Chapter Fifteen

ATE IN THE night, Anne dropped to her knees before the fireplace in the library and fed six of the newspapers into the flames, grinding each page into ash with the poker. A kind of desperate fury governed her motions. Her heart leapt at every pop and hiss in the grate, as if they were footsteps behind her. She was certain someone would burst in before she was done. Someone would catch her. Then her fear, her guilt, her panic would give her away.

But no one came in. As the last page was reduced to charred scraps and dust, she sank back on her heels. Now every issue containing an article about Madame’s murder or the hunt for the missing prostitute—her—was gone. She should feel relief. But she didn’t. Perhaps she was learning she would never feel completely safe again.

Grimly, she waited until the fire had died down, then she left the library, closing the door behind her. She went to the stairs. The house was thankfully quiet, but her nerves were drawn so tight that even the reassuring stillness made her shoulders tremble. Devon had given a lovely guest bedroom to Caro and her husband, and their son was slumbering up in the nursery. Devon slept on a cot in the small dressing room that adjoined the master’s bedchamber. This way, she could be in the comfortable bed but be close by to soothe him when he had a nightmare. He still refused to try sleeping in the same bed.

She crept into the room, took off her robe, and slid under the crisp covers. Hours seemed to tick by. Twice she heard Devon moaning through the open door. She went to him, stroked him. To her surprise, he didn’t wake up. Her touch lulled him right back into slumber. But she couldn’t sleep. Her instincts kept telling her she must run. If she stayed any longer, she was going to get caught. The fear was irrational. In her heart, she knew she was willing, like an utter fool, to wait and wait, so she could stay with the duke. She would likely end up arrested as a result.

In the morning, she woke before he did. She was groggy, but there was no point in lying in bed for any more sleepless hours. She went to check on the baby. The nursemaid informed her that Lord Cavendish had already scooped up his son. He had carried the baby downstairs for his breakfast, then he and his wife were taking their leave.

“They’re going?” Anne echoed to the maid.

“They decided last night, miss. Rather hastily.”

A shiver of apprehension rippled down Anne’s back. Lord Cavendish had come from London; could he have realized she was the woman hunted by Bow Street? No—Lord and Lady Cavendish couldn’t know. If they had learned the truth, they would have told Devon immediately. Anne squared her shoulders and went to Caro’s room, to say goodbye to the woman who had, in defiance of all of Society’s rules, become her friend.

Sunlight streamed into the bedchamber. Three trunks sat open on the floor with fragile lace-trimmed undergarments spilling out of them. A bevy of gowns were strewn across the bed. Anne cleared her throat. Caro saw her and gave her a glowing smile.

There, she must be safe. Caro could not know she was a murderess and still smile.

She hurried in to help Caro and the two maids pack the trunks. Keeping herself busy worked wonders, she thought. She was convinced she was behaving quite naturally. But after a half hour or so, Caro paused and stared pointedly at her. “What is wrong? You are so jumpy and nervous. When the maid accidentally dropped the trunk lid closed, you almost leapt out of your skin.” Caro’s eyes widened. “Is something wrong with Devon?”

“No. I—I didn’t sleep well. I will miss you, Caro. Very much.”

Caro waved the maids out, then clasped Anne’s hands. She looked so serious that Anne felt her stomach drop. “There is something, Cerise,” she said, “but perhaps I shouldn’t say it.”

It couldn’t be about the murder—what could it be? “Please do.”

“We all hope Devon marries. I know he has said he doesn’t want to take a wife, because he is blind, but the whole family has been absolutely praying he will change his mind.”

“Yes. He should marry. He deserves to find a wonderful wife and to fall in love again.” Anne blushed. “He told me about his fiancée, Lady Rosalind.”

“He adored her! It thoroughly broke his heart when she died. Our mother is convinced that a happy marriage is the key to healing his heart and bringing him happiness. But Devon …” She squeezed Anne’s hands. “Devon said he would never keep a mistress after he was wed. He vowed he would not even have one while he was courting a bride.”

“Oh. You mean he will let me go.”

“No. It is obvious he cares for you very much. I wonder if he will be willing to let you go.”

“If he plans to marry, of course he will.”

Caro bit her lip. “If he knows he will have to give you up, Cerise, perhaps that will give him one more reason to avoid doing his duty.”

Anne had no idea what to say. Surely he would not let a mistress stand in the way of a hunt for a wife, if he was ready.

