She lifted her chin. “What time are we leaving?”
Chapter 2
“Dipping rather deep tonight, aren’t you, Autenberry? Is it your intention to get foxed?” The Earl of Strickland stared across the table at his longtime friend.
“Perhaps,” the Duke of Autenberry grumbled with a shrug. “Is it your intention to not?”
Colin blew out a breath. “There was mention of cards and women. Any chance we’ll get to that tonight?” The rate Autenberry was guzzling brandy, the only place he was headed was facedown on the floor, and then it would fall to Colin to pick him up and carry him home.
Autenberry’s response was to slam back another glass.
“Is this because of your brother? Are you still annoyed with him?”
Autenberry’s gaze shot to Colin at that question. “Half brother,” he snapped. “And he’s not my brother. He’ll never be my brother.”
Colin nodded slowly. Annoyed might be an understatement.
“I’m not annoyed,” Autenberry added. “I’d have to give a bloody damn about him to feel annoyance.” His fingertips circled the rim of his glass. “I feel nothing at all for that Scot bastard. Struan Mackenzie is nothing to me.” Autenberry’s mouth flattened into a hard line at this pronouncement.
Colin nodded but held his tongue, not believing him for a moment.
Autenberry’s bastard half brother had won over everyone in his family, and there was no denying he was bitter at the recent development—no matter what he claimed.
Struan Mackenzie had even won Poppy Fairchurch—stole the tempting little shopgirl right out from under Autenberry. It didn’t matter that Autenberry hadn’t known he had the chit in the first place, as he was in a coma at the time. She was married to Struan Mackenzie now and that fact did not sit well with Autenberry.
“Very well. You’re not annoyed. Just surly and poor company.” Colin gave up on his friend and lifted his gaze to scan the room. Just because Autenberry was in a sour mood didn’t mean the entire night had to be a waste.
Even though most everyone was in the country for the remaining winter, Sodom was packed tonight. There were several scantily clad ladies, clearly indifferent to the wicked cold outside, masked and unmasked, circuiting the room. All manner of women to suit every taste and distract any man from his most foul of moods.
“You like redheads,” Colin remarked, feeling like an adult trying to coax a child into eating his supper. “How about that bird?” He motioned to a likely prospect heading up the broad staircase to the private rooms above stairs. She had a nice, inviting sway to her hips.
Autenberry shrugged, evidently not tempted.
“Should we move upstairs, then?” Colin prodded, hoping to uproot Autenberry from his position in front of the bottle. “Perhaps we might find something to interest you.” Ever since Autenberry woke from his coma, he had spent a good amount of time soused. Colin was hoping to break him of the habit.
“Go on. I’ll be along once I finish my drink.”
Colin sighed, rather doubting Autenberry would budge from his spot.
Shaking his head, he left Autenberry to drown himself in his brandy, no longer willing to stand witness as his friend spiraled deeper into whatever dark mire held him hostage.
He knew a brush with death could affect a person. Autenberry had just come out of a coma to find his world altered. That could affect a man’s perception. Colin would give him space. Besides, he had his own demons chasing him this night.
He’d promised his grandmother that he would take a bride this season.
The old bat had ignored him for most of his life, but recently demanded an audience with him to inform him that he owed an heir and spare to the family line. He couldn’t argue the point. It was time. He was nine and twenty.
His days of bachelorhood were fast dwindling. He’d always planned to honor his vows, so that meant nights like tonight, when he was free to cavort with light-skirts, were in short supply. Of course, he had hoped to harbor enough affection for his wife that honoring his vows would be no real trial. He had not met any debutante to tempt him, however. He couldn’t even profess fondness for a particular chit. Not that he had spent any time searching among the proper drawing rooms, routs and balls of the ton. He had avoided matchmaking mamas, sticking to gaming hells and clubs such as Sodom.
