My Scandalous Viscount (6 page)

Worst of all, the darkness began to play tricks on her mind, filling her imagination with dire thoughts.

She almost felt as though the house were alive; it did not want her there, an intruder. She had the sense of countless crawly things all around her in the darkness, and the absurd fear whispered through her mind that once in, she was never getting out . . .

Just when panic welled up into her throat, she turned a corner—and saw a light ahead.
Oh, thank God.
She approached silently, drawn to it like a moth.

The dim light ahead became a softly glowing oval on the wall of the dark passageway.

It did not look large enough to be a door of any kind. Indeed, she did not know quite what it was until she reached it and looked at it . . . through it . . . into a dining room.

Fascinated, she realized she was staring
through
what appeared to be a typical convex wall-mirror, with twin candle sconces attached to either side. Every upper-class home had them; the curve of the glass helped amplify the light. But you could not normally see through them!

She marveled at the brilliant invention with no idea how it was made, though as a lady of information, she knew she had to have one. A spying window disguised as a mirror!

The dancing flames atop the candles were obviously the light source that had drawn her. Then, peering through the treated glass into the room, she beheld Lord Beauchamp.

Shirtless.

Tending to his wound.
Oh, my.
She stared.

The man was utterly beautiful.

No wonder the scandalous hussies of the ton couldn’t leave him alone. A mild swooning sensation made her feel light-headed, but she assured herself it was only due to blood loss. Still, she barely blinked, staring at his magnificent body with only a hint of guilt, safely hidden behind the glass.

Perhaps it was just as well for her morals that whatever treatment had been applied to the mirror to render it transparent had also darkened the glass a bit. Her view was slightly veiled, as if she were gazing through brown bottle glass. She could see line, but not much in the way of color . . . and, truthfully, that was enough of a visual feast. The shape of his broad shoulders. The muscled swells of his chest, his brawny arms. Sleek waist. The breathtaking sight of his chiseled abdomen. To be sure, all that was quite enough without adding to it the true, warm tones of his skin, the jade blue seduction of his eyes, and the angelic gold of his hair.

But she jerked herself out of her dazed staring, for she could also
hear
through the mirror, and the conversation in progress was most intriguing.

“I can hardly believe Lord Forrester shot you!”

She leaned forward to see who had spoken.

An aged butler with a gaunt, unsmiling visage marched into view, bringing the viscount a writing set. The butler stepped around the large guard dogs lying on the floor and placed it on the table near Lord Beauchamp.

Egads, she thought, staring at those panting beasts sprawled on the floor, their big, fanged mouths drooling as they panted. She’d be lucky not to get eaten if she ever managed to find a way out of this labyrinth.

Beau, meanwhile, had shrugged. “Well, but how can I be angry? The man’s like a brother to me. I’m just glad he’s alive.” He winced as he doused the wound on his arm with a slosh of brandy. She was relieved to note that the bullet had only grazed him. “I got him, too. In the leg. Obviously, neither of us really wanted to hurt the other. It’s the girl’s doing, frankly.”

Carissa frowned.

“She hit me in the back with the door. I thought Nick had brought reinforcements. She’s lucky I didn’t accidentally kill her, thinking I was being attacked from both sides.”

The butler nodded. “Well, a leg wound should slow the baron down, at least.”

Beauchamp nodded. Drying the wound with a fresh rag, he dabbed blood and liquor off his arm. “Anyway, that’s why I’m not angry. You must know what I’ve been thinking all this time, Gray, though I refused to say it aloud.”

“Indeed, my lord. We all feared the worst,” the old fellow agreed with a sympathetic look.

“Now that I know he and Trevor are alive, that’s all that matters.”

“Do you mean to tell the Elders?” the butler asked with a nod toward the writing set.

“Certainly. Just not . . . yet.”

“Sir?” he countered in surprise.

Elders?
Carissa wondered.

“Gray, they won’t understand,” he said with a frustrated glance. “They’ll put a price on his head, just like they did with Drake. I’m not sending assassins out after my best friend. I’ll tell them everything,
after
I’ve got all this sorted out.”

“After?”

“After,” he repeated. “And I’m counting on you, Gray. I’m going to need your silence and your cooperation. You’ll be as loyal to me as you were to Virgil, I trust?”

Carissa watched the scene unfolding in confusion. To be sure, this was far more intriguing than the play at Covent Garden Theatre.

The butler, Gray, meanwhile, had folded his hands behind his back and fixed the rakehelly viscount with a skeptical stare.

“You sound very sure about this.”

“Nick is confused right now. That much was obvious.” He shook his head. “I have to help him. I can make him listen to reason, I’m sure of that. I just need to track him down.”

