The Rogue (28 page)

Lady Justice

Brittle & Sons, Printers

Dear Lady,

I understand. You do not like marriage. Neither do I. From whichever direction one looks at it, it is a trap.

But, if you will, consider the principal benefit of the wedded state, which I cannot give a name to here (out of deference to your modesty), but which, assured every night, must be an advantage to both husband and wife. In rejecting marriage, are you so willing to relinquish that as well?

In doubt, yet most sincerely,

Peregrine

Secretary, The Falcon Club

To Peregrine, at large:

You seek to shock, or perhaps to titillate. You do neither. What antiquated, patriarchal notion of femininity suggests to you that a woman must first bind herself in marriage to enjoy that benefit which is readily available outside of the wedded state?

—Lady Justice

Lady Justice

Brittle & Sons, Printers

Dear Lady,

I can hardly write. My hand quivers so that the ink from my pen splatters on the page and I find myself obliged to blot it again and again.

I renew to you now my invitation to meet. Any time. Any place.

With hope,

Peregrine

Secretary, The Falcon Club

To Peregrine, at large:

In response to the invitation in your last letter, I offer three words: In your dreams.

—Lady Justice

C
onstance awoke alone with a mild headache and discovered herself naked beneath the bed linens. That was what one got, she supposed, when one's husband undressed one—a husband whom every female eye in the place had watched last night, and several pairs of male eyes too.

This had not surprised her. He was both handsome and a curiosity, a natural attraction to people with too much wealth and too little to occupy their imaginations. Sir Lorian's awful club proved that unhappiness led people who should want for nothing to the most peculiar lengths in pursuit of diversion. But she had learned that months ago.

Yet today she felt light.

She pressed her face into the pillow and allowed herself to feel the soreness of her body from their lovemaking. Not pain. Simply soreness.

Then she climbed from bed and dressed. The day was well advanced and she was late for her fencing lesson. But when she arrived in the ballroom she found it empty.

“They have long since gone,” Eliza said. “When you loll
about in bed all morning, everyone else will precede you from the house.”

“He has gone with Lord Michaels? Where?”

“To hound down that poor Chloe Edwards, no doubt.”

So many weeks gone, yet Lord Michaels did not relinquish hope.

Constance went to her writing table and began penning invitations. As midday turned to afternoon, Sir Lorian and Lady Hughes were her first callers.

“Darling Constance.” Miranda squeezed her hands. “You are the most beautiful creature, even after an evening of debauchery. Isn't she, Lorian?” She laughed like tinkling bells.

“If debauchery halts at too many glasses of wine,” she said, drawing Lady Hughes to a sofa, “then I am indeed debauched.” She had taken only a single glass; she had certainly been drugged.

“You left so early, I did not have the opportunity to see to my responsibility.” She kept hold of one of Constance's hands.

“Your responsibility?”

“Every woman who enters the Sanctuary must know the Master's rules.”

“Lady Hughes, I admit myself bemused. We hadn't any idea, you see, that there were rules or . . . or . . .”

“A Master,” Saint said from the doorway.

Sir Lorian mumbled, “Sterling.”

“But I thought you both understood.” Miranda's smile was like a blooming rose. “The Sanctuary is not a
regular
sort of party.”

“My dear,” Sir Lorian said, “I have a word or two to say to Sterling, about swordplay, of course. Why don't you explain the rules to Lady Constance and have that done with?”

Lady Hughes's hand was still firmly holding hers.

“Will you call me Miranda?” she said with a pretty smile. “Your husband does, after all.”

He did?

“Thank you, Miranda. Now, do tell me, who is this Master?”

“You must be able to guess,” she replied with a coy smile.

“I truly cannot.”

“None of us have seen his face. But all of the women have been summoned by him, and—”

“All?” This seemed unreal.

“Of course, darling.” Her delighted laughter spilled over them.

“Forgive me, Miranda.” She smiled with effort, the image of the surly Duke of Loch Irvine and sugary Lady Hughes entwined in passion robbing her of words momentarily. “I fear that after last night's wine I am far too slow today. Was that party typical of the Master's gatherings?”

“Oh, yes. We gather at midnight and the Master makes his choice within the hour. After that each lady is allowed to choose whomever she wishes to be with.”

And yet Miranda had chosen Mr. Westin, the least attractive, least influential, and dullest man present.

