Never Entice an Earl (19 page)

The woman in his arms gazed up. A beauty, she had blonde hair and bosoms that strained
at the silk of her gown. “Lord Raikes, I am told?”

“That would be me, and you are?” he inquired politely.

“Lady Bunhill,” she replied, suggestively trailing her fingertip across his chest
as the crowd converged about them. Despite the lanterns in the trees, and the blaze
of light cast out from the Pavilion, shadows settled everywhere, and there were many
in the crowd behaving in ways that they might not in the more mannered walls of a
Mayfair ballroom. “I’m so glad to meet you. Rackmorton says you’re great fun.”

“Rackmorton?”

“Yes, he’s a friend. I am a widow, always looking for new friends.”

He did not misunderstand the invitation she extended. But while he had no intention
of accepting what she offered, he did not immediately rebuff her. She was flirtatious
and lovely, and he needed distraction, however temporary, so that he might forget
the beauty on the other end of the floor. When they had danced, Daphne had looked
at him with far too much warmth, a contradiction to her earlier edict that they remain
apart. Now it was time for him to be strong. Perhaps if she observed him in the company
of another, she would know it was all right for her to do the same. For her to forget
him, as she should. She was right. He had to let her go.

So he allowed it when Lady Bunhill wrapped her arms around him and led him toward
the refreshment table, where she poured them both glasses of burned wine, insisting
on lifting her cup to his lips, and then her own.

“Mmmm, intoxicating. Rather like I imagine your kiss would be,” she flirted. “Walk
with me?”

She led him toward one of the many walkways that broke off from the clearing. He hesitated,
but told himself it was only a walk.

“You seem to know your way around.”

“That I do,” she responded, with a teasing lilt to her voice.

She led him down a narrow path, into an alcove, where…strangely, he made out the vague
outlines of some ten to twelve men, whose faces remained concealed by shadow. His
pulse increased, and every cell of his being became alert. Someone else approached
from behind; he heard their footsteps. Glancing back, he saw another blonde woman,
cajoling a man along the path, drawing his arm over her shoulders. The woman, from
this distance, looked to be a near mirror image of Lady Bunhill.

“There you are.” Another figure emerged from the shadows, straightening the eye holes
of his hood. “That didn’t take much effort to get you here, but Bunhill is quite the
temptress.”

It was Rackmorton. The voice left Cormack with not a smidgeon of doubt.

Lady Bunhill pulled away from him, and walked toward Rackmorton—as did the second
woman, who had escorted the gentleman behind him.

“Thank you for the compliment, my lord,” Lady Bunhill purred, draping herself against
him.

“You can reward me later,” murmured the second, planting a kiss on his silken cheek.

He shrugged them both off, and urged them away. “Now, go along. The both of you. Leave
the men to their talk.”

Cormack’s first concern was where Daphne had gone, but he could only assume she now
danced with another partner, or had returned to the protection of her family. His
next thought was that he was most certainly standing in the company of the Invisibilis.
“Raikes, I believe you already know Mr. Kincraig.”

He glanced back at Kincraig, whose longish hair brushed his bearded jawline, which
made him look like a swashbuckler with the glaze of drink in his eyes. Had this man
seduced his sister? He was certainly handsome and always quick with a word of dry,
sardonic humor, but there was something in his manner that to Cormack spoke of self-loathing.
Which usually meant a person suffered some sort of regret.

“Indeed I do,” said Cormack.

“Hello there, Raikes,” Mr. Kincraig answered. “Are you as confused as I am? Are they
both
Lady Bunhills?” Glancing to the men in the shadows, his eyes narrowed, but his smile
conveyed a keen interest in the present situation. “Is that a real name, or something
they’ve made up?”

So…Kincraig wasn’t a member of the Invisibilis. Or was he?

Rackmorton circled in front of them, pausing dramatically. “We’ve been watching you
gentlemen for some time, and we like what we see. You’re rich, you love beautiful
women, and you like to have a damned good time—as do we.”

Cormack hadn’t expected this. He’d rather thought they were going to try to beat him
up or something juvenile like that. Now he sensed what was coming, and he didn’t like
it. He only wanted to kill one of them—one who very likely stood, at this moment,
just feet away. Kincraig, perhaps? Or someone else who stood in the shadows, his identity
hidden from view. But he didn’t want to have to become one of them in order to do
it.

