The Rogue (14 page)

“Maude, you are monopolizing Lady Constance's attention. She must wish to speak with others tonight as well.” She gave Saint a guarded appraisal.

Constance introduced them all. With a transparent excuse
and another wary glance at him, Lady Easterberry swept her daughters away.

His eyes were laughing as Constance turned to him.

“How fantastically amusing,” he said, looking after the Easterberry ladies.

“The scar deepens when you smile like that.”

“Does it?”

“It makes you look like a cutpurse.”

“And you have a vast acquaintance with those, I guess.”

Her lips betrayed her; they twitched. “Some.”

“Are all young noblewomen that wonderfully scatterbrained? Present company excepted, of course.”

“You are wearing a sword at a party.”

He offered her a lazy smile. “Not done, is it?”

“She is taken with your dashing disregard for morality. She has lost her wits.”

“Ah.” He folded his hands behind his back. “Then she has my sympathy.”

“Why are you here?”

“Your father demanded that I attend. Remarkable, I know. I declined, but he insisted. He is accustomed to getting what he wants, clearly. And it seems he is loath to pay me if I do not obey his every command.”

“Do you need the money so much?”

“Well, I don't have any at present. So, yes. Must feed the horse or he won't go, you see. But I was under the impression that ladies of your estate never acknowledge lowly trifles like actual money.”

“Oh, we don't. Sometimes, however, when I am carried through town on a chair by my four Ethiopian eunuchs, the peasants toss flowers at me, and in return my little pageboy throws coins at them. So I have actually
seen
money.”

“How affecting for you that must be.”

“I enjoy consorting with the plebes,” she said airily. “As long as they don't actually come too close, of course.”

“Naturally.” His eyes swept her hair, bared shoulders, and the dip of her bodice. “You are breathtaking tonight. I
am happy to have the opportunity to see you in your evening finery.”

“Thank you.”

“But I prefer the breeches.”

This was impossible.
He
was impossible. She did not want to jest about the divide between them. It was real, and she despised it now just as she had six years ago, when for a fortnight she had pretended because pretending was all she could have of him.

Sir Lorian was now in close conversation with Lord Michaels. Nearby, Lady Hughes was speaking with Mrs. Westin.

She would begin with Lady Hughes, tease out the reason for the white robes. Then she would flirt with Sir Lorian. It made her ill to anticipate it. But Mrs. Poultney's tears this morning were reason enough to proceed with yet another charade like those she had practiced dozens of times for the Falcon Club.

Saint's eyes glimmered like his sword now, sharply, as he watched her.

“My wits, however, are not lost,” she said. “Please excuse me—”

“Constance.”

She paused, and abruptly wished there were no mystery to solve, no missing persons to be found, nothing but his voice caressing her name.

“I came here tonight for two reasons,” he said soberly now. “I have written a letter of resignation to your father and intend to depart before light tomorrow. I wanted to say good-bye to you. And I wished to see this duke that you will be marrying.”

The air deserted the room like a vast fire had sucked it all up, leaving a vacuum.

“You are leaving,” she said too weakly.

“He looks better than I imagined he would. But so did your first fiancé. And your second.”

“I never had a second fiancé. I still do not.”

“You will shortly, then the husband you seek, and I admit that I haven't the stomach to remain here and watch that happen.” His gaze traced her features and she struggled to make her lungs function.

He was leaving
.

Of course he was. Nothing had changed in six years. She was still the daughter of a duke with a fortune to inherit and he was still the son of a colonial merchant, a man who earned his wages teaching.
Forbidden.

“And perhaps if I leave now,” he said, “my cousin will find other lodgings and cease ending each day disconcerted by you. I don't know exactly what you asked him yesterday, or why you need bother him with questions he clearly does not wish to answer. But at least I won't contribute to your ease in doing so any longer.”

“I asked him nothing untoward.” Only questions she could not ask
him
about his brother because she could not bear to hurt him any more than she already had. “I won't pine away for you after you have left, you know.”

