Chapter Four

Richard stared down at the debutante and couldn’t fathom what in the world she was going on about. It wasn’t that she was ineloquent or speaking an unknown language, but rather that he hadn’t heard a word of what she’d said.

Damn, man. He was supposed to be charming and elegant, offering witty conversation to fellow guests, so why was his mind filled with visions of redheaded, tart-mouthed, knife-wielding maids who were obviously not maids?

She’d been dressed as a maid—then again, when he’d been thoroughly accosted in the earl’s study, she’d shucked her apron and mobcap. Certainly, a maid on a mission for her master wouldn’t remove part of her uniform en route, but then, he already knew she hadn’t been there at the earl’s bidding.

And he’d be damned if she hadn’t piqued his curiosity.

Where has she gone this time?

“Richard?” his friend Michael Bennington, the Marquis of Bendrake, murmured, poking him in his side with an elbow. “Woolgathering, are we?” Michael’s carefully manicured brows arched up, his eyes twinkling. The lout knew he couldn’t care less about the company—he wasn’t there because he wanted to be. “Downing, I say, old fellow, you are about as present as a bit of ribbon in the wind.”

“Oh, Lord Bendrake, you are a poet,” the woman between them simpered, batting her eyelashes and pressing her hand to her bosom, which was practically spilling from her bodice. Where had he been hiding that he had failed to notice how bold fashion had become?

Buried up to your Adam’s apple in boredom.

“He is a poet, is he not, Almyra?” the one simpering woman—Miss Buttertoast? Miss Butterbread? No. Miss Butterworth—said to the other.

“Indeed, Moriah, a poet for the ages,” Almyra replied, taking her turn at batting her lashes, just so. Michael was grinning like a fool, and Richard felt like one. It wasn’t more than ten years ago when he’d been as eager and easily enchanted as Michael—even more so. At the fresh young age of twenty-two, he’d taken to society like a dog with a bone. But then, slowly over the years, he’d come to realize that all that glittered in the ballrooms was really a facade meant to cover the many sins of each noble house. Even his own family had left a few buried bodies in their wake, but his brother was trying to make up for it, and in Richard’s own way, he was trying to as well.

And so, despite how much he abhorred making niceties with Butterbread and her nattering friend, he knew it was a chore that must be endured. For his family—damn it.

“Lord Richard, are you enjoying your evening?” an aged woman in a bright purple turban asked, sidling up beside him.

“Lady Ashbury,” he remarked, noticing the woman’s narrowed eyes and pinched lips. “I am pleased to see you in such good health. Lovely as always,” he finished, hoping his flattery would curb whatever it was the dragon wanted to say.

No such luck.

“Don’t weigh me down with Spanish coin, Richard. You forget, I’ve seen you in naught but your skin,” she said archly.

Michael bit back a chuckle, and the two misses gasped behind their fans as if this were the most scandalous thing they’d ever heard.

“Aunt Margaret,” he intoned, offering the Duchess of Ashbury—his mother’s sister—a welcoming smile. “You know I meant every word.”

She huffed, but a smile cracked through the carefully made-up mask she often wore.

“Enough of that.” She hit her fan against his arm. “What is this I hear about you running off after some maid? You are not dallying with the help, are you?”

Again, the two misses gasped, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes. Michael, on the other hand, was staring at Richard with a curious look on his face.

Richard sighed. “Nothing of the sort, Aunt Margaret. And any rumor to the contrary is just that, a rumor.”

She arched an eyebrow. “So, you did not chase after a redheaded maid?”

“I did,” he answered, seeing no reason to lie about that. He’d only been a concerned gentleman, after all. “I jostled her while she was carrying a drinks tray. When she ran off, I assumed she’d been hurt. I felt it only right that I should see if she were without injury.” That had been part of it, at least. But he wasn’t going to tell his aunt—or anyone—that he’d been intrigued by the redheaded maid with the striking blue eyes and a dagger hidden beneath her dress.

Because they will think you mad. Admittedly, he wondered if that wasn’t the case already. Why else would he be so drawn to a woman who’d threatened to kill him?

Examining his face, Aunt Margaret waited a tick before she asked, “And did you find her?”

“Yes.”