“We are members of a rather ancient society.” Rackmorton’s voice grew hushed and reverent.
“The name of which I can’t speak to anyone who isn’t a member—which we are now inviting
you to become.” He lifted and spread his arms magnanimously. “I don’t have to tell
you, it’s quite the honor. Only the most select are welcomed into our midst as brothers.”

“How inclusive of you,” declared Kincraig, moving more in line with Cormack’s position.
“To invite this fellow and I into your very special club. I like clubs. I go to them
all the time, but usually we all aren’t standing in the dark where I can’t see anyone’s
faces. I like faces, too, for the record.”

Cormack remained silent and watchful. It would serve him no purpose to anger or offend.

Rackmorton’s chin snapped up. “You’ll see our faces once you agree to join us. When
we are brothers, in truth.”

“I never had a brother.” Kincraig looked at Cormack. “What about you?”

“No. I had a sister.” No one else could know how speaking those words hurt him, to
his core.

Mr. Kincraig nodded, unfazed, and returned his attention to Rackmorton. “What will
joining your club get us? Are there meetings, and are we obligated to attend them?”

“Of course there are meetings. All clubs have them.”

“You should know now, then, that I don’t like meetings that last any longer than five
minutes. What benefits are there to joining your group, and suffering through these
meetings?”

“For one, there are opportunities to make more money.” Rackmorton laughed. “We know
all the right people. Hell, we
are
all the right people.”

Chuckles came from the darkness.

Kincraig shrugged, and shook his head. “But you see, I make plenty of money on my
own. People are always wanting me to invest, and promising me, sometimes even in writing,
beneficial returns. Will you do that?”

“In writing, you say?” His Lordship snapped. “Of course not. Did you not hear the
word ‘secret’?”

Cormack laughed at the ridiculousness of the conversation. He simply couldn’t help
himself.

“Ah.” Kincraig nodded. “Then I remain unimpressed. What about you, Raikes?”

Cormack offered a noncommittal response. “I am still on the fence.”

Looking to Rackmorton’s blank face, he inquired, “What else do you have to offer?”

“There are also women.” Rackmorton strode toward them. “Lots of beautiful women like
the ladies Bunhill, and wild private parties. Sometimes we all get together and—”

“What? Make love like a bunch of wild monkeys?” Kincraig crossed his arms, rubbing
his chin, and rocked back on his heels. “An interesting endeavor, to be sure, but
not particularly to my taste. Besides, I get plenty of women on my own. Raikes, you’re
dreadfully handsome, I’m certain you do as well.”

Cormack shrugged. “Could it be that they believe
their
women are better? If so, perhaps they could please explain how.”

Rackmorton sneered. “We’re inviting you to join a most exclusive club. Hardly anyone
is ever invited to join. Are you interested or not?”

“Do we have to join together, or not at all?” said Kincraig.

The marquess clasped his hands to either side of his head and groaned.

“Oh, good God,” he shouted, turning to stride toward the trees. “I have never suffered
so many damn questions in my life.”

“It’s entirely an individual choice,” said one of the other masked figures.

“May we give you our decision, say, next week? I’d like to think about it before committing.”
He turned to Cormack, eyebrows raised. “Raikes, why don’t you and I pick a day—say,
Tuesday—and submit our answers together, with no pressure whatsoever that they should
be the same. Perhaps written in blood? Not mine of course, because I don’t like to
bleed, but we could prick
your
finger. What do you say?”

Cormack stared at Kincraig, torn. If he threw his lot in with Kincraig, so as to investigate
his possible connection to Laura further, he would sacrifice this opportunity to infiltrate
the Invisibilis. Was he certain enough?

“Wait a minute here.” Rackmorton wedged between them, arms raised. Glaring at Kincraig,
he said, “Consider yourself, Mr. Kincraig, disinvited. Obviously we were wrong about
you. Rathcrispin was right. You could never be one of us.”

Recognition of the name shot through Cormack like a blast from a blunderbuss. There
could be no mistaking: he referred to the Duke of Rathcrispin, who had allowed the
Invisibilis the use of his hunting lodge that neighbored the Deavall estate.

