Tempted By the Night (6 page)

Above them, soft light spilled from the various windows, while laughter, a kind she’d never heard before—
rough and rowdy—echoed out. Some of it masculine, and some, decidedly female.

Hermione had to guess this was just the sort of place she’d heard Sebastian chastising Griffin for frequenting. At least she thought it was—one of London’s infamous gaming hells, where fortunes noble and grand and illicit and ill-gotten were won and lost on a nightly basis. Corinthian and bounder,
cit
and duke could be found deep in cards or dice.

Rockhurst continued to wait, but for what, she couldn’t imagine.

Rowan, on the other hand, leapt down from his spot and made his determined way straight for her side of the curricle.

“Nice doggy,” she whispered down to him. “Nice Rowan.”

The earl’s dog replied by growling low, then barking as if the world were about to end.

“Rowan!” the earl snapped, dropping his cheroot and crushing it with the heel of his boot. Then he came around the carriage to where Rowan had her cornered in the tiger’s seat. “Be still.”

Hermione held her breath, for she’d only been this close to Rockhurst a few times, and that odd flip of her stomach was starting to rise again.

Oh, no, I can’t,
she realized, her hand coming to her mouth. If she tossed up her accounts, he’d discover her for sure. That is, if his demmed dog didn’t give her away first.

Just then the door with the peacock opened, light and music and laughter pouring out. Down the steps tee
tered the largest woman Hermione had ever seen. She wasn’t just fat, she was tall, as tall as the earl, and honestly, all the more intimidating in her grand red gown and garish makeup.

Then Hermione took a second glance at both the woman coming down the steps and up at the various windows, her mouth dropping open. This wasn’t some gaming hell…but a…
a brothel
!

He’d brought her to a brothel.

Up until now, Hermione had been quite content in her fantasy that the outrageous rumors about the earl were just that: outrageous and hardly grounded in fact.

But now…well, certainly, as she stared up at the woman on the steps, she knew without a doubt she was going to be sick.

This was the sort of woman Rockhurst preferred?

But that was before the proprietress spoke—in a gravelly, rough-hewn voice that drew Hermione’s gaze faster than a sale on silks.

“Rockhurst, demmed fuckin’ time you got your arse down here. The entire place is going to hell! Literally. And I blame you for this. I won’t see a single profit tonight if you don’t do something. And do it now.”

“Jiminy,” Hermione whispered. The woman on the steps was…a man.

And now that she took another look, she realized she, or rather he, looked like something out of one of her mother’s amateur theatricals. Which didn’t give Hermione any sense of comfort.

“I could leave, Cappon,” the earl said, whistling to Rowan and climbing back up into his curricle. “Serve
you right if I did. Haven’t paid me for the last time I got dragged down here.” The two men stared at each other for a moment, and then Rockhurst shrugged and started to pick up the reins.

“Don’t you dare, Rockhurst!” Cappon called out, coming down the steps, his thick, meaty hands fisted into his red silk skirts to lift them above the filth on the steps and pavement. “You’ve a duty here.”

“And you’ve a duty to pay me,” Rockhurst shot over his shoulder. “That’s the way the tribute works.”

Again, they stared at each other, the earl calm and easy, while Hermione could see Cappon’s rouged jowls and lips working back and forth. After what seemed an eternity, the madame snapped his fingers, and a dwarf of a man dressed in equally bright silks came from within the house and hurried down the steps to the sidewalk.

“Pay his nibs, Tibbets,” Cappon ordered. The dwarf tossed up a pouch, and Rockhurst caught it and gave it a simple heft, as if to measure it.

“A bit short,” he said, curling the ribbons around his hands, his horses dancing in the traces, as if as anxious as anyone in their right mind would be to leave such a place.

Cappon heaved another aggrieved sigh, and said, “The rest, Tibbets. Give him the rest.”

Another pouch flew up from the little man’s stubby fingers, and Rockhurst caught this one just as deftly, it landing in his hand with a heavy
thud
and the jangle of coins.