“What about the girl? She’s compromised you, sir.”

I’ve compromised him?
she mentally retorted.
I daresay it’s the other way around!

“I’m aware of that, believe me. Of course, I’m sure I’ve compromised her, too. And you know what the worst part is? Her uncle is the bloody Earl of Denbury. Highest of high sticklers! I wish like hell that Rotherstone and his team were here.”

Carissa furrowed her brow in confusion at Beau’s mention of Daphne’s husband. Lord Rotherstone was involved in this somehow?
Team?
she wondered, increasingly bewildered.

“I mean, I don’t see why Falconridge had to go with them. He shouldn’t even have gone on that mission, not with his injuries.”

Mission?
Carissa tilted her head.
I thought they were on a hunting trip.

“It’s been over a month since he killed the assassin,” Gray replied. “I’m sure he’s doing fine.”

Carissa’s eyes widened.
Assassin?

Gentlemanly Lord Falconridge? The paragon of the universe, the wonderful, scholarly earl she most would’ve loved to have for an elder brother had
killed . . . an assassin?

“Well, he should have stayed in Town. Unflappable as he is, he’d have been perfect for dealing with Ezra Green. Better than I am at it, anyway.”

“If the Elders did not think you equal to the task, my lord, they would not have hesitated to give it to someone else.”

“Thanks.” Beau exchanged the rag he’d been pressing against his arm for a long strip of bandage.

He began winding it around his biceps and finally tucked the end of the bandage under like he’d done it a hundred times before. “I’ve got to take Miss Portland home.”

“Very good, sir.” The butler gave a cordial nod, but then hesitated, lowering his head with a worried look. “My lord, do you really think Lord Forrester has betrayed the Order?”

Order?

Beau let out a sigh and shook his head. “I don’t know, Gray,” he admitted. “I know Nick would never work against us.” He shrugged. “He said he just wants out, and truthfully, after tonight, I can’t say I blame him. When I saw that girl get hit—” A murderous look hardened his face. His big body bristled, but he shook it off. “He’s lucky he didn’t hurt her.”

Hullo, a bullet scraped my head.

“Hell, after the night I’ve had, I rather hate the spy life myself.”

Her jaw dropped as he reached for his shirt, and all the puzzle pieces flew together in her mind. Her eyes were as round as moons, her heart thumping. Her mouth hung open in the darkness; she covered it with both hands, staring with the greatest astonishment of her life.

But there was no mistake. Her ears had not deceived her. Lord Beauchamp was a spy, the Inferno Club a front for some sort of covert ring. Daphne’s and Kate’s husbands . . . and even dear, chivalrous Lord Falconridge!

How can this be?
She did not know. But it was. All that she had overheard left no doubt on the matter.

No wonder Dante House had all these mysterious passageways! Her heart pounded like it would burst right out of her rib cage with her excitement at this treasure trove of secret information.

She had never heard one rumor in Society that ever came close to anything like this.

As for the “hunting trip” to the Alps that Lord Rotherstone, Lord Falconridge, and the Duke of Warrington had gone on—well, now, there was a half-truth!

So much else about her friends finally made sense.

Even the Home Office investigation. Of course!

Surely it had to do with their spy stuff, not with Beau himself. She suddenly furrowed her brow, wondering if this was the real reason why Daphne and Kate had disappeared from Town.

Beau’s exchange with the butler had made it clear that trouble was afoot. Perhaps the agents’ wives had simply been sent off somewhere for their own safety.

Of course!

That’s why Daphne’s letter hadn’t made any sense! That’s why Beauchamp had refused to give her any details. She saw it clearly now. Daphne must not have been allowed to reveal where she and Kate were.
Oh, of course! Of course, of course.
Carissa pressed her hand to her heart, filled with the greatest relief, indeed, joy, to understand at last that her friends were not excluding her. She had been half-convinced they had turned against her. But she
knew
she hadn’t done anything to offend them!

She closed her eyes as her doubts about Daphne’s friendship dissolved. She repented for ever having doubted either Daphne or Kate. She hadn’t been rejected, after all. God, how she had agonized over the fear that her friends had somehow found out about The Incident in Brighton and were ostracizing her for her lack of moral fiber—and for concealing her secret from them.

As for Lord Beauchamp, she looked at him, also, with new eyes.

At least she understood now why he knew how to make stitches. And why he had gone “traveling” all those years abroad. Why he trained his iron body so hard. Not for vanity’s sake. Not to entice his lovers. But for the practical reason of being ready and able to fight for his country.

