Chapter 26
Chapter
Twenty-Six
No More Pretense
Iwas midway through issuing instructions to Finch when the study door flew open, and Lady Rosalynd swept in, Milford hard on her heels.
“Lady Rosalynd, Your Grace,” Milford said, nearly breathless.
Under ordinary circumstances, my butler took considerable pride in the etiquette of a proper announcement. Today, Rosalynd had clearly decided that etiquette was a luxury she could not afford.
“Thank you, Milford,” I said at once.
“Your Grace.” He bowed and withdrew, casting Rosalynd a look of mild reproach as he went.
The instant the door closed behind her, everything else fell away. Finch, the maps spread across the table, the careful strategies for the morrow all vanished from my mind.
Relief struck first, swift and unexpected, followed by something warmer and far more dangerous. She was flushed, color high in her cheeks, her eyes alight with purpose and resolve.
The sight of her loosened something tight and constant in my chest. For one unguarded moment, I allowed myself the simple, unqualified joy of having her before me, alive and determined and wholly herself.
“Rosalynd.”
Apparently, she did not feel the same, as she wasted no time coming to the point. “I have information pertinent to our investigation.”
“Do you?” I allowed myself a small, private smile from the contrast. “Then I am eager to hear it—and so, I imagine, is Mr. Finch.” I gestured to where he stood by the hearth.
“Mr. Finch,” she said, inclining her head. “How pleasant to see you.”
“Lady Rosalynd,” Finch replied with a bow.
“Would you care to sit?” I asked her, noting the quick rise and fall of her breath.
“Not at the moment. Thank you. I am too—”
“Perturbed,” I supplied, even as I studied her more closely. The breathlessness was not caused by her walk across Grosvenor Square. Something else had unsettled her, something sharper than haste.
She gave a short, humorless laugh. “That is one word for it. Oh, Steele, what I have just learned. And from Claire of all people. It is quite shocking. I never imagined such things existed.”
Without another word, I reached for the decanter, poured a measure of brandy, and pressed the snifter into her hand. “Drink. Catch your breath. We shall wait until you are ready.”
She took a sip, then another, and drew a steadying breath before turning back to me, her expression hardening.
“Women attend these…things.”
I frowned slightly. “Yes. I am aware.”
“I do not mean the young women who have been taken or coerced,” she said sharply. “I mean ladies of our own class. Women of society. One of them is Claire’s friend.” She hesitated, then took another sip. “They perform—” She stopped herself and glanced at me. “Have you heard of the Marquis de Sade?”
Finch coughed violently. I merely raised a brow.
“Of course you have,” she said, her tone edged with accusation, as she glanced between Finch and me. “You both have. You are men.” It was not intended as a compliment.
She began to pace the length of the study, her skirts whispering with restrained fury. “Men know of these things while women are kept carefully ignorant.”
“It is not a subject for polite company, Rosalynd,” I said evenly.
“But it is one for private discussion,” she shot back, then halted and drew a breath. “Forgive me. I should not accuse.”
“You need not apologize,” I said. “Tell us about this friend of Claire’s.”
“She attends these gatherings. They are held once a month. At the last, she learned that young women are not there of their own free will. Once she understood that, she left. She does not intend to return.” Her gaze moved between Finch and me, steady now.
“Her role is not passive. She is there to exert control over the men—to direct them, to punish them when they displease her. You understand?”
“I do.” To pretend otherwise would have been foolish.
She studied me for a moment, her gaze narrowing as something new took shape in her eyes. “Not from personal experience, I hope.”
“Certainly not,” I said at once. “I have never sought such—”
“Pleasures?” she supplied coolly.
“There is nothing pleasurable,” I said firmly, “in inflicting pain—or in suffering it.”
Her posture softened at once. “No. Of course not. I apologize for even suggesting it.”
“So,” I said, “this lady will not be attending tomorrow’s gathering.”
“No. She departs for the Continent in the morning and will be gone for several months. But before doing so, she shared with Claire what she knew. The meeting point is somewhere along the Thames. It changes each time, so she could not provide the exact location.”
“That accords with what I have learned,” I said.
Her head snapped toward me. “And what is that?”
I told her of Nicky’s involvement, of the friend who had been invited to attend the gathering, and of my brother’s intention to call upon him tomorrow evening to learn the meeting place.
Once he had that information, he would join us at The Black Horse, a public house near his friend’s residence, where Finch, his associates, and I would be waiting.
From there, we would board a hired vessel, sail down the Thames to the barge serving as the meeting point, and follow it once it put off downriver.
Rosalynd listened without interruption, her expression intent. “That is a solid plan,” she said when I finished.
I gestured toward Finch. “We think so.”
“One difference, though. There will be two barges,” she said after a moment. “One for the men, another for the women.”
Finch inclined his head. “They will be headed in the same direction. Easy enough to follow.”
“The men require invitations, do they not?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“The women do not,” she said. “Because they are providing some of the entertainment.”
I felt the shift immediately—the subtle tightening in my chest, the instinctive certainty that the conversation was just about to take an unwelcome turn.
“I will be boarding the women’s barge,” she said.
“No. You will not.” I rushed to say. “I will not allow it.”
