“A couple of hours. I also want to have a look at this ratcatcher’s shop where we are to meet O’Banyon. Get the lay of the land.”
She winced slightly at his mention of the coming confrontation. “Be careful out there, all right?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you miss me.”
“I doubt that,” she murmured with a doting smile, then he leaned down and kissed her good-bye.
Kate slid her arms around his neck and made sure to give him a kiss intended to bring him home soon. Neither of them paid any mind to the guards and servants passing here and there; Rohan wrapped his arms around her waist and claimed her lips with unabashed passion, his warm, clever mouth slanting over hers.
She was breathless when he slowly ended it.
“Hurry back,” she whispered. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Mmm.” He ran his hands down the sides of her waist as he held her in a smoldering gaze.
Kate gave him a knowing half smile.
As he reluctantly released her from his embrace, she trailed a mischievous fingertip down his chest as he pulled away. “Perhaps I’ll go exploring and see if I can’t find my way to your bedchamber.”
“Damn, you make it hard to leave.” With a lusty glance at her wetted lips, he gave her a wink, then turned away to leave his men with a few final instructions.
She overheard him telling Eldred to make sure no one came in. He got confirmation from Parker that Peter Doyle had been locked up in the strong room. Then he left the house. A few minutes later, he rode away on horseback.
Kate watched him through the window until she remembered she had orders to stay out of sight. With a dutiful sigh, she pulled away from the sparkling glass panes and decided to have a look around the upper floors of his home.
Lifting the hem of her gown, she ventured up the pristine staircase, one hand resting on the sculpted banister. A gallery on the upper floor overlooked the entrance hall below, but beyond it, the layout of the rooms flowed with formal grace.
As she wandered from the princely drawing room to the handsome music room beside it, she suddenly heard the clatter of carriage wheels outside, followed by the sound of female voices.
Oh, you must be joking,
she thought, instantly recalling the women they had passed.
Though Rohan had told her to stay out of sight, she stole across the music room and sneaked over to the window, peeking out from behind the drapes.
To her astonishment, she saw not one but
two
carriages in the drive, with equally beautiful ladies alighting from each. They wore fabulous hats and gorgeous, fur-lined coats, had perfect skin, and were dressed in the first stare of fashion. They hurried with dainty, mincing steps racing each other playfully to the door.
Kate watched, agog, as one woman pulled her long coat open and stopped to adjust her bodice, tugging down her décolleté slightly, thrusting out her chest. Others fluffed their curls hanging from beneath their bonnets as they fought to reach the front door first.
She shook her head, staring down at them, his rule of staying out of sight be damned. She saw them talking, but simply
had
to hear their words.
She reached up to the window latch, unlocked it, and discreetly opened it a crack, listening in on their exchange.
“Why, Lucinda! Imagine finding you here.”
They exchanged the most artificial pecks on the cheek she’d ever seen.
“Pauline,” another woman greeted a new arrival with a haughty sniff. “Shouldn’t you be at home helping your dear old husband find his teeth?”
Lucinda let out a trill of brittle laughter. “At least my husband
is
at home, not passed out under a table in some bordello. Not that it’s any of your affair, darling, but Warrington wished me to come and see him.” She preened. “I have a standing invitation.”
“Oh, really?” the other drawled with a skepticism equal to Kate’s own at this assertion.
“Oh, yes! Didn’t you know? Warrington and I have always got on
famously.
”
“Then I suppose you know where he’s been these past few weeks, hm?”
“Well, no, not exactly. You?”
“Wouldn’t tell you if I did,” she shot back lightly.
Several of them laughed.
“Oh, come,” another of their fair rivals interjected as they all strolled toward the door. “You both know he dashed off and never said a word to any of us.”
“Well, yes—but I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“I’m just glad he’s back!”
“Some lark must have come into his head. You know how wild he is.”
A lady in light blue sighed. “I love that about him. You never know what he’s going to do.”
“Or whom,” another drawled.
