Letty held her breath as Adam began to remove his clothes. In that moment, she decided she loved nothing more than the sight of her husband undressing. It was like a performance, a beautiful, seductive one, how he unwound his neckcloth and let it flutter to the ground. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and shouldered it off, then pulled his white shirt out of his trousers and over his head. His bare chest was broad, accented by his muscles. He reached for the placket on his trousers, his arms flexing as he did so.
Heavens, the man is pure sin, and I cannot look away, Letty thought. She would finally see what Adam looked like completely bare of all his clothes.
“Oh, right, mustn’t forget these.” He stopped undoing his trousers and bent to remove his boots and stockings. He shot her a teasing look, obviously knowing exactly how he was torturing her with this delay. Letty clenched the edge of the tub as he finally went back to undoing his trousers. He pulled them down and kicked them off, and she stared at that part of him. He was not like the statues in the museum. He was far larger, and it was not lying down against his body but pointing toward her. Dear heavens . . . Her lips parted in shock as he approached the copper tub.
“Move forward a bit. I’ll slide in behind you.”
She scooted forward, and he stepped into the tub. The water sloshed as he eased down. He parted his legs and gripped her waist.
“Now slide back and lean against me.”
Letty did as he said and closed her eyes, feeling his hard-muscled body behind her. The hair on his calves tickled her legs beneath the water. His breath, warm against her neck, sent shivers of delight through her. Her nipples pebbled, and her thighs clenched together. The once hot water now seemed tepid compared to the burning of her body. His hands stayed on her hips for a long time before they began to slowly explore her, first her inner thighs, then her lower belly, and finally sliding up to cup her breasts.
“You have exquisite breasts,” Adam whispered in her ear.
“Oh?”
“Yes, quite perfect. See how they fill my hands?” He let the weight of them fill his palms before he gently squeezed them. “It gives me wicked ideas.”
“What sort of ideas?” Her breasts turned heavy at his touch.
“I would like to put you on your hands and knees facing the mirror, while I claim you from behind and watch these glorious breasts move freely as I thrust inside you.” Adam’s words painted such a sensual picture in her mind. So sinful. So exciting.
“Would you like that?” he asked before he bit the lobe of her ear. Sparks of arousal shot down her spine into her womb.
“You truly are wicked,” she moaned as he pinched her nipples lightly. He then gripped her throat, gentle but possessive, while his other hand cupped her mound. He kissed her ear, followed by her cheek, before he thrust two fingers inside her. Her hips arched up into his touch.
“More, please,” she begged, wanting to feel as she had in the woods when he’d pinned her against the tree.
“I’m happy to oblige,” he said and began to move his fingers faster and faster. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the edge of the tub, her body strained by the building rush. But just before she felt she would fall off the edge, he slowed.
She wriggled, splashing water about. “No! Don’t stop . . .”
He chuckled. “Are you ready to come apart again?”
She bit her lip and nodded.
Her wicked husband’s warm breath fanned against her neck as he gave her what he’d promised. He moved his fingers faster, and she arched her back. Ecstasy exploded from her head to her toes. She collapsed back against him, her limbs quivering and her breath shaky.
Adam embraced her as she drifted down from the wild high of her passion. When she came to herself, she turned to see his face.
“And you . . . Does a man feel this way?”
“Oh yes,” he assured her.
“How does one do it for a man? The way you touch me, I mean.”
He laughed and leaned down to brush her cheek with his lips. “Curious creature. I like that. Grip my cock.”
“Your . . .” She tentatively touched his shaft, which was surprisingly stiff, and he groaned. “Am I hurting you?”
He shook his head. “Now, wrap your fingers around it and move your hand up and down. Yes, like that.”
Letty stroked him and followed his commands. Faster. Harder. Slower. He almost seemed to enter a trance, and she felt drunk on the thought that she held him in her power. This moment was bonding them together in the most sinful, wonderful way she could imagine. Then he called out her name, his body stiffening in the water. After a long moment, he relaxed, and she sensed he had found his peak, and she removed her hand from him.
He pulled her to his chest again and nuzzled the crown of her hair. “Let’s get you out of this bath and into bed. You’ve had a most exhausting day.”
Letty played with his chest, letting her fingers circled his flat male nipples and trace the lines of his collarbone. “As have you.” He was a beautiful specimen of a man, and she felt wildly giddy at the thought that he was hers.
“Come, lady wife.” Adam stood up in the bath and helped her. Then he fetched a cloth to dry them both before he gave her a fresh chemise and robe.
