Black Silk (8 page)
Eager sucking. Lush stroking of his balls.
“Sweeting—god, I’m going to—”
He fired prematurely. He’d intended to give her warning. Like a bolt of lightning, his orgasm shot through him, melting him.
In time with his pulsing release, her mouth milked him, and she took all his cum into her lovely mouth. He heard the soft sound of her swallowing.
“Sweetheart—”
Her weight settled on him. Silky curls brushed his right shoulder, his neck, his chest. He wrapped his arms around her lithe body and held her tight.
“Did you enjoy it?”
Such worry in her voice. “Surely you know I did, love.”
“It’s just…I’ve never done that.”
“Never? What lightskirt has never sucked a man’s cock?” Dash felt her stiffen at his words. Was her tension sexual arousal at the blunt expression? Or a different fear? He reached for the silk covering his eyes.
She clutched his wrists to hold his arms down. “The truth.”
Cold gripped his heart. “The truth, then. Let’s have it.”
“I’m not a lightskirt. I’m a widow.”
“A widow?”
“Yes, and of course a proper wife does not perform such indecent acts on her husband.”
He had the distinct sense she was mocking someone, but he wasn’t certain whom. “And you chose me as your first?”
“Y—yes.”
“Who was your husband?”
“I mustn’t say. A member of the country gentry. I dare not let it be known that I am in London, that I have done these scandalous things.”
He heard the soft sigh—the sigh of relief. For finally giving him the truth. “Where are you staying?”
“I cannot tell you that either, of course.”
“So how am I to send you home?”
“We’ll worry about that later, my lord.”
“Dash. Call me Dash, pet.”
Maryanne could think of a thousand reasons why she should not. Such intimacy now could mean disaster later if she forgot herself. Dash…even more intimate than Dashiel. It occurred to her then that he had not recognized her voice, even though he had spent a few evenings in her presence. Well, a few minutes out of those evenings, but nonetheless…
Maryanne Hamilton had made no impression on him.
And, in truth, had Verity? Tomorrow night he would find a new partner, and that woman would share his wonderful bed.
“Lie down, sweet. You’ve been awake all night. You need to sleep.”
“But what about Georgiana? You told me you would tell me about her.”
“Georgiana would sell an innocent to the highest bidder, Verity. And how do you know Georgiana Watson?”
She swallowed hard.
“Now lie down, love.”
She did as he asked, drew up the sheets. She couldn’t help but sigh in pleasure as they settled against her sweaty, naked skin. His lordship lay on his side. Smiling, still blindfolded, he snuggled against her, and her heart gave a soft pang. His muscular arm lay across her tummy beneath the covers, as though he knew she wanted to run away and he wanted to keep her by his side.
Oh, how she wanted to sleep like this.
But she had to wait until he went to sleep. Trent House was so close…a little farther down Park Lane—it was safe enough to race there. Since her sister and brother-in-law spent their nights exploring sensual intimacy, they often slept late. At least her mother and sister Grace had stayed in the country after summer.
She closed her eyes. It was so easy to stay awake. Her heart tumbled about in her chest as she remembered every intimate thing he’d said.
Tomorrow night he will say those things to someone else.
Had she failed Georgiana? Guilt sat in her belly, acrid and heavy. Or had Lord Swansborough—Dash—been correct? Had Georgiana, the wretch, gone in pursuit of an earl after putting her at risk?
Was Georgiana really in trouble? Was she in danger?
What was her next step?
Georgiana’s house. Tomorrow, or rather today, she would have to slip away and try to get into her partner’s home. Where else could she hope to find the name of the gentleman Georgiana had pursued?
His eyes opened to complete darkness.
Panic hit Dash first. The pounding of his head second. Christ, why couldn’t he see? Brandy. He remembered it splashing into his mouth, down his chin.
He remembered the sweet, simple, erotic perfume of Verity.
So much for taking a peek at his mysterious partner, which had been his plan. He’d passed out asleep beside her.
He rolled onto his back. Fumbling, he reached for the silk that still swathed his eyes, caught it, and pushed it up. His sheets stretched out beside him, rumpled but empty. She’d left him.
Where had she gone? Hell, not to the next clue—it would be too late.
Now, a glance at his mantel clock told him it was after ten o’clock in the morning.
Groaning, Dash sat up.