“Now that’s more like it,” the earl told Cappon, toss
ing the reins down to Tibbets and climbing back down. He reached under the seat and hauled out a large bag, slinging it over his shoulder, the contents rattling about with the same heavy mystery as the coins in the pouch. “Now who is it you want me to kill this time?”

Kill?
Hermione nearly fell out of the carriage.
This time?
What the devil did he mean by that?

And here she’d been worried about him being a rake!

Meanwhile, Rockhurst strode up the steps in his usual easy, confident manner, Rowan trotting along at his side. There was nothing nefarious in his demeanor, nothing that would suggest he was about to commit murder.

The carriage jolted forward, and Hermione caught hold of the sides. She looked up to find Tibbets leading the horses away.

Jiminy! She had few choices—to hide in the earl’s carriage and hope he returned before dawn or follow him inside this house of horrors.

Then once again, the ring made the decision for her, and she found herself tumbling over the edge of the carriage, landing with a hard
thump
on the filthy street.

“Oohhh,” she complained, knowing for certain she’d ruined her gown.

Then she glanced around and realized she was all but alone, Rockhurst and Cappon almost to the top of the steps.

One thing was for certain, she wasn’t going to stay outside on this dreary street. Whether she could be seen or not, the creatures lurking about in the shadows were enough to make the hairs on her arms stand up. After gingerly getting to her feet, she hurried to follow Rockhurst up the steps.

Murder, indeed!
she told herself. It had been just a jest. And not a very funny one. She’d merely misunderstood what was being said, though it did her courage little good as the earl’s carriage disappeared into the darkness, for with it went the only bit of civilization in sight.

Rowan turned his head and growled at her, but she didn’t care. Being mauled by the earl’s infamous dog was preferable to remaining outside as the encroaching shadows from the other doorways and alley loomed forth.

Then just as quickly as the darkness outside had surrounded her, she found herself in the brightly lit entryway of Cappon’s establishment. While Rockhurst continued through the wide foyer with easy familiarity, Hermione found herself stumbling to a halt once again.

Never had she seen such a place.

Now Hermione wasn’t one to shy away from color or colorful combinations, but even she found the array of silks and velvets boggling. And those were just the drapes and wall hangings and not the colorful display worn by the patrons and Cappon’s…er, employees.

Eyes down,
she told herself, feeling suddenly like a girl of Viola’s innocent years rather than a miss well out of the schoolroom and in her third Season to boot! Not that such a thing was something bragged about, but Hermione had to imagine that in this situation a few years of Society would be something of an advantage. After all, she’d heard quite a few
on dits
about what went on outside Mayfair.

At least she thought she had. With a rarely mustered bravado buoying her, she took a deep breath and looked up.

Halfway up the stairs, a brightly clad woman in a low-cut gown waved at the earl.

At least Hermione hoped it was a woman—after her mistake with Cappon, she wasn’t too sure she should assume anything.

“If it isn’t the devil himself! Rockhurst, darling,” the lady called out, leaning way over the railing, her enormous breasts threatening to spill from their satin trappings. “When you’ve finished that nasty business out back, come slay me with that wicked bit of steel you keep beneath your breeches. My thighs are always willing to be your sheath.” She winked at him. “And I promise not to fight back…overly much.”

“I’m still not convinced you’re my type, Essie,” the earl called back. “You might be hiding the same thing under your skirts that Cappon likes to forget he owns.”

“Ah, but Cappon hasn’t got these.” Not missing a beat, she dropped the front of her gown so her breasts spilled out for all to see.

Laughter filled the foyer, along with whistles and catcalls. Essie shook her breasts back and forth, which only encouraged her audience to greater revelry.

“I’ll see how I fare, Essie. But if I die back there, you’ve given me a fine image to carry with me to hell.”

“Heaven these are, Rockhurst,” she told him saucily as she tucked her tits back into her gown. “Heaven on earth they are.”

More laughter followed, and even the earl laughed.

That certainly isn’t something you see at Almack’s,
Hermione mused as she followed Rockhurst and Cappon through a door on the far side of the foyer.

She hurried to catch up with them, easing past a couple, the man’s boots sticking out from where he knelt beneath the woman’s skirts.

