“Neither do I.”
He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “Just be careful. This place is not what it seems, and your employers might appear benign—even the ladies—but they aren’t stupid.”
She patted his shoulder. “I know. The countess is all charm and sweetness, but I detect a spine of steel and the ruthless mind of a warrior beneath that.”
“Then be wary, Di. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“It’s too late for that.” She smiled brilliantly. “But I’ve learned my lesson well, and I don’t intend to lose this time.”
Nico shook his head and walked to the door. “Good-bye, love. I’m off to report to Mr. Maclean.”
“Mr. Maclean, I cannot investigate a member of my own family. It would be unethical and any evidence I presented you with would be biased in her favor.”
Nicodemus Theale sat forward, one hand on his familiar notebook, the other gripping the arm of the chair.
Alistair frowned. “So, are you saying that no one investigated Lady Theale before she took this job?”
“I should imagine the Countess of Westbrook did her own investigating, sir. She certainly has the ability.”
“But she didn’t ask you.”
“No, sir. If she had I would’ve refused just as I am doing now.”
Alistair gave a reluctant nod. He might not like it, but he respected the man’s ethics. “Do you think Lady Theale is suitable for the position?”
“Yes, sir, I do. She managed my father and his estate for the last five years of his life.”
“But I understand he left her nothing.”
“That’s because she stood up for me. His two legitimate children disliked her and hated me. They convinced my father that he was being swindled by the pair of us—when, in fact, the opposite was true. Diana was simply trying to save what was left of the estate from the constant depravations of the pair of them.”
“I suppose they considered her an interloper. She was a lot younger than your father, I understand.”
“Yes, sir, she was.”
Alistair reminded himself to check into the details of the Theale inheritance issue. It might prove interesting.
“Do you know where she met your father?”
“I have no idea, sir. You would have to ask Lady Theale.” Nicodemus put his notebook away, signaling the interview was at an end. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Maclean?”
“There is one more thing. Have you ever heard of a place called the Demon Club?”
Nicodemus went still. “I have, sir.”
“Is it a respectable gaming house?”
“It’s . . .” Nicodemus shook his head. “It’s a den of iniquity where a man might lose his soul and never recover it.”
“That makes sense,” Alistair murmured. “If one was in debt to such a place, would one be in trouble?”
“One would. With all due respect, Mr. Maclean, if you owe them money I suggest you do everything in your power to repay that debt as soon as possible. If you do not, the club will consider you fair game.”
“And what exactly would that mean? Would they come after me?”
“If they had to.” Nicodemus actually shuddered. “If you cannot pay, they consider you as collateral.”
“In what sense?”
“They’ll use you to repay the debt by whatever means they choose.”
“That doesn’t sound good at all.”
“It isn’t, sir. As I said, if you owe them a single penny, pay it back immediately.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, Mr. Theale.” Alistair considered for a moment. “If you have any other information about the club, please let me know. It might come in handy later.”
“For your sake, I hope not, sir.” Nicodemus bowed. “I must be off. I have several other matters to investigate for Lord Keyes.”
“Then thank you for your time.”
Alistair waited until his companion had closed the door, and then sat back down. The Demon Club sounded appalling. He had to assume that Harry knew what he’d gotten himself into, but he was still uneasy. His brother didn’t have a hundred pounds, let alone a thousand to pay a single creditor. Was the holder of the debt connected to the woman who had held him at gunpoint? It was definitely a possibility.
Alistair pushed the problem to the back of his mind and addressed his thoughts to the speech he was writing for Lord Keyes to deliver in the upper house. He’d trained himself never to be distracted from the task at hand, but even he was having difficulty concentrating when his thoughts skipped about from Harry’s problems to the tantalizing opportunity of getting his own back on Diana Theale.
He snorted as he dipped his pen in the ink. She thought him undisciplined. She had no idea what he was like at all. He had no intention of obliging her by turning up at her command on Friday night, but he almost wished he could....
A knock at the door several hours later had him looking up to see the butler advancing toward him.
“There is a Lord Blaydon Kenrick here to see you, sir.” Maddon presented a tray with the man’s card on it to Alistair.
He examined the card, but it held nothing other than the man’s name. “Did he mention why he needed to see me?”
“No, sir. Do you wish me to inquire?”
