Chapter 10
Cynthia was quite certain she was going to cast up her accounts or have a fit of the vapours – something she’d never had before. Never in her life had she been so nervous. Not even when she was presented to the Queen as a debutante at fifteen.
The burly gentlemen led them past a room full of smoke, masculine cheers, and what looked to be a rather large gaming table. Several women fluttered about, exotic birds winging from one man to the next, hovering but never landing.
Cynthia wished they weren’t walking quite so briskly.
This was the first, and very likely last, time she’d ever visit a house of ill repute.
Her curiosity was piqued, and she would have loved to linger and watch the men wager away staggering sums of money while the painted doves giggled and flirted shamelessly.
Unfortunately, their escort seemed to be on a tight schedule, and she rushed to keep pace.
The door to her left resembled a lady’s parlour, though the activities happening on the elaborately embroidered lounge, the wingback chair, and the rug near the hearth would cause no end of scandal in the beau monde.
My lord. Is that woman cavorting with three men?
Cynthia craned her neck and nearly pulled a muscle as she caught a glimpse of the woman’s face, her head thrown back in ecstasy as one man suckled her shockingly bare breast like a babe, another had his head buried beneath her skirts doing who knew what, and the third leaned closer to take her lips with his own.
‘That’s Lady Bucklethorne,’ she hissed to Helena. ‘She leads the Society of Genteel Ladies.’
The gentleman stopped abruptly and turned to face her.
‘Mr Sinclair has strict rules of confidentiality, Lady Burrows. His patrons are guaranteed privacy. He would be… displeased if that promise was threatened.’
‘And what happens when Mr Sinclair is displeased?’ Helena’s confidence was akin to a warm hand on the small of Cynthia’s back. It granted her a measure of needed strength.
The man held Helena’s gaze, his own rather terrifyingly blank. Sweat gathered and trickled down Cynthia’s spine as the moment stretched so tightly, she feared to exhale lest the tension snap and lash her like a whip.
After what felt like an eternity but must only have been a few seconds, Sinclair’s butler blinked, spun on his heel, and continued walking down the corridor.
‘I suppose that answers your question,’ Cynthia whispered to Helena as they hurried after him.
The hall ended with double doors opening into a room grand enough to host a society ball.
There were tables throughout with gentlemen and some ladies crowded around.
Cynthia recognised several of the games being played.
Bacarat, Macao, hazard. Games that required wagers.
She had engaged in such frivolity at several house parties, but the atmosphere in this room was nothing like the frothy silliness she experienced.
These men approached the gambling tables as one might a battlefield with the same frenzy and wild abandon.
The ceiling was at least two stories high, and a haze of smoke billowed above them as various patrons, both male and female, enjoyed puffs from cigars, cheroots, and, in the case of one very finely attired woman wearing a mask to obscure her features, a pipe.
Cynthia tried not to gape, but the dresses alone were lavish enough to tempt her fashion-favouring heart to flutter.
The women seemed less worried about adhering to the social mores of the upper class and far more interested in baring their various temptations for the world to see.
Low-cut necklines abounded, and some of the hems were short enough to expose several inches of ankle.
A strange buzz of arousal skittered over her skin.
She glanced back to see if Helena was similarly distracted, but the enigmatic woman’s grey eyes were focused solely on Cynthia.
She tripped on the edge of a rug, and Helena leapt forward, catching her elbow to steady her.
Bergamot and lemon soap. Clean, fresh scents cut through the miasma of heavy perfume and smoke.
‘Sorry.’ Cynthia’s voice was far too breathless.
Helena just squeezed Cynthia’s arm in response before letting go. Cynthia stupidly missed the warmth of her fingers.
‘Mind yourself. We’re being watched.’ Helena tipped her chin to a line of curiously positioned mirrors set high along the western wall of the gaming room.
They reflected the light of the chandeliers but otherwise served no purpose.
They sat just below the ceiling and extended halfway down the wall.
One would need to be thirty feet tall to see their reflection.
Cynthia said as much to Helena as they followed their burly escort, winding carefully around tables full of boisterous members of the peerage in various stages of intoxication.
‘They aren’t mirrors. It’s a special window that allows the person on the other side to see out, while we only see our reflections.’
Cynthia narrowed her gaze on the seemingly innocent mirrors. ‘How could you possibly know that?’
Helena’s smug smile brought a flash of mischief to her eyes. ‘When your uncle is the Superintendent of Scotland Yard, you learn many things, Lady Burrows.’
She missed her name on Helena’s lips. ‘I think we’re past such formal titles. When I walk into a gaming hell with someone, they’ve earned the right to call me Cynthia.’
A lord well into his cups pulled away from the table and caught Cynthia’s eye; he licked his lips and lurched forward.
Alarm winged through her but before she could shift out of his path, Helena moved like mist, stepping in front of her.
The man came nose to nose with the red-headed woman.
She leaned close to him. A crimson curl had broken free of her twist, and Cynthia was captivated when it brushed against Helena’s smooth cheek.
Her irises glowed as she whispered something in the drunk man’s ear.
His eyes widened. He stumbled back, sitting hard on the chair he had recently vacated, his mouth moving much like a carp gasping for air.
Helena turned back to Cynthia, her expression fierce and frightening.
Cynthia would have given all her pin money to know exactly what Helena said to make his face turn so ghastly pale. She swallowed, suddenly desperate for water as something strange stirred in her belly.
Helena took her hand and pulled her close to her side.
‘What did you say to him?’ Cynthia glanced back at the man before Helena tugged her along. Whatever message she delivered had an extraordinary effect on the poor lord. His hand shook as he reached for the dice.
‘Not nearly as much as I wanted.’ Helena refused to meet her gaze. She quickened her steps, her grip unrelenting as Cynthia’s slippers skittered over the polished floor.
Their escort continued his quick gait to the corner where a nearly hidden corridor led them up several flights of narrow steps to the second floor. Turning right along yet another narrow hall, he paused at a solid oak door and knocked.
‘Enter,’ a low, rough voice called.
The man pushed open the door and stepped back.
Cynthia wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t a room as neat and clean as a solicitor’s office.
The walls were dark panelled wood, relieved only by a wall of windows.
A large mahogany desk dominated the space directly in front of the windows.
The glass gave a clear view of the tables below.
Helena had been right. These were the mirrors they had seen from the gaming floor.
The carpet covering the wood floor was deep green, and gas lamps lit the space, creating a warm glow.
When Helena would have stepped across the threshold, Cynthia tightened her grip and halted her.
Whoever this Sinclair fellow was, if he was as powerful and dangerous as Superintendent MacDougal said, it was imperative she appeared equally powerful and dangerous.
Being tugged into his office would hardly lend dignity to the image she must create.
I am the Marchioness of Kentmore. I do not shudder in the face of danger.
She squared her shoulders, let go of Helena’s hand and strode into the lion’s den with her head held high and her legs only quivering a little beneath her skirts.
‘Mr Sinclair. I