Never Entice an Earl (7 page)

Mr. Bynum shouted a French command.
“Parader!”

Truly, he had the most appalling accent. Yet she complied and executed a different
“classical” pose, her arms thrown wide.

He blathered on, this time about Helen and the Spartans. In that moment, she desperately
tried to forget where she was at the moment and mentally transport herself a thousand
miles away. She imagined herself as Helen, the face that had launched a thousand ships.
She had always had a flair for the dramatic. She and her sisters had always put on
productions for the family, and in secret she had dreamed of a life onstage, of a
life of adventure. In some ways, tonight’s daring excursion had been exceedingly exciting,
and she might actually enjoy herself if not—

If not for the fact that she, Daphne Bevington, the Earl of Wolverton’s granddaughter,
was at this moment standing on a stage in London’s most notorious bawdy house, half
foxed, half naked, and making a naughty spectacle of her jiggly bits for the entertainment
of strangers.

Daphne bit down a gasp.
Not all strangers
, for
there
, having just come through the back doorway, was—oh, of all people—Lord Rackmorton.
She’d sensed he was a rat. Now, at the earliest opportunity she could rebuff him without
the slightest guilty conscience. Look how he laughed, with a salacious turn of his
lips, and greeted the ladies, all the while appearing so at ease.

A sudden terror struck her. What if, even though her face was half-concealed by the
mask, he saw her and recognized her? For the first time, a different terror struck
her—the realization that not only her family might discover her secret, but the entire
ton
as well.

Yet in a blink, two women plastered themselves to His Lordship’s side and escorted
him off, laughing, into the shadows, past
another
gentleman who, strangely, had concealed his face with a dark hood—

“Pirouette!”

Just then, a big hand smacked her buttocks, latched there, and
squeezed
.

Daphne squawked and jumped. A glance over her shoulder confirmed her assailant to
be the same cretin as before, looking rather pleased at getting such a solid handful
of her. Indeed, in the next moment, with the help of a friend’s knee, he hurled himself
half on the stage, reaching for her, his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a hound
on the street. “Come on, sweet, how about a little ballum-rankum? Just tell me how
much?”

Lunging away, she somehow managed to twirl with one leg raised—

Only to crash into Cleopatra the Cat. The room erupted in laughter. In her discomposure,
she’d gone the wrong way. The girl shouted a vulgarity a lady ought not to even know,
and gave Daphne a shove in the opposite direction—

Just in time for her to see the most
attractive
gentleman plant his fist in the face of the man who had affronted her.

Looking up, he glared at her, rather ferociously, something that ought to have frightened
her but instead inspired everything inside her to tingling. In that moment, everything
inside her arrested completely, and the churning crowd seemed to disappear, leaving
just the two of them for one crystalline moment in time. He looked so very fine with
his cravat so perfectly tied, and his dark blond hair so neatly cut, somewhere between
short and longish, the ideal frame for his broad cheekbones and astonishing gray eyes.

“Thank you,” she shouted, though she knew he couldn’t hear her for the din of the
room.

The gleam in his gray eyes intensified, but with a different sort of appreciation
than what she saw in the eyes of the degenerates crowded at her feet, one that didn’t
send revulsion down her spine, but instead something…wonderful.

“You’re welcome.” Or at least that’s what his mouth appeared to say. She couldn’t
hear him, either.

A large crash sounded from the direction of the entrance. A woman screamed. The music
trailed off into a discordant snarl. An enormous man in a black suit and top hat appeared
on the threshold. Patrons scrambled away from him, pushing and shoving.

Bracing his legs wide, he bellowed, “Under His Majesty’s authority, this bawdy house
is hereby closed for the crimes of lewdness and common nuisance.” Lifting both hands
high he displayed what appeared to be a constable’s blazon and a piece of paper that
could only be a warrant. “You are all under arrest.”

A swarm of men rushed in behind him, wielding batons.

Daphne stood paralyzed for a long moment. She? Daphne Bevington, under arrest?

Like everyone else, she dashed for the door.

