens you.”

“It was just a dream.”

“Not the same one from the afternoon?”

“No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t.” It was a completely different dream, much more sensual. Even now she was trembling, remembering what it had felt like to succumb to Death—Death who looked so very much like Black.

But how? she wondered. When she had started her story, she had never met Black. In her mind Death was already formed; he possessed those sea-colored eyes, and the black hair. Death was sophisticated and enigmatic, just like Black. But Death had been a figment of her imagination, and the earl…he was a flesh-and-blood man.

Black stood near the settee, watching her with unreadable eyes. “I hear a carriage approaching. It should be your cousin.”

Listening, Isabella could hear nothing above the din of her pounding heart. She was overwrought, was all. It was the effects of the séance and waking up to the chimes of midnight. Her imagination was running away with her, aided by her fatigue. She had always been rather imaginative and excitable. She wasn’t superstitious, she reminded herself. Discovering Black looking back at her in the mirror at the stroke of midnight meant nothing. He was not the devil and he was most certainly not…Death.

“Will you be all right if I leave you now?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. My lord, I cannot thank you enough, and must apologize for being such a reprehensible host. I was very poor company this evening.”

“You needn’t apologize.”

“Oh, but I must,” she said as she rose from the chaise longue. “I’ve been asleep for more than an hour.”

“An hour and a half, actually,” he said with a grin. A grin that played havoc with her mind—and body.

“Again, my apologies, my lord.”

He stepped closer and caught her face in his hands. He looked deeply down into her eyes and watched her carefully as his thumbs stroked the apples of her cheeks. “If you would apologize, Isabella, then let it be like this.”

His mouth caught hers in a slow, sensual melding of lips. His tongue slipped past and slowly danced with hers. It was a languid, lulling kiss, as if he had all the time in the world to savor her lips.

Just when she grew impatient, he deepened it, let his hand fall from her face to the back of her head where his fingers raked through her hair and anchored her for his kiss, which was now harder, more demanding than coaxing.

Her moan shattered the quiet, and did something to him. He was no longer controlled, but needy, frantic in the way his mouth sought hers. She gripped his waistcoat, pulling at him, bringing him closer. Their bodies brushed together, and she gasped, feeling his hardness pressed against her, while he groaned, pushing insistently against the softness of her belly.

The kiss lingered, slowed, until it was a seductive dance and Isabella clung to him, weak and needy, refusing to think of him leaving her in such a state.

“Black,” she purred, kissing him, meeting his mouth with her own urgent one.

“I want you,” he rasped as he brought her up close and held her tight. “I want to keep kissing you, to carry you up to your room and love you until the sun comes up, and then I want to make love to you and watch as the dawn creeps across the windowpanes, and over your body.”

She felt wild with need, and she clutched at Black’s hair as he kissed her neck and whispered those words between rasping kisses.

“Come to me,” he coaxed as his hand slid up her waist, to cup her breast. “Lie down for me and let me see you, taste you,” he whispered before curling his tongue behind her earlobe. “Let me be a part of you.”

The sound of the front door opening shattered their embrace, and with a groan, they reluctantly parted, attempted to school their breathing, when Black reached for her once more and kissed her, softly, reverently, before sweeping his tongue inside her mouth one last time. When he pulled back, he cupped her chin and brushed his thumb along her kiss-swollen lips.

“No apologies, for there was nowhere on earth I would have rather been tonight than here with you. Good night, Isabella.”

She reached for him, and he half turned, glancing at her over his shoulder. “I meant every word, Isabella. I want you to come to me, or let me come to you. Think on it,” he whispered. “Please.”

“Oh, good evening.” Lucy came to a halt just inside the doorway. Her gaze volleyed back and forth between Isabella and Black. Releasing her hold on the earl, Isabella watched as he passed by Lucy, mumbling good-night. With a slow smile, Lucy took in Isabella’s disheveled hair and gown and smiled widely as she half turned to watch Black’s departure.

“Why, Isabella Fairmont—” Lucy beamed incredulously “—you have, at last, been properly seduced!”

BOOT STEPS RANG on the marble tile of Sussex House, echoing off the high walls and domed ceiling. Inside the massive ducal town house, the servants were quiet and still above stairs. Only Hastings, Sussex’s butler, remained awake. It was well past midnight, but Black knew the duke would still be awake.

Black followed the young butler down the long gallery hall to the end where the glass conservatory lay dark and quiet. To the right was Sussex’s study. Outside, the wind had risen, and Black could see the swaying of tree limbs beyond the conservatory windows. The moon, which had been bright and full while he was at Highgate, was now obscured by thick cloud cover.

From deep inside the study, a log consumed with fire could be heard sparking and crackling—the sound beckoning one to pull up a chair and gaze into the dancing flames. The door was opened a crack, and Black saw the duke seated in a wingback chair cradling a glass of whiskey as he stared into the hearth.

