Marissa Day (7 page)

Lady Viola Thayer surveyed her ballroom. It was far enough into the morning that the older guests and married couples had retired, with or without their legally allowed partners. The younger and the unattached remained. They flirted, gossiped and enjoyed the freedom of the dance floor while their chaperones drowsed in the corners or drank strong tea at the refreshment table.

With a minor exception, it had been a most satisfactory evening. Most satisfactory. Already, Viola had identified four men and two women with influential positions or considerable fortunes who were ripe for temptation and seduction. She would be able to work on them over the course of the summer. By the time the haut ton reassembled in London for the next season, they would be firmly in her pocket.

Viola smiled and waved her ostrich-feather fan to hide it.
Now, where has my lord Thayer gotten himself off to?

A strolling tour of the ballroom—with frequent stops to chat with her well-content and somewhat drunken guests—did not turn him up. Neither did perusal of the card room, or the smoking room.

Lady Thayer left her company. At this late stage of the party, no one would remark, or indeed even care, if their hostess absented herself. She headed to the hushed library and closed the door softly before crossing to the hearth. Her nimble fingers traced the decorations on the mantel until they found the correct plaster rose and pressed. A section of wall swung back, revealing a dusty passage beyond.

In most Mayfair houses the supposed “secret” passages were simply servants’ hallways, allowing maids and butlers to discreetly exit a room before their masters entered it.

In the Thayer’s town house, however, there was a genuinely secret stair, and it went down deep, below the kitchens and past the wine cellar. Beyond where a scream or any other fuss could be heard by the people above. They’d modeled it after a similar arrangement in Lord Thayer’s country estate and had it installed by discreet workmen shortly after they took possession of the residence.

At the end of a dirt-floored corridor waited a single door made of rough planks and bound with black iron. Lady Viola extracted a heavy key from her reticule and let herself in.

The room beyond would not have seemed comfortable to many. The thick crimson draperies brought no warmth to the stone walls they covered. chains dangled from the support beams and the posts had thick bolts screwed into them. Those bolts allowed the room’s master to use the ropes and chains hanging on the far wall to secure an individual in any number of positions. Water, and other fluids, stained the carpets.

My lord was not feeling terribly experimental tonight
, thought Viola as she sauntered into the room past the splintered bed frame. A young woman lay there, spread-eagled on her back, chained by her wrists and ankles to the square corner posts. The remnants of rough clothing were the only cushioning underneath her, and red welts showed how she had struggled. She was not struggling now, however. She lolled on the bed, her breathing hard and ragged and punctuated by low moans.

Lord Sinjohn Thayer lounged in a wing-backed chair, his shirt open, his breeches only partially buttoned and his booted feet propped up on a large ottoman shaped like a man and a woman. They were rendered in incredible detail; both blindfolded and tightly gagged and both on their knees, so that they bore the velvet cushion on their backs.

As Viola entered, Sinjohn raised his glass of wine to her.

“Madame!” He held out his empty hand and she gave him hers to kiss, which he did quite thoroughly, lighting sparks of desire deep within her. As a young woman, she had been to the court of the Prince of Wales and savored many of the exotic pleasures on offer there. But nothing had compared to the pleasures taught to her by the Sorcerer who claimed her as his Catalyst. “Is all well?”

Viola took a deep breath. She hated to disappoint him, but she hated to admit she might have made a mistake even worse. “Not entirely, my lord.”

Sinjohn set his glass down on a table. “What is it?”

Viola looked at the table. Its pedestal had the shape of a naked woman with her bound hands stretched over her head to support the top.

“I saw Rathe and Marlowe leaving our neighbor’s house. They were not well, but neither were they dead.”

Lord Thayer licked his lips. “And the girl?”

“Gone home with her mother, a sudden fever, apparently.”

“So.” Sinjohn sipped his wine meditatively. “They were stronger than we thought.”

“They might not survive until morning,” she said hopefully.

Sinjohn pursed his mouth. “It is possible,” he agreed. “But I think we cannot count on it.”

“What do we do?” Viola paced to the door and back again. “They’ll know ...”

“Calmly, my dear. They already knew Smith and his merry men were going to sneak into our party. It was to lure them in that we invited Mrs. Quicke and her daughter at all.”

“Yes, but ...”

“I said calmly.” A hint of steel touched Lord Thayer’s voice. Viola closed her mouth at once and dropped her gaze. “Now,” he went on. “Supposing they do survive, and that they now have little Miranda Prosper to play with and protect, our goal is unchanged. Rathe and Marlowe have proved themselves too dangerous to be permitted to live, and Miss Prosper too strong to waste.”

“They’ll be checking the guest list,” said Viola, endeavoring to keep her voice cool. “To try to discover the Sorcerer among the invited attendees.”

“Which will bring them to you and me in short order.” He sighed. “The question is, what will they do then?”

Viola forced herself to think. In all their years together, her husband had seldom been wrong. It was his gifts for manipulation as much as her own that had brought them this close to gaining the favor of the Fae court. If they fulfilled their task, they would take their place among Their Glorious Majesties’ most trusted agents in the mortal world.

“They dare not risk an open confrontation,” she said slowly.