Letty finished dressing and wrapped her warm robe around her. She took her time studying Adam’s bedchamber. Her own room, that lovely circular chamber, held a hint of wild mystery to it. But Adam’s room felt warm and welcoming. The sturdy four-poster bed, the green satin wallpaper, the light walnut paneling of the doors and ceiling accented with gold moldings. This could be her new home. No, this was her new home. That other chamber would be a private space for her, but she wanted to enjoy this room as hers and Adam’s.
“I think I shall stay here,” she announced.
Adam pulled his banyan robe closed and eyed her with amusement.
“So you’ve made your decision.”
“Yes. Assuming you’ll have me.”
He came to her, taking her in his arms before he cupped her bottom and squeezed. “I suppose I can tolerate your nightly presence,” he sighed dramatically. Then he swatted her derrière. “Now get in bed, wife.”
Letty shot him a saucy grin. “Yes, my lord. As you please, my lord.”
As Adam got into bed beside her and pulled her into his arms, he smiled at her with increasing fondness. “Yes . . . You certainly do please me.”
Camille waited patiently in a private room at a small inn in Spitalfields before she went to the connecting door and knocked lightly upon it. She and her master always timed her entrances perfectly.
“Come in, Camille,” her master bade.
She stepped inside and was immediately surrounded by shadows as the crowd of seven men inside turned her way.
“Who is the woman?” one of the men demanded.
“Be at ease, Mr. Thistlewood. The woman is mine. Her pretty face keeps my temper at bay, does it not, my sweet?” he asked Camille.
She dipped into a curtsy and flashed a beatific smile at him and the men.
“Yes, master.”
“She certainly makes me think of much better things than anger,” one man dared to joke.
Her master silenced him with a look. “Now, if you are ready to discuss what matters . . .”
“We are, Mr. Garland,” the man called Thistlewood said. “Please, speak.”
Her master smiled coldly. “Until now, you’ve all stayed just out of reach of the noose. That is commendable, but at this pace, you will never achieve any results. That is where I should like to assist you. Sending your little rebellious letters to Whitehall is foolish. I want that to cease immediately. The best revolutionaries do not need to feed their sense of self-importance. They leave that for the rhetoricians who rally allies to the public front of their movement. But where sedition and treason are necessary, it must be carried out in the dark.”
“What are you suggesting we do, then? Don’t we need public support?” another man asked. “Rally the people and such? Otherwise, whatever we do won’t matter. It would be like killing the king. Another would simply take his place.”
Her master held a hand to his lips to call for silence. “The French successfully removed their dynasty.”
The man arguing with her master shook his head. “But a loyalist king took the throne after Bonaparte died.”
“And that man no longer has the Sun God status the French once believed their royalty held. He is mortal—he can be deposed or killed, his family and heirs wiped out by Madame Guillotine. The French people know they have the power now, not some man upon a false throne.”
Amidst all this, Camille was not focused on her master. She had a job to do, which was to listen to all that was said and remember the faces of every man present.
“What you need to do is remove the king and the system that keeps him in place.”
“How does one do that?” someone asked. “I am not against the idea, merely inquiring how one can achieve it effectively.”
“By doing it all at once.”
“All at once?” Thistlewood stroked his chin, his eyes thoughtful. “How could you ensure that?”
Her master leaned back in his chair. “The House of Lords. Parliament itself.”
The suggestion was met with silence, but judging by their faces, the rebels didn’t seem bothered by it. Rather they were contemplative, trying to see how this one stone could kill two birds.
Camille’s master smiled again. “The king intends to make a speech to Parliament, you see, and when he does, we shall be ready.”
“How do you propose to destroy Parliament? It’s not as though we could march up to it with pistols in our hands. If I recall, Guy Fawkes tried this and failed.”
“He did, but he didn’t have the access to places and people that I do. When it is time, I shall tell you how we will make Whitehall fall.”
Thistlewood glanced around at his fellow rebels. “Very well then. We shall wait for your signal. But we will not wait for long.”
“You will not have to.”
There were murmurs of assent, and Camille, still in the shadows, studied each face, searching for any hint of falsehood to betray a deceiver in their midst. One man seemed more pensive than the others. He sat close to Thistlewood, not speaking as the others, who were now resolved on their course of action and had dissolved into small talk. It could be nerves, of course, but it could be something else . . .
“I will send a summons when we are ready to set the plan in motion,” her master said.
One by one, the men slipped from the room until it was empty except for her master and herself.
“Well, my pet, what did you see tonight?”
She sipped a glass of wine and stole a bit of chicken from the plate her master had left out from his meal before she replied.
“Thistlewood and his men are loyal . . . though one concerns me.”
“Which one?” her master asked.
“The one who never spoke. He sat next to Thistlewood, perhaps to establish an outward show of his commitment. But he said not a word, even when his eyes would sometimes flash at what you said.”
“Well observed—even I missed that.” Her master handed her his glass of wine, and she drank before offering him a smile.