“And was she injured?”

“No, she was not,” he admitted, although she’d nearly injured him—having moved so fast she’d been a blur. Who moved like that? Certainly not a housemaid.

You should tell Banebridge. He needs to know what is going on under his roof.

Richard knew the Earl of Banebridge was a close, personal friend of Prinny, and for all Richard knew, that maid-not-maid might have been a spy, sent by the French to learn Crown secrets. He struck that possibility from his mind the instant it arose. No… He didn’t know a thing about her, save she was deadly with a dagger, but he did know that there was something…honorable about her.

Despite his skill with the sword and his greater physical strength, he had no qualms about admitting she could have easily dispatched him and walked away, leaving his body to be found the next day, no one the wiser.

But she hadn’t.

He should have called her bluff and immediately reported the incident to Banebridge. But he hadn’t.

No. Instead of doing as he ought, he’d allowed the surprise and intrigue of the situation to override his good sense.

At least his boredom was gone.

“Richard,” Michael drawled, pulling him back into the conversation. “I believe I see Pratmore— I must have a word with him.” Snapping quick bows to each woman in turn, Michael left their small party behind, seeking out the dimwit Avery Jarell, Viscount Pratmore. The two misses followed soon after, offering curtsies to Her Grace and moving off to find a more agreeable pair of partygoers.

Clearing his throat, Richard asked, “Where is Elizabeth? I figured she would be with you all evening.” His young cousin was experiencing her first Season and was a ball of nerves about every little thing. It was quite a shock not to see the dear girl hiding behind her mother’s skirts.

Aunt Margaret waved a gloved hand in the direction of the dance floor, where it appeared a knot of snakes was coiling together to the sound of Haydn’s Waltz No.1 in G Major.

“She is dancing with Lord Summervale.” She craned her neck, looking about the room as if peering into the souls of all present.

“Aren’t you worried she will make a misstep—literally and figuratively?” He might not like the insidiousness of polite society, but that didn’t mean he didn’t worry about his cousin making a good match. She was the only daughter of the Duke of Ashbury, so she was bound to meet a few bounders and fortune hunters, and it was his duty, as the only familial male present, to make sure she didn’t make the morning papers.

“Of course I am worried. But I cannot hover if she is to learn. I am of the mind that making every decision for her will only cripple her when she is the lady of her own house.” She sighed heavily. “I cannot abide the thought that she will bombard me with missives begging advice on all manner of household matters. Lord save me from having to tell her how to please her own husband in bed.”

Richard choked on his own tongue. He knew his aunt was an outspoken woman, but he’d never heard her speak of the…err…marital bed before. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

“I see,” was all he could muster. Unlike his rather quiet and reserved mother, his aunt was bold, and that was one of the many things he loved about her. Since his mother’s passing, his aunt had been there to pull him out of his deepest grief, oftentimes shocking him into a grin—one he greatly needed.

Aunt Margaret tapped her fan against her palm and continued surveying the gathered crowds. He couldn’t say why, exactly, but he felt a tension building between him and his aunt. Like the air between them was filling with unspoken words.

“Richard, your brother is concerned for you,” his aunt spoke again, her voice gentler than it had been before. He gazed down at her, petite yet fierce, and watched her eyes soften.

He sighed, rubbing his jaw. “I know. He hasn’t ceased telling me how much I’ve changed.” It wasn’t as though he didn’t know he’d changed. He was well aware of how different his life had become. How different he had become.

But ever since their father’s passing, he and Justin had both undergone a period of introspection. For Justin, it led him to marry and produce an heir—as was expected from the new duke. For him, however, it had led to an overwhelming loss of empathy for those in his social circle. They lived for the pleasure, the moment, only ever caring for what benefited them. It was a startling blow; he had been just like them.

But no more.

His aunt placed a hand on his cheek and declared, “We only want the best for you, dear. Your mother loved you so very much. Now that she is gone, I want to honor her memory by watching over you as she would have me do.”

At the mention of his mother, his heart kicked, drawing the heat from his skin.

Before he could speak, though he had no idea of what to say, his aunt broke in.

“The dance has ended. I had better go fetch your cousin before she follows Lord Summervale into a dark alcove and makes me a grandmother.”