“He insists he must stay away from Society,” Caro said. “When I told him he seemed to be quite fine, he said his improvement is all because of you. He told me he may never be able to marry, because he may never feel he could be with a wife without hurting her.”

“I know he feels that way, but I think he can be,” Anne said.

“This will seem an odd request, especially given what it will mean to you, but could you help him realize that himself? Would you do that for us—for his mother and his sisters?”

Anne’s heart wobbled. How could she deny his family, who only wanted him to be happy? “I promise I will encourage him to go home, to go out in Society, and to begin courting. I will do everything I can to make him believe it’s possible.”

She spoke to Devon about it that night, when they were alone again. “You see,” she said crisply. “Nothing bad happened during your sister’s visit. You could go home.”

“No, I’m not yet ready.” It was all he said. All he would say for the next two days.

Finally, as they sat in his study two evenings later, Anne brought out The Mayfair Mansion and, in as throaty and sultry a voice as she could adopt, described a very sensual scene involving one gentleman and two bounteous courtesans. Then she snapped the book firmly shut.

“I will not describe another picture to you unless you cease to be so obstinate. You were afraid your nightmares would frighten your sister, but they didn’t. She was sympathetic, not horrified. As was Lord Cavendish.”

“Angel, you’re so determined to do this. Have you thought of what will happen to you? I thought you wanted to avoid London.”

“I do.” She shivered, relieved he could not see it. For her, it would be the best if he stayed in this house forever. But he had rescued her, and he deserved to be happy. “I—It’s just that I promised your sister I would try to convince you to go to your family.”

“You promised that?”

She waited for him to coolly point out she had no right to make promises, but he cocked his head. “If you’re so determined to get me back into Society, you must help me relearn some skills.”

“Skills? Which ones?”

He quirked a brow. “I was thinking of dice.”

“Dice!” she squawked. She was about to launch into all the protests she could think of, when she saw the twitch of his beautiful mouth. “All right. Do you wish to practice making wagers?”

“Exactly. Our wagers would be articles of clothing. Whoever loses has to remove a piece.”

“Indeed. And when would we stop?”

“When one of us is naked.”

Devon carefully explained the principles of hazard to her, but it seemed to be a game of complete chance to Anne. How could gentlemen wager such large amounts on something that depended on sheer luck and not skill? But she proved to possess a good amount of beginner’s luck. She had Devon stripped down to only his trousers when Treadwell suddenly pushed the study door wide.

Devon turned to the door. “What is it? I’m busy gambling away the clothes on my back.”

Treadwell bowed. He looked warily to her, and Anne shrank back on her seat. Why did he glare at her like that? Dear heaven, was the magistrate at the door?

“Begging yer pardon, Yer Grace, but Lord Ashton has arrived. He’s brought a woman he claims is the courtesan he hired for you in London.”

Devon heard Cerise give a strangled cry. An obvious sign of distress, but over what exactly? “What in Hades are you talking about, Treadwell?” he asked coolly. “The courtesan Ashton sent is sitting right here with me.”

“Not according to Lord Ashton, Yer Grace. I took him and the lady to the drawing room.”

“Has he brought me another woman? A second one for my collection?” That would be like Tristan. He never kept the same lover for more than a fortnight. Tris would assume two ladybirds would be more entertaining than one.

“No, Yer Grace. According to His Lordship, he hadn’t sent ye a woman yet. Just the one he brought. His Lordship said he couldn’t find the right woman at first. Said he had to sample the ladybirds on offer to ensure he brought ye one ye’d like.”

Tris had not sent Cerise. Damn, he wanted to see. He wanted to know what expression was on her face. “Can you explain this, Cerise?” Tension crackled through him, his muscles instinctively tightening as they did when he sensed danger.

“I … All right, I admit I lied to you.”

“Why?” Her voice had come from the right but farther away than it should have. She must have left the seat beside him. Was she backing away? Preparing to escape? “Come back here,” he growled. “Come and sit beside me, so I know where you are.”

Her skirts whispered as she returned. He could hear her fast, terrified breaths. “For the very reason I told you, Devon. I wanted to become a duke’s mistress. Your mistress, so I could escape London and the stews and the horrible life I knew at … at the brothel.”

“Still, I do not understand the necessity of the lie.”

“It was the only thing that got me through the door. It was only when I insisted Lord Ashton had sent me that Treadwell let me come in. I did it because I had nowhere else to go.”

“I made a mistake, Yer Grace,” Treadwell began, but Devon lifted a quelling hand.