Clearly it was time to take note of eligible young ladies. Or at least take heed of his grandmother’s directives, as she did pay attention to such things. She had already sent him a list of debutantes she had personally vetted. All from impeccable families. All breeders. This, he’d learned, was the most essential criterion for his grandmother.
His mother had died bringing him into the world, and his grandmother blamed her for being too weak. From her chaise longue, drowning in pashmina shawls and surrounded by her cats, the old dame had proclaimed his late mother fragile and a poor breeder. She stabbed a gnarled finger in Colin’s direction.
Your father should have married a hardier female. One that did not break so easily. Instead he was a fool, gulled by beauty. Not you, lad. I’ll see to that. You’ll be smarter than my Charles. You’ll marry a fine young breeder.
If his grandmother spoke of his future bride as though she were a prize sow, he didn’t bother to object. At nine and seventy, there was no changing her ways.
Colin’s father died when he was a boy, but he did recall the large shadow of the man invading his nursery. With drink in hand, the imposing earl would stare out from red-rimmed eyes at Colin. You’ve her look to you, lad. Then, as though it was more than he could bear to observe, he would turn and leave Colin alone with his nursemaid.
That was the extent of his memories of his sire. The earl’s passing was scarcely a hiccup along the stretch of his days. One morning the housekeeper informed him that he had died and then in her next breath inquired if Colin would like honey for his porridge.
His life went about its usual lonely course until he was sent away to school and met Autenberry. Marcus’s family, in a sense, became a surrogate to him. Suddenly he wasn’t so alone anymore.
Despite his lack of family bonds, he did feel an obligation to keep the Strickland line going. Or perhaps it was because of that very thing. His own lack of family. A pack, a clan to call his own. He wanted children . . . the family he never had. He’d spent most of his life imposing on the Autenberrys. Anytime he wasn’t at school, he could be found with them. It was preferable to idling his time away at a deserted school or staying at his empty mausoleum with only servants for company.
His estate would no longer be empty once he married and filled it with his progeny. The thought provided some comfort and spoke to the secret longings in his heart. He wanted half a score of children, at least. He snorted. His grandmother would be thrilled to hear such hopes from him. Now he need only find the girl to give him those offspring.
But not tonight. Tonight he would not spend another moment thinking on marriage or the begetting of heirs.
He ascended the stairs. The second floor was quieter, darker. The kind of shady surroundings that invited trysts. He’d engaged in more than a few assignations at Sodom over the years. Tonight seemed ideal for another one.
He blinked, acclimating to the sudden gloom as he strolled down the corridor, passing open doors beyond which all manner of illicit activity took place. He strolled in and out of a few rooms. Perhaps he would spot that redhead and persuade her to go visit Autenberry and tempt him from his drink.
And that’s when he noticed her.
Her utter stillness amid a room of voices and laughter and twisting motion snared his gaze.
He entered the spacious salon. Red-hooded lanterns cast the space afire, giving it an otherworldly ambiance. One could almost forget they were smack in the middle of London and not in some decadent den of iniquity far off in the Mediterranean.
The room had been thoughtfully devised. Alcoves were tucked into every corner and along the edges of the chamber, offering privacy fo
r those who desired it. Cries and moans carried from the curtained nooks.
He angled his head, studying the female across the expanse of the red-tinged drawing salon, singular in her aloneness. She wore a domino like so many of the women present. Her gown was a deep burgundy and low cut, revealing a daring amount of cleavage. Nothing shocking about that. In this establishment she was rather modestly attired.
He walked deeper into the salon. Several people kissed and fondled each other on the couches. Laughter and chatter buzzed through the air. He inhaled the smell of want and sex and unleashed desires.
On a settee in the far corner, a man delved his hand beneath a lady’s skirts, working her into a fine frenzy. A few people watched, permitting themselves the titillation. One gentleman groped himself in a chair, opening his trousers and massaging his erection as the female panted, dragging her skirts higher so that her lover could work his fingers deeper and faster within her.