His throat moved in a rugged jerk. “I hope not.”

“I should not delay your departure further,” she forced out. “Good night.” Fighting the prickling heat at the backs of her eyes, she crossed the room swiftly. Desperate for distraction, purpose,
anything
but this ache of loss yet again, she sought out Sir Lorian in the crowd. He had disappeared. But Lord Michaels stood alone, shoulders bunched up, chin low. Casting his eyes about in a furtive manner that should have made her chuckle, he hurried toward a closed door, opened it, and slipped through.

She followed. The door led into a small antechamber that let onto a gallery. A narrow room, it seemed to run the length of the house, with windows on only one side. Dark portraits of men glowered down at her and against either wall were various pieces of furniture: a high wooden chair backed with engraved bronze, marble busts on pedestals, and a glass-fronted display case. Except for moonlight, the room was dark, and it smelled of dust and age.

The Duke of Loch Irvine had not, apparently, cleaned up his entire house for tonight's party. How many other rooms were there in this vast house? And why had Lord Michaels snuck away into this closed portion when his friends were all enjoying themselves elsewhere?

With a click, the door to the antechamber behind her opened. It closed, again shutting out the sounds from the party. Constance ducked behind the tall display case and pressed her back against the wall.

It was her curse to have spent more than a sennight listening to the sound of Saint's footsteps upon a wooden floor, of learning the confidence of his stride—yet more details about him that she would never forget. He did not now try to hide his presence in the gallery. She pushed away from her hiding spot.

“You won't make this easy for me, will you?” he said.

By moonlight she could see his unsmiling face.

“I will.” She moved toward the opposite door. “I will recommend that if you leave immediately, you will not see anything you cannot like.”

He followed her. She reached the door and tried the handle.
Locked.
But Lord Michaels must have come this way; there was no other exit to the gallery.

Reaching into her hair, she plucked out a pin from the coils. As she had done many times before, she unfastened the lock and opened the door.

Saint grasped her shoulder and loomed over her. The naked shock in his eyes took her breath.

“For God's sake,” he said harshly—raw, as though it hurt him to speak. “What do you want with him?”

His fingers gripping her shoulder were not rough. Rather, they were far too gentle given the pain she saw in his eyes. Even now, he would not harm her, even now when he believed her to be doing wrong to a man he loved.

Placing her palm upon his chest, she closed her eyes and spread her fingers and pressed them into his strength, and felt the pleasure in her body. No panic, no fear like in the
ballroom when he had grabbed her. Only longing, pure and simple, like the longing she had always felt for him.

He said nothing now, but the uneven cadence of his breathing revealed him. She drew her hand away and opened the door with unsteady fingers. Beyond it was a high foyer, perhaps a rear entrance to the house, dominated by a stairwell that led both up and down, with carpeted steps. A finely carved wooden railing ran in both directions into darkness.

“You needn't be jealous,” she whispered, moving onto the landing.

“I'm not jealous. I'm worried.”

She looked back at him. “For me?”

“For my cousin.”

She moved up the steps. “Let me go after him, and I will explain later.”

“Explain now.” He made no effort to quiet his voice. Shrouded in shadow, he was a dark silhouette, but she could see well enough his right hand resting upon the hilt of his sword as though he meant to draw.

Her heartbeats stuttered in the emptiness.

“You cannot mean to threaten me,” she said in disbelief.

“No?” There was the rawness again underlying the single word, like the desperation she felt inside.

“Do you imagine I fear you?”

“I imagine you want me,” he said. “Rather, I know you do.”

She gripped the railing. “Your arrogance renders me all submission, sir.”

“If that were so, I would not need to threaten you, would I?” His voice had changed. It sounded almost as if he were smiling. And his hand had fallen to his side again.

“Do you threaten me, or don't you?” she said. “You contradict yourself.”

