Twice Fallen (25 page)

“I’m flattered,” Damien said dryly.

Charles predictably ignored the comment. “True, this isn’t precisely a political problem, but then again, it is affecting the most prominent families in England. Blackmail? Murder? I want it stopped, but done so discreetly that the problem just disappears. As I suspected all along, arresting Kinkannon won’t solve this. First of all, I highly doubt that any of his victims would appear before a magistrate to give evidence. Sparing themselves the embarrassment is why they pay in the first place. The point of this all is to keep their various sins in the shadows.”

“I can make Kinkannon talk.” Damien spoke matter-of-factly.
Not all of his skills learned during the war had practical applications to his new civilian life in England, but apparently that dubious one could be used in this case.

That made Charles grin, which was a rather unsettling sight, his pale blue eyes taking on an unsettling gleam. “I have no doubt you can.”

“Tell me, what did your nephew say when he asked for the funds?” Damien drank some ale, decided it wasn’t the worst beverage he’d ever had, and gave Charles a mild inquiring look. After all, if it hadn’t been for Henry Lawson’s dilemma, he doubted he would be investigating in the first place.

“Just that he needed money urgently. It was quite a sizable amount. Were I not aware of the blackmailer in our midst, I would have thought it just from his recklessness with cards and dice, but it seems clear to me he has been threatened with more than just the public humiliation of not being able to meet his debts.”

Damien had come to the same conclusion. “No doubt our friendly extortionist explained that he could meet with an untimely accident.”

“He’s my sister’s only child, the damn fool. That said, I’m not giving money over to a vicious blackguard. That’s why I sent Henry to Scotland. I’ve a hunting lodge there. Clara would never forgive me if something happened to him, and the boy can use the time to contemplate his weakness for dice while he freezes his arse off in solitude, but at least he’ll be alive. When you straighten out this little matter, I’ll let him come back to London and we’ll deal with his obligations.”

Damien thought of Arthur Kerr and his request. “I
have another victim, one that is a friend of mine. That’s how I became convinced that this is widespread. His secret isn’t gambling, but something else altogether.” He wasn’t about to go into Arthur’s sexual preferences. “I think the question is, How does our blackmailer find out these tidbits about his potential victims? There has to be a connection between all the victims, but so far it has eluded me.”

“When you uncover the answer, let me know.” Charles looked at his glass of ale and grimaced, setting it aside. “Drop me a note when this is all resolved.”

Drop me a note.

Damien had to chuckle as he finished his ale. Sir Charles had an extraordinary sense of humor.

It was like harboring another deep, dark secret.

But quite the opposite of the one she’d held for four years.

Men
, Lily thought irritably, but then in direct contradiction, her lips curled into a smile. What had happened between her and Damien was hardly the same as what had
not
happened between her and Arthur.

Deliciously, wickedly, the opposite.

She’d been delivered back to the house before dawn, and had to admit she found it amusing that Damien’s detailed instructions about how to slip back up to her room undetected were so accurate. She’d navigated the journey without incident, though the smell of baking bread told her she was not the only one awake in the house.

It was strange, she thought later, while bathing, the overcast sky outside her windows doing nothing to
dampen her effervescent mood, how life could change so quickly. The water was warm on her skin, the slight soreness between her legs a reminder it hadn’t all been a dream, and she rested her head back on the edge of the tub, the scent of lilac soap drifting in the air.

Falling in love the first time had nearly ruined her life. Doing it a second time seemed reckless and naive, but then again, Lily decided, she hadn’t chosen that path, it had chosen her.

Would Damien really marry her? He wasn’t in the habit of openly declaring his feelings, which was a bit confusing, but that had been the intimation. Would she have fallen into his arms anyway? It surprised her to realize that she liked the air of mystery and intrigue, but then again, Arthur had seemed like the most respectable gentleman possible, and so perhaps she was drawn to enigmatic men.

