Darius Wolfe drifted through the cellars of Thornhill Manor with the smooth precision of long experience, just as he had traveled through the tunnel from the river, built in Tudor times. Yet as a small lantern swung from his left hand, his dark eyes swept left and right into the shadows, as if he expected an enemy to leap at him at any moment. After all, the man who handled business affairs on such a grand scale as Juliana Rivenhall’s had ample reason to be cautious.
When she built the new wing on Thornhill Manor, cutting all connection to the suite of rooms she had shared with her husband, the widow Rivenhall had extended the cellars and added a secret staircase which opened into her private study, not far from the drawing room. Darius, considerably pleased by what appeared to be an invitation to continue his nighttime forays to Thornhill Manor, soon learned his mistake. His Jewel, as he called her, was quite happy to enjoy private discussions on matters of business, spiced by bits of gossip from City and ton, but bedsport had gone extinct, and had not even been resurrected after a proper year of mourning.
Not even after he’d made the stubborn woman a most proper offer of marriage.
Well . . . perhaps not as proper as all that. They had hedged around it, Darius not expressing himself as well as he might, his Jewel pushing him away, declaring herself damaged goods.
When he was among those who’d done the damage.
Softly, Darius swore. Head bent, shoulders hunched protectively against whatever he was going to find on the other side of the wall, he pressed the hidden lever and the panel slid open.
He’d sneaked up on her in the past, but not tonight. Every bit of Juliana’s flesh, every cell in her brain, her very soul was on the quiver. Listening. Waiting. Knowing he would come—only to be bitterly disappointed once again when she explained why she had summoned him.
Six months, twenty-one days. A long time, when he had spent at least one night in her bed each sennight for nearly the full length of her marriage. Five years, in fact. But in the more than two years since, nothing. Guilt swamped her. She was a fraud, a charlatan, no better than the smooth-talking thieves who manipulated the weak-minded into giving them their very last penny.
Juliana sucked in a sharp breath. She hated ménage and as a young bride of less than six months, had not hesitated to tell her husband exactly that. Geoffrey, ever good-natured, had simply shrugged and taken his eclectic inclinations elsewhere. Until the night he brought home his man of business, dangling Darius Wolfe before her like a prize in the Christmas pudding . . . Within the space of hours she’d been lost.
Juliana firmed her mouth, shifted her back from merely stiff to ramrod straight. Those days were gone. Forever. Darius was just going to have to accept it.
He was here. She could feel the shift in the air, the crackling energy of his presence. And in that instant she knew why she’d stooped to sending for him. She had encountered this strange phenomenon not long ago—in the bookroom of the man even the criminal bosses of London’s rookeries held in respect. Nicholas Black. Yes, he had reminded her of Darius—she’d felt the attraction in spite of the great gap in class. Felt his power. Enough to bend her principles and send for the one person she should avoid at all costs.
Juliana waved her hand toward a comfortable wingchair, newly re-upholstered in forest green velvet. He looked like a king on his throne, drat him, his waves of black hair haloed against the deep color of the chair and framing a handsome face with skin several shades darker than most of his compatriots, a face that held a goodly dash of Italy, Egypt, or more likely Romany.
Dark eyes, like shiny chestnuts, stared back at her. “Well, my Jewel, I’m here.” He gazed at her expectantly, though not without a strong dash of indifference, as if he’d only left her the night before. He crossed one leg over the other, resting his hands lightly in his lap. “How may I be of service?”
Cecilia, garbed in a simple sprig muslin that was one of her few gowns that didn’t cry, “Courtesan,” found her way from her bedchamber to the older portion of Thornhill Manor, now used for The Aphrodite Academy. Not that she would know any of the new girls, but there were bound to be familiar faces among the teachers. An unexpected blush swept over her, as her inner voice added, Familiar bodies as well. Not that she was going to peek at the demonstrations, of course. They were no use to her now. Except . . .
She wouldn’t mind a refresher on whips, chains, and other torturous devices. A vision of Longmere suspended in a dungeon rose before her, herself with leather whip raised to strike. Again and again and again.
As if that was ever going to happen. Nonetheless, if that lesson was being taught today, she just might look in. Perhaps she could find out which whip would do the most damage. She’d heard the navy’s cat-o-nine tails could be truly deadly . . .
Cecy turned the knob on the door to the students’ common room and walked in. Six startled young women bobbed to their feet, staring. Cecy suddenly felt every one of her twenty-two years. These were students, she a graduate. Before her spectacular fall from grace, she had actually been the mistress of a peer of the realm. She’d done it, almost as much the pinnacle of achievement as Belle who had managed to marry her viscount.
“Oh, miss, please come in,” a dark-haired girl burbled. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
Cecy tolerated them crowding round, finding it oddly warming as their eager questions tumbled out. In spite of what happened, they seemed to consider her a success.
Oh, miss, did he buy you ever so many gowns and jewels?