His gaze fell on the folded sheet of paper that lay on his night table. A parting note from Verity? Then he remembered. Anne’s letter. Anne’s irritation. Dash reached for it, smiling even at the neat, crisp folds his sister had made. It was so good to know she was safe, now Lady Moredon. He owed Sophia the world for taking in Anne and protecting her. If his mad uncle had had the chance, he would have used Anne as a pawn.
Hell, it was long in the past. But he felt the cold grip of fear on his heart.
For reassurance, he opened Anne’s letter and read it again in the daylight filtering through gaps in the drapes.
I do not want to come to London and subject myself to a physician’s expertise. I shall be perfectly fine under the watchful eye of Mrs. Castle, the midwife. Really, you do fret too much. And it is far too late for me to journey to London. I can barely move.
And Moredon is anticipating the hunt—he is quite concerned that his child is refusing to make an appearance and might delay his season. After all, heavens, his heir was expected a week ago. He is both concerned and elated that this shows his son will have a strong character. Of course, I believe this evidence of decided opinions indicates our child will be a girl. Though, as is expected, I do hope most sincerely for a boy, and then I shall not have to listen to much well-meaning advice on how one begets a boy.
You must put your attentions to securing yourself a bride, my dearest brother, and filling a nursery of your own. I do think that is the solution, for then you will hardly have the time to be issuing orders to me….
He could almost hear her laughing as she wrote it, along with the unladylike snort she made when doubled up with mirth. She didn’t understand. He’d spent his life concerned about Anne’s protection, taking care of her. A man did not relinquish care of his family so easily.
Not even to the care of a good husband.
Would she write such lighthearted letters to him if she knew what he’d done? If she knew the truth? Would she forbid him from seeing his niece or nephew?
He would be an uncle, and the term
uncle
brought bile to his throat.
He still couldn’t push aside the sight of Simon’s dead face. The stunned expression, the glassy, lifeless eyes. Some perverse need to punish himself had driven Dash to stand in the distance as his cousin had been interred. And he had been haunted by the sight of his uncle’s ashen face and sunken posture, strangely haunted by the fact that the man who had once terrified him was now weak and paralyzed by the shock of the loss of his eldest son. He hated his uncle, but he couldn’t forgive himself for Simon’s death. Ten years—thousands of nights of perverse sex and excessive drinking—and he still couldn’t forget.
Dash stretched to reach the bellpull and tugged. Shut his eyes and relived that moment in Mrs. Master’s salon….
He’d thought Robert hadn’t known exactly what happened to Simon. Then, at the salon last night, when Robert’s hand had clamped down on his shoulder and Dash had turned to have the word
murderer
spat in his face, he’d thought justice might finally be done.
Robert, blistering drunk, should have challenged him to a duel last night. Dash had already been thinking ahead. What would he do? Fire into the air, spend his shot uselessly, and wait to see if his cousin’s aim was true, if fate would mete out punishment?
Robert had tried to shake him, but he’d shrugged off his cousin’s hand. “No more than your father,” Dash had answered coolly, to Robert’s accusation.
“Someday you’ll pay.” His cousin’s voice had been shrill with drunken fury.
“For ten years, I already have.” And he’d moved on, tense, waiting for the shout behind his back, waiting for anger and youthful pride to set them on a course that would end in his death.
But Robert had let him walk away.
He’d thought there were only two people who knew he had let Robert’s older brother Simon walk into the death trap intended for him. Sir William and his uncle—the bloody fiend who had planned to kill him for the blasted title.
He could have stopped Simon. He could have shouted, “It’s a trap. You aren’t supposed to be here. Stop.” But Dash had thought of his mistress, who had been cut with a blade and left to die. He’d thought of Anne….
He’d known what would happen if he didn’t die in his uncle’s trap. His mistress had almost died in someone’s failed attempt to kill him. Anne could be next. His sister’s life had been at stake, and he was willing to do anything to protect Anne. Even let his innocent cousin die.
Dash jumped out of bed, landing on the cold floorboards, naked.
Verity.
Last night, mysterious Verity had given him a night of pleasure, had helped keep his demons at bay. He hoped she hadn’t gotten herself into trouble by slipping out of his house—London’s streets could be deadly in the early morning.
At least she hadn’t been paid to kill him.
Dash pushed back those thoughts.