Hermione had glimpsed such a thing in a book of French prints her mother kept on the upper shelf of her dressing room, but at the time hadn’t been able to fathom why such a thing was done.

Given the look of rapture on the woman’s face and the way she clung dizzily to her lover, Hermione gave the French their due for being not as ridiculous as she’d first thought.

“Oh, hurry up, lovie,” the woman panted. “Oh, yes, there, yes.”

Ahead, Cappon and the earl were arguing before a closed door, which she had to imagine led to the alley out back.

Oh, heavens, not another alley.
She still clung to the hope she could end this evening without ruining her gloves. Besides, the street in front had been foul enough—whatever would the alley be like?

She edged her way past the amorous couple to get closer to the earl and Cappon but found Rowan blocking her path. The dog eyed her with an unholy and uncanny gaze.

Hermione had no doubt he could see her.

“Go away,” she whispered, trying to shoo the large wolfhound out of her path. “Just stop it.”

“Stop?” the man behind her said, coming out from beneath his partner’s skirts. “What do you mean stop? I thought you liked this.”

“I didn’t say stop,” the woman complained, shoving his head back down under her skirt.

“But I heard you say—” the man insisted.

“Well, I never. Next thing you’ll be saying it’s that ugly dog talking to you. Now finish me,” she complained, “or there will be none of that fancy stuff later.”

The man glanced back toward where Hermione stood, then ducked back under the whore’s skirts.

Hermione turned her back to them, doing her best to blot out the woman’s moans and concentrate on what the earl and Cappon were discussing.

“I’ve no idea how it got opened,” the proprietor
was saying. “But open it is, and bad for business I tell you.”

Rockhurst folded his arms over his chest, his jaw set. “Well, someone is opening the doors—this isn’t just coincidence that I’ve been down here three times this month.”

The proprietor shrugged. “I’ll have Tibbets nose about,” he said. “Sometimes I think his mother was a terrier. He’s got a way of getting into the worst ratholes. With a bit of inducement, he’ll find the truth of it.”

Rockhurst laughed. “See that he does. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“I fear it’s too late for that,” Cappon said, as he pulled a long chain from around his neck. After a few tugs, a key popped out of his bodice. With the bright brass in his hand, he stopped short of putting it into the lock. “You should know…well, that is to say…Sally’s newest girl is…” He crossed himself, then shoved the key in the lock. “She’s been done in by one of them.”

Rockhurst reached over and stopped him from opening the door. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, aye. They found her…that is Sally found her
—”

“Don’t finish. I know what she found.” He turned his face toward the shadows, and Hermione could see he was trembling. The quiet anguish in his words had stopped her, but this…this grief was something she hadn’t ever thought she’d see in the earl most of the
ton
regarded as a man only bent on pleasure and sport.

“’Tisn’t your fault, milord,” Cappon muttered. “Never is. This is what happens.”

“Not to my people. Not in my realm.”

“Oh, aye, and how can just one man be held responsible for watchin’ all of London all the time? Ain’t possible. You’ll drive yourself madder still if you start worrying over every bit of muslin or urchin what gets nabbed.”

“They’re my responsibility.”

“They are that, but they also know better than to lurk about the shadows. We all learn that lesson early on when you grow up in the Dials. But still there’s somes that just don’t listen…or believe.”

“Then let’s make it so they don’t have to,” Rockhurst said, rising up, his shoulders squaring.

“God be with you, milord,” Cappon said as he turned the key, then used his great girth to shove the thick, heavy door open.

Rockhurst shouldered the large leather bag and whistled to Rowan.

But the dog just sat and stared at her.

“I think your dog likes to watch,” Cappon laughed, for all they could see was the couple behind her. “I usually charge two quid for that.”

“Take it out of my bill,” Rockhurst said with a laugh, whistling again, this time with a sharp urgent note to it.

Rowan turned immediately, but before he loped off, he looked at Hermione once again, and she could have sworn the hound was saying,
I’m not done with you.

Once again, Hermione found herself caught in a choice, to continue following the earl or keep to the relative safety of Cappon’s establishment, but the
moans of the whore behind her and her fear of being left stranded urged her forward.

