Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

chapter Twelve

He did not smile. The candlelight played upon the harsh handsome planes of his face. His eyes looked black as pitch as they dropped to the painting that leaned against the wall before coming back to hers.

‘I like to know the measure of the man with whom I am involved,’ she said calmly, even though her heart was beating nineteen to the dozen.

‘Involved. Is that what we are? Because after the way things ended the other night it seemed otherwise.’

The silence whispered.

He did not thaw.

‘I see that I have made a mistake. If you will excuse me, my lord.’ She made to walk by him.

He did not move to stop her, only spoke the words with that quiet intensity of his. ‘Do you not want what you came for, Venetia?’

She stopped, her eyes meeting his, afraid of how much he knew, afraid he had won the game in earnest.

He flipped the head of the wolf’s-head on his cane, and inside, tucked in the slot of a dark velvet cushion, was a small silver key. He removed it, slipped it into the lock of the safe and turned. The front of the box swung open. He stood back and gestured towards it.

‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘If you want to know so badly.’

She stared at him, her heart thumping madly, afraid to look, and even more afraid not to.

His expression was unreadable, but in that dark gaze that held hers she saw the flicker of something that made her feel ashamed.

The clock in the corner ticked, so slow and steady beside the spur of Venetia’s heart. She stepped slowly to the safe. She could see straight away that it contained neither the pistol nor the book. There were several thick rolls of white bank notes, and, at the back, a calf-skin pouch of golden guineas, but it was not at them at which she looked. She stared only at the pile of assorted documents and letters. Only at the folded theatre playbill that lay on the top of it. The theatre playbill of As You Like It, starring Miss Venetia Fox and newcomer Miss Alice Sweetly, from the very first night she had met him. She lifted it out. Inside the playbill was a man’s handkerchief, folded neatly, clean and white save for the clear rouge impression of a woman’s mouth, where she had pressed it to her lips. There was an ache in her chest, a prickle of tears in her eyes as she raised them to his.

He said nothing, just stood there with dignity and his secrets laid bare.

She folded the playbill over the handkerchief, replaced them both in the safe box just as they had been.

‘You have not examined the rest,’ he said.

‘I do not need to.’

They looked at one another.

‘You dismissed me like one of your footmen, Venetia.’

‘I should not have done that.’ She glanced down at her hands. ‘There are things I have to ask you, things I need to know.’ Questions all for herself and none for Robert.

He said nothing, just stood there and waited.

‘You burned Rotherham’s house.’

He was silent.

‘What was between the two of you? Why did you hate him so much?’ she asked.

She saw his jaw tense, the dangerous look that entered his eyes.

‘Rotherham was a man who took what he wanted regardless of whom he hurt.’

There was a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, a sense of the horror that his words only hinted at. ‘What did he do?’

‘He hurt someone close to me. Hurt them very badly.’ He looked at her and she could see the pain in his eyes.

‘I am sorry,’ she said, knowing the man who fathered her was fully capable of such cruelty.

‘So am I, Venetia.’ She felt her heart tremble at his words.

The silence was loud between them. The single key question that had been the start of it all remained unasked.

‘You know who I am, Venetia. I have never pretended to be anything else. You have the measure of me.’

Her eyes met his again, seeing only the same man she had always seen. The man who seemed to call to her soul. Down where their hands rested, each alone, she shifted hers slightly so that her fingers brushed against his.

‘Yes, Francis,’ she said softly, her eyes searching his as if she could see into his very soul. ‘I believe that I do.’ And she took his face very gently between her hands and kissed him.

He stood stock-still at first, gave no response, but she could feel the stirrings beneath, sense the struggle that raged beneath that exterior of cool control. She kissed him again, plucking one kiss and then another softly from those firm sculpted lips, not with seduction but with a raw honesty of all that she felt for him—tenderness and understanding, desire and love. And he answered with a truth of his own, his mouth moving against her, kissing her with all that she had offered and more.