“What a fickle bunch you are,” Kincraig drawled. “Why me, but not him? Do you have
a secret signal that I missed, where you all just agreed to blackball me? I am wounded.”
He clasped a hand to his heart, a portrait of mock Shakespearean tragedy. “I think
I might even cry. After that unforgettable week we all spent together in the country.
After all the fun we’ve had together.”

A loud blast sounded from the direction of the dance.

“What was that?” said Cormack, half-turning.

Daphne searched for Cormack in the crowd. She knew she shouldn’t. That she was just
courting trouble by wanting another dance with him, as an excuse to be in his arms,
but he had looked so handsome under the lantern light and the night seemed nothing
less than a fantasy.

The dance floor was so crowded, she skimmed along its edge—

And that’s when she saw him, with a voluptuous blonde attached to his side. The woman
smiled up at him and laughingly drew him into the shadows. Cormack didn’t hesitate,
but followed her down the narrow footpath.

Daphne’s heart stopped beating. Where was he going with her? She took several steps
in that direction, only to retreat and turn back toward the tangle of dancers crowding
the floor. Tears filled her eyes. How it hurt. Her heart. But she had no right to
complain, when she’d insisted that afternoon that he let her go.

Suddenly, she didn’t feel like dancing anymore. She wanted her mother. She continued
on the circular path, weaving in and out of revelers. Clarissa danced by in the arms
of another handsome partner. At last she spied Lady Margaretta in the deeper shadows
along the edge of the trees with Mr. Birch.

“Hello!” she called, raising her hand and walking toward them.

But they didn’t hear her above the din. As she grew closer she could only watch, stunned,
as the two embraced and Mr. Birch bent…to kiss her mother.

It was as if the earth moved beneath her feet, and she stumbled. Her future shattered
before her eyes, and rearranged like a puzzle with its pieces in all the wrong places.
Her mother and Mr. Birch. Of course she’d known they’d quickly come to be friends,
and that they enjoyed one another’s company, but this? So quickly?

She’d been so worried that her mother would be left alone, that she would be the one
to provide the widowed viscountess with companionship so she would never be lonely.

But what if Lady Harwick married again? No doubt Clarissa would as well. Soon, none
of them would need her.

What if
she
would be the one left all alone?

Wouldn’t that be a suitable punishment for what she had done?

“Daphne?” Her mother had seen her and now walked toward her, Mr. Birch following behind.
Lady Margaretta looked so
concerned
, and he…
apologetic
.

“Don’t mind me!” Daphne called, forcing gaiety into her voice, as if she hadn’t seen
their embrace. “I’m looking for Clarissa. I’ll find you later.”

She rushed away, the lanterns and faces around her now blurred by tears.

Only it wasn’t Clarissa for whom she searched, but Cormack. And she wouldn’t find
him because he was with someone else.

“There, I heard it again,” said Cormack, infinitely more concerned now than before.

“Likely just the fireworks,” another of the Invisibilis said from the shadows.

“You all agree, don’t you, that we don’t want Kincraig anymore?” Rackmorton glanced
around. The silent figures in the shadows shrugged and grunted.

A tangle of screams and shouts sounded from behind them.

“Those aren’t fireworks,” Cormack insisted darkly. “Those are people screaming.”

Peering down the shadowed walk, Cormack could just barely make out a portion of the
clearing, where the crowd pushed like a school of fish from one side toward the other.

“You’re right. Something’s going on back there,” said Kincraig.

“We’re almost finished here,” Rackmorton hissed. “You, Raikes. Don’t let that fool
sway you with his ridiculous talk. Join us.”

A blast sounded—clearly a
gunshot
. There were hundreds of people attending the festivities at the orchestra stand,
but all he could think of was Daphne, and whether she had been shot. The blood drained
from his face, and from his limbs, and his heart seized in his chest.

Forgetting all else, he ran toward the crowd.

A wall of people met him, all running and trying, it appeared, to escape. Women screamed
and fell, only to be lifted up by those trying not to trample them. He searched the
faces, searching for her, or any member of her family. He had to ensure they were
all safe. Another shot sounded, and the crowd’s panic intensified.