Have you ever been to Carlton House? Is the Prince as fat as they say?
A horse and carriage? Ah, miss, how grand!
How many servants did you have? Three? Oh my!
Never you mind, miss, me da beat me near every day. Jes turn your face for’ard and never look back.
Cecy’s face crumbled, she gulped back tears. The girls swooped in, touching her hair, patting her hand. A glance through watery eyes showed them all looking stricken.
A new kind of guilt seized her. After all Lady R had done for her, and she was repaying the kindness by sowing panic among her students. Mortified, Cecy mumbled her thanks and fled back to room.
Few things disturbed Nicholas Black. Finding a young woman beaten half to death but a block from his doorstep qualified, as did his butler’s announcement that Darius Wolfe had come to call. Devil take it! What brought the City’s most renowned and hard-headed man of business to his doorstep?
Lady Rivenhall, of course, but . . . “Send him in, Pike.” Nick neatened the papers on his desk, leaned back in his chair, and waited. He had never met Darius Wolfe, but they had taken each other’s measure across the tense atmosphere of gaming rooms, the Mayor’s lavish banqueting hall, the green of Hyde Park, the hustle and bustle of Drury Lane. Two powerful men who felt it necessary to keep track of each other.
“Wolfe.” Nick offered his hand.
“Black.” They shook with firm pressure, and a little something extra that might have been respect.
When they were both settled, Nick added, “How may I help you?”
Lady Rivenhall’s wolf almost smiled, a sight which no doubt struck terror into the hearts of lesser men. His liquid brown eyes gleamed. “Now how shall I put it?” he murmured, clasping his well-kept hands over the wolf’s-head handle of his cane. “Let us say simply that my employer was hoping you might have an interest in teaching Longmere a lesson . . . and if that should happen to be true, she hoped I might be of some help in the effort.” It was Nick’s turn to look amused; their gazes locked. “She does not like to see her girls abused. I’m sure you understand her feelings of responsibility,” Wolfe added smoothly.
Never cross Nick Black. Clearly, the motto he’d coined for his own at age twelve had spread farther than he’d thought, if even Juliana Rivenhall knew of it. Nick Black’s steel umbrella spread over a thousand employees or more. Cracksmen, innkeepers, bank clerks, students, artisans, actors, painters, the riff and raff of the streets—furtive spies all. And untouchable, as retaliation would be swift.
Several long moments of silence as Nick considered the matter. “An expert in finances wouldn’t come amiss,” he said at last. “I would prefer to see Longmere spiked on a fence, his blood draining into the gutter, but that’s rather messy and could have repercussions we could do without.” He flicked a dark brow upward. “I’m sure something as exquisitely torturous, though not quite as lethal, can be arranged.”
“I shall see what I can do in the City,” Wolfe offered. “Perhaps we might conjure a new version of the South Sea Bubble . . .”
“He fancies the horses,” Nick offered. “Thinks he has a nose for a winner. And a talent for vingt et un.”
“Do you explore these avenues, or do I?”
“I can handle the gaming, and find ways to taunt him more openly,” Nick promised with an inner relish that surprised him with its intensity. “I suggest you concentrate on taking down his fortune from the inside.” Nick’s hands dropped to his desktop, his cool ferocity fading in the face of a new thought. It was possible Wolfe might know the answer to a question that refused to go away.
“Do you know,” he inquired casually, keeping his face impassive, “if Miss Lilly has made any plans for her future. It occurred to me,” he added hastily before Wolfe could jump to the obvious conclusion, “that she might prefer to take up a new line of work.”
Wolfe studied him with an intensity that would have made a lesser man squirm. “From what I understand,” he finally returned, “you are correct.”
“When she is ready for work—work as far from a man’s bed as possible—have her come see me. I believe I may have a solution to her problem.”
Wolfe snorted. “As if Lady R, or Miss Lilly, would believe a word of that!”
Imperturbable, Nick never moved. “She’ll not go for a courtesan again, but tuck her up in a respectable line of work, and she’d die of boredom in a week.”
“And how can you possibly know that? She spent what—six hours under your roof?”
“At least the position I have in mind will be some challenge to the girl’s intelligence, which is more than I can say for most opportunities open to females. Have the girl come talk to me. Let her judge for herself.”
Darius Wolfe stood, examining the night creature behind the desk with cynical eyes. “Is this your price then? If Longmere is to go down, the girl works for you?”
“Oh no,” Nick purred, like the deadly panther he was. “Even if you send the chit to some fat farmer in Kent, Longmere is doomed. But it would be a shame to hide Miss Lilly in the country,” he added softly. “A great waste.”
“It’s been . . . interesting,” Wolfe said, once again shaking hands. “I suspect ours is an acquaintance long overdue.
“It is that,” Nick agreed, out-wolfing his guest’s signature smile, as he stood to bid his visitor farewell. Predators both, they each considered the morning’s visit well spent.