Lady in Red (13 page)

A shriek of anger tore from her lips and she threw herself at him. She collided against him and the air ripped from her lungs. She growled and reached up to claw at his face, but his hands grabbed her wrists in a fierce grip. Fury drove her in mindless determination. She brought her teeth down and sank them into the fleshy part of his chest, biting through fabric. She clung on, biting down harder and harder, relishing the feel of his yielding flesh.

He howled in shock, dropping her hands and grabbing her waist. “You devil!” he snarled, and in one move he yanked her from him.

Unbelievable satisfaction bolted through Mary as she spotted his ripped black shirt.

“She’s mad.” The viscount stared at her, his eyes wide with wonder and . . . something else. Approval.

“Yes,” she hissed back. “Mad enough to rip the flesh from your bones if you ever speak to me thus again.”

The soft sound of muted applause cut through the cold air.

She whipped toward Edward. “And you just stood there while he—” She swallowed, realizing she was not afraid. Not afraid of the biggest man she had ever met.

Edward cocked a black brow and lowered his hands to his sides. “I am not here to soften the world’s blows, darling. I am here to lead you past them and teach you to give more than a few of your own. Do you still wish my help?”

She looked from one man to the next. The deal she was making was a dangerous one. Both these men were dangerous. It had always been there in Edward’s eyes, the promise of a life lived on a knife’s edge, but here now, in this quiet field with his deadly companion, she fully understood the extent to which he had gone to get what he wanted or to take his revenge out upon those he hated.

“Yes,” she said. Finally. At long last, she had found herself again. Only this Mary was a Mary she had not ever known existed. “It is what I want.”

“Good.” Edward nodded, perhaps to himself. He gestured to the blond man. “Meet Viscount Powers.”

Years of training compelled her to say, “How do you do?”

Powers eyed her slowly, his stare penetrating as he studied her. With a single lift of his blond brow, he seemed to find her wanting. “Clearly, better than you.”

“Powers.” A low note of warning entered Edward’s voice.

“Yes?”

“Do not intimidate her . . . overmuch.”

“Intimidate?” the viscount echoed. He took a step forward and looked down at Mary. “You’re not intimidated, are you, little dragon?”

She straightened her spine, eliciting as much height as she could muster, and lifted her chin until her neck craned at the effort. “By you, my lord? I daresay you could not deign to touch my mother or my toes . . . let alone induce the spreading of legs.”

Viscount Powers’s eyes traveled over her face and then he threw back his head and laughed. “A born liar, Fairleigh. You’ve found a born liar.” The laugh died and he held out his hand for her to take.

She marveled at his bizarre mockery, but she knew the insult he’d take if she slighted his gesture. With a boldness she did not feel, she reached out and took his massive hand. Something unruly jumped within her as he grasped her palm. In truth, his powerful hand reminded her of Adam reaching out to his Creator for enlightenment in Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. She had no idea why. Not when he seemed to be recklessness personified.

He bowed. “And I do love a challenge.” His voice was honeyed silk laced with a tempting drug.

How many women had been pulled in by this coil? She yanked her hand back. “A remarkable thing that you believe in love at all, my lord.”

As if she hadn’t just rebuffed him, he smoothed his gloved hand along his coat, wiping her touch away. “Of the physicality of love? What fool does not?”

“This man is your friend, Your Grace?” Mary didn’t even bother hiding her disgust. And her fate was in these men’s hands. What a trap. How she wished she did not need Powers’s assistance, but apparently Edward thought she did.

“Friend?” Edward looked to the viscount. “Accomplice, perhaps.”

“Spiritual brother,” rejoined Powers.

Edward nodded. “Yes.” Then he turned from them and began to stride across the field back toward the coach waiting along the dirt road. “Come.”

Viscount Powers lingered, then lifted his hand to her cheek.

She froze.

His palm enveloped the better half of her face, tilting it back until her throat was exposed. “And like good brothers . . .” His gaze traveled to her lips.

Mary’s breath locked in her chest. “Yes?” she forced herself to say clearly, refusing to let him see the effect he had upon her. Realizing she wasn’t going to shatter. Not anymore. Never again.