“That’s not necessary. Please send him in.”
If he was not mistaken, Kenrick was the family name of the Marquess of Killkenny, an Irish peer.
The gentleman who was ushered in by Maddon was dressed in the height of fashion and about Alistair’s age.
“Mr. Maclean?”
“Yes, please sit down. How may I help you?”
Lord Blaydon ignored the invitation and stood his ground, a calm smile hovering on his lips.
“You do not look much like your brother.”
Alistair’s smile disappeared. “We share similar coloring, but that’s about it. How may I assist you?”
“Your brother owes the Demon Club a thousand pounds.”
“So I understand. You had the wrong address. I passed your letter on to him.” Alistair met Lord Blaydon’s dark gaze. “That is the extent of my interest in this matter.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t quite how it works, Mr. Maclean. Your brother used your name when he incurred the debt.”
“A mistake, of which you are obviously aware, so I cannot see what it has to do with me.”
“Your name is on the voucher.”
“And I deny all knowledge of it. Are you done, my lord? I have work to do.”
“If your brother does not pay us in full by the end of the month, or appear at the Demon Club, you will be required to honor his obligation.”
Alistair stood up and glared at his visitor. “I repeat. I am not obliged to pay my brother’s debts.”
“Then you are happy to watch him suffer?”
“I am not responsible for my brother. He is a grown man.”
“Be that as it may, if he doesn’t turn up, you
will
be required to fulfill his responsibility.”
“And if I refuse?”
Lord Blaydon smiled. “You will not be given the opportunity to refuse, Mr. Maclean.” He put on his hat. “I wish you a good evening.”
Alistair let him leave and then sat down again. Damn Harry for dragging him into yet another mess. He had no choice but to go to his brother’s lodgings again and lie in wait for him.
“Devil take it!” Alistair muttered as he put away his work and tidied his desk. “My brother is going to pay for this!”
He hailed a hackney cab and arrived at Harry’s rooms less than half an hour later. He managed to get into the house, but his brother’s door was locked so he had to find the manager of the property who lived in the basement and get him to open up the place. He also had to endure a tirade about his brother’s wild ways and a threat of Harry being evicted if he didn’t pay his rent on time. It was only after placating the man and offering him a substantial bribe that Alistair was given the spare key.
He wrinkled his nose at the sour smell that permeated the place. He discovered a half-eaten meal on the table, disposed of the rotting meat, and opened a window. The apartment looked as if no one had been there in days, but that didn’t necessarily mean that anything bad had happened to Harry. He quite often cadged off his friends, staying a night here and another there until they became tired of him and he moved on.
But this time, things looked different. Alistair wandered into the adjoining bedroom and surveyed the chaos of open drawers and chests and an unmade bed. There was a sense that someone had left in a tearing hurry. . . .
Checking more carefully now, Alistair looked in vain for a note or any clue to his brother’s whereabouts. He returned to the front room and studied the collection of screwed-up paper on the floor around the desk. Had Harry attempted to write to him, or someone else, and given up in his haste to be gone? He bent down and picked up some of the paper and unfolded it. One of the pieces was written in his hand and was addressed to his brother. He thought it was the paper he’d used to wrap his message in. The rest were all his brother’s work.
Harry’s agitated writing covered half the page, begging someone for more time, insisting that he would pay as soon as he was able and that he would be back . . .
Alistair read through five attempts at the letter, which were all pleas for extra time, but none of them specified what debt Harry referred to or the name of the debtor. It didn’t matter. He had a shrewd suspicion that his brother had bolted after receiving his forwarded letter from the Demon Club. From what Nicodemus had told him and his own encounter with the icily polite Lord Blaydon, he could see why Harry had panicked.
But what of Harry’s latest lover and protector? Alistair frowned as he tried to remember the name of the peer who had pursued Harry after his tumultuous relationship with Adam Fisher had finally ended. Would Harry have gone to this man for protection or was he, too, involved with the Demons?
Nicodemus might have the answer to that, so might Adam Fisher, but Alistair didn’t want to bother him. Alistair took one last look around the lodging. He placed the rubbish in the grate and burned it before locking the door behind him and leaving for the Sinners. He’d have the place watched to see if his brother returned, but at this juncture there was nothing else he could do. It was quite like Harry to run away from his problems, but this time, Alistair wasn’t prepared to save him from his fate.