Pulse racing, she leapt from the stage into a tumult of shoulders, hats, and feathers.
After that, she had no choice in the path of her escape. The crowd
pushed
…
jostled
…and carried her to the street where a frigid rain pounded onto her skin and soaked
her costume through. All she could think was that she’d left her cloak inside, but
behind her came shouts and screams and glimpses of batons raised. She couldn’t go
back. She ran for the hackney, praying the driver still waited, as she’d paid him
handsomely to do.

There, at the corner. He had waited. Thank God. His pale face peered over the roof
from where he stood on his driver’s perch, wide-eyed and dismayed at the scene unfolding
before him. She ran toward him, arms flailing, wanting nothing more than to be inside,
safe and far away from this terrible place. She’d been such a fool! She would go to
her grandfather tomorrow and beg on her knees for the money to pay Kate’s debt, and
pretend that this night had never happened. She should never have come.

“Hurry, girl.” The driver reached his hand to assist her up.

“Thank you, sir,” she cried, almost in tears—

A fierce tug pulled her backward, out of his grasp.
Splash
. Her teeth clicked at the sudden jolt of her buttocks against the cold pavement.
It took a moment for her mind and vision to clear, to realize what had happened.

Mr. Bynum, Cat, and the redhead crowded into the hackney. The vehicle swayed and creaked
beneath their sudden weight.

“You get out,” bellowed the old man, his hands raised to force them out. The horse,
startled, danced in its harness and the vehicle rolled forward a few feet.

“That’s my hackney.” Daphne leapt to her feet, and grasped the handle. “You can’t
leave me here.”

“Oh, let her in,” insisted the redhead.

“There’s no more room,” Cat screeched, giving her a shove. The jewels on her mask
sparkled darkly. The dark red rouge on her lips had smudged across her cheek. With
another hard shove, she broke Daphne’s grip. A gun appeared in Mr. Bynum’s hand, and
he pointed it at the old man’s head.

“Drive,” he bellowed.

“Oh, miss,” shouted the driver. “Forgive me. I’ve eight grandchildren to feed—”

The vehicle clattered into the darkness. Mr. Bynum’s laughter echoed against the walls
of the warehouse buildings.

“Selfish cowards,” Daphne shouted after them, meaning Mr. Bynum and the girls, of
course, not the poor driver. Whistles sounded shrilly. Footsteps pounded past, patrons
running toward the side streets, with constables in pursuit. Panic electrified her
blood. She’d been abandoned to the city’s roughest streets, without as much as a cloak
for protection. Now what? How would she get home?

A flash of movement in the corner of her eye, and suddenly she could not breathe,
because two large hands constricted her throat. She flailed and twisted, her feet
dragging against the pavement, unable to see her assailant.

“’Ay, sweet, so I see you’re waitin’ for me,” murmured a gravelly voice beside her
ear. The stench of liquor and foul breath crowded her nose.

“He—help—” she gasped, seeking to draw the attention of the very constables she’d
striven to escape just moments ago.

The man dragged her toward the shadows, his arm winched against her throat. Her heart
sank in a downward spiral into utter hopelessness.

In the ensuing madness, Cormack took an elbow to his side and a boot heel to his toe.
Irritated at allowing himself to be so distracted by the chit on the stage that he’d
lost sight of his prey, he endeavored to do a lot more pushing and shoving himself.
Within moments, he’d made his way to the maze of ramshackle rooms behind the stage,
which were of course,
bloody damn hell
, a wild crush of people, none of them the distinctively elegant, masked men he sought.

He half-turned, intending to escape with all the others to the street, but a sudden
flare of intuition made him turn back, and press in the opposite direction until he
found himself alone. He heard the faint bark of men’s voices. Following the sounds
of wood scraping on the floor and a slamming door, he found a large room adorned far
more elegantly than the rest, with a large table at its center, cluttered by a jumble
of chairs, crystal liquor decanters, and more than one article of woman’s clothing.

A door, cut into the opposite wall, bounced ajar and he raced forward, delving inside
to find himself in a narrow, pitch-dark passageway. But in the distance there were
voices, and an intermittent flash of light. Taking a corner, he saw them, illuminated
in the golden light of a lantern held high: men in hoods, with several bare-shouldered
ladies among them.