In his kiss, the barrier to all that he hid—passion and fire, gentleness and love—came crashing down. He kissed her with a strength of emotion that, now unleashed, towered above her. He kissed her mouth, the pulse-point in her neck. Kissed the length of each collarbone, and the hollow of her throat. His breath teased hot against the bare skin of her shoulders, making her skin tingle and shiver with longing for his lips. His hands slid around her waist, holding her to him, binding them together, as if she could ever want to be anywhere else. Their bodies had been made to fit together, breast to chest, thigh to thigh. He kissed her and everything of worry and responsibility and duty melted away. And with his lips upon hers she knew the truth—that for her there was only Linwood, that there had only ever been Linwood.

One hand slid to capture her breast, and she felt her body respond as if there were no layers of cloth to separate them, as if they were already naked and together. The other hand moved low, over her hips, caressing her, guiding her in this journey she knew now they had always been destined to make. He deepened the kiss, offering what only he could give, touching her, tasting her in a prelude of what was to come. And in the sharing of their mouths, and beneath the touch of his hands, she felt the flame of desire that had always burned between them flare and rage to a mighty inferno.

He unfastened her dress, freeing her breasts from her bodice, taking them in his mouth, kissing them, tasting them, working each hard-tipped nipple with his tongue until her legs were melting and weak and she was clutching his head to her and arching against him, needing this and more, needing him, only him.

But Linwood pulled back, and his breath was as hard and fast as her own, his eyes dark and burning with a depth of desire and emotion she had never seen in any man’s eyes before. He dispensed with his jacket, slipped off his waistcoat.

She reached out and pulled at his cravat, freeing him of it, her fingers sliding against the fine cotton of his shirt, needing to feel the skin beneath. He peeled it off over his head and let it drop away. The flicker of the candlelight danced upon the smooth sculpted muscle of his chest, down over the ribs of hard muscle that banded his abdomen. In reality his body was more magnificent than her imagination had ever dreamed. She reached out and ran her hands over him, stroking him, marvelling at how dark and golden his skin was beneath the whiteness of her fingers.

And then she was in his arms again and he was kissing her, their naked chests together, his fingers freeing her hair from its pins to thread within its lengths. Kissing her, touching her, teasing her. She could feel the press of his aroused manhood through his breeches, through her skirts. Their mouths clung as he backed her into his bedchamber.

His hands were gentle as they slid the rest of her clothing from her body, gentle as they laid her within his bed.

She watched him complete his undress in the candlelight, her eyes moving over the long hard length of him, knowing what was going to happen between them. And between her legs, so slick and heated, was an ache for him. Her eyes held his as the bed dipped and he finally covered her body with hers.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, just like in the dream. ‘Yes.’ And she opened her legs to welcome him in.

* * *

There was a calmness to the morning following the rain of the night before. The pavements were still damp, but the air touched a freshness against her cheeks and a sweetness to her nose. The dawn was only just creeping across from behind St James’s church spire, the sky streaking washed-out shades of night to blue beneath a golden light. She breathed in deep, feeling a sense of gladness and wonder at the new day that she had not felt before, and within her chest her heart swelled with joy.

The surrounding houses still slept, blinds and curtains still closed over windows like eyes shuttered within a face. The street was empty, save for a solitary street sweeper, broom balanced across his shoulder like a musket as he made his way to work. On the railings that lined the low wall beside her, a robin sat perched, watching her, his little red breast vivid, his brown feathers fluffed like a ball. The door shut quietly behind her as she climbed into Linwood’s waiting carriage and it rumbled off. She glanced up at the window of Linwood’s bedchamber, to where he lay naked and sleeping within the great four-poster bed. And she smiled and thought that in all of the years of her life she had never felt so happy. Linwood did not have the pistol. And that had to mean he was innocent.

* * *

The house was awake and waiting for her when she reached home. She could see the way the servants looked at her, the slight embarrassed knowledge, the way they could not quite meet her eye. They all knew she had not come home last night. They all knew it was Linwood she was seeing. But she did not care, whatever the gossip. Nothing could dim the glow that she felt.