She drew in a breath and let it out slowly.
Finch shifted his weight and moved toward the door. “I’ll just, er, step out while you work out your differences.”
It barely registered when he slipped away. My attention was fixed wholly on Rosalynd and her mad scheme. “You are not climbing aboard that barge.”
Rosalynd planted her hands on her hips. “I am too.”
“There is no earthly reason for you to put yourself in danger, Rosalynd.”
“There is, Steele.” Her voice was steady now, controlled. “More than likely, the young women are held captive in some confined space until it’s time for them to be…put on parade. All I need to do is find that room before the display begins.”
“Finch and I will find it and get them out. No need to involve yourself.”
“And how do you intend to do that?” she asked. “You will be required to show your invitation at the entrance to the house—which you will not have. Even if you did, only one man is admitted per invitation.”
“We do not intend to enter through the front door.”
“There may be guards posted around the perimeter.”
“If there are, we will deal with them.”
“And how would you make your way inside the house? They have guards inside.”
“How do you know this?”
“Claire’s friend found out by accident. She went in search of a lavatory. When none were available on the lower floor, she climbed higher and found a guard posted in front of a door. She thought it odd until the young women were put on display. That’s when she realized what was happening.”
“What floor was it on?”
“Claire didn’t say. I doubt they’d use the same room all the time. If we are to free those young women, you need me to find that room.”
“No,” I said, stepping closer, every inch of me bristling. “Absolutely not. I forbid it.”
“If you would stop being the high and mighty Duke of Steele for one bloody second,” she shot back, “you would see this is the only logical plan.”
Outrage flared, hot and sudden, sharp enough to steal my words. I turned away from her, dragging a hand through my hair, as though distance alone might restore order. After I mastered my emotions, I veered once more toward her.
“And how will you find this room, assuming you gain entrance to the house at all?”
“Of course, I will find it. It will be the one with a guard.”
“And how will you overpower the guard? He’s not going to allow you to waltz into that room.”
“I will not be unprepared,” she said quietly.
Silence closed around us, thick and oppressive.
“I have a pistol,” she added.
I turned back sharply. “What pistol?”
“I borrowed it from my brother,” she said. “And before you object, I know how to use it. You taught me.”
A harsh breath escaped me. “I taught you how to aim and pull a trigger,” I said tightly. “That is not the same thing as knowing how to shoot.”
The corner of her mouth lifted, just barely, in that infuriating way she had when she believed herself wholly in the right. “I suspect the distinction will be academic. If all I need to do is point and shoot, I won’t miss at close range.”
It should have enraged me. Instead, cold fear slid beneath my ribs and took hold. The danger was no longer distant or theoretical. It was immediate and personal.
“Fine. Let’s say you’ve somehow managed to overpower the guard—something I doubt you can do—how will you get the women out?
” Fighting the urge to shake her, I cupped my hands on her shoulders.
“There will be more than two dozen of them, and every likelihood they will be drugged. You will not be able to rouse them or persuade them to act.”
“I will save the ones I can,” she said at once. “Including Lady Honora. You, Nicky, Finch, and his associates can deal with the rest.” She glanced up at me. “You need to trust me, Steele.”
Trust was not the difficulty. I trusted her completely. Her courage, her judgment, her resolve. Letting her walk willingly into peril was the torment.
“This is madness,” I said at last. “You speak of it as if it were an errand. These men trade in cruelty. In degradation. You cannot possibly know what—”
“I know exactly what they are capable of,” she interrupted, her voice calm and unyielding. “I saw what they did to that poor girl in the mortuary. That is precisely why I must go, Steele. Can you not see that?”
Nothing I would say would change her mind. If I forbade her, she would find some way to get into that house. All I could do was minimize the peril.
“Your plan will not work.”
Rosalynd’s chin lifted a fraction. I saw the protest gather in her eyes, sharp as a drawn blade.
Before she could speak, I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “It will need to be revised.”
Her hands clenched. Not with fear but resolve. Stubborn, infuriating resolve.
“As long as I’m part of it.”
The words landed like a dare. I held her gaze, though every instinct in me wanted to refuse. To lock her in Rosehaven House and bar the doors.
“You will be,” I said at last, forcing the promise out with steady calm.
“Fine.” She gave a single, decisive nod, as though the matter were settled. As though my agreement did not feel like stepping toward the edge of a cliff.
“You will not be reckless,” I said at last, my voice low and absolute. “You will do nothing unless it is unavoidable. You will leave the instant you sense danger. Not after. At the first sign. Do you hear me?”
Her expression softened, though her resolve did not waver.
“And if something goes wrong,” I began.
“You will already be moving,” she said gently. “You, Finch, and his men. I know that. I trust you implicitly to do what must be done.”
I closed my eyes for a moment and braced myself against the desk, the weight of it pressing heavily against me.
She slid her arms around me and lay her head against my chest. “I trust you, Steele,” she whispered.
“Do you?” I asked, lifting her chin. “If anything were to happen to you—”
She placed a finger against my lips. “Nothing will.”
I lowered my head and kissed her gently, as though committing her to memory. And then I drew her closer and allowed myself to believe her. Even though I knew it was a lie.