He felt like someone was squeezing his heart as the heavy weight of his responsibilities sank over him. He’d always protected Harry, first from the wrath of their father, and later from everything and everybody in society. And all he’d done was make his brother believe he would always save him. How many times had Harry begged him to make something right? Promised to change, to pay him back, to—
With a weary sigh, Alistair decided to walk back to the Sinners. Adam Fisher had mentioned that he’d given up trying to save Harry because Harry never changed. He conveniently forgot everything that had been given to him and headed straight for the next crisis, leaving a swathe of wounded hearts and minds along the way.
But no more. Alistair was done with him. He was tired of being the responsible brother, the one who was always in control. His thoughts turned to the pleasure house, to a night of anonymity sexually serving whoever wanted him without protest . . .
But even that sanctuary was in jeopardy now. If he went back, he’d have to deal with Diana Theale.
It started to rain and he turned up his collar and jammed his hat more firmly down on his head. Harry needed to learn a lesson, and he had to step back and let him fail. Alistair could only hope he could convince his heart and his conscience to agree with him.
6
D
iana opened another box of old correspondence and studied the date of the first letter. Whoever had curated the records of the original Sinners Club had done an excellent job. The content of each box was meticulously recorded in a document placed at the top of the box and organized by date and by subject matter. As a result, Diana knew rather too much about the kitchen accounts and how much alcohol the Sinners consumed and even where it had been obtained.
But she hadn’t found anything of a more personal nature. Not even a hint about the origins of the club, or the person she was attempting to trace. Nico had warned her, but she thought she’d find something, some little trace that would’ve escaped a man’s eye. And she knew more than she’d told Nico. Some things were too private to ever share.
She sat in the front attic of the house, a cushion on the bare floorboards beneath her bottom and a candelabrum at her side. It was quite late and none of her employers, male or female, were supposed to be home. Even Mr. Maclean had gone out, but she suspected he’d done that deliberately to avoid her reminding him that it was Friday night.
She packed the box away and rose to her feet, brushing off the dust, and surveyed the ordered ranks of boxes that filled the shelves and disappeared off into the darkness. Perhaps Nico was right and she should simply ask the countess what she knew. . . .
With a shake of her head, she picked up the candles and turned to leave. She would not allow herself to become dispirited. There was always another day and a chance to make a discovery that would change everything. Even if she couldn’t bring herself to ask outright, she might be able to find out where the Sinners kept the more secret and personal correspondence.
After carefully closing the door into the attic, she paused on the landing to blow out the candles and listen for the sounds of activity below. As she stood in the darkness, she looked down over the bannisters and observed Adam Fisher’s return to his apartment on the floor below, locking the door behind him.
Poor Adam. She knew he’d cared deeply about that scoundrel Harry Maclean, but he was well rid of him. If Charlotte and the Demon Club had their way, Harry would receive a punishment that might just fit the crime.
Picking up her skirts, she descended the staircase and went down two floors before crossing over another landing to the door of her borrowed apartment. She locked the door and considered her opulent surroundings. A portrait of the Earl and Countess of Westbrook painted shortly after their marriage hung over the fireplace. Diana went over to study it, her gaze drawn to the contrast between the strong English features of the bride and the exotic coloring of her Anglo-Indian groom.
Before his marriage, the earl had been known as the “Savage Rake” both for his unusual birth, and for his propensity to sweep women off their feet and into bed in a remarkably short space of time. He’d apparently become a reformed character after his unexpected marriage to the plain bluestocking older daughter of a minor peer.
Diana hadn’t met him in person yet. Lady Westbrook had told her that the earl was on a diplomatic mission for the government and was expected back within a month. She had no desire to meet him. She’d heard he was extremely hard to deceive, and one look at her would make him suspicious, she was quite sure of that.
She went through to the bedroom and considered her choices. Regardless of whether Mr. Maclean joined her or not, she was going to the pleasure house. If he was too much of a coward to submit to her, she would enjoy showing him what he was missing as he fawned at the feet of someone less worthy, like Lady M. Her friend had no idea what Mr. Maclean was like or any desire to find out. All she required was a lapdog, and despite what he wanted to believe, Mr. Maclean was more of a lone wolf.