“There was no reason to believe the story wasn’t true. You knew Ashton intended to send a woman. Right now I wish to speak to Cerise in private. Ask Ashton and his prostitute to wait, if they will.”

“Very good, Yer Grace.”

As soon as the door clicked shut, Devon rubbed his temples, where a headache throbbed with a piercing rhythm. “Did Ashton go to you? Were you one he ‘sampled’?”

“No!” she cried. The settee creaked as she sat, but he barely felt the cushion dip. She must have perched on it, far away from him.

“Then how did you know to use his name to get through my door?”

“I did not mean any harm by it, I promise you, Devon. Lord Ashton came to a woman I know and asked her to be your lover. My friend has a protector, so she turned down his offer, but I was staying in her house and I overheard her conversation with Lord Ashton. I saw what a perfect chance it would be for me. I came to you without anyone knowing of it. Yes, I used his name so Treadwell would let me in, but everything I’ve told you since then is true.”

It made sense. She had been desperate to leave Town and she had wanted to be more than a whore in a brothel. She’d wanted to move up in the world and find safety. She would want that whether she’d been a gentleman’s daughter, a governess, or a poor girl born in the stews. Why were his instincts on the alert, nagging him there was more? “Come.” He knew where she was by her voice. He grabbed what he hoped was her arm. “Ashton came all this way with a courtesan. I might as well show him I no longer have need of his gift.”

A burst of masculine laughter came from a doorway ahead, followed by a woman’s high-pitched giggles. Anne tensed. She knew Ashton and the courtesan he’d brought were only sharing a joke, but the raucous sound reminded her that people laughed and cheered around the gallows.

Devon stopped. “You’re afraid. I can feel your entire body stiffen.”

He felt that just through the touch of her hand on his arm? He had remarkable senses. “I told a lie involving this gentleman’s name. I fear his anger. I fear yours.”

His hand reached out, awkwardly found her cheek, and his thumb brushed her lips. Even in the grip of terror, she felt the answering tingle of her skin. She had thought he would throw her out as soon as she admitted she’d lied. Yet it appeared he would let her stay.

Delicately, his fingers touched her chin. He had found the tip of it readily and lifted it so she could look into his violet eyes. “I understand why you lied. You have nothing to fear from me if you are now telling me the truth.”

Oh, dear heaven, she felt how tense he was. He couldn’t look into her eyes and see guilt, but she was certain he was listening for it. If you are now telling me the truth. He didn’t believe her story. He knew she’d lied once, and he must suspect she was doing so again. And she was.

“After all that you’ve done for me,” he said softly, “I would not send you away.”

Yes. Yes, you will, and you’ll hear of my hanging without a bit of remorse because I had to kill a woman, because I was a murderess, even though I didn’t mean to do it. But Anne managed a quaking “Thank you” and prayed that didn’t give her away.

A flowery smell tickled her nose as they got near the door. Devon grimaced. “Scent. Ashton’s gift apparently applies it pretty thickly. Maybe she assumed it would help me find her.”

Anne looked at him quickly, astonished to see a grim smile. It felt like a mere heartbeat later that she was standing in the middle of the drawing room, while Devon explained to Lord Ashton the story she had told him. She had seen Lord Ashton at Kat’s—he was an angelic-looking man with white-blond hair and dark-blue eyes. The courtesan, Miss Lacy, was a very voluptuous, bold brunette.

“I am so sorry I used your name falsely, Lord Ashton. But I ran away—”

Devon held up his hand. “Miss Lacy, my dear, you must be tired after your travel. My butler, Treadwell, will escort you to one of the bedchambers, where you can rest.”

Miss Lacy perked up at the word bedchamber. She flashed coquettish smiles at both men, then followed Treadwell out.

Devon waved his hand. “Continue, Cerise.”

Anne took a deep breath. She hadn’t been able to fool Devon with her faked climaxes. Could she be convincing now? “I ran away from a brothel. You see, I had disobeyed my madam and I—I feared she would hunt me down and hurt me, or kill me, for my disobedience. I went to a friend, and she took me in. But my very presence in her house put her in grave danger. My madam employed brutish men to keep her girls in line. They would not think twice about killing an innocent woman because she was in their way or she knew too much.”

“Who is your friend, love?” the Earl of Ashton asked, drawing her gaze from Devon.

She couldn’t lie—Ashton would probably remember the courtesans he’d talked to. In this, she had to tell the truth. “My friend is Katherine Tate.”