“Your Grace,” Hastings called after clearing his throat. “The Earl of Black wishes an audience.”

“Send him in. I’ll see to the lamps and locks, Hastings. You may retire for the evening.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

When the butler had disappeared down the dark corridor, Black let himself into Sussex’s den and firmly shut the door behind him. The duke did not bother to look up from his contemplation of the fire, and Black went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. A double. He needed it.

The last two hours had been a lesson in torture. How he had managed not to awaken Isabella and ravage her was beyond him. He’d been sorely tempted on more than one occasion. Only the letter, and the mysterious House of Orpheus, had been motivation enough to sever his attentions from Isabella’s lovely sleeping form.

“I suppose you’re here about this séance business,” Sussex muttered. “Damn frightening seeing Miss Fairmont worked into such a state. I never thought she was the flighty sort, but she certainly was terrified.”

“Miss Fairmont has an unpleasant past,” he answered as he lowered his tall frame into a chair and made himself comfortable. He, more than any other soul on earth, knew that. He knew more about Isabella than she suspected, and if she ever found out, she would be mortified. In just one day, he was already learning how her mind worked. She would at first be frightened by the idea of someone having private knowledge of her life in Yorkshire, and then she would be humiliated—worried that perhaps he knew of her unfortunate event—which, of course, he did. But what she didn’t know was, he had witnessed it. Had been a part of it. It was that moment that tethered him so securely to her. His life before that was gone, faded into nothing. He had started living that night as a wintry gale blew into Whitby Harbor. It had been her, Isabella, who had made him look at his life through new eyes.

“What is in Miss Fairmont’s past that makes her so jittery, then?”

The duke’s question pulled Black out of his reverie and the memories of that night, the sound of the waves crashing violently against the shore and the rocks. The howl of the wind, and the stinging of the sea mist on his face. The frigid waters surrounding him.

“She is not a fan of the dark,” he answered, “or the speculative nonsense our Miss Fox was so successful at conjuring up.”

“You certainly timed your entrance perfectly. How did you know where to find her? I myself just happened upon them leaving Stonebrook, with nothing but Lucy’s maid for a chaperone, if you can believe it. Reckless, silly girl,” Sussex snarled. “She has no bloody notion of what could happen to her.”

“So you accompanied them?”

Sussex glared at him, his gray eyes the most turbulent he had ever seen them. “Of course. What would you have me do? Let them travel to Highgate alone? And then what? There was no telling what might have happened to them out there. They may have been robbed, or…worse.”

“No, you needed to be there. I beg your pardon, but it seems I am not myself tonight, either.”

Sussex blew out a ragged breath as he let his head fall back against the chair. He was looking up at the ceiling as he said Lucy’s name aloud. “If this is what love feels like, then it’s no damn wonder most rational men fear the state.” He glanced at him, his eyes troubled. “Damn me, Black, what the devil is the chit about? This is not some fashionable passing interest that Lucy is dabbling in. This…obsession with the dead and conjuring spirits is damn unsettling. I can’t fathom why it has attracted her so.”

“Why don’t you have a look at this.”

Leaning forward, Black pressed a folded news clipping into his hand. “What’s this?”

Sipping his whiskey, Black gazed into the fire. “Something of interest, I believe.”

He waited in the silence as Sussex read the clipping. It was eight months old, and he’d found it hidden away beneath Lucy Ashton’s mattress.

“A man found dead in a burned-out house in Bloomsbury. What of it?”

“This was hidden inside the paper.”

Fishing in his pocket, Black handed him a gold coin, an identical one to the coin that Sussex had found in Lucy’s reticule—not to mention a calling card, with the image of the House of Orpheus embossed on it. Sussex sucked in a breath, and at last met Black’s gaze. “Miss Fairmont?”

Black shook his head, suddenly unable to look at the man who had been his friend for years. “Miss Ashton.”

“Like hell,” Sussex snarled. He jumped up, his glass tumbling to the carpet, the golden liquid spilling onto the hardwood floor. “You bastard! You were nosing about Lucy’s room.”

“And Isabella’s,” he drawled. “And if you must know, I find myself feeling quite dirty for it, but there it is. Isabella dozed off on the chaise longue and I set about searching the house, not only because you had showed me the coin that was in Lucy’s reticule, but because I received this during dinner.”

Snatching the missive out of his hand, Sussex noted the familiar seal, the same image that was imprinted on the coin and the calling card. After he read the letter, he slunk back into his chair.

“Damn it, what has she gotten herself into?”

“I don’t know, but I’d wager the reason she keeps trying to summon the dead at séances is because that dead man had a connection to her. A rather personal one, I believe.”

Sussex’s face went molten, and in a most uncharacteristic moment of utter loss of control, picked up the glass and threw it against the mantel, smashing the delicate pieces into tiny diamonds that littered the floor.

“Goddamn it!” he swore, and Black held his tongue, letting the unsettling information sink in. If it had been in Isabella’s room, Black couldn’t fathom what he’d do.