Unbuttoning her practical day dress, she considered what to wear and settled on a black silk gown that showed off her bosom and the warm tones of her skin to advantage. Underneath the dress she would wear just one thin petticoat and her lightest set of stays. If Mr. Maclean
did
decide to participate, she wanted to be ready for him. The thought of him touching her made her purr. The thought of
preventing
him from touching her until he was a begging, shaking mess made her nipples ache and her cunt throb.
But he wouldn’t demean himself before her.
She was fairly sure of that, which was a huge disappointment. With a resigned sigh, she rang the bell for her maid. The dress needed to be hooked up at the back, and her hair required a softer, more natural style than the tight braids she wore all day. While she waited for Nelly, she applied some discreet cosmetics to accentuate her eyes and her mouth. Even if Mr. Maclean didn’t turn up, she intended to enjoy herself.
Half an hour later as the clock struck midnight, she tied the ribbons of her velvet cloak and accepted an escort through the streets to the door of the pleasure house. It was as busy and crowded as always. She spotted Charlotte in the main salon talking intently to an older man and didn’t interrupt her. As she mounted the stairs, the crowds faded away until she was on the top floor and being ushered in through the locked landing door by Donal Murray, who gave her his usual wink. She didn’t stop to ask him whether her room was occupied, but made her way down to the smaller of the two salons, where a select number of guests were circulating and choosing their partners.
One of the half-naked servers offered her a glass of red wine, which she accepted while she considered his muscular body and the tight black pantaloons that barely covered the hard bulge of his cock. His smile was an invitation to sin, but he was rather too obvious for her tastes. She preferred a partner who was so aware of her that their behavior changed.
After speaking to one or two of her acquaintances and consuming some excellent food, she strolled back along the narrow corridor to her room at the end and slowly opened the door.
Alistair Maclean knelt in the center of the bare wooden floor, his back to her, his hands by his side. Diana slowly closed the door and leaned against it, admiring the view of his strong back, the curve of his muscular buttocks, and the evidence of his career as a soldier that marred his pale Celtic skin.
To his credit, he didn’t turn around, but she was amused to see him shiver and watched the goose bumps appear on his skin. She walked forward and stroked one finger over the fine erect hairs on his arm.
“Good evening, Mr. Maclean. Link your fingers, and put your hands behind your head.”
He did what she asked, his shoulders flexing as he assumed the position. Diana trailed her finger down from his throat, along his collarbone, and finally down his arm, letting him feel the scratch of her fingernail. A faint red line appeared on his skin, and she was the one to shiver at the possibilities ahead.
“Kiss me.”
Diana paused and took a step away from him. “Mr. Maclean, do we have to go through all this again? I tell
you
what to do.”
“You want to kiss me, I can tell, so why not get on with it?”
She smiled at the rough impatience of his tone. “I have no intention of kissing that demanding mouth of yours, Mr. Maclean.” She turned to the tallboy against the wall, opened the top drawer, and extracted a black silk scarf. “In truth, until I give you leave, you don’t need to speak at all.”
When she approached with the silk held loosely between her hands, he jerked his head away from her.
“I don’t like being—”
She pressed one finger hard against his lips, silencing him.
“Either cooperate with me, Mr. Maclean, or get out.” She waited to see what he would do, but he didn’t move a muscle. “Then be quiet.”
She gagged him with the silk, wrapping it twice around his head and securing it with a tight knot at the back. His breathing slowed and his interlocked fingers flexed as if he wanted to strangle her.
“That’s better. Now, stand up but keep your hands where they are.”
He rose slowly and she noticed he favored his left leg. She slid one slippered foot between his bare feet and guided him into a wider stance. His cock was already hard and curving toward his stomach.
She began to touch him. Her hands swept over his chest and hips, the hard columns of his thighs, and the curve of his tight arse. As she touched him, she observed his reactions to her, the way his breathing altered when she brushed his nipples and the inside of his thigh, the way his cock strained toward her, the crown pushing past the foreskin to reveal his true length and impressive girth.
He was beautiful.
But still far too sure of himself.
She indicated the wooden rack that stood on one side of the room. “Stand over there and put your hands up over your head.”
