Chapter 1
The Devil’s Poetry Night, as it was commonly called, was certainly not one that Tristan would ever miss. A young man with a truly hideous mustache descended from the stage with a grin, having delivered a raunchy and somewhat incomprehensible poem.
“Now, perhaps I am simply a poetic ignoramus,” Miss Juliana Bolt murmured in Tristan’s ear, “but I believe that rhyming ‘folds’ with ‘curds’ is something of a stretch.”
“A stretch?” Tristan responded with a snort. “The man didn’t even try.”
Juliana leaned more heavily against him, clearly trying to press her breasts against his shoulder. She had insisted that they share a velvet armchair which could, at a squeeze, accommodate two small and sprightly personages.
Neither Juliana nor Tristan was small or sprightly. Tristan was well over six and a half feet tall, with a boxer’s bulk and broad shoulders. Juliana herself was close to six feet tall, if not six feet already, with generous shoulders and a full figure.
The chair, in short, was full to bursting. Tristan did not particularly enjoy the closeness, although closeness was clearly what Juliana had wanted.
“I’m sorry to have invited you here,” Tristan remarked bluntly. “You must be terribly bored. I won’t be offended if you leave.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of Juliana looking at him.
She had keen, crisp blue eyes that missed nothing—eyes that were well-remarked on in society in general.
He was vaguely aware that he sat side-by-side with the most beautiful woman in the room, and that half of the men here envied him with all their hearts.
“How thoughtful you are, Your Grace,” Juliana answered at last, her voice soft. “But I’d rather be here, with you. Besides, an opera singer ought to be cultured, should she not? I should like to hear some decent poetry.”
“Decent poetry? You won’t find any of that at a Devil’s Poetry Night, my dear.”
Juliana chuckled as though he were making a joke, and nestled closer.
Tristan bit back a sigh. He was not fond of poetry, but he was a leading member of the Ton’s Devils, and as such, he simply had to show his face tonight.
Many of the members took the ‘devil’ part of the poetry night rather too literally.
They recited poems of their own making regarding romance, sex, murder, ghosts, and anything else they could think of that might shock their audience.
Unfortunately, the audience came here to be shocked, and therefore brought along high expectations with them. The mustached man, for example, had managed to create what appeared to be three sonnets stacked on top of each other, all about fellatio.
Charming.
Tristan sighed again, stretching out his legs. There was never enough at these damn events. He’d lost track of his friends, and with the lights half-extinguished to create a taut and gloomy atmosphere, he wasn’t likely to find them again.
Only an hour or so left before I can reasonably excuse myself.
Juliana pressed closer to him, managing to ‘accidentally’ brush her fingers against his thigh. Tristan wished she would leave him alone.
A woman was climbing onto the platform next. It wasn’t unheard of for a woman to recite at a Devil’s Poetry Night, but it was unusual. Tristan leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.
He estimated that she was twenty years old, no older. Her fair hair was pulled back in a simple, demure style—she would suit something more complex, he thought—and she had chosen a gray gown that made her almost blend into the background.
She was small, perhaps no more than five feet tall, and her features were tight with anxiety. Round, wire-rimmed spectacles sat on her nose, and she adjusted them awkwardly.
She did not introduce herself as the others had done, but simply cleared her throat and began.
“My ears are stopped with wool so fine.
My hands, I’m told, they are not mine.
My mind is just as sharp as yours,
But not to be used without just cause.
A blindfold wound around my eyes,
Wrapped up pretty, like a prize.
What am I?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Is it a riddle, or a poem?” Juliana murmured in Tristan’s ear. It didn’t sound like a critique, strangely enough.
“Both, I think,” he responded, sparing her a glance.
The young woman stood where she was, fingers twisted in front of her waist. She wore a mask, of course, but only a domino.
She squinted somewhat blindly at the audience, and he found himself wondering if she wore spectacles.
She could not, of course, wear spectacles with a domino mask.
There was dogged determination in her eyes as she waited for a response.
A murmur ran through the crowd—the Devils did love a riddle, after all—but nobody spoke up.
What am I? The question hung in the air.
Juliana cleared her throat and leaned forward.
“A woman,” she answered, her voice clear and loud enough to carry across the room. “That is the answer to your riddle. A woman.”