Her body was sore, but it was a good soreness, a feeling of satisfaction, of completeness. She washed herself in warm water, washed the dried blood smears from between her legs. And she remembered his tenderness, his gentleness, the way he touched her, the whispered words in the dark dawn of a new day. Then she dressed herself carefully, choosing a pale yellow dress that reflected her new lightness of spirit. Only then did she let her maid in to coil and pin her hair up in a demure style. She looked at herself in the mirror and despite the lack of sleep there was no need for rouge on lips or cheeks. She smiled, a smile of utter joy, and the woman in the mirror looked radiant. She was in love with Linwood and nothing else in the world seemed to matter. She was in love and she did not think of her predicament or of his, only that she loved him, and that her body still throbbed from it.

The clock on the mantel chimed quarter to the hour. Her maid helped her into her matching pelisse. She wrapped a scarf of gold crochet around her neck, fitted her beige kid gloves and left for the meeting with Robert.

* * *

Linwood woke to the sound of carriage and cart wheels on the road outside. He felt relaxed, at ease with himself, happy. It was the first morning in years that he did not wake with the dread and worry of the day that lay ahead. And there was only one reason—Venetia.

The bed beside him was empty, the sheets cool. He threw back the covers and padded through to the drawing room. His clothes from which Venetia had undressed him the night before had been folded into a neat pile upon his desk. Of Venetia’s there was no sign. He smiled at her discretion as he headed back into the bedchamber and thought of how this strange game between them had played out. For all its risk, it had brought him Venetia. And he had fallen in love with her.

She was incomparable. Unique. A woman of passion and strength and yet with an underlying vulnerability. She was his, in truth now. And he was hers. He thought of their lovemaking, of its passion and gentleness, of the feel of her in his arms, of their bodies entwined afterwards. They had slept and loved, and slept and loved again, all through the night. And not once had he thought about Rotherham, or any of the rest of it. He had thought about Venetia. Only Venetia...and how much she meant to him. He smiled again as he glanced at the bed on which they had made love and in the light dimmed by the curtains saw the marks that marred the pale bed sheets.

He frowned, wondering what had caused them. Unmindful of his nakedness, he moved to the window and, wrenching open the curtains to let in the flood of daylight, turned to examine the bed more closely. And what he saw made his heart skip a beat. It was not possible, yet the evidence was before his very eyes. And then he remembered how very tight she had been, the way she had cried out and gripped so tightly to him as he had plunged into her. He had taken her with passion, with urgency, with no account of inexperience. He had never deflowered a virgin, until now. But he knew in the cold clear morning light that, contrary to all appearances and beliefs, Venetia Fox had come to his bed a virgin. And he remembered what had passed between them in her parlour, of the way she had come so close, then pulled away. He had thought it a deliberate and cruel teasing on her part—now he understood better. He needed to speak to Venetia. He raked a hand through his hair and rang the bell for his valet.

* * *

The theatre was empty and in darkness. The draught almost guttered the candle in her hand as she unlocked the stage door and opened it, letting Robert slip inside.

‘How went it?’ he asked as they walked down the corridor to her dressing room.

‘Well enough.’ She did not look at him, did not want him to see the truth in her face, just led him inside and sat the candlestick down on the dressing table as he closed the door.

‘You found what we sought?’

She shook her head. ‘He does not have them, Robert.’

‘I hope you were thorough in your search.’

‘I found his safe box, looked inside at that which he values, those things that he holds dear and most secret.’ She felt her heart warm in the knowledge that thing was her. ‘There was nothing of what was taken from Rotherham.’

‘Did you check the bookshelves?’

‘Linwood’s library is bound in the same leather as Rotherham’s, and there are many books within it. I saw nothing that stood out as having come from elsewhere.’

‘Like finding a needle in a haystack.’ He touched his thumbnail to his lips, rubbing the tip of it between his teeth.

‘He does not have the pistol. You said yourself what that would mean—it proves his innocence.’

‘Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. He may have hidden it elsewhere.’

‘Or not at all.’

Her brother hesitated before saying, ‘We still have his confession to you...’ Robert’s eyes met hers and she saw the unspoken suggestion in them.

‘No, Robert,’ she said firmly and shook her head.

‘It is enough to have him arrested. I have checked with a man of law.’

‘I will not go to the police.’