The first time she’d fallen had certainly been a mistake. The second time might be a disaster.…

When she rose, dripping, from her bath, she brushed the towel over her body with a new awareness of what it meant to be a woman, and with Damien’s promise of a call in mind, selected a day dress in apricot lutestring, paying attention to the way her maid did her hair when normally she dismissed that part of her toilette as inconsequential, just sweeping it up in a simple chignon. Today she made sure it was sleek and stylish.

The night before was both an illusion and a reality, for when she recalled those whispered moments, the moonlit madness of it all, she both believed, and didn’t believe at all, it had happened.

Squaring her shoulders she made her way downstairs.

The duchess, she was informed, would be present for luncheon.

Marvelous.
Lily had to wonder cynically… did she look different? Was there a special glow to newly ruined maidens?

If there was, she thought halfway through the cold soup served as the first course, it must not be evident. Carole asked with a pointed look, “Will you be joining us this evening?”

In a bid for time, nothing else, Lily dipped her spoon in the Serves bowl in front of her and said, “The Britton fete?” The invitation had arrived a few weeks ago and she supposed it was no surprise she’d forgotten about it. “I don’t—” she began to say.

“I’ve already accepted for you, Lillian,” the duchess interrupted in her usual crisp tone, seated with all due regality across the wide table. “Everyone of consequence will be there. Sir George has asked me if you would do him the honor of reserving a waltz. Naturally, I told him you would be delighted.”

A laugh at the presumption was nothing more than a waste of breath. The Dowager Duchess of Eddington tended to make decisions without the influence of other people’s opinions, especially those whom her choices might affect.

It was almost amusing, but not quite. Lilly could endure a dance with Sir George—he was not odious, just a bit dull, but with the current tumult in her life, the idea of being polite and attempting witty small talk all evening held even less appeal than ever.

Damien might also attend, though. It seemed likely, as he was no doubt invited to everything.…

Whereas she was not. The invitation had been a coup, no doubt, orchestrated by the duchess. It was more than a little humiliating to think that strings had to be pulled to gain her entrance to the most elite events, but it was tempered now by the knowledge that Damien knew the truth. She wasn’t the disgraced Lady Lillian, who’d failed to follow through with her ill-fated elopement, any longer, no matter what the rest of London society might think.

He’d set her free in so many ways.

“You are smiling at the idea of dancing with Sir George?” Carole sounded skeptical, her brows lifted, her blue eyes inquiring. Betsy was also studying her as if she hadn’t seen her in a long time.

“No.” Lily composed her expression to suitable decorum. “Not that he isn’t a nice man.”

“With a baronetcy,” the duchess pointed out, but there was a shrewdness in her eyes that said she wasn’t fooled a bit.

Perhaps her newly ruined status
did
show, Lily surmised as she reached for the goblet in front of her in the pretense of taking a drink. “I’m just… smiling.”

“Humph.” The duchess allowed the footman to remove her bowl. “I am
always
suspicious of that particular kind of smile from a young, impressionable woman.”

“Not so young,” Lily argued wryly, “and I take exception to impressionable.”

“That,” her exalted sponsor said serenely, “remains to be seen.”

H

A rather dangerous mouse, because there were holes he didn’t know about that the rodent could hide in.

But, Damien thought, he was
always
learning.…

Kinkannon was the focus of his meditation, his lack of an aristocratic background compensated by his fortune, though where he’d acquired it might be a point of contention when the truth was revealed.

After all, his infiltration of the ranks of the elite had been sponsored by their sins.

All men had weaknesses. Something that could break them. The only question was finding it. In this case, Damien hoped he had.

He walked through the lobby of the expensive establishment, noting the palate of colors that were surprisingly tasteful, masculine overtones in cobalt blue and deep green offset by the ivory of the rich carpet, the chairs arranged in intimate groups—of two, naturally—the dark chocolate of the upholstery a nod to the patrons’ tastes, small tables near every grouping containing decanters and trays of sparkling glasses. A curio cabinet
in one corner displayed a collection of decorated snuff boxes and the air held a subtle mix of perfume and tobacco.

