Duchess of Sin (18 page)

“Was it just a dream?” she whispered. Had her exhaustion made her put Conlan’s face onto the devil’s in a bizarre twist of
her imagination? Or was that what she really saw that night and then forced herself to forget? Could he really have something
to do with the ambush of Will’s patrol?

“Remember, remember!” she whispered, pressing her forehead to the cold glass. But the dream vanished again, and her memories
of those days were hazy with the fear and uncertainty they all felt back then. She had tried to forget for so long that the
memories didn’t want to be unearthed now.

What would she do if it was Conlan? Demand answers, probably. Eliza and Will deserved them. And Anna needed to know the truth,
too. Maybe then she could truly put those days behind her and move on, free of them. Free of Conlan and her obsession with
him.

Anna turned away from the window and tiptoed over to open the door a crack. She listened carefully, but the house was quiet.
Hopefully odious George was gone
and her mother was lying down with a cold compress to recover. Caroline was probably working on her drawing.

She didn’t have much time to convince them all that she was having a megrim and needed to be left alone for the night. She
spun around and went to remove Jane’s red gown from its hiding place in the back of her wardrobe. As she unfastened her day
dress, her gaze fell on the open box of dark orchids. She had to make a decision, once and for all.

T
his Union business makes for strange bedfellows, does it not, Adair?”

Conlan took a long drag on his cheroot, peering through the blue-gray smoke at his friend Mr. Foster. The meeting in the back
room of McMaster’s tavern had not yet begun so the space was only half-filled, men milling about as they muttered together
in low, angry voices. The thick mist rolling in outside seemed to make the atmosphere even more tense. The specter of the
fire hung over them.

“Aye,” Conlan said. “I never thought I would be in with Ascendancy politicians like Grattan and Ponsonby, but we do what we
must. They stand against Union, so I stand with them for now.”

“Even though they are not prepared to make common cause with those for Catholic emancipation?”

Conlan inhaled deeply, feeling the bite of the smoke in his lungs. It wasn’t as acrid as the taste of religious conflict in
his mouth. He had lived with
that
all his life, from the first time he heard his mother complain bitterly of having
to marry his father in a Protestant church first to satisfy the law. It would never go away, and he knew that.

“Prime Minister Pitt thinks Union will be an integrative force, make us all one nation united in a common cause,” Conlan said.
“With the Catholics as a harmless minority enfolded by the majority. Clearly he knows nothing of the nature of this country
if he thinks such a thing can ever happen.”

“And the pro-Union Catholics believe Pitt when he flirts with emancipation?”

“I cannot speak for all Catholics, Foster,” Conlan said with a laugh. “Pitt might think he can push through Catholic emancipation
once Ireland is tied firmly to England, but in that, too, he is deluded. I know the Ascendancy—they will riot if forced to
let the Catholics into politics and the law and their precious schools. That doesn’t concern me right now, anyway.”

“Oh?” Foster reached for his whiskey. He had looked more nervous as the night went on, and now his hand shook as he took a
long drink. He had been like that since before the warehouse fire.

Conlan didn’t know why the man was so jumpy at a simple organizational meeting. They were only planning to talk, not start
an armed uprising—yet.

“No,” Conlan said.

“Then what does concern you?”

“Taking care of my people, of course. I might not be able to sit in Parliament, but I don’t care to see eighty boroughs disenfranchised
and thirty-two members whittled down to one. The power of the landowners is my power to protect those who depend on me,” Conlan
said firmly.

“That sounds like Orange talk,” Foster said. “Are you
prepared to join the Loyalist families who would shun you? Shun all of us?”

“While it suits my purpose.” Conlan stubbed out his cheroot. “I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty, Foster, nor should you
be. Our time grows short, with the vote coming up after Christmas. There’s no time to be choosy about our allies.”

“And no time to be choosy about our methods!” McMann interrupted. He was a young hothead, unpredictable but useful. “Ross’s
old house was burned, but it would have been better to burn his new house, with him inside it. Make them listen to us at last.”

Conlan shook his head. “Don’t be a fool, McMann. What did violence gain us two years ago? Torture, transportation, and the
rope. The people are more oppressed than they were before.”

McMann slumped back in his seat, his arms crossed. “So we just talk and talk? Talk gets us nowhere!”

“It’s hardly just talk,” Conlan said. “Is it, Foster?”

Foster swallowed hard. “Wh-what do you mean?” Beads of sweat popped out on his brow despite the cold night.

Conlan had merely suspected Foster was up to something before; now he was sure of it. Was the man a spy? For who? “What do
you think I mean, Foster?”

Foster reached again for the whiskey, not meeting Conlan’s eyes. “Nothing, of course.”

Conlan pushed back from the table and went to ease back the edge of the black curtain and peer out into the gathering night.
The fog was thick now, a blue-black miasma that didn’t let even a glimpse of starlight shine through. The Olympian Club would
be quiet tonight
because of the weather, but it was perfect for other, more surreptitious tasks.

He thought of Anna, wondering where she was tonight. Did she venture out in the bone-chilling damp to dance with her admirers?
Did she see his cousin, the man who claimed to be her future husband? And did
she
see Grant that way? Perhaps her daring escapades with Conlan were merely a last fling before she settled into life as Lady
Dunmore, queen of Ascendancy Society.