The young riddler gave a brief, acknowledging smile, nodded, and then dropped a curtsy.
Applause began to filter through the room, dubious at first and then growing in strength. It was an interesting poem-riddle, and more importantly, it was something new, fresh, and snappy.
Juliana leaned back, allowing herself a wry smile. “What an interesting idea. At least it was shorter than the previous poem. What do you think, Tristan?”
Tristan did not immediately answer. He watched the woman climb down from the platform and scurry across the room. She was heading toward one of the exits.
Not so fast, he thought abruptly, and got to his feet.
“Do excuse me, Miss Bolt,” he said, not waiting for a response, and set off at a loping stride.
The crowd moved deferentially out of his way, allowing him to reach the opposite doorway at almost the same time as the woman, who had been forced to fight through groups of people who did not seem to have noticed her.
She slipped through the first doorway and into a narrow foyer beyond, offering a little privacy after the heat and crush of the main room.
She reached for the next door, the one that would spit her out onto a narrow side street beside the Devils’ building.
There was supposed to be a footman on duty here, but the fellow was nowhere to be seen.
Probably smoking a pipe out in the alley.
She wasn’t quite fast enough. Tristan placed his hand on the door just above her head, pressing his weight against it. That was all that was needed to slam the door closed. A gust of cool air swooped inside the foyer.
The young woman gave a squeak of alarm and spun around to face him, eyes widening. He half expected her to scream, perhaps to kick him in the shins. She did neither, only pressed herself back against the door and stared up at him.
“My dear lady,” Tristan murmured thoughtfully. “I hate to ask, but you seem so very unfamiliar. Do you have an invitation?”
Oh, bother, Madeline thought. The word did not quite do justice to her situation. Swallowing thickly, she stared up at the man.
Her first impression was that he was a giant.
Of course, being so very short herself, Madeline was used to being towered over, but really, this man was huge.
His shoulders seemed as wide as the doorway, and there was no sign of the padding and corsetry some gentlemen used to fill out their arms, chests, and shoulders.
Not that she should be looking at those parts of him. Madeline dragged her gaze upwards, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
He had strange eyes, amber-colored and a little lighter than one might expect from a man of his coloring.
In some lights, his eyes almost appeared red.
He had auburn hair, only a few shades away from a dark brown—barely red at all by candlelight.
Generally speaking, the duke was considered a good-looking man, if a rather strange one.
Most of the audience wore masks tonight, but he had not bothered.
“Your Grace,” Madeline managed, her voice coming out as a mousy squeak. She cursed herself and her anxiousness, but plowed on. “Do excuse me. I was just leaving.”
He lifted one brownish-red eyebrow. “Oh? How did you get in? I’ll wager that you aren’t part of the Ton’s Devils. Oh, calm down, my nervous little mouse. You aren’t in trouble. Not yet, at least. Not unless the Duke of Arkley takes exception to your being here. Even his wife is not in attendance.”
Madeline bit her lip and said nothing. Her friend, Charlotte, was now the Duchess of Arkley, and her husband, the Duke, was a key member of this particular club.
Madeline did not generally bother herself with these silly clubs and their rivalries, but even she was aware that there were two major clubs in London: the Ton’s Devils and the Orions.
One could not be a member of both, to be sure.
Isaac was a Ton’s Devil, and Charlotte’s brother was an Orion. Apparently, that mattered a great deal.
They’ll all know I was here, Madeline thought with a rush. She knew why Charlotte was not here tonight. She’d heard the other poems that had been recited. They were not suitable for ladies. Besides, with women like Juliana Bolt here, no respectable lady would want to be seen dead in this building.
It’ll kill Papa if he finds out.
“I only wanted to recite some poetry,” Madeline blurted out, staring up at the duke. He was the Duke of Tolford, she remembered with an effort. That was his proper title. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
He still had his hand planted on the door just above her head, preventing her from yanking it open and making her escape.
“I’m not sure your poem was very relevant to tonight’s theme,” the duke murmured, tilting his head.
She lifted her chin. If she could only pretend to be confident, perhaps that would make it true.
“Tonight’s theme was inappropriate poems,” she retorted. “Subjects that were not respectable. I believe that my poem fits into that category.”