Accursed (9 page)

D
INNER WAS SUMPTUOUS.
It began with raw oysters and proceeded through a course of bouillon. There were fried smelts and then sweetbreads, neither of which Tamara fancied. But the main course—quail with truffles and rice coquettes—was the equal of any dish she had tasted in ages. By the time the fancy cakes and coffee were served, Tamara felt herself under the spell of John Haversham. During the elaborate meal she had quite enjoyed the attentions of the dramatic newcomer. He was an entertaining dinner companion: smart, witty, and very, very attractive. She liked the way he posed his slim, powerful body so casually in his chair, his hands lying on the tabletop, oblivious to etiquette.

As she sipped her coffee, she stole a glance at him. Haversham was talking animatedly to Marjorie’s weak-chinned brother-in-law, Reginald. Tamara studied his face. She liked his strong jaw, and the way his brown hair was a bit ruffled at the top, as if he had just been out in the wind. His eyes were dark gray, and the lashes were long and thick like a woman’s. There was still a bit of greasepaint on his chin, but she didn’t mind the effect. Indeed, it added to his mystique.

Reginald must have noted her interest, for he gave her a knowing, gap-toothed smile. Thus caught, she quickly turned her attention back to her own plate.

Tamara had always found Reginald a bit unsavory. Sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t looking, he gave her body a lingering stare that made Tamara shudder. Tonight, though, he seemed much more interested in John Haversham’s company.

As if he had read her thoughts, Haversham extricated himself from Reginald’s bossy baritone with a wry smile cast in Tamara’s direction.

“Excuse me, Reginald, but it appears Miss Swift is in danger of drifting off into boredom, and I feel it’s my duty to rescue her. The treacle tart does not seem to be keeping her as occupied as Marjorie had promised.”

Before Reginald could protest, Tamara interjected. “Mr. Haversham, your selfless devotion to duty is an admirable trait.”

He gave her another grateful wink—it seemed to be his trademark—and swiveled in his chair to face her. Reginald Winterton simply turned to find another unfortunate victim.

“Tamara Swift, where have you been hidden these seven-and-twenty years of mine?” Haversham’s eyes sparkled with interest. She imagined that she could see herself reflected there, the candlelight suffusing her honey hair with a rich, warm glow.
What a silly thought,
she mused, but she continued to look.

“I’ve been at Ludlow House, waiting to be rescued from my boring existence,” she said.

It was a lie, of course. Tamara could hardly call her life boring. But there was a kernel of truth in what she had said. It could be terribly dreary in Ludlow House, no matter how interesting things had become of late. The flutter in her heart when she sat so close to this intriguing stranger was a pointed reminder of precisely what had been missing from her life.

Yet how might he react if he knew what her life was truly like? If she were to tell him of her life as a magical Protector of Albion—instead of pretending to be the typical wilting English Rose—would he believe her? And if so, would he still find her as fascinating as he seemed to this evening, when she was simply a pretty young society woman? Or would the truth repel him?

“Boring? I find that difficult to believe, Miss Swift. You seem like a clever girl. I can’t imagine you as being incapable of keeping both your mind and body . . . well, shall we say,
occupied.
” As he spoke, his eyes flitted onto the swell of her breasts as they rose and fell with each breath. She felt herself starting to blush.

He quickly drew his eyes away and seemed to gaze upon the smooth hollow of her throat, then at last returned to her face. Was it her imagination, or were his eyes dark with desire?

She had only experienced the intimate attentions of a man once before, and that had been a very fleeting—though exciting—experience. After her grandfather’s death, Tamara and William had enlisted the help of Ludlow Swift’s old friend Nigel Townsend in battling the demon that had murdered the old man.

During that dark time, Tamara had found herself Nigel’s quarry, despite the vast difference in their ages. His flirtations grew bold, and though Tamara was flattered by them, even aroused, she was not prepared to respond. The situation became such that William had been forced to intercede on behalf of her virtue . . . for Nigel was more than a family friend; he was also a vampire who had walked the Earth the better part of three centuries.

Not evil. No, not that. But he carried a hunger that could overwhelm him the way passion might take control of any man.

Now, as Tamara remembered the sensation of Nigel’s lips on her own, she looked away from John Haversham, embarrassed that her own desire might show in her eyes.

Haversham cleared his throat and took a sip of red wine from the fine cut-crystal flute in front of him. He was a rogue, certainly, but at least enough of the gentleman remained for him to give her time to collect herself.

She stared at the glass of Bordeaux he held in his hand, thinking how much it looked like blood. And she shuddered at the thought.

“You’ve not caught a chill, have you, Miss Swift?” Reginald asked.

Tamara flinched as she glanced over at the repulsive man. She wondered how much of her exchange with John he had observed, and felt her cheeks flush crimson once more.

“May I fetch you one of Marjorie’s shawls?” Reginald continued, smiling crookedly.

“No, thank you, Mr. Winterton. I’m grateful for your concern, but I’m quite comfortable, I assure you.”

As she spoke, she noticed that dinner seemed to have reached its end. Thankfully, she could retire with the other women to the sitting room now, without offending Reginald too terribly. She took her leave of the men, following on the heels of Marjorie and Sophia, who seemed to be discussing the new art exhibit that had opened at the Egyptian Hall.