Not since before university had he been in a brothel, and Damien stripped off his gloves slowly as he surveyed the interior of the reception room, a young man in beautifully tailored clothing hastening to offer him brandy and claret, both of which he declined before he took a chair and waited.

Madame Cyrene, who if he had to guess was not French at all, arrived in a swirl of amber satin and suggested they speak in her private sitting room. It was early, and so the young ladies were mostly at their leisure, lounging in the sitting area, and he received a few appraising looks as he followed the tall brunette toward a doorway that took them into a hall with carved doors and a hovering footman who whisked one open.

“Have a seat, my lord.” Cyrene pointed to a chair and settled herself just opposite, gracefully reaching for the glass of sherry she’d obviously been drinking before his arrival. “I read your note and am intrigued. How is it I can help you?”

She was a celebrity of sorts among the males of the
haut ton
, though he had never availed himself of the services she provided. Word had it she herself never took lovers except on a very exclusive basis and he believed it. She was beautiful in an opulent way with dark, shining hair and only a tasteful application of cosmetics tinting her full lips and high cheekbones.

He said, “I need information on one of your clients.”

“No.” The refusal was decisive. She shook her head, but her smile was gracious. “I would be out of business
very quickly if I disclosed any details about the gentlemen who pay visits here. I am sure you understand.”

“What if one of them is using your goodwill and services to obtain leverage against other members?”

Her expression altered, but to give her credit, not very much. Had it not been for his experience in being so attuned to the responses of others, he would not have caught the slight falter in her smile. “In what way? Who is he?”

“Ah.” He settled back and looked at her steadily. “You see, you are not the only one reluctant to relinquish confidences. I am understandably uninterested in warning my quarry.”

She regarded him steadily, the charming courtesan replaced by a practical woman. “And I am uninterested in alarming my patrons with any hint of indiscreet disclosure. They come here with every confidence that they will not only enjoy themselves but also have full anonymity.”

She suited the room, her presence vibrant and sensual, the walls paneled in pale pink satin, her dark beauty striking in the pastel surroundings, but he also knew from a bit of investigation she was a canny businesswoman as well, who had started out as the mistress of an elderly duke. “I am quite
sure
they enjoy themselves,” he murmured, “but the anonymity is in question. That is why I am here. I do not want a list of your clients. I just wish to know the habits of one in particular.”

“How do I know the information will not be traced back to me?”

“How do I know you won’t send him a note the moment I leave this room, telling him I was here? I doubt
very much he’ll appreciate my inquiries. Much of life, don’t you agree, is a leap of faith?”

“It is indeed.”

Patience was one of the virtues that didn’t come naturally to him, but he’d learned it during the war. He waited until she sighed and lifted a languid hand. “I don’t want him here if he is disreputable or using our services for other than what they are. I’ll tell you what I can if you’ll give me his name. Your word, of course, my lord, no one ever knows we spoke.”

“My word. His name is Edgar Kinkannon.”

“Kinkannon.” There was a derisive note in her voice as she repeated the name.

“I thought you’d recognize it.”

“Oh, I do. Why am I not surprised he is the one that brought you here?” Cyrene laughed, but it was short and her lashes lowered over her eyes a fraction. “There are some you sense will be trouble from the beginning. He is a regular, yes. What else do you need to know?”

“Has he a favorite girl?”

“Girls. He has certain tastes. He almost always asks for two.”

Damien was jaded enough that he was leagues beyond being surprised, and that was tame compared to the depraved preferences of some of the youngbloods of the
ton
. “The same young ladies?”

“Usually, yes.”

“Can I speak with them?”

London’s most famous procuress gave him an impudent look, her gaze trailing suggestively down and then back up his body where he lounged in the chair. “I am sure Delilah and Mary would be delighted, my lord, especially
if the questioning is done under the most
comfortable
circumstances possible. You are very handsome, and they favor tall men. Shall I get you a room?”