He was biting back a snort of laughter when his aunt swirled her plum-colored dress and headed off in the direction of the dance floor.

…

The man slid onto the mattress, a feather bed covered with a counterpane of the softest material. It felt like shards of glass at his back. He groaned, placing the butt of his cigarette against his chapped lips. He took a long, slow, throat-burning drag, wishing the tension in his body would filter out through the smoke ring he puffed into the air.

His body trembled, his hands shaking—a sure sign he was, once again, in the throes of withdrawal. The disgusting cigarettes he’d purchased in India were nowhere near as potent as the opium he’d sampled in Shanghai. One taste had turned him inside out, flipped him upside down, and left him in a quivering mass of euphoric ecstasy.

He needed more, and soon.

The pain would arrive within the next hour, pain so horrific it would lay him low for days. Robbing him of thought and voice and leaving him at the mercy of his addiction. But he shouldn’t care…he was too close to losing everything. If he lost it all…well, agonizing pain would be the least of his worries.

His secrets were much too devastating to recover from.

“There you are…” a familiar and hated voice murmured from the shadows, the view of the newcomer obscured by the fact that, just minutes before, he’d pulled the curtains shut to keep out the light from the moon burning outside his window.

“What do you want?” he croaked, sucking in another drag on his cigarette, wishing it were something more potent. It would have to tide him over, though.

The figure moved into the room, skirting the shadows until they were only feet away.

“Is it done?” the figure asked, his voice coming from everywhere, echoing through the room—though, in reality, he was probably whispering. Without his sweet opium, the man’s world was louder, uglier, angrier. He just needed one more taste—that was it. One more taste to help him feel the peace of silence…and see the beauty of absolute bliss.

He closed his eyes, humming, his body writhing with both agony and ecstasy…the hunger for poppy tears woven with the pain of being without it.

He opened his eyes to find the figure pacing in front of him. Who was that, again? His mind, foggy and yet still frenetic, tried to piece together what the man had asked… Is it done?

“Yes,” he finally replied, once again closing his eyes. “I delivered the missive, just as instructed. By the time this night is over, he will know what is expected of him.” The poor bastard.

He could feel the figure staring down at him, more than likely curling his lip in disgust.

“Good,” he drawled. “Now, make sure no one suspects you—and for God’s sake, get a hold of yourself. You look like shite. How anyone would see you as an equal is beyond my capabilities.”

His, too. But he didn’t care much about that anymore. He only cared that the figure before him held all the cards.

Literally.

The House of Cards Society had their hands around his throat, and he could do naught but obey.

He tried sitting up, a sloppy attempt at seeming human, but his muscles spasmed in that moment. He groaned, his eyes rolling back into his head. He hissed out a breath, humiliated that his body would choose just then to fall to pieces.

“Dammit!” the figure spat. The man flinched, moving his head from side to side in an effort to stem the flow of the wildfire blazing behind his eyes. “Here,” the figure ground out.

Something hit him in the chest, making him flinch again.

“Use that and get back to work. You have a week to obtain what we require. If you cannot handle this, we will send someone else—and you know what that will mean for your precious secrets.”

His secrets? What secrets? Oh—the secret of his hideous addiction. And his predilections. Perversions that would turn even the most amoral of the ton into raving Puritans.

“I will get it done. Do not worry about me,” he whimpered, reaching up to take the small pouch in hand. He could tell by the scent that the pouch contained the very thing his body was screaming for.

Opium.

His hands shaking all the more, he pushed himself off the bed, peering into the gloom of his elegantly appointed guest room.

He was alone, once again, the figure having disappeared as easily as he’d invaded. As though the night were creeping into his life in human form.

Without hesitation, he pulled his ivory dream stick from the hidden compartment in his traveling trunk. Carefully—as carefully as he could when his hands were curling in on themselves from the pain in his joints—he placed a scoop of black tar in the ceramic bowl before affixing it to the ivory pipe using a silver fastener. Then he took a candle, lit it, and used the flame to heat the ceramic bowl, turning tar into a molten mix that would eventually vaporize into smoke.

As the sweet, intoxicating taste of flowers filled his mouth, his throat, his lungs, the world seemed right again.