“The gentlemen have no choice in their partners? None?”

“Isn't it positively wicked?” she purred. “Lorian is handsome, but naturally I hadn't any say in whether I wished to marry him or not. And do you know, he is a very poor specimen of a man.” She wiggled her pinky finger.

Constance hardly knew whether to laugh. “The Master is not, I guess?”

“Well . . .” Lady Hughes buttoned her pretty rosebud lips together. She leaned forward and whispered, “I hope that what I am about to tell you will entice you to join our little club. What the gentlemen do not know . . . What none of us have ever told our husbands . . .”

“What haven't you told them?”

“He paints us.”

“Who paints you?”

“The Master.” Miranda shrugged prettily. “He doesn't touch us. He wears a mask and a robe that cover him entirely, and he paints us. He even wears a glove so that we cannot see his hand holding the brush.”

“But . . .” How was this possible? “He doesn't—”

“No.” Miranda giggled. “Not yet, at least. Not with me or any of the other women.”

“He only
paints
you?”

“In the nude, of course. It is as sophisticated as any Parisian studio, I daresay. But he has never once touched me. He does not even allow Mr. Reeve to see us unclothed. Isn't it fantastic?”

Entirely fantastic. Hardly believable.

“Does he show you the paintings?”

“Yes, but only when he is finished. Oftentimes he requires many sittings to complete a painting. And he is a marvelous portraitist, Constance. Clarissa is so enamored of the picture he did of her that she begged to purchase it from him.”

“Did he sell it to her?”

“He gave her no reply. He does not
speak
to us, darling. Not a single word. It is really the most diverting thing imaginable.”

“And none of you have told your husbands?”

“It is our secret. Ours and his. And now it is yours too. You mustn't tell anyone, of course.” Her gaze darted to Saint.

“But . . . why do you do it?”

For the first time since she had entered the room, the sparkle in Miranda's dark eyes dimmed.

“Constance darling, given your unconventional choice of a perfectly delicious husband, I suspect you will not entirely understand. But has it occurred to you that not every lady enjoys the liberty to openly choose a partner who suits her?”

The footman announced new callers and within a quarter hour Sir Lorian and Lady Hughes departed, with a private assurance that there would be another gathering soon.

Later, after the last caller left, Saint closed the door behind the footman.

“Dylan and I called at Loch Irvine's house this morning,” he said without preamble.

“Without me? Why—”

“The duke is not in residence.”

“Of course he is.”

“No. He is absent, Constance, as I believe he was at the fall equinox and winter solstice.”

“Have you proof?”

“Not incontrovertible. No one opened the door to us this morning, but the stable is empty. And not one of the shopkeepers recognize a man of Reeve's description.”

“Edinburgh is not such a large place. We will find Reeve. And even if the Master is not the duke, he must know someone is using his house.”

“Like my brother used his house. That's what you are thinking.”

“No. I am thinking that Miranda Hughes believes she was in that room with the Duke of Loch Irvine last night. Perhaps Sir Lorian knows the truth of it. When we—”

“We are not going back there.”

“We must. Saint—”

“No,” he said, his eyes moving across her features carefully. “Nothing we saw last night proves that Loch Irvine or anyone else there is a murderer.”

“But the ritual quality of the Master's little game does suggest that it is not beyond reason to investigate further. There was the white robe, like the robes Sir Lorian ordered from the mill. And today Miranda told me something extraordinary that you won't—”

The drawing room door crashed open.

“I have discovered a witness,” Lord Michaels exclaimed. “Rather, I've spoken with a man who knows a man who saw her three weeks ago. Three weeks only! He's in Leith. I am going now to track him down. I'd like your help, Saint.”

“Of course.” With a swift, pointed glance at her, Saint followed him out.

T
HEY RETURNED SHORTLY
before dawn. Curled up in a chair by the window, Constance heard the horses' hooves on the cobbles.

She met them on the stairs and pulled her sleeve across her nose. “Good heavens, you smell wretched.”

“Thank you, my bride. That is precisely what a man wishes to hear when he returns home at the end of a long day.”

“Pig farmer,” Dylan mumbled, then grinned. “He'd seen her, tho. Saint'll tell you. Bacon for breakfast every day from this day forward!” He disappeared into his bedchamber.