He bit his lower lip for a second, then leaned down, his mouth but a breath above hers. “We share.”

Then he let go, his gloved hand gone as quickly as it had fallen upon her. Striding after the retreating form of Edward, his shoulders were as square as any chivalrous knight’s.

Mary stood alone in the field, her eyes blinded now by the rising sun burning the fog away. As the mists faded, she began to see clearly. Her knights were not chivalrous and had no desire to save her honor.

But save her they would, by whatever means necessary. They would wrench her from her hell. She sensed she could learn from them the hardness one needed to survive and take back what was rightfully hers. She would take it back. Nothing mattered more.

“M
adam, your resistance is most distressing.” Candlelight danced over the bull-like bronze-haired man standing in Yvonne’s sitting room. Despite his chocolate wool suit, one would have expected to find this man outside a dockside pub watching his bangtails take any comer, adhering to the dictates of his profiteering mind. She was closely acquainted with his type. Hadn’t she once worked for such a man?

Yvonne painted her most seductive smile on her rouged lips and shook her red curls in as clear astonishment as she could muster. “Mr. Hardgrave, surely you are aware I am not a woman known for resistance but rather for pleasure and compliance?”

Mr. Hardgrave smiled graciously, his broad lips pulling at yellowed but otherwise unmarred teeth. “I am aware of your reputation.” He inclined his head in mock appreciation. “A much deserved reputation, no doubt.”

He lifted his head and his gaze probed her with the sort of sharpness one might expect from one of the street’s most brutal toughs. “But in this case, you have reason to protect the young woman in question.”

A rather unfortunate realization twisted Yvonne’s stomach. This man would not buy her lies with ease. Burgeoning hints of a disgusting wish that Mary had never come to her snaked through her. It was weak and selfish, but . . . She had not been in the presence of such a man since she’d sold herself in back alleys for a bastard who’d sworn he’d loved her.

Despite her secret wish, she had to protect Mary. Esme had trusted her and had always been there for her. She and Esme had once worked closely together, courtesans to the highest bidders. She’d never forget the way her friend had cared for her, nursed her, bathed her bruises when a customer had become too rough.

Yes, she’d save Mary from this man.

God knew what such a villain would do to her. So Yvonne would convince him. Convince him as she had never convinced anyone before. She lifted her brows in confusion. “I have many young women under my roof, sir, and do not recognize the one you seek. Perhaps if you so kindly described her again, I might be of more assistance.”

Mr. Hardgrave shook his own red head, anticipation warming his honeyed eyes. “Your scullery maid seems acquainted with the young woman, madam. She also seemed fairly confident that you are as well.
Intimately
acquainted.”

Yvonne’s mouth dried. The side panel in her wall meant for moments of quick escape beckoned. But she would never outrun him. “I beg your pardon?” she demurred, desperate to buy a few moments to compose any viable sort of ruse.

Mr. Hardgrave slowly pulled off his gloves, finger by finger, revealing blunt hands. The knuckles were roughened from frequent use. “Allow me to refresh your recollection. According to your scullery maid, a woman answering to the description I have supplied entered your establishment and was taken up to this very room.”

A high, strained laugh pealed from her throat. “My goodness, what fantasies the child suffers.” She wagged her finger at the inquisitive bastard who had forced his way into her hard-earned house with an authority that had inspired immediate surrender from her staff . . . Even from the men she employed to keep the worst sort out.

Mr. Hardgrave was not only the worst sort. He was the most dangerous sort, and she had little doubt he was the Duke of Duncliffe’s implement. Somewhere along the greased and putrid slums of Seven Dials, someone of rank had taken interest in his skills, elevating him from filth to attempt the image of a gentleman.

It was the gentleman of taste and refinement in him she must now appeal to.

Taking care to swipe her full, green silk dressing gown back to expose a bit of pale leg and soft pink-ribboned garter, she headed toward her evening wine tray and lifted the crystal decanter. She poured two glasses of the tinted liquid. “Did you pay her?”

At his silence, she forced herself to
tsk
lightheartedly. “If you did, you wasted your coin. She would have said she saw a wild Cossack if you gave her a ha’penny.”