“Kat?” Ashton echoed in surprise. “Kat took you in and protected you? Kat is an exotic beauty and highly skilled in the bedroom, but I never would have guessed she would help a damsel in distress. She is also a friend of March’s, which was why I approached her.”

“We knew each other … a long time ago,” Anne said. “Kat was very good to me. She explained to me the details of being a mistress. And she told me a great deal about His Grace. About how wonderful he was reputed to be as a protector.”

A low, dangerous laugh rumbled from Devon. “Wonderful? When I once told her I wasn’t interested in becoming her protector, she chucked a china shepherdess at me.” He sighed. “Angel, I want the complete truth from you. What did you do to this madam of yours?”

Her heart froze. What could she say? “I—I helped …” Oh, God, she couldn’t think of anything to say but the truth. Some of it, at least. “I helped three of her newest girls escape. The girls were innocents and Ma—my madam had hoped to auction their virginity.”

“Very noble and brave,” Lord Ashton commended.

Devon lifted a brow. He was listening intently, and she felt as if he could hear her very thoughts. “Indeed,” he said softly. “Not surprising. But I doubt she would kill you over that. She might beat you and force you to—” He stopped. Raked his hand through his hair. “I want you to go up to bed, Cerise. I’ll join you soon.”

She had to leave. But what would Devon and Ashton say once she’d gone?

Devon smelled the smoke of a cheroot. “Intriguing,” Tris remarked. “She told you I had sent her so she could have the chance to become your mistress.”

Her story was entirely believable and highly sympathetic, so why had his gut clenched the way it would before the first cannon blast of a battle? Hell, he’d practically smelled her fear, and he knew the distinct aroma of it from the war.

“Who is she, Dev? She spoke of living in a brothel, but she’s no dockyard tart. She speaks like a lady.”

“She claims to be a housekeeper’s daughter, one who lived on a country estate but ended up in London’s stews. I’m beginning to wonder if that’s a lie also. I intend to find out.”

“I find her fascinating,” Tris said.

“She’s mine,” Devon asserted.

Tristan’s swift, knowing laugh raked over him. “You answered that one quickly. Don’t worry. I’m a guest in your house. I would never dream of poaching on your preserve.” With the groan of a man relaxing in a chair, Tris asked, “So, is it any different to make love to a woman when you’re blind? Is it worse or is it actually better?”

Trust his friend to speak directly of his blindness without care or caution.

“Is it any different from having sex in the dark?”

“It’s different,” he replied, his voice curt and abrupt.

“How—” Tris began, but Devon glowered and his friend shut his mouth.

Devon snapped grumpily, “Of course it isn’t the same. A man can always strike a light in the dark.”

“Ah, there are times a man doesn’t want to.”

“Maybe you aren’t so discriminating, but I am. I don’t even know exactly what she looks like, and I never will.”

“She? Ah, Cerise. She is lovely, by the way. I assume you’ve thoroughly explored her with your hands and mouth?”

“Yes. But there’s a lot about her that I can’t assess by touch, taste, or smell. There’s no one in this house I can ask to describe her. How do you ask another man to describe your mistress?”

“I’d be happy to describe her in detail for you.”

“I’m sure you would be,” Devon growled. “I’d likely end up punching you in the nose.”

“Whoever she is,” Tristan said, “she’s managed to make a remarkable change in you. You were an unkempt, hairy mess the last time I came, stinking of spilled brandy and refusing to leave your gloomy study. Now you look like the man I remember from our days in London before the war and before—”

“Before Rosalind’s death. I may look different, but I don’t think I feel any different. And now my mistress has joined in my mother’s campaign to convince me to return to Town and start courting a bride.”

He heard the clink of glass. It had to be Tristan setting down the brandy bottle after refilling his tumbler. Devon had to clamp his hands into fists to fight the urge to reach for a glass. He yearned to take just one drink. But if he began with one, he feared he wouldn’t stop until he was unconscious on the floor.

Cerise’s story sounded like the truth. Should it matter that she’d lied to him when she first arrived? It was obvious she wasn’t here to con him or steal from him—she would have done that already. She had done nothing but take care of him. She had been wonderful in the way she had helped his sister and taken charge after the baby’s birth.

Why was he plagued with this damned pervasive sense of doubt? Was it simply the uneasiness he now carried with him? The constant wait for a disaster to fall, the way he would wait for the command of Charge or the first explosion of a cannon before a battle?

But as much sense as her story made, if he attacked it from a different direction, he could pull it to pieces. If she had a friend in London, she had a safe place to stay, and Kat was a famed London incognita who had the wherewithal to introduce Cerise to the wealthiest of England’s peers. Wouldn’t it make more sense to stay with Kat and find a protector in London, rather than travel north on the faint hope of seducing a blind and reluctant duke?