The others gasped; their tittering filled the air.
Kate scowled.
A total of eight women had descended on the house like so many queen bees drawn by some potent, irresistible flower. Kate in part wanted to laugh, but mainly, she seethed with indignation.
When the doorbell clanged, she abandoned her post by the window and rushed to the gallery above the entrance hall to eavesdrop on whatever Eldred was going to say to stave them off.
Bravely, he kept them outside. “I am very sorry, ladies, His Grace is not at home,” the butler announced, his back to Kate.
To her surprise, his claim was rejected.
“Look here, my good fellow, we just saw his carriage!”
“Yes, madam, His Grace has returned to Town, but regretfully, he had to rush off again straightaway.”
“Where did he go?” demanded one pampered, petulant princess.
“When’s he coming back?” Lucinda asked hopefully.
“Er, I am not sure, on either point, ladies, but if you’d care to leave your cards—”
Crestfallen moans of disgruntlement floated up through the entrance hall.
Then, all of a sudden, one of the nosier ladies craned her neck past Eldred’s lanky frame and gasped. “Who’s that?” she cried, pointing past him at Kate, who was standing on the gallery.
Uh-oh.
Her cheeks flushed, but Kate drew herself up as Eldred looked over his shoulder with a wince.
One of the women shoved the door open the rest of the way, and they all stared at her, looking utterly indignant that another female had beaten them to the punch.
“Why, that blue-eyed devil! He’s
with
someone already!”
“Warrington, you Beast! Oh, let us in, old man. We know he’s in there!”
“Mesdames!”
Kate flung out sharply, unable to stand another moment of their intrusion. One hand on her hip, she lifted her chin and summoned up every ounce of elegant French hauteur that she had inherited from her mama. “His Grace is not at home,” she clipped out. “Leave your cards, please, and I will make sure he receives your—well-wishes,” she finished cynically.
None of the ladies moved.
No one made a sound.
They stared at her in shock, and Kate stared back, giving no ground whatsoever, though her heart was pounding.
She could not believe she had just given them an order. Clearly, she was spending too much time with Rohan. She was even starting to talk like him.
Even less could she believe her eyes when the women actually started to obey.
A nervous incredulity had descended over the coddled company. The ladies glanced uncertainly at each other; whispers were exchanged.
They kept staring at her.
“Well,” Lucinda said, gathering herself and smoothing her little reticule over her forearm. “W-we are very sorry to have disturbed you, I am sure.”
Kate bowed her head, accepting the apology.
Eldred held up his silver tray for them to leave their cards. Most of them seemed to decide against it on second thought, but they took pains to get a look at Kate before retreating from the doorway.
She, in turn, refused to budge. Rohan was going to be furious, for she had broken both rules—stay out of sight, don’t talk to anyone—but her pride simply would not let her flee the scene. Not when she, unlike they, had every right to be there!
Then Lucinda curtsied to her, and the others began doing the same before filing away from the door, and all of a sudden, it dawned on Kate the conclusion they had drawn. She nearly choked.
Oh, my God. They think I am his duchess!
With newfound respect, the haughty Society ladies retreated from the house. They got in their fancy little carriages and trotted away, chagrined faces glancing out again from the carriage windows.
Eldred closed the door, turned around slowly, and shot Kate a look of disapproval. “Well, you’ve done it now, haven’t you?”
She pursed her lips together for a moment, as stunned by their orderly exit as she had been by their arrival, but she forced a smile, still playing the duchess. “That will be all, Eldred. Carry on!”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you want to tell His Grace about this, Miss Madsen, or shall I?”
A sudden angry pout flashed over her face. “I don’t care what he says!” she exclaimed, but a terrible thought now gripped her, a cold, deflating weight that brought her back to earth after the pipe dream of the past few days.
She sat down slowly on the stairs as it shook her to the core. How could she be so thick?
If Rohan had sported with all those beautiful women and eventually cast them aside, then she was a fool to think it would end any differently with her.