Inside the dining room, he started to put his shirt back on, then looked at the blood all over it, and sighed, tossing it away. “Would you get me another shirt, Gray?”

“Right away, sir.” The butler bowed and withdrew.

Beau pulled the candle closer and took out a sheet of paper from the writing set. Carissa gazed at him, savoring her new understanding of the mysterious fellow, when all of a sudden, she felt an odd tickle crawling up her arm.

She reacted automatically, flinging the spider off her arm with a small, girlish shriek of revulsion.

Silencing herself too late, she pressed her lips shut, grimacing, while frissons of cold disgust continued running through her. All motion in the dining room had stopped.

The butler had paused midway to the door.

Lord Beauchamp was staring at the mirror.

The guard dogs lying on the floor near him had perked up their ears. One growled, rising from the floor.

The others began bristling, as well.

“I say, did you hear something, my lord?”

“Indeed. One moment, Gray.” Beau’s face hardened as he pushed away from the table and began stalking toward the mirror. “It would seem we have an intruder.”

Carissa froze, wide-eyed.

Bare-chested, he came up to the glass and stared into it, silent for a long moment. She shrank back, though she doubted he could see her. A scowl formed on his face.

“Carissa?” he chided in a deep, disapproving rumble.

She held perfectly still.

His stare intensified, boring into hers mere inches away though she prayed he could not really see her through the glass.

He folded his arms across his chest. “I know you’re in there.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, mouthing a curse.

“Answer me,” he ordered.

Blast! Heart pounding, she did not know what to do, especially since she still had not managed to find a way out of this stupid maze.

There was no telling how he’d react to her intrusion, but she was sure she was in trouble now.

She had not crossed any ordinary rakehell. She had just disobeyed a man she now was rather sure was a spy for the Crown.

Cursing herself for being a snoop, she folded her arms across her chest.
Very well.
Best to get it over with.

“I’m here,” she admitted.

Chapter 6

“O
f course you are,” he said in a fresh wave of exasperation with her.

Gray looked at him in alarm.

Beau glared at the mirror. “I thought I told you to rest.”

Her glum voice came from behind it: “Sorry.”

He folded his arms across his chest, more outraged than he permitted to show on his face.

Just. Bloody. Perfect.

“What are you doing in there, Carissa?”

She heaved a sigh. “I’m stuck.” He could hear the frustration in her muffled reply. “I’m stuck inside the wall!”

Gray shut his eyes and clapped a hand to his forehead.

One of the dogs trotted over and jumped up to place his paws on the console table beneath the mirror, his nose twitching for the scent. Beau pushed the animal away with a reassuring mutter before it started barking.

“Would you please get me out of here?” she insisted. “I can’t find any way out of this stupid maze!”

He scowled at his own distorted image in the convex mirror. “Maybe not. Maybe I should leave you in there. ‘Teach you a lesson.’ What do you say to that? A taste of your own medicine, darling?”

“Lord Beauchamp, please! I know I shouldn’t have done it—”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” he agreed.

“Just let me out of here. I can explain!”

“What, that you’re a perfectly brazen little sneak?”

“Fine words, coming from a spy,” she retorted.

Beau paused at the confirmation that she had heard plenty, indeed, and oh, yes, Gray had been exactly right.

Bringing her here had compromised his cover, along with that of all his fellow agents. In short, bringing her here had been a mistake. He looked away with a curse.
What the hell am I going to do with her now?
What a fool he had been, to assume the chit might actually do as she was told!

She must have seen his murderous expression. “I’m not going to tell anyone,” she offered in a solemn tone.

“Ah, that makes me feel so much better!”

“You have my word!”

“The word of a girl who’s already told me she’s an excellent liar!”

“Oh, please, don’t be a beast to me again, I beg of you! Let me out of this maze, then you can yell at me all you want. Please. It’s dark in here and my head hurts and there are—disgusting spiders.”

“Serves you right,” he muttered, but the contest was settled. She took the prize for the most vexing female on the earth.

He sent the butler a taut nod. “Take the dogs into another room. If anyone here’s going to bite her, it’s going to be me.”

“Yes, sir.” Gray did his bidding, but shot him a glare of reproach as he grabbed the collar of the pack’s alpha dog. A look that said clearly,
This is your fault.

Beau scowled back, well aware of that.

He could have throttled himself for bringing her here—a known gossip! But what the devil else could he have done with her? Left her bleeding in the alley? A civilian? A girl?

Yes, she
had
been nosing into matters that were none of her affair, but one of the Order’s chief mandates was to protect the innocent.

It wasn’t as though he could have brought her into the theatre to tend her with half of high society in the building. Hardly a covert maneuver.