“Undoubtedly, but in this instance I have reason to believe her. And I have other means than coin to induce information.”

Yvonne’s throat tightened, but she managed an admiring glance over her shoulder. “Of course you do. A fine, important man such as yourself.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment as truth and not as a caress meant to soften his resolve. “Luckily for her, I was not required to do much more than glare at the child before she babbled the story out.”

Yvonne cupped both cut-crystal glasses, a gift she’d bought herself after finally turning a profit at her hellish trade. Careful to keep each move without calculation and seemingly spontaneous, she cocked her head so that her red curls danced upon her neck. “As you say, a story.” Blessedly, to her own ears her tone was carefree. “And why would such a man as you believe a silly little nit of a maid?”

She sauntered slowly toward him, the folds of verdant silk sliding over her body, molding to her tightly corseted waist, making her appear far more delicate than she was. She swept the train behind her with her slippered foot and let it slide slowly along the ivory rug. With a smile, she held out his wine.

He hesitated, then took the goblet in his hand. He smiled back at her. Amusement danced in his eyes. There was something else, too.

“Do taste the wine,” she urged. “This claret is particularly fine, if I do say so.”

He lifted the glass slowly toward his mouth, drawing the bouquet in through his nose. “Do not think me a fool, madam,” he said easily over the wine.

Yvonne took a sip, letting the rich liquid linger in her mouth, coating her tongue with its oaky, spicy fruit notes before she swallowed. She licked the drops from her lips. “I would never do such a thing.”

She took a step forward and trailed her hand along his bronze-striped waistcoat. “Consider my cooperation assured.”

In one abrupt gesture, he threw his wine in her face.

Yvonne sputtered and jerked away. Shock and the stinging pain of alcohol in her eyes left her momentarily stunned. She couldn’t see. The thick wine weighed down her lashes, even as it slid down her face and to her breasts in rivulets. Panic gripped her as she gasped for air.

Blind to him, she tried to take a step back. Her foot caught in the train of her gown and she tumbled back.

His hand darted out, catching her arm in a punishing fist. Each of his fingers dug into her flesh through the thin silk gown so hard he could have ripped her arm from the socket or broken the fragile bone. He yanked her toward his chest. With his free hand he ripped open her gown. “I suppose I should look at what you’re selling.”

Yvonne blinked desperately as cold air hit her breasts and exposed her pink brocade corset. The dressing gown hung in shreds about her waist. “If that is what you wish,” she offered, her voice shaking.

“You’d do anything.” His eyes worked over her face as if he could pull apart her features and search the inner workings of her mind. “Wouldn’t you? To set me off my task?”

“Yes.” She stared up at him, her own lids stretched wide with her determination not to cry. “Anything.”

“I should pity you,” he said tightly. “But I have no pity. Not for a creature such as you.”

Yvonne struggled to pull back from his harsh hold, but his grip dug in farther, his nails piercing her flesh. She began to shake, almost naked now except for her corset and her stockings. “I don’t understand.”

“Then let me make myself plain.” He gripped her harder, his fingers bruising. “I do not work for the Queen. I am not a constable. I do not care what laws I must break to achieve my ends.”

Yvonne shuddered and attempted to curve in toward herself, desperate to escape him but unwilling to fight back until the moment was right. “I—I don’t— I can’t help you.”

Mr. Hardgrave let her go abruptly.

She staggered, her heart slamming against her ribs. She whipped on her heel and ran for the poker by the fire.

His footsteps banged in heavy thuds against the thick carpet. She’d not escaped him for more than a moment before he grabbed the nape of her neck. Pain shot across her scalp as he yanked hard at the thick coil of her hair. With one hand, he knocked the forgotten glass of wine from her grasp. It bounced on the carpet, its contents spilling in bloody trails over the snowy fabric.

Twisting her locks, he forced her to bend, her naked body exposed to him, her face toward the carpet. “Do you see that? Your face will soon be as bloody if you do not speak.”

Yvonne gulped back vomit. It would be so easy to tell him where Mary was. She’d secure her own safety and be free of this monster. She would not have to face the long moments that were about to follow before she fell into oblivion. “I—” She swallowed, saliva filling her mouth fast. “I—”