The hallway seemed darker to Tamara as she slowed her steps to look at the sketches that hung on the lime plaster walls. By the light of the oil lamps, she could make out few of the details in the artwork. They all seemed to be of the same subject, which was surprising to Tamara, as she had never noticed these particular sketches in her other visits to the house.

She stopped and peered at one of the drawings. At first, she could see only charcoal lines, but as her eyes adjusted to the half-light she saw that the sketches were actually quite beautifully rendered nudes. All of the same, buxom-bodied woman.

“Do you approve?”

She turned quickly at his words. John Haversham stood only inches from her, so close that she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck. His nearness caused a ripple of pleasure to travel through her, and her brain seemed to slow so that words might take hours to come to her lips.

“If I said yes, would you be appalled, then?” she asked.

He smiled, reaching out to tease a strand of hair that had come loose from her bun. “What if I were to reveal to you, Miss Swift, the identity of the artist responsible for these pieces,” he began.

Tamara shook her head. “No, thank you, sir. I don’t require that particular revelation.”

This stopped him. He cocked his head, gazing at her curiously.

“You do not wish to know who created them?” He seemed utterly confused by Tamara’s demurral. “I did not think
you
were as prudish as your brother. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

With a bit of satisfaction she watched him floundering for something else to say, something that would ease them back onto level ground. Tamara knew he had expected her to flit about after him, hanging on his every word, to show that she was surely taken by him. But she was no hollow-headed waif. It was becoming clear that John Haversham was used to dominating his female conquests, and for Tamara to truly capture his attention, she had to place herself beyond his control, make herself seem less easily attainable.

“You complimented me earlier, Mr. Haversham, by calling me clever. Don’t you think me clever enough, then, to examine the signature of the artist? You’ve an excellent eye for detail. Tell me the subject, though. Is she your lover?”

The word
lover
trilled from Tamara’s lips. She felt wanton even voicing it.

John raised an eyebrow. “Would it matter if she were?” he countered, his words a whisper in the long expanse of hallway.

She didn’t know how to respond. She knew she should say no, that this would impress him more than anything else she could say, but instead she found herself whispering back in return.

“Yes.”

Tamara was shocked that she had confessed it, but it was the truth. The thought of this man wrapped in carnal embrace with another woman made her angry. No, not angry.
Jealous.

They stared at each other for a moment, the silence heavy between them, then he took her hand and brought it to his lips.

“Come with me to the Egyptian Hall, tomorrow evening. If you are a connoisseur of art, even in the slightest, there is an exhibit there that I think you might find as fascinating as I find you.”

Inside, she was shaking, but she managed to keep her voice steady.

“That would be lovely. I accept. With great curiosity.”

H
ER FATHER’S STUDY
had always been a friend to Helena Martin. As a small child, she had spent many an hour staring at all the curios her father had accumulated in his many years of travel.

In truth, those travels had kept him absent for much of her life. Most of what Helena knew of her busy father came from her time spent among his artifacts. She drew wide panoramas of his life and character based on what she saw there in his study. She often compared her fancies to the real man, and found reality lacking.

Her father had recently accepted a lectureship at Magdalene College at Oxford, and Helena’s mother had joined him there, so now most of her parents’ time was spent away from London. The traveling, which had always been so important to her father’s work as an archaeologist, was placed on hold so that he could impart everything he had learned to the next generation. Except, of course, to Helena herself.

Helena knew she should not be jealous of other people spending time with her father, but she wished that
both
her parents had more time for her. When she was a tiny child, she had gone to Egypt and Mesopotamia with them, but the moment she had reached school age she was shipped back to England and a waiting tutor. Her half brother, Frederick, had endured the same familial disconnection, but where she found it painful, he actually reveled in the lack of super-vision.

She had discovered her love of sketching when she was only nine and a half. Helena had been allowed to spend the summer on a dig with her parents in Lower Egypt, and had passed the months gazing in fascination as the old French priest, Father Louis, had painstakingly sketched every object her father unearthed. She had loved staring at his darting, birdlike hands as he dipped his pen in ink and transformed each blank piece of paper into a detailed picture.

She had begged for a sketchbook, and her mother had obliged. So Helena had spent the balance of the summer copying Father Louis’s delicate example.

Now, it seemed, she could not exist without her charcoals and paper. She knew others found her habits odd, but she did not care. Her work was the only thing that kept her sane in a world she could not control.

This evening she had curled up in one of her father’s large brown calfskin chairs, and was contemplating a strange new curio that had been sent to her father the week before by a family friend. She turned it this way and that, seeking the best angle for her next drawing.

Helena scratched her nose, smearing charcoal across the bridge, and sighed. The artifact was decidedly odd, and actually frightened her more than she cared to admit. But that was the very thing that had drawn her to it, and made her determined to capture its essence. When she stared at the artifact, it seemed to stare back. The figurine was toadlike in appearance, its bulk made up of jasper and lapis lazuli. It was a small creature, no more than four inches tall, but it had an alarmingly large presence, and seemed to draw the eye no matter where one stood in the room.