Sinjohn nodded in agreement. “And their resources are so thin, I doubt they’ll commit to a full-scale battle without hard evidence.” He gazed meditatively at his fingertips. “So, they will be on the hunt for that evidence. Where will they look to find it?”

Viola smiled. “Well, in three more days, they’ll be able to look in the conveniently empty town house of their chief suspects. But”—she tapped her chin—“at the risk of degenerating into circular reasoning, they know that we know their identities and so will be on guard, because ...”

“Exactly.” Sinjohn kissed her hand again. After a moment’s thought, he dabbled her fingertips in his wine and then laid them in his mouth. He licked and sucked until she could feel a delicious tightening at her center. A quick glance showed her his cock stirring beneath the loose fly of his breeches.

“So in need, my lord?” Viola murmured, leaning down to run her hand along his growing erection. “Is there nothing left of the tidbit I sent you?”

The both looked over to the young woman on the bed frame. Her eyes were open and still.

“Not a thing,” murmured Lord Thayer with a smile.

“Greedy.” Lady Viola squeezed him, letting her nails dig in ever so slightly in the way she knew he liked. “Perhaps I should send you to Miranda Prosper.”

“Perhaps you should.” Sinjohn’s smile curled up, cruel and masterful. Viola’s breath caught in her throat to see it and she felt her pussy grow damp. “I admit I find myself quite curious to know what kind of woman needs two men to slake her thirsts.”

Viola settled herself onto her husband’s lap and wriggled her ass against his cock. She wrapped her hand around Sinjohn’s throat, stroking him and claiming him at the same time. “Then, my dear, I shall have to make a gift of her to you.”

“So generous, my wife.” He fondled the mounded flesh of her breasts where it showed above the scooped neckline of her gown. “But as you so rightly point out, Rathe and Marlowe will be wary, so we must be exceedingly careful in our preparations.”

“I believe I shall enjoy that.” She ran her palm over his chest.

“I’ll make sure of it, my dear.” He chuckled deep in his throat and bent to close his teeth around her nipple, causing her to hiss with the sweet pain. Too soon he released her. “But, alas, the party is not yet over.”

Lady Thayer sighed. “Yes, and Lord Dunmore is losing so badly at cards. He will shortly be in need of a loan. If we provide it, I am sure he’ll be willing to do any number of little favors in return.”

“So.” Sinjohn set her on her feet again, but not without a hint of regret in his eyes. “Each of us to our duty, then. But fear not—enough of pleasure will follow, very soon.”

She smiled, and knew her eyes shone with all her simmering expectations as she curtsied to him. He stroked her cheek briefly before she straightened and began to make her way back upstairs.

“Sweet Miranda,” Corwin murmured as he softly stroked her back. “How are you now?”

How am I?
She had no words. Her bones had melted away, leaving only a delicious liquid inside her. She could not move; she could not think. She could only lie on the feather bed beneath the linen sheets and enjoy.

As the last echoes of their climaxes had faded, Corwin had rolled away, stretching himself out full length beside her on the bed. He slid one arm around her shoulders to cradle her, and Miranda gazed up into his dark eyes. Her body was at peace, as was her mind. She was herself again.

Except not quite. It seemed impossible that Miranda Prosper had done so many things that she could scarcely give name to, let alone receive such pleasure from.

“And you, Corwin?” asked Darius. Darius sat upright on the other side of the bed, one leg tucked under him and one foot on the floor. His spent cock lolled against his thigh.

“As you see.” Corwin sighed contentedly, running his free hand down the side of Miranda’s breast. She snuggled closer, enjoying the feel of his warm chest against her. “Lie down, Darius. Rest awhile. No one will be stirring for a good hour yet.”

Darius growled, but he did lie down at Miranda’s left side. He did not, however, relax at all, and he eyed Corwin over Miranda’s head. What passed between them, she did not know, but slowly, with a hesitation that was either reluctance or a misplaced bashfulness, Darius stroked her cheek with the calloused tip of one finger. It was a tender and intimate touch, and it made her reach out in return, to trace a line from Darius’s jaw down his throat to his shoulder. She wondered at the strength of him, at how his form could be so beautiful to her eyes and even more so to her hands.

Corwin dipped his head close and kissed the tip of her ear. “He is magnificent, isn’t he?”

“Stop it,” grumbled Darius, but he didn’t pull away from Miranda’s curious fingers.

“Ticklish too,” went on Corwin. “Shall I tell you where?”

Miranda could not have said why, but it was that comment that brought her once more back to reality. Here she was, in her own bedchamber, naked in bed with two equally naked men. Two men who had not only been boldly, shockingly intimate with her, but who also obviously shared an equally bold, and even more shockingly intimate, relationship with each other.

It was as if cold water had been dashed in her face. Miranda sat up abruptly, crossing her arms over her breasts and looking around frantically for something to cover herself with.

Darius slid a sideways glance to Corwin, who simply got up and went into her dressing room. She heard the rush of fabric and a moment later he returned with her turquoise night-robe, which he handed to her. Reluctantly unfolding one arm from her breasts, Miranda took it. As swiftly as she was able, she stood and wrapped the robe around herself, cinching the belt tight before double knotting it.

Darius picked himself off the bed and crossed to the window. He leaned his forearm against the wall, staring out at the waning night.