Colin knew the scene. He’d observed it before but never lingered long in such scenarios. He preferred privacy when engaged with a woman. He didn’t like voyeurs arousing themselves at his or his partner’s expense. When he was with a woman, he wanted no distractions.
Normally, at this point, he would turn and set about his own pursuits, but there was the woman in the corner still holding his curiosity. She reminded him of a rabbit frozen, caught in the sights of a predator. He smiled wryly. In this case, she had landed herself in a room full of predators.
Bright flags of color marked her cheeks. She was a novice to this scene and he felt a strange prickle of emotion. Pity? Protectiveness? The crazy urge to grab her and throw her in a carriage before the wolves got to her overcame him.
Shaking his head, he started to turn away. She was a grown woman who obviously knew where she was and what she was about. No one came to Sodom without an inkling of what they were about. She wasn’t looking to be rescued no matter how intensely she blushed.
Then he noticed the pair of men descending on her. The Botsams were brothers, only a year apart and grandsons to the late Archbishop of Canterbury, and known all about Town for their depraved inclinations. Yes, the irony wasn’t lost on him. No man let a daughter or sister anywhere near the pair of blackguards.
He’d attended Eton with them and observed their behavior firsthand. They had been cruel boys, delighting in crushing birds or torturing cats that loitered about the grounds. Once he and Autenberry had happened on them with the groundskeeper’s daughter. They’d stripped the girl out of her knickers and were in the process of switching her backside raw. He and Autenberry stopped the brothers, but not without a fight. Colin still bore a scar above his eyebrow from where one of them had struck him with a rock.
According to talk, their conduct hadn’t improved over the years. They were still sick bastards and he wouldn’t wish them on his worst enemy.
His chest tightened as he watched them descend on her. Even through the domino, he noticed her widening eyes as they backed her toward one of the alcoves.
He cursed beneath his breath, willing her not to be pushed into one of the nooks with them. The last thing she needed was to be dragged off where no one could see her or where her cries for help could be muffled.
His hands clenched as all three of them disappeared from sight in one of the darkened nooks. He was probably overreacting. It was Sodom, after all.
“Christ,” he muttered and strode forward.
Chapter 3
One moment she was gawking at the most sordid display she had ever witnessed, wondering where Mary Rebecca had disappeared to and how she might take her leave from this place, and then two men were before her, suggesting filthy and lewd things that made her ears burn and her stomach lurch.
“What are you doing? Unhand me.” Her gasped words and slapping hands went unheeded as they shoved her back down on a well-padded couch.
They moved in accord, like they had done this countless times. Their hands fell roughly on her. She was spun around, her face pushed down onto the couch as if she were some rag doll to be flipped about unceremoniously, without thought or care.
“Stop!” she choked as hands grabbed the hem of her skirts. She reached down to seize their groping fingers. Arching her back, she lashed out, kicking behind her. Her heeled slipper made contact with something. Pain radiated up her leg as one of them cursed.
The other laughed. “She’s a fighter. This will be fun. Haven’t had one of those in a while.”
“You want to fight, eh?” A hard hand tangled in the back of her hair, straining her neck on her shoulders, forcing her head down and scattering her pins, sending the mass of her hair sprawling around her. “Go ahead. Fight. We rather enjoy that.”
This wasn’t happening.
She only wanted a night out . . . and to live a little. To feel alive and not like her poor friend, dead in a box. Now this was happening and all she wished for was the safety of her home. To be back in her drawing room before her crackling fire with Clara and Enid beside her. Not this. Anything but this. Clearly the thrill and excitement she had been looking for didn’t exist. Not for her.
She struggled against the rock hard grip, and then suddenly the pressure at the back of her head was gone. She rolled to her side, twisting around to watch as a third man appeared, yanking one of her accosters off her. Her attacker lost his balance and fell to the floor. The new arrival, a shadowy figure in the alcove, pressed his booted foot against the neck of the man on the floor and grabbed the other one by the cravat.