“Perhaps because you make me insane. Tell me what you want of my cousin.”

She moved down two steps, to within his reach if he wished to touch her.

“There is evidence to suggest that the Duke of Loch Irvine is connected to the disappearance and possible murders of two girls in Edinburgh, one in September, the other in December. They were both last seen near this house and the cloak of one of the girls was found, stained in blood.”

“Loch Irvine,” he said slowly. “Your betrothed?”

“He is not my betrothed.”

“If you suspect him of murder, I should hope not.”

“It seems he may be associated with a secret society. Some say that at the meetings of this society the members engage in dark rituals. Rumors suggest that he is the founder and responsible for the girls' disappearances.” And his brother, Torquil. But she could not share that rumor now.

“You are mad.”

“Upon the girl's cloak in chalk was a symbol, a very particular six pointed star. In all of Britain, this symbol is unique to Haiknayes. I am not mad. There are too many clues bespeaking a chilling crime that must be stopped.”

“Your preoccupation with daggers is suddenly much clearer.
You
aim to stop this secret society? You?”

“Again you doubt my abilities.”

“Never. I only wonder at your interest. You might leave it to the police to unravel.”

“The police have collected reams of information on the disappearances of the girls but have arrested no suspects as yet. Innocent girls have been snatched from their families, Saint. How can that not be my interest?”

He stared at her for a long moment. “What do you believe to be my cousin's part in this?”

“He came to Edinburgh twice in those six months, once at the time the first girl disappeared, and again when the second girl's garment was found. And he has admitted to his acquaintance with the duke. I believe he may belong to the secret society.”

“He does not.”

“How do you know?”

“I know the reasons he came here, both in September and December. Neither was for a satanic ritual, I assure you.”

“Tell me the reasons.”

“Last autumn he traveled here to convince my brother to cease smuggling and turn his talents to honest trade instead. In December he came to Edinburgh to court a girl.”

“Which girl?”

“Chloe Edwards. She is the reason he wished to live in your father's home, to prove his impressive connections and make himself a more desirable suitor.”

“Chloe Edwards? Black curls?”

“Yes.”

“She was speaking with Sir Lorian Hughes earlier tonight, a handsome man with long—”

He ascended the steps and was upon her. “My cousin is innocent of whatever wrong you believe him.”

“Why has he gone away from the party secretively, as though guilty of a wrongdoing?”

His gaze traveled swiftly over her face. “Perhaps he is pursuing a woman he should not be pursuing.”

“Like you?”

“I am not pursuing a woman.”

“I am not a woman?”

“You are plague.”

“A
plague
?”

“A curse. A distraction. A preoccupation.” He curved his hands around her shoulders and his thumb stroked the edge of her bodice. “An intoxication,” he said huskily. He bent his head beside hers and the heat from his skin caressed her cheek. “A memory I cannot shake, though I try.”

She tilted her head and her cheek brushed his and it was heaven again to feel him like this. “Will you kiss me now?” she whispered. “Finally?”

“My cousin is guilty of no crime, Constance. You are chasing the wrong man.”

She broke away and clambered backward up the steps. “I will find the man responsible for those missing girls.”

“I will prove you wrong about Dylan.”

She pivoted on the step and pressed her fist to her chest. “I hope you will.”

“You hope? You do not seek to find your villain?”

“I do. But I have no wish to see you hurt. I want what you love to be free of guilt.”

His eyes arrested, and a muscle shifted in his jaw.

She backed up another step, and another. “Stay away from me, Saint.”

“That is simply not possible any longer,” he said in an entirely altered voice.

She reached the top and moved into the corridor, and heard his footsteps on the stairs behind her. He followed without speaking.

Lit by moonlight from a single window, the long corridor boasted several doors, only one unlocked. It opened onto a room decorated with a couch of sumptuous upholstery and a table bearing a silver washing basin, pitcher, and candelabra. Behind the draperies, however, the windows were boarded up.