He moved more easily now, the scar on his right hip from some old wound obviously troubling him less. She would have to remember that while she played with him. Following him over to the rack, she fastened the leather cuffs that hung from the top of the frame around his wrists and buckled them tight, before adjusting the pulley-and-chain system to raise him slightly so that his feet barely made contact with the floor.
It stretched his body out to its fullest extent and made her lick her lips. A bare canvas to create on . . . Each mark she made would be unique and help form the pattern of their relationship.
She placed her palm on his buttock and he flinched. Had he expected a slap or the curl of the whip? She knew he liked that, had watched him with Lady M. She smoothed her hand over his taut flesh, cupping his tight buttock, and then eased a finger lower to rim the pucker of his arsehole. His reaction was immediate as he attempted to remove himself from her touch. She did it again, and this time he jerked his whole body away.
Intrigued, she walked around to face him, enjoying the flash of anger in his green eyes.
“You don’t like being touched like that?”
He vehemently shook his head.
She smiled. “Oh dear.”
His eyes widened, and he made a concentrated effort to fight off the silk gag. Diana waited until he realized the futility of that and returned his wary gaze to her face.
She knelt at his feet and calmly attached cuffs to his ankles and chained each one to a wooden support at the side of the frame holding him immobile. Before standing up, she leaned forward and licked off the pre-cum glistening on the crown of his cock.
“Mmm.” She took a moment to savor his taste before sucking her own finger into her mouth and wetting it. She smiled and walked behind him, watching as his whole body tensed against his restraints. She ran her wet finger down between his buttocks and he shuddered.
“If I wish to touch you here, Mr. Maclean, I will do so. I do not expect you to attempt to avoid anything I wish to do to you.”
She waited a moment before picking up a bottle of unscented oil and drizzled some on his skin waiting as it dripped down over his arsehole and taint. She coated her finger with oil as well and trailed it down to his tightly clenched hole.
“Relax, Mr. Maclean.”
He shook his head again, his mouth working to bite through the silken gag darkening and knotting the silk.
She stopped touching him. For a long moment, Alistair held his breath, but she did nothing more sinister than walk around to observe him, her blue gaze calm. She studied his face and then yanked the gag down.
“I fear I have been remiss, Mr. Maclean. We did not discuss terms before I tied you to this frame.”
He swallowed down what felt like a pint of spit. “There are no terms. You want me to fuck you, and I’m more than willing to do so.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You are rather overconfident, sir. I told you to be in this room so that you could attend to
my
needs, not to yours.”
“Surely they are the same?”
“Hardly.”
He glanced down at his cock. “You don’t want this?”
“That isn’t the point of this discussion, Mr. Maclean.”
“Then what is?”
“We need to agree on something. If I hurt you, or push you into doing something you do not want, you must tell me.”
“You won’t hurt me.”
“Again, you are deliberately missing the point. I do not wish you to injure yourself or suffer unnecessarily.”
He glanced down at her slippered feet. “I’m not a coward. I was in the military. I can take any beating you choose to give me, the harder the better.”
“I’m sure you can, Mr. Maclean, because that’s what you pride yourself on, isn’t it?”
He slowly raised his gaze to hers and swallowed hard. “I do what I am told. I take what I am given. I don’t need to
tell
you to stop.”
“Yet you didn’t wish me to touch your arse.”
“I—” He set his jaw. “That is unnecessary to our purpose. You are a woman. I can fuck your cunt and your arse. If you order me to do it, I’ll keep going until you are screaming my name and I run out of come.”
She sighed. “Which brings me back to my original point. What if I don’t want you to fuck me, but wish to fuck you instead?”
“You can’t. You don’t have the necessary equipment.”
She strolled away from him and returned with a slim leather phallus that she’d taken off one of the shelves.
“Oh, I can fuck you.”
He glared at her to hide his sudden apprehension. “Why bother with that when I can satisfy you far better with my real cock? You can beat me bloody and I swear to God that I’ll still be able to perform for as long as you want.”
She stared at him for so long that he had to look away. “You don’t wish me to make you come with my fingers and this nice leather phallus?”
He set his teeth and continued to study the floor.
“Then
tell
me you don’t want me to do that to you.”
Rage burned through him, and he raised his head. “I won’t beg. I’m not a coward.”