‘Even though he has admitted that he burned our father’s house to the ground?’

‘That does not mean he killed Rotherham,’ she ground out.

‘You forget, Venetia—the witness who saw him leaving Rotherham’s house on the night of the murder. The witness who has, so conveniently for Linwood, disappeared.’

‘The witness may have been mistaken. Or maybe he had a wish to implicate Linwood in the matter.’

‘He is an honourable man and a most credible witness. Trustworthy. There can be no doubt that it was Linwood he saw.’ Robert’s gaze narrowed. ‘I think you protest Linwood’s innocence a little too strongly.’

She glanced away awkwardly before forcing herself to meet his gaze once more. ‘Not at all.’

‘You look different somehow, Venetia.’

Her heart skipped a beat, at how much Linwood’s loving had changed her.

He studied at her more closely. ‘You have done something differently to normal.’

‘A new day dress and matching pelisse,’ she said. ‘From Madame Boisseron.’

‘Very elegant. It suits you well.’

She gave a small half smile and was thankful that the light was so poor that he could not see the blush that was warming her cheeks.

‘I take it you got out in time.’

She hesitated for a second too long.

‘Venetia?’ he pressed.

‘Linwood came back early,’ she conceded.

There was a silence.

‘I was able to...manage the situation,’ she said, unwilling to reveal to her brother just what had really taken place.

She saw him swallow and give a single nod.

‘Does he suspect you?’

‘I do not believe so.’

He smiled. ‘I did not doubt you could do it.’

She could not return his smile. His words made her feel uncomfortable. She knew she should tell him, but what had happened between her and Linwood was too tender and private. She lifted the candle and, moving to the door, opened it. ‘It is done. He does not have what you seek. I will be a part of this no more, Robert.’

‘As you wish. You have played your role well, Venetia. And Linwood is none the wiser. You are a credit to your profession.’

His words sullied what had passed between her and Linwood, making it seem like something else. She felt sick at the thought. ‘You should leave before you are seen.’ She began to lead him along the corridor towards the stage door.

‘The hour is still early enough,’ he said. ‘The streets are practically dead and we are the only two people in the building.’

‘Even so, Mr Kemble will be here soon, and the set staff.’

‘So they will.’

‘We should not see each other again...for a while, Robert.’

‘No, I suppose it would not do for our relationship to become common knowledge.’

‘It would serve neither of our causes.’ She shivered just at the thought.

‘Goodbye, Venetia. And thank you.’

She nodded.

She turned the key in the lock behind him, leaning her back against the door and listening to the tread of his footsteps receding in the street outside. The relief was immense. The arrangement with Robert was over. Her brother had his mind made up. Nothing she said was going to change it. Yet their conversation had left a horrible taste in her mouth and an uneasiness in her stomach. She took a deep breath then walked slowly back down the corridor to her dressing room, conscious with every step of the ache and the tenderness between her legs. Francis. She wondered if he was awake yet, if he had seen her blood upon his sheets. And more than any of that, what on earth she was going to tell him when he came to ask her.

On the dressing table and rail she laid out her things ready for the night’s performance. There was a faint sound from the corridor. She frowned, wondering whether Robert had returned or another theatre worker arrived. So she picked up the candle, moved to the doorway and peered out into the corridor.

‘Mr Kemble?’

Silence.

‘Is anyone there?’ she called.

But the only reply was the echo of her own voice. There was nothing and no one, just the dim shadowed corridor. She shivered, chiding herself for own nervousness, and more glad than ever that the business with Robert was over.

She finished checking her costumes, then picked up her script and left by the stage door, taking care to lock it after her. The morning was fully light now. In the distance she heard a church bell chime nine. Out on the main street she could hear the rattle of carts and carriage wheels, the clop of horses and banging of doors; the rest of London had awakened. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her and climbed into her carriage that waited there in the alleyway. She did not look back out of the windows, just focused her eyes on the script in her hand, reading the words fruitlessly as her mind thought of Linwood and the passion and wonder of the night before. And so she did not see the dark figure that stepped out of the shadows and walked away in the opposite direction along the street.