“You are pleased with me?”
“Very pleased,” he assured her. “Are you ready for your next assignment?”
“Yes.”
“You are to find Lord Pembroke’s sister.”
At this, Camille suddenly brightened. “Oh, monsieur, I forgot to tell you.” She rushed into the adjoining chamber and returned with a newspaper that she’d come across that morning. She handed it to him, opened to the society column.
“Lady Society,” he grumbled. “I never did learn who the damned chit was.” He scanned the article. “Lady Leticia was married the day before yesterday?” His eyes narrowed. “To Lord Morrey.” The name was uttered with an intimacy that piqued Camille’s interest.
“You know him, monsieur?”
“I killed his best friend.” The ferocity of his expression shocked her. She’d never seen her master look angered like that before. He fingered one of his cufflinks, a habit he always had when he was upset about something. Someday he’d rub the cufflink’s surface off from doing that too often.
Camille placed a hand on her master’s arm. “Is he like you?”
“Like me? No, he is just another English dandy who sticks his nose in places it doesn’t belong,” her master said calmly, yet Camille saw a strange fire in his eyes—anger that hid a deeper emotion.
“I will go, monsieur—”
“No.” He caught her arm, holding her forcefully. “You’ll stay and ease my temper.” He shoved her toward the bed. She desperately tried to calm him, hoping that he would be gentle if she did not upset him. When he was in a good mood, he was the best of lovers, but when he was not . . .
“Please, monsieur, give me a moment to make you happy.” She offered him her prettiest smile, and the hellish flames behind his brown eyes began to fade.
“Oh, my sweet French flower,” he murmured. “You always know how to soothe my black heart.”
She allowed herself a moment of relief. By God’s grace, she’d escaped bedding the devil tonight.
Caroline tossed fitfully in her bed, kicking her blankets off until the chill air woke her. She sat up in the darkness, listening to the wind howl against the windowpanes. Remnants of a dream trickled back to her. She had dreamed of John and the first time she’d met him.
She had been riding in the park with Adam. He had spotted a man astride a lovely brown gelding and had hailed him. She had been struck at once by the man’s fair features, as any woman would, but he had none of the condescension in his tone that many men used when speaking with ladies. He engaged her as equally as he did her brother.
That had only been the beginning. Over the next year, he had paid calls upon her, brought her flowers, and walked in the garden with her. He had recited poetry that made her laugh or blush. He was a flirt, but only with her. His gaze never strayed to any other woman. She knew with certainty that she held his heart, just as he did hers. When the day came when he proposed, she accepted, knowing that her life would change forever.
She had simply never guessed that it would be with his murder, rather than their marriage.
She slipped out of bed and went to the vanity table. In one of the drawers, tucked beneath layers of ribbons, silver-handled hairbrushes, and diamond-studded hair combs, she found a gold locket that hung upon a fine chain. She smoothed her thumb over the locket before opening it.
Inside was a portrait of John. He gazed out from the tiny miniature, his solemn features so unlike the happy, smiling man she remembered. She held the portrait up in the moonlight to better view it.
“Why did you have to go out that night?” she asked the man painted in oil. “Why didn’t you stay home?”
She placed a palm over her abdomen and drew in a deep breath. She had shared a bed with John only twice, but those nights had been sweet and wonderful. When she had discovered she was pregnant, she’d been overjoyed, but she’d kept it a secret from him, using clever gowns to hide her growing belly. She’d wanted the news to be a surprise on their wedding night. Perhaps if she had told him, he wouldn’t have been so cavalier with his life. He might have thought more of his own safety, for the sake of his future child.
Caroline closed the locket and set it back in the vanity drawer. She went back to her bed and burrowed beneath the covers. This time she dreamt of nothing except hearing that single feeble cry of her newborn babe before it too faded into the dark.
A figure loomed in the darkness toward Adam’s bed. His face pale, his clothes dripping with icy water, as though he’d dragged himself from the depths of the Thames.
“Adam,” the figure gasped. “Adam, wake up . . .”
Adam stirred, fighting the lethargy of sleep. The figure reached cold, wet hands toward him.
“You must wake. He is coming for you.”
At last Adam surged up, gasping. “John?” But all signs of the ghostly presence were gone.
He steadied his racing heart and covered his face with his hands. Then he looked down at Letty, who lay beside him. She had half buried her face in the pillow, her dark hair billowing out around her. She was still fast asleep, undisturbed by him and the ghost from his past.
He stared at the dark corner of the room where he had imagined the figure of John Wilhelm.
“He is coming for you,” John had said.
Adam wondered who his friend had been trying to warn him about. Who was dangerous enough to bring his friend from beyond the grave to deliver a warning?