She watched, frozen on the couch. Never had she witnessed such a brutal scene before.
“Botsam, I believe you and your brother heard the lady refuse your company. I’m sure you can find someone else receptive to your attentions. It is Sodom, after all . . . and there is no accounting for taste.”
“You make it a habit of interfering, Strickland. First at Eton . . . now here. What? Are you following us about Town?”
Strickland?
Her heart lurched at the familiar name, knowing she was safe, even if it was regrettable for Lord Strickland to find her in such an undignified manner. The earl would never let a lady come to harm. Her stepson’s friend was as honorable a gentleman as they came.
“As I recall, you both were trounced for your transgressions at Eton,” Lord Strickland said. “Care for a repeat performance, Botsam?”
“It’s just you here. I don’t see Autenberry at your side this time. Might be difficult to deliver a beating without your friend. One against two are not the best of odds.”
“Oh, Autenberry is not far. I’m certain he would be happy to deliver another thrashing on you worthless swine.”
Panic swamped her and her heart thrummed in her ears. Her stepson was here?
Oh, no.
He couldn’t see her here.
The earl continued, “Not that I’ll be needing him tonight. I have this well in hand.” He ground his boot deeper into the man’s neck on the floor as though to drive home his point. The man cried out and whimpered.
“You don’t really want to cause difficulties here, do you? You know Mrs. Bancroft has no tolerance for violence on the premises. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your memberships revoked. Permanently.”
There was a long moment of silence as the earl stared the man down. She didn’t breathe as she watched them, her hand clutching her throat as she tried to decipher the silent exchange occurring between them.
Finally Botsam cleared his throat. “As you said. There are more accommodating females present. We’ll leave this one to your gentle care,” he sneered.
Strickland uncurled his fingers from Botsam’s cravat. “Wise decision.”
Botsam’s gaze flicked to her as he straightened his mussed cravat, assessing in a way that made her feel suddenly like dirt beneath his boot. “I confess I don’t have much affinity for dark meat at any rate.”
She sucked in a stinging breath. It wasn’t the first time she overheard a scathing, indiscreet remark about her coloring. Her
dark hair and eyes and less than milky complexion put her in marked contrast to other English ladies. Some men found her attractive—her deceased husband had once upon the time. Others, however, did very little to hide their distaste.
“You can have her, Strickland,” he continued, waving his hand toward his brother still beneath his boot. “Mind letting my brother go?”
Colin took his time as though considering that. “If I ever see you mistreating a lady again, there won’t be a next time.” He lifted his foot and the Botsam brother on the floor scurried to his feet, holding his injured neck. He treated Strickland to one final glare and slunk away.
His brother followed at a slower pace, leaving them alone in the alcove.
She was aware of a rushing noise in her ears then. Her heart pounded hard, a dove desperate to take wind and escape. Before she could consider her actions, she crossed the space separating them and hugged him, her fingers clutching deeply into his shoulder. Her other hand dropped to his chest, trapped between their two bodies. He was a familiar shore amid the dark sea in which she found herself.
He stiffened with surprise against her. She opened her mouth to express her gratitude and relief that he arrived when he did and saved her from the most terrifying moment of her life—but then his voice rumbled out from his chest.
“You’re very welcome, Miss . . .”
She started to thank him again, to explain, but then she closed her mouth with a snap.
Her mind raced.
He didn’t know her. Of course. She was masked. It was dark. She had not yet used her voice.
This knowledge rushed through her, and it was a different kind of relief but relief nonetheless. He would identify her at once if she spoke. So it seemed obvious then that she shouldn’t speak. She couldn’t. There was a chance she could yet extricate herself from this situation without Lord Strickland or her stepson ever knowing of her blunder in coming here.
She pulled back from the embrace, biting her lip as though that could stop her from speaking. Her fingers fluttered lightly where they still rested against his chest. He was firm and solid, his chest broader than she had ever realized.