Who was Verity? Who were her people? Was she a widow who had slipped out alone for a night of dangerous adventure? Why did she seem respectable, yet she claimed to be a friend of Georgiana Watson, who had served England’s noble-men in various positions for more than twenty years?
At the knock on the door, he slid on his robe and shouted, “Enter.” Expecting his valet, he was surprised to see a wide-eyed footman standing in the doorway.
“Sir William Kent is waiting in the blue drawing room, milord.” The young man’s eyes gleamed. “There’s a rumor that a lady’s body were found in Hyde Park this morn, milord.”
“Christ Jesus!” Dash’s shin slammed into his dresser as he spun. “Verity!”
“W
here in blazes have you been?”
Maryanne clutched her cloak as the soft breeze ruffled its hem and fluttered the ties. She faced her sister squarely, though she tried desperately to look innocent. “I woke early and went for a stroll in the park. Foolish to go alone, I suppose, but it is so close, I thought there could be no—”
Arms folded across her chest, Venetia barred her escape to the scullery door. A dab of dark blue paint stood out on her sister’s freckled nose. “You were out all night.”
At least Venetia had kept her voice low. Where was her brother-in-law?
“Of course not.” She’d had at least the presence of mind to rumple her bed before sneaking out the night before.
“Then you will not object to opening your cloak.”
Bother! Was it pregnancy that had suddenly made Venetia as astute as their mother? Who was fortunately in the country.
“It’s rather cold—” Maryanne began, but her sister tapped her booted foot.
The erotic novels she edited always glossed over the consequence of sexual adventure in the haste to move on to the next one.
“In my condition, I have to use the chamber pot frequently. Hourly.” Venetia’s brow tipped up as she lifted bare, paint-smeared fingers to brush away a curl. She yawned. “I am well aware you weren’t in your bed all night.”
Maryanne waited. She had no idea what to say. It was obvious what had happened—she’d ruined herself. She would wait and see what her punishment would be. After all, she now lived at her sister and Marcus’s pleasure, thoroughly dependent on their compassion and generosity of spirit.
Venetia pursed her lips and waited, too. Maryanne could count the seconds with fevered heartbeats.
Finally Venetia sighed. “A letter arrived in the post for you.”
She hadn’t expected that. Georgiana! Terror took hold. “I suppose you read it.”
Venetia put her hand to her heart in mock horror. “You were not in the house—you could have been dead at the hands of a cutpurse, for all I knew. Of course I read it.”
“And what did it say?”
Slipping her hand into her practical skirt pocket, Venetia pulled out the folded sheet.
Maryanne scanned the few lines of Georgiana’s letter.
All has worked for the best. The earl has taken care of some of the bothersome issues with finances. I could not slip away last night. If you went, you are the dearest, most loyal friend. I am sure you fared well. Sleep with ease, my dear, I have solved all our problems. But as I must leave London now for the country, you must take care of things with the help of the capable Mr. Osbourne, the man of affairs I have hired—
“And what problems might you share with a notorious courtesan?”
“A lack of good modistes?” Even as the words escaped her lips, Maryanne couldn’t believe she’d uttered them. She was provoking her sister—she never provoked anyone.
It had been her night with Lord Swansborough. She had emerged as an entirely different person. A person who was tired of being mistaken for wallpaper. And Georgiana’s note had left her in turmoil, her heart pounding. She had gone to slay dragons to protect a friend, and it had been exactly as Dash—Lord Swansborough—had said.
Georgiana had begged for her help, then had forgotten her in an instant.
Forgotten her
. Hadn’t cared one whit about her. Some earl—possibly Craven or even someone else—had crooked his fingers and her friend had not even thought enough to send a note.
A cold, sick tightness gripped Maryanne’s stomach and twisted it.
Her sister cared. She was pushing away Venetia, who did care, because she’d risked everything for beastly Georgiana, who didn’t.
This time, when Georgiana returned with bitter tears, she wouldn’t care. She was finished with her friend. Finished.
“I’m sorry,” Maryanne whispered. “You deserve the truth.”
Firm hands caught hold of her shoulders. Maryanne let Venetia turn her and let her slipper-clad feet coast over the cobbles to the bench.
“I might deserve it.” Venetia’s voice held rueful mirth. “Whether I am prepared for it, I am not entirely certain.”
How did one explain a particularly awkward truth? Maryanne sank to the seat and covered her face with her hands. At this moment, fading into the wallpaper would be an advantage. Through slightly parted fingers, she told all.