Then he would’ve had to explain to the bureaucrats as well as the ton gossips why someone had tried to shoot him outside Covent Garden Theatre.

And why he had been alone with Carissa Portland in the first place. Indeed, her political uncle would certainly want to know the answer to that. That was all he needed. The Tories angry at him, along with the radical-leaning Whigs, who already wanted to shut the Order down.

With the investigation under way, Beau did not need any added attention right now, nor did he wish to make an enemy of the powerful Lord Denbury.

Perhaps he could have taken the chit to his house to tend her wound, but it was farther across Town, and with her losing blood like that, every moment had counted.

Well, no good deed was left unpunished, he thought, his pulse pounding. When Gray had led the dogs out and pulled the door shut behind them, Beau stalked across the dining room.

As he headed for the fireplace, the most disturbing thought of all plagued him, a nagging suspicion at the back of his mind that in some strange way, he had done this foolish thing on purpose, bringing her here.

Not just for practical reasons.

A fleeting doubt whisked through his consciousness, that maybe, just maybe, some perverse, desperate devil in his head had taken over in that moment of panic when he’d seen her bleeding, driving him to react from emotion instead of his usual logic.

It wouldn’t surprise him—since this was Carissa Portland they were talking about, and what a smiling, happy dunce he usually turned into when she walked into a room.

Maybe the long-denied heart in him had seized upon this chance to show her the truth about him and his life, or at least to wave it under her nose, knowing that she, of all people, would take the bait and do exactly, well, what she had ended up doing.

Because she was in it now, whether she liked it or not. Even as his brain told him this was a calamity, his heart brimmed with the eager possibility that maybe now he’d find relief for the loneliness.

Maybe, if she knew the truth about him, he could finally be known and have a real connection to a woman.

Beau hated the whole idea of admitting to himself that he was lonely in the first place, and even more so, that his own impulses could have tricked him.

The notion was too threatening. He scoffed at it and threw it out, assuring himself he was not
that
great a fool. Still disturbed, he walked over to the white marble fireplace, glancing up at the massive, Renaissance-era chimneypiece.

Twin candelabra sconces were set into both ends of the mantel. He reached up to the one on the right and grasped the middle candlestick holder, twisting its brass base until he heard a mechanical click.

Heavy gears churned beneath the floor, and suddenly, the bricked back of the fireplace rotated open.

He ducked under the mantel and stepped over the coal basket, leaning into the narrow space beyond. “Carissa! Down here!” he called sternly as he stepped through, into the secret passageway.

In short order, she came bustling around the corner, groping her way through the pitch-blackness. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” she exclaimed, hurrying toward him. “You are an angel of mercy! It’s so dark in here!”

“That’s to deter people who don’t belong,” he answered dryly. Virgil had made the agents memorize the labyrinth years ago, so they wouldn’t need light to negotiate its passages.

“Sorry!” she mumbled in a defensive tone as she ran into him, clumsy in the darkness. He steadied her by her arms as she put her hands out blindly to catch herself when she tripped. Her palms landed on his bare chest; she yanked them back with a soft gasp.

Not that he had minded. Indeed, the shock of her touch sent a thrill of awareness running along his every nerve ending. “You all right?” he murmured, acutely aware all of a sudden that he was half-naked, and they were very much alone.

“Yes,” she forced out in a slightly breathless voice.

Well, he’d never had sex in the labyrinth before. He thrust the rakish thought away and gestured toward the back end of the fireplace. “It’s just through here. Mind your head.” He offered his hand to assist her.

“Thank you.” As she placed her fingers lightly atop his, the touch gave him another jolt of pleasure—which he ignored. He had been quite stupid enough around her already.

What the late, great Virgil would’ve said about his blunder Beau did not care to contemplate, but he was sure none of the more seasoned agents on Rotherstone’s team would have let this happen. There’d be hell to pay when they got back.

Meanwhile, Carissa stared at the open slab of brick that made up the secret doorway and shook her head. “Fascinating,” she murmured as she bent down to venture through it.

His lips twisted at her wonder. Did she think this was a game?

Nevertheless, he remained silent, steadying her as she lifted the hem of her long skirts and carefully picked her way over the coal basket. When she was safely through, straightening up inside the dining room, he followed her.

Then he shut the doorway behind him by twisting the candlestick the other way. The hidden fireplace door rotated shut.

She stood a few feet away, brushing the cobwebs off her arms and checking herself, he gathered, for spiders.

Beau pressed his lips together, refusing to smile. “What are you doing?”

She rushed over to him. “Do I have any spiders in my hair?”