He didn’t sense that in her, though. She was reckless, to be sure, and impulsive. He felt like she didn’t quite know herself,
that she wanted more than her life offered but didn’t know where to find it. There was something inside her that she fought
against, something he wanted so much to know about. He wanted to know
her,
everything about her.

But that meant that he would have to let her know him in return, and that he couldn’t do. He had let her too close as it was.
She declared herself a frivolous featherbrain, but that was far from the truth. She was one of the smartest women he had ever
met, old beyond her years in some ways, and if she could ever find her focus—heaven help them all.

So if she
was
with Grant tonight, being paraded on his arm before Society as his pretty prize, Conlan shouldn’t care. He should let her
go to that life. Yet Grant was so very unworthy of her.

And he, Conlan, was not much better. He got her involved in fires and rough taverns. That knowledge couldn’t stop him wanting
her, though.

“What’s amiss with Foster tonight?” McMann said quietly at Conlan’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure,” Conlan answered. He watched as a few of their cohorts emerged from the fog and went into the tavern. “But
I think we should be careful of what we say to him. Can you have some of your men follow him for the next few days?”

“Of course!” McMann said, too eagerly.

“Discreetly,” Conlan warned. “We don’t want anyone to know. And I don’t want his body dragged from the Liffey.”

“Certainly not. It won’t get out of hand, Adair, I promise. They’ll just see where he goes, who he talks to. If he’s taking
English bribes.” McMann paused. “Do you want some of the boys as guards for yourself? After what happened at St. Stephen’s
Green…”

“No. They’ll just get in my way. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope not. We can’t do without you, Adair, not so close to the time.”

The others came into the room in a flurry of cold wind and shouted greetings, and there wasn’t time to say anymore. The meeting
was about to begin.

“A quiet night, eh, McIntire?” Conlan said as he handed his greatcoat to the butler in the Olympian Club foyer. He could hear
only a murmur of sound drifting down the staircase from the club.

“It’s a nasty night out there, Your Grace,” McIntire answered, shaking out the damp coat. “Sensible people are at home by
their fires.”

“The Olympian Club doesn’t trade in sensible people, McIntire.”

“Obviously not. Lord Fitzwalter is here, and Mr. Napier. They were quarreling already. And also…” McIntire hesitated.

“Who else is here then? Grant Dunmore, perhaps?”

“No, Your Grace, not Sir Grant. But you did say to let you know if the lady in the red gown reappeared.”

Conlan froze. “She is back?”

“Yes, alone this time. I know we are not to admit guests without a member escorting them, but it seemed better not to send
her back out into the night.”

“Quite right. I will see to her, McIntire.” Conlan dashed up the stairs two at a time. Anna was back at the Olympian Club?
What game did she play now? It seemed his imaginings of her evening, parading through Society as the future Lady Dunmore,
were quite wrong. Sneaking into his club seemed much more like her.

He strode down the corridor, smoothing back his rumpled hair and straightening his coat. He usually did not go into the club
except in evening dress, but it seemed there was no time to change. Where Anna was concerned, there was not a moment to lose.
If he failed to keep pace with her, she would leave him behind forever.

At the closed double doors, there was a basket full of masks for those who forgot theirs and preferred to be anonymous, and
he grabbed up a scrap of white leather and slid it over his face just before he went inside. The ballroom was dark and silent;
there was no dancing tonight. But a few people sat at the small tables in the dining room, partaking of the buffet and the
fine wine, and a steady hum of voices flowed from the card room.

Conlan scanned the people gathered there, their heads bent over games of whist and trictrac. It was only the
regulars tonight, the ones who showed up to play deep several times a week. Except for the lady who sat at the faro table.

Anna wore her red-and-black gown again, a spot of brilliant, burning color in the cold night. Her golden curls were piled
high, fastened with two of the perfect black orchids he had left at her house. She wore a black satin mask over her face,
but it couldn’t conceal her bright smile. She laughed as the dealer turned up the player’s card and clapped her black silk-gloved
hands. The dealer said something that made her laugh even more, the two of them chatting like old friends.

Only then did Conlan realize the faro dealer was Sarah, his business partner, friend, and sometime-lover. She and Anna bent
their heads together as they talked, almost like they were about to share female confidences. Sarah was very good at eliciting
secrets from gamesters, but he certainly didn’t want her hearing any secrets from this one.

Sarah’s gaze met his, and she smiled in welcome. Anna glanced back over her shoulder, and her smile faded a bit. She waved
to him, though, and he hurried across the room to the faro table. Anna had a pile of chips in front of her, and she turned
one gracefully between her fingers.

“A quiet evening,” he said, watching the slow movement of her hands.

“Not for this lady,” Sarah said. “She has the devil’s own luck. I’m afraid she’ll break the bank.”

Anna laughed. She set down the chip and reached for a half-full glass of wine. “Not tonight. I know to quit while I’m ahead.”

If only he did, too, Conlan thought. But he feared he never knew when to quit when it came to Anna Blacknall.

“Lucky for us,” Sarah said. Her shrewd gaze moved between Conlan and Anna, a small smile on her lips. “We may end the evening
in the black after all.”

“Perhaps the lady would care for some supper then and leave the table to someone less lucky,” said Conlan. He held out his
arm to Anna.