That, and Cappon’s haunting revelation.

They found her…that is Sally found her…

However they found this unfortunate girl, Hermione had no desire to end up in the same circumstances. For whatever reason, her gaze fixed on Rockhurst’s wide shoulders.

Keep me safe,
she asked in a silent plea as she stared at him. Then Hermione took a deep breath and added one more prayer.

Or at the very least, save my gloves.

Rockhurst stepped out into the alley, his nose sniffing the air. Eyes could be deceived, but the earl had learned early on that the nose was often the most reliable of the senses. Rowan edged past and took up his place in front. They both stood poised and waited for a few moments to let the world settle around them—sifting out the constant hum of London and gauging their surroundings.

Above them, the rooms were lit, the light filtering through the gauzy curtains, giving the alleyway an ethereal glow amidst the shadows.

The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he turned quickly, but there was nothing behind him but the now closed door to Cappon’s.

He stared at the space between him and the door and waited—for he’d had the uncanny feeling all night that he was being followed. Rockhurst stilled and waited a few seconds longer, closing his eyes and letting his
senses sweep his surroundings, but still there was nothing distinguishable.

Perhaps Cappon was right, he was going mad. No, make that madder, he mused as he stared at the empty space.

Then it hit him. A hint of perfume. Not the cheap and sharp notes of Cappon’s favored fragrance, or those of his soiled doves, but the simple, wholesome hint of springtime worn by those wide-eyed does who pranced about Mayfair.

He inhaled again, but this time all he got was a nose full of garbage and the sort of refuse that could turn even the most hardened stomachs.

Oh, yes, he mused. Springtime in Seven Dials. He was mad. Apple blossoms, indeed!

That didn’t stop him from looking once more at the steps and, still seeing nothing, got to the task at hand.

No point in spoiling my new Weston,
he thought as he shrugged it off. His valet suffered enough over the way he came home most nights, coats stained, cravats lost, breeches torn. Besides, he rather liked the cut of this coat.

Free of the tight wool, he stretched, then knelt beside the large bag at his feet. Reaching inside, he felt around, his eyes never leaving his surroundings. There was no need to look inside; he knew the contents as well as he knew his own hand.

He smiled as his fingers wound around a smooth oaken stock. He pulled out the cross-bow and held it up to check it over.

And the moment he raised it, Rowan’s ears twitched, as did Rockhurst’s.

“Aye, I heard it, too,” he whispered to his hound, turning around.

A gasp. A single, small gasp.

But there was nothing there. No one behind him.

“Come out!” he ordered, pointing the cross-bow in the direction he’d heard the noise. “Come out right now.”

Only silence greeted his command. After standing there for what felt like an eternity, Rockhurst issued his order again, “Come out now, before you anger me.”

Yet still there was nothing, not even a nervous stir.

Whatever was wrong with him of late? Singling out respectable spinsters for his attentions…showing up at Almack’s. Smelling apple blossoms in Cappon’s alley…

Letting holes spring up unaccounted for all over London.

He shook his head and relaxed his stance. This Season had brought a restlessness to his soul that he’d never felt before. For a brief moment, he’d thought Miss Wilmont might have been the answering call to his reckless, dangerous existence.

But her heart had been destined for another. And now he was alone again, and still waiting…

But for what, he knew not.

Well, he certainly wasn’t going to find whatever it was the Fates had in store for him here in this godforsaken alley. Not until he finished what needed to be done.

Rockhurst reached again into his bag and plucked out Carpio, the short sword that family legend held had saved the first Rockhurst’s life more times than could be counted. And had safeguarded every subsequent earl’s life. How Rockhurst loved the bejeweled piece, Spanish in origin, and as sharp now as the day it was forged. Testing it for a moment, he nodded in satisfaction at Carpio’s perfect balance and fine blade, slipping it carefully into the simple holder he’d had his valet sew inside his belt. Then, to finish his preparations, he tucked two pistols into his waistband.

They weren’t going to do what needed to be done, but they could slow things down if anything went…went…

Wrong.