Chapter 16
N
ever in his life did Rohan imagine he would withhold information from the Order to protect a Promethean descendent, but as he rode to Dante House, he knew what he was doing.
With O’Banyon waiting, he could not waste time trying to convince the others that despite her Promethean blood, Kate was not a threat. He’d explain his actions later when there was time to go through all the details. For now, he trusted his own judgment, and really, given his record, so should they.
Urging his tall, steady hunter on, he weaved through the traffic at a nimble canter, the reins taut in his gauntleted hands at the horse’s withers, the brim of his hat pulled low over his eyes, his greatcoat billowing slightly with the horse’s motion.
All the while, he pondered the past few days with Kate. He still could not figure out her accepting reaction to his having told her point-blank precisely what he was.
Why had she not fled from him in horror?
Obviously, she had not yet grasped the full, dark reality of it. How could she? Kate was an innocent. She hadn’t seen the blood.
But she soon would. And then what? She would probably never let him touch her again, he thought grimly.
Arriving at the club, he swung down off his horse, tied the animal to a hitching post, and entered the tall, black, wrought-iron gate, striding up the short front path to Dante House.
To the outer world, the sinister-looking, deliberately illkempt Tudor mansion on the Thames was the gathering place of the scandalous Inferno Club. In actuality, Dante House was a compact, heavily fortified stronghold that concealed the secret headquarters of the Order of St. Michael the Archangel.
With the glass-domed observatory bulging from the roof, flanked by twin black spires rising like horns, as though some giant devil were hiding in the house, too big to fit, it was no wonder that Londoners called it “the Town residence of Satan.” The menacing façade was meant to keep the curious away; it also added to the lurid tales about the dastardly, highborn libertines and diabolical rakehells who supposedly frequented the place.
To be sure, the Prometheans were so conscientious about maintaining a respectable appearance that they would never have dared come near such a nefarious landmark.
The ruse of Dante House had worked for several decades now, though the Order had owned the building for much longer than that. No doubt, it would be closed up eventually and some new location chosen for the Order to continue its secret work.
The door knocker, shaped like a medieval scholar’s head, seemed to smirk as Rohan let himself in. At once, he was surrounded by the joyful clamor of the dogs.
He had always been a great favorite with the fierce guard dogs of Dante House. They understood each other.
He took off his hat as Mr. Gray, the gaunt butler, hurried into the foyer to attend him. “Welcome, Your Grace. May I take your coat?” he asked loudly over all the barking.
With a nod, Rohan handed him his hat, shrugged off his greatcoat, and let the butler hang it on the coat-tree.
As the solid-bodied guard dogs danced around Rohan in shameless adoration, he bent down and greeted them. “Is Virgil here?”
“Pardon, sir?”
“Quiet!” he ordered the dogs in German.
At once, the pack fell silent.
“Where is Virgil, Gray?”
“In the parlor with Lords Rotherstone and Falconridge, Your Grace.”
“Excellent.” Good timing, he thought, pausing to scratch one of the massive, black-and-tan dogs affectionately under the chin, then he gave another rugged beast a fond pat on the head.
He straightened up again, and when he left the entrance hall, the pack trotted tamely after him.
Stalking down the hallway, he ignored the club’s oppressively florid décor. The crimson rococo style was modeled after a whorehouse; the cloying atmosphere oozed decadence and excess. It helped to further the charade.
“Look who’s back from Cornwall!” Max, his team leader greeted him when Rohan stepped into the room. “Heard the commotion. Thought it might be you.”
“What are you doing here?” he countered as he sauntered into their midst. “Wife kick you out already?”
“I’m only here for the food,” drawled the newlywed marquess, still looking as absurdly happy as he had the last time Rohan had seen him.
“Midas” Max St. Albans, the Marquess of Rotherstone, dark-haired and sardonic, was sitting on the couch, cleaning a fine pair of Manton pistols, the disassembled parts neatly splayed before him on the low table.