The last in line glanced over his shoulder and, catching sight of him, shouted, “
Hurry!
”

They pushed and shoved and the ladies screamed. Cormack reached them just as the door
swung closed—

He reached through, grabbing the man’s shoulder, but the man twisted, and several
more threw their weight against the door. Cormack bellowed in pain, but his fingertips
grazed silk and he
pulled
, enjoying the subsequent sound of head thudding against wood. Hands shoved and pummeled
his arm, but he fisted his hand in the silk—

A tearing sound rent the air, and he fell back a step, the hood in hand—

The door slammed. He reached, but heard a frantic scrabbling against metal and a turn
of the lock. He yanked, but the door held fast. Cursing, he turned on his heel and
retraced his steps down the passageway and into the room. He had to get outside before
they got away.

In the corridor, he joined others still making their escape, some holding chairs or
paintings or whatever else they could carry. Near the door, he came face-to-face with
a constable. Cormack curled his fists, and leveled a blistering look on the man, having
no time for this nonsense. The officer, appearing overwhelmed by the selection of
miscreants with which to take into custody, took one long glance at Cormack, all six
foot four of him, and determined him to be too troublesome.

He bellowed, “Get out of me way, then.”

With a wave of his baton, he lunged toward less sizable quarry.

Moments slipped past. Cormack prayed there was still time to catch them outside, men
he’d glimpsed only in shadows. All he needed was the identity of one, and then he
could track the rest. To have come this close, only to have the Invisibilis slip away
like ghosts in the night, fueled within him a desperate fury.

Cormack hurtled into the alleyway, splashing into an ankle-deep torrent. At some point
the sky had opened. Thunder and lightning crashed. Rain hammered the cobblestones.
Beside him a driver shouted and lowered his whip. Carriage wheels spun and vehicles
clattered into the darkness, even as constables carried off countless fellows, kicking
and cursing, to a box wagon. More constables rounded the corner, having emptied out
the brothel.

Cormack cursed as well, rounding the corner—almost to be plowed over by a magnificent
town carriage speeding past, its window crowded with silk-hooded faces staring out
at him with blank holes for eyes. A dark cloth had been draped over the door so as
to obscure the familial crest.

Too late. He was too goddamn late.
For a long moment he stood in the midst of the melee, allowing the cold rain to hit
his face, to soak his clothing, wishing in that moment he could drown in his hate.
Instead, he cut down a side alley and abandoned the Blue Swan.

Just then a golden mask floated past, carried by rainwater, its jewels dully reflecting
the dark night sky.

The muscles along his shoulders rippled, and drew tight.

He paused, searching the darkness. Listening. A scream found his ears. Up ahead, a
flash of pale skin lured him deeper into the shadows. It was
her
, the angel, kicking and flailing as she was being dragged by the fellow he’d pounded
in the face for having touched her earlier. He followed, rounding a brick corner,
to see the bastard on top of her, tearing at her clothes.

In a flash, Cormack’s rage exploded.

Everything after came in a blur, until she screamed again, this time in his ear, her
hands yanking at his coat sleeve.

“Don’t kill him!” she exclaimed.

He stared down into a bloodied face, then up into hers. Rain trickled over her pale
skin, plastering sodden curls against her cheek.

“Please. Not because of me.” Wide, dark-lashed blue eyes pled with him.

All he could think was that while the mask had been alluring, and the stuff of fantasies,
it was nothing compared to the face beneath.

“Damned lecher.” Cormack stood, stepping back from the crumpled heap. “Come with me.”

He extended his hand.

She backed away, shaking her head, her eyes bright with terror and tears.

She was a small thing, and he towered over her. Her muslin costume clung slick and
transparent against her skin. The young woman crossed her arms over her chest, doing
her best to cover her nakedness. God curse him for looking. He could not help himself.
Cormack prayed the darkness concealed the magnitude of his hunger, his physical reaction.

Of course, she would expect the same thing of him as of the man who lay motionless
at his feet: that like an animal, he would victimize and shame her.