He eyed her, sorely tempted to play a very boyish prank—one she thoroughly deserved. But when he glanced at her hair and saw the blood matted in her auburn tresses, he was reminded anew of all she had been through tonight, and resolved to treat her gently.

Of course, he was going to have to put the fear of God in her to make her grasp the need for secrecy.

“No,” he murmured. “But I’m afraid you’ve got a bigger problem than spiders at the moment.” He took hold of her elbow and steered her to the nearest chair. “Sit down, Miss Portland. You should not be up walking around.”

A
nd you should really put a shirt on,
she thought nervously, as he guided her to a chair beside the wall and pressed her down into it.

She could not stop staring at his body. The raw, masculine beauty of his physique was overwhelming at such close range. He stood before her, as completely unself-conscious as the Greco-Roman marble male nudes that he so much resembled; hands on his hips, he seemed to be gathering his thoughts on how to deal with her.

She had no suggestions.

Indeed, she could barely think at all, watching the candlelight play over the hard, chiseled torso right in front of her, his charming navel at about her eye level. The flames’ warm illumination teased her with the urge to touch and explore the velveteen smoothness of his skin.

She doubted the renowned libertine would have minded, even as cross at her as he was. But she was hardly mad enough to try, though, especially now that she knew she was dealing with no ordinary rakehell but a spy.

In the next moment, he stepped closer, grasped the wooden chair arms, and lowered himself to a crouched position before her.

Thus corralling her in her seat, he stared into her eyes, his own, piercing blue and full of suspicion. “You’ve been a very naughty girl, Carissa.”

She swallowed hard.

“Why were you eavesdropping?” he demanded in a low tone.

“I-I told you, I got lost. I couldn’t find a way out.”

“You also told me earlier that you happen to be a good liar. So I know now not to take you at your word. But I’m warning you, I want to know the truth. How much did you hear?”

She blanched. “All of it.”

He lifted his brows inquiringly.

“I heard you talking to the butler and I-I figured it out. I mean, I don’t know exactly, of course, but I realized . . .”

“Yes?” he prompted, staring at her.

“You’re some kind of secret agent,” she fairly whispered, barely able to contain her excitement. “I can’t believe it! And so is Lord Rotherstone and Lord Falconridge and the Duke of Warrington? That’s what this place is—your headquarters?” She glanced around breathlessly at the room, but Beau did not answer the question.

The club’s large dining hall was quiet, dim, and empty, but for them. Only now did she notice the strange mural painted on all four walls above the wainscoting, like twisted visions born of fever. She stared, realizing the scenes depicted the travels of Dante through the various circles of Hell—flames, devils, monsters, and all.

He still hadn’t responded, but she took his silence for confirmation.

He was looking at her very strangely.

“Finally, it all makes sense,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “That’s why Daphne and Kate had to leave Town, isn’t it? You’ve got some kind of trouble. Is that the reason for the Home Office investigation?”

“You know about that, too?”

She tucked her chin demurely and gave him a guilty little smile. “Was that friend of yours a secret agent, too, the one who shot us? Is he a traitor?”

“Carissa.”

“Is that why you went traveling all those years, for this career? You don’t have to worry,” she hastened to reassure him, “I can keep a secret. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“No, you’re not,” he agreed.

She frowned at the steel in his eyes and the chill that had come into his voice. “You’re angry. Well, I suppose you would be. I deserve it, I know. Truly, I am sorry. I realize I shouldn’t have gone snooping like that, but how could I resist! You know my curious nature. Someone in your line of work ought to understand, of all people. A secret passage? It was too intriguing!”

“As I said to you earlier tonight, don’t you know what curiosity got the cat?”

She gazed at him in dismay. “You’re not going to forgive me, are you?”

“No.”

“Why not? Was it so bad, what I did?”

“There are consequences for your actions, don’t you understand that?” he exclaimed, anger flashing in his eyes.

“Consequences? W-what do you mean?”

He just glared at her; his silence made her even more nervous. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Not half of what I’d like to,” he growled.

“Fine! Stay angry at me, then—” She tried to rise from the chair, only to be pressed down again by his firm hand on her thigh.

She went very still.

If his hand on her leg were not unnerving enough, the hard look in his eyes sent a chill down her spine.

She began to understand at that moment that she might be in very serious trouble, indeed.

“People have been killed for the information you now possess, Miss Portland,” he informed her in a low tone.

She decided with a gulp that while she usually disapproved of his free use of her first name, under the circumstances, she vastly preferred him calling her Carissa.

“Miss Portland” sounded almost like a veiled threat in this moment. Emphasizing the distance he suddenly wished to put between them.