Silence deafened.
Seated at her side, Venetia turned away and gazed toward the back of the magnificent house. Maryanne felt a spurt of anger. Venetia had behaved just as scandalously to save the family, and Maryanne refused to be condemned for her own adventure. She dropped her hands to her lap.
Of course, it was a lovely morning, resplendent with sunshine and crisp autumn air. The day had no idea what trouble she was in.
Finally her sister faced her once more. “You are editing erotic novels to provide employment for aging courtesans?”
“I know how terrifying it is to face poverty.”
“I remember,” Venetia remarked with cool sarcasm. “I was there. And what happened last night?”
The simplest truth again. It was the only solution. “Georgiana wrote that she was in trouble, and she told me to meet her at a certain address.”
“Oh, good lord. And you went alone. Even prostitutes don’t travel London alone—they have protectors.”
“No, they pay men not to abuse them, but that is beside the point. I’m here. I’m alive. I survived.”
Venetia reached for her hand. “Yes, cause for celebration indeed. Your little nephew or niece is leaping about in delight, I can assure you.”
Guilt crashed in. “I—” What could possibly explain how thoughtless she’d been to frighten her sister in her condition? No doubt the baby was thrashing about inside because Venetia was upset.
“Where did you go?”
Even with an excited child in her tummy, her sister was relentless, practical. Taking charge. “Mrs. Master’s salon,” Maryanne admitted.
“I don’t know it. I presume Marcus would know what it is.”
“Oh, dear heaven, don’t tell him!”
Venetia pursed her lips. “I see. That sort of place.”
“You might as well know. I’m ruined. Do you wish me to pack a trunk and be out of the house before tea?” How strange to toss out her greatest fear as a dare. It was exhilarating. Not quite as thrilling as handsome, delicious Dash pleasuring her from behind in a balloon, but close.
Venetia’s eyes went wide with concern. “Of course not!”
Her sister’s tummy was a sweet bump beneath her gown. A tremulous smile touched Maryanne’s lips. She had thrown away the chance for a proper marriage, a loving husband, children—for what decent man would accept a ruined wife? Suddenly her determination to remain alone felt like a noose around her neck.
“Who was he?”
“A man. No one.” It would be easiest to say she did not know his name, but she couldn’t force that lie from her lips. It sounded so…foolish. So awful. “It was entirely my choice.”
“Who was he? A man you love, I hope.”
Maryanne nodded. “But one I can’t have.”
Her sister’s face blanched in what must be complete shock. “Not…married?” She slumped back against the bench.
Maryanne released Venetia’s hand. “Heavens, no! I would never do that! He…he didn’t know who I was. I wore a mask, you see, and he had no idea he was ruining me. He was…well, reasonably drunk.”
“Oh, Maryanne….” Myriad emotions passed across her sister’s hazel eyes, none of which Maryanne wanted to identify. “But he will have to—”
“No! Don’t you see?” She took an unsteady breath. “I can hardly insist that he marry me. I didn’t give him a sporting chance to escape the leg shackles.”
“His name. What is his name?”
But she shook her head, her mouth dry.
“Did he use a sheath?”
“No.” Maryanne spoke airily, even though her head buzzed and she wondered if she would slide off the bench into a foolish swoon. “I thought if I was to ruin myself, I should do it quite thoroughly and in the most dangerous way I possibly could.”
Dash threw open the doors and burst into his drawing room. “Who is she?” he demanded.
Sir William stood at the window, head bowed. One gloved hand rested against his chin, the other fisted behind his back, his spectacles gripped in his fingers. The sunlight touched his silvery hair, cast shadow on his grim expression—the look of a magistrate about to pass sentence on a friend.
“So you have heard.” Sir William turned slowly, his voice infuriatingly calm.
“Of course, I bloody heard. Do you have her name? What does she look like?”
“The woman found was Eliza Charmody.”
Not Verity. Relief shot through him. With her blue eyes and golden hair, the actress Eliza Charmody could not have been his brown-haired, brown-eyed Verity. The sense of escaping doom was so strong, it felt like brandy in his blood. He felt drunk with it. But in the next breath, guilt clenched at his gut.
Eliza Charmody. The actress who had been Craven’s partner and who had disappeared from Covent Garden.
He hadn’t known Eliza Charmody, but her abduction had led to death, and he hadn’t been able to save her.