“She loved him—must still love him,” Sussex muttered as he wiped his hands over his face. “That is why she is so damn reckless. So damn persistent in going to séances. She actually believes she might conjure his ghost!”

Sussex’s question needed no answer. They both knew why Lucy was suddenly so ardently pursuing the supernatural.

“And that’s why she can’t see me,” Sussex murmured. “Christ, I’m competing with a ghost.”

What could he say? There were no words to comfort his friend. The woman he loved did not love him—she loved another.

Sussex paced a path before the hearth. He was lost in the turmoil of Black’s discovery and Black said nothing, only watched as the wheels of Sussex’s mind turned. Finally he stopped and leveled him with a clear stare.

“And what has this dead man to do with the House of Orpheus? What does he or Lucy have to do with this letter that was sent to you? Is there any correlation to the Templar artifacts?” he asked, one question after another falling out of his mouth, as Sussex tried to make sense of it all.

“I don’t know. But one thing vexes me, however, and that is the purpose of the letter. If their intent was to harm either Isabella or Lucy, then why give me notice? Surely they would know I would follow, if nothing more than to see that they were unharmed.”

“Perhaps,” Sussex snarled, “someone has reasoned out you have developed a tendre for Miss Fairmont and therefore hoped that you would set out for Highgate and wring her neck for being so damn reckless, and thereby save them the trouble of doing her in themselves.”

“You’ve thought this through, Sussex. May I ask if you’ve thought of wringing lovely Lucy’s neck?”

“All damn night and now more than ever after discovering this clipping. Where did you find it by the way?”

“Under the mattress.”

He snorted. “Damn women, they’re all the same. The mattress. Most predicable place to hide something.”

Shrugging, Black took another sip of his whiskey. “It saved me time, Sussex. In the end, it was all I found. There was nothing in Isabella’s room, save a journal.”

“Did you read it?”

Black paused, and allowed himself a moment to formulate his answer. “Yes,” he lied. “There was nothing in it.”

He had found the key for the journal; it was hanging from a bracelet of jet. He’d opened the lock and stared blankly down at the pages. It was such an invasion of Isabella’s privacy. It was a book with her most sacred of thoughts. Her story. He had been so tempted, so very much wanted to read it, to know her as intimately as she knew herself. What he had read that night at Stonebrook’s ball was naught but a tease. He had desperately wanted more—still did. But in the end, he had shut the book, allowing her to keep her secrets.

If he thought that Isabella had anything to do with this, with the House of Orpheus, which may even be connected to the missing Templar artifacts, he would have bared her secrets. But he didn’t. All evidence pointed to Lucy, and the mysterious man in the newspaper clipping.

“So it seems it’s Lucy then,” Sussex murmured, and Black heard the pain in his voice. “There is no denying that she has some sort of connection to the club. At the very least she knows of it.”

“I would not have brought this to you if I thought there was another way.”

“No,” Sussex mumbled as he picked up the clipping and studied it. “You were right to. We have a task to do, and that is to find and protect the chalice and the pendant.”

“I’ll be having Stonebrook, as well as Lucy and Isabella, to dine with me tomorrow. I thought you might come along, make it feel as though it was just a dinner party. I was hoping…” He coughed discreetly. “I was hoping that perhaps you might find time to privately speak to Lucy. See what she knows.”

“Oh, I will be there, and you may be assured that I will corner the little baggage as soon as may be.” Sussex glanced up as Black rose from the chair. “You might consider inviting Wendell Knighton. My gut says that there is something with him. I know we’ve no evidence of it, but it’s best to have him close, observe his behavior and such. As there is a lodge meeting tomorrow night, we can make the dinner appear more of a celebratory fete for his initiation. No one will be the wiser. I especially do not wish to arouse Stonebrook’s suspicions. He’s old, but not senile. He’ll catch on if he suspects anything.”

“Agreed.” Sussex’s gray eyes pierced him. “There is still the matter of the letter. It’s strange, how did the writer know that Isabella would be scared witless by your entrance? All that talk of death, it scared the devil out of the poor girl.”

“I have no idea,” he murmured. “But I intend to find out.”

“How much does Isabella know of your past?”

Black’s heart dropped like a stone, plummeting to his feet. “I don’t know. I had hoped nothing.”

“I think that’s it, Black. Either you have gotten too close to Miss Fairmont, or she has become too close to you. Either way, someone wants you separated from each other. Why? It can only be speculated upon at this point, but I think it’s safe to say that someone is illuminating your past for Miss Fairmont’s edification. Someone doesn’t want you getting close to her.”

“Then we must find this person before he or she can ruin me in Isabella’s eyes.”

“I’ll begin with Lucy. I suggest you commence investigating that letter.”

“I believe I will—tonight. Hopefully Miss Fox will still be awake and eagerly expecting another specter from the grave.”