“This is hopeful news.”

“It is.” He leaned against the door frame.

“Go in.” She gestured. “But do not
touch
anything, for goodness sake, or lie down on anything, or—well—anything. I will call up a bath.” Grabbing the lamp, she went down to the kitchen to see to it.

When she returned, she found him lying on his back on the bare floor where the rug did not cover the wooden slats, asleep. Despite the stench, she felt all sorts of warmth and agitation seeing him stretched out like that. She knelt beside him and touched him on the back of his hand. His eyes opened and looked directly at her, into her, beneath every layer of skin and desire.

She helped him from his coat and waistcoat and filthy boots, and deposited them in the corridor as servants brought the first of the hot water to the copper tub in their dressing room. When the water was sufficient she dismissed the servants and woke her husband again.

“Good night, then,” he said, reaching to close the door between them. She stopped him.

“I will bathe you. To make certain you wash off every bit of pig farm.”

He looked down at her with half-lidded eyes and smiled. “You'll spoil that pretty gown.”

“I have others.” She pressed her palm to his chest and pushed him toward the tub.

She watched him climb into the tub, every muscle toned, and she could barely think for the agitation in her body.

She poured water over his head. It didn't help. He was just as gorgeous wet as dry.

“Soap, if you please?” He extended his palm.

“I said I would
do
it.”

He opened an eye and looked askance at her. “If it is such a burden, you needn't. Not having servants care for my every whim my entire life, I can in fact bathe myself.”

“It isn't a burden, of course.” She removed her wrapper and pushed the sleeves of her nightgown up to her shoulders. She scooped a handful of soap. “The trouble is that I want to touch you intimately, and it is making me cross that I—”

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her against his chest and covered her lips with his. She sank her soapy hands into his hair and let his lips command hers for a moment of decadence while water soaked into her backside. Then she broke her mouth free.

“—that I cannot control my lust,” she finished. “Now you have gotten me all wet after all.”

“Do this for me,” he said over her mouth. “Don't try to control your lust with me.” His hand curved around her breast. “All wet, hm?” His thumb circled the nipple, darkening the fabric with water. Then he bent his head and surrounded it with his mouth. She pushed into him.

“I feel this—you—everywhere,” she whispered.

“That is the idea.” His mouth rose to her neck and his hand dipped between her legs.

She dragged herself away from him.

“Bathe. Now,” she said upon a short breath. “You smell like the worst sort of farm and I want to know what you learned today.”

He lifted his hands to grasp the edges of the tub and closed his eyes once more.

“As you wish,” he said. “But note that I am exhibiting a heroic force of will at this time that I hope will, at some point, be grandly rewarded.”

She was certain her heart could not beat any faster.

“Noted,” she said and gathered more soap and water to spread across his back. “Now tell me.”

As she washed him, memorizing every contoured muscle and each sculpted bone beneath her hands, he told her how
they tracked the farmer to a house near the port. The farmer said he knew Miss Edwards well on account of her aunt having purchased from him a sow. He had seen Chloe one afternoon not far from the Duke of Loch Irvine's house. She had been with a man—he hadn't seen the fellow's face—and she called out in greeting. She had not seemed in distress. But when pressed, the farmer said she called her greeting two or three times, which in hindsight seemed peculiar.

Constance listened, tracing his scars with her fingertips and feeling the heat of his skin with her hands even as the water cooled. Finally she related what Miranda Hughes had said about what passed in the Master's chamber.

His eyes opened. “He
only
paints them?”

“According to Miranda, whose face is so wonderfully easy to read, I knew she could not be fabricating. Isn't it curious? None of the husbands know the truth, and the wives have a fine time keeping the secret from them.”

“And yet you have just told me.”

“Don't be silly.”

“He paints them.” His voice sounded thick again. “Extraordinary.”

“I wonder what he does with the paintings?” She ran her soapy hands over his shoulders. “Private collection, I daresay.”

“Mm.”

“Now you must agree that we should return.”

“No.”

“Saint—”

“No,” he mumbled.

By the time she finished, he was asleep.

She kissed him. He awoke with a start, then with a hand around the side of her face, his lips responding to hers without hesitation.

Reluctantly she drew away and offered a towel. Eyes hooded, he dried off, wrapped his arms around her, and took her mouth beneath his again.