A vision flashed before his eyes—his mistress pleading, tears streaking down her face. A terrified woman who’d hurt no one, begging for her life while a man enjoyed her fear—
Dash hadn’t actually seen the attack on his mistress all those years ago but he could imagine it. His hand belied his memories by shaking. Only after he’d reached the brandy decanter and splashed some in two glasses did he pivot and look at Sir William. “You think I did it?”
No answer. Just patient silence. Dash held out one glass. “Where was she found?”
He realized Sir William had not told him, perhaps expecting him to incriminate himself. Which meant his friend really did believe he could have done it. As Sir William took the glass, Dash drank down the entire contents of his. This man, who had known him since he was a boy, who had been one of the few to show him kindness, thought him capable of murdering women.
Sir William took a sip of his drink. “Hyde Park.”
“And how had she died—or let me guess, she fell from a hot-air balloon’s basket?” Anger put the sarcastic edge in his voice.
Sir William stared at him, both astonished and wary. “No. Strangled. The murder weapon had been left with her body. A dyed black cravat.”
Dash’s trademark. No other gentleman dressed entirely in black. None used a black cravat. “I was not alone in Hyde Park last night.”
Verity’s testimony could exonerate him. But would they believe Verity? A courtesan could be paid to say anything. So, of course, could a lady, he thought wryly.
But then…
“When was she found?”
“By the balloonists as they prepared to leave the site. They had been instructed to stay until half past six.”
And Verity had been with him until a quarter after six, at least. He’d glanced at the time when he’d snuggled up to her. How long had she stayed with him after he’d passed out?
But he didn’t know who she was, had no idea how to find her.
“I saw my cousin last night. He’s not taking part in the hunt, but he was there, foxed, and he accused me of murder.”
“You are not a murderer.”
“No? The way you look at me, I believe you’re wondering if I am. Why else are you here, if not to wait until I make a slip of my tongue and incriminate myself?” Dash’s grip tightened on his empty glass. “You told me two courtesans claimed I enticed Eliza Charmody from Craven,” he continued. “Georgiana Watson was one of the them, and now she has left London in pursuit of an earl, reputedly Craven. The other courtesan vanished without a trace. As for Sir Percy Whitting and Lord Yale, they were not what you would call reliable witnesses. It appears they did not actually see me take the actress in my carriage. They believed the story of another man—a man they didn’t know and cannot now identify—who claimed
he
saw me take her.”
And Verity, who claimed to be Georgiana’s friend, had had no idea her friend was gone. Was that proof Georgiana Watson was part of this plot to incriminate him for kidnapping and murder? Was that proof Verity was innocent?
Sir William placed his glass, the brandy barely touched, beside the decanter. “Let us go to the park, Swansborough. I want you to see her.”
Yellowing leaves rustled around the murder scene, a bizarre and gut-wrenching sight in the beauty that was Hyde Park. A group of men waited, two in the scarlet waistcoat of the Bow Street Runner, Bow Street’s professional police force.
The circle opened to allow Dash to enter its core, and then closed around him.
Even as he looked down on the sprawling body, that phrase hammered in his mind.
Not Verity. Not Verity. Thank the devil it wasn’t her.
With gloved fingers he touched Eliza Charmody’s hair, a tangled mass of blond curls mashed into the dirt. A blanket lay over her body and face. A flick of his fingers lifted it, revealing blue and purple bruising at her throat. She lay on the grass, naked, her head tipped back to turn her vulnerable throat into a long white column.
Dash’s gut clenched as he saw the red scratches and bite marks that covered her bare breasts. A glance lower, and he almost tossed up the brandy swimming in his gut. She’d been sliced open with a blade, with a long straight line that ran from navel to pubis.
He dropped the blanket. Christ Jesus, what kind of sadist would do this to a woman?
Boots crunched on the grass, and he glanced toward the sound. Those boots—belonging to Sir William—rocked beside a strip of black.
One of his cravats, or one dyed to look the same? It mattered. If it was his, it meant it came from someone with access to his home. Or someone demented enough to break in with the sole intent of incriminating him.
He glanced up at Sir William, squinting from the sun. “She was strangled, but why didn’t you tell me about the…the rest?”
“You asked how she died. The mutilation was performed afterward.”
The cravat was cool, damp with dew—he searched for his mark but could not find it. “It’s not one of mine.”