“You’re lost in thought,” Tris observed.

Devon hesitated, then told his friend his concerns. “I don’t know what to believe. If I take her tale at face value—that she was anxious to leave London and saw me as the perfect chance for escape—then I can understand why she made up the story. But …” He tried to put his doubts into words. “Her motives don’t appear strong enough to justify a mad flight up here. Under Kat’s tutelage, she would have had the opportunity to find a lover in Town. Once she was a peer’s mistress, she would have been safe from her madam’s vengeance.”

“Your arguments are sound, Dev. But the only one who knows the truth is Cerise.”

A faint knock came on the door. Devon lurched around, expecting Cerise to walk into the room. He expected to hear the firm tread of her steps, to smell her soft, natural scent, and hear her lush voice ask him if he required a nighttime story.

Instead, the heavy smell of perfume hit him, almost making him gag. Miss Lacy said, in an exaggerated purr, “Your Grace, My Lord, how delicious to find you both together.”

Devon groaned. He remembered Cerise playing the saucy courtesan, but there had been a sweet awkwardness in her performance. She hadn’t sounded jaded and hard like this woman.

“Sorry, love, but His Grace is committed to his pretty mistress,” Tristan said.

“How disappointing.” Miss Lacy’s skirts swished slowly. No doubt she was trying to seductively cross the room. “But the reason I came searching for you wasn’t just to suggest some naughty fun between the three of us. After I had repaired myself in the bedchamber, I came downstairs and overheard the last things your mistress said, Your Grace. I apologize, but I must warn you. She claimed she helped innocents escape her madam. There have been stories all over London about a madam who was murdered in her brothel by one of her whores. The tart—whose name was Annalise, I think—helped young girls escape and then struck her madam with a fireplace poker. Annalise ran away. Bow Street has been searching all over London for her but can’t find her.”

Devon could hear the triumph in Miss Lacy’s sultry voice. “When did this happen?”

“The woman was murdered about three weeks ago, Your Grace.”

Devon suddenly couldn’t find his voice. Christ.

“Dev, have you got newspapers in the house?”

“Hades, I don’t know. They might have been delivered, but I can’t read them.”

“Treadwell,” Tris called. Boots struck the floor harshly, and almost instantly Devon heard his butler’s distinctive walk. “Treadwell, have you got news sheets for the last few weeks?”

“Aye, me lord,” his butler answered. “I kept them after the valet left. I put them in a pile in the library, so ye could have them read to ye. Sorry, Yer Grace. I forgot to tell ye.”

Anne shrank back into the shadows of the corridor, her heart jumping madly in her chest.

Though Devon had sent her to bed while he spoke with Lord Ashton, she’d been unable to stay in her room. Instead of undressing, she had padded back downstairs, planning to see if Devon wished to have her read to him later.

But when she’d reached the mouth of the hallway that led to the drawing room, she glimpsed a group of retreating figures. Silently, she’d hurried forward. She’d crept close enough to see Devon and Lord Ashton striding at the front, with Treadwell and the voluptuous Miss Lacy hurrying behind. She followed them all to the library.

Anne quickly realized someone had remembered the news sheets. She heard Lord Ashton say, “There are no stories in these about a madam’s death or a missing whore. However, there are about a half dozen issues missing.”

“God,” Devon muttered. “No wonder she ran from London. She killed her madam.”

“Cold-bloodedly too,” Miss Lacy added. “You must have her arrested.”

They knew. Somehow they—Oh, dear heaven, Miss Lacy wore a self-satisfied smirk. The courtesan must have read the stories, or heard gossip in London, and guessed the truth. And told Devon at once, so she could eliminate her competition.

Oh, God. How long did she have before Devon came for her?

Probably only moments. It wasn’t long enough to go back to the bedroom and take anything—not any of her other clothes, not even a bonnet.

Anne backed away. Then she turned and bolted. When she reached the drawing room, her lungs were already heaving. She raced across the room to the glass-paned doors that led outside. With shaky hands, she turned one handle, praying Treadwell had not bothered yet to lock it.

Her prayers were answered. The door swung wide. She’d shoved so hard that she lost her balance and stumbled out onto the flagstone terrace. Hauling up her skirts, she raced across the gray stones toward the dark lawn. What was she going to do? Where could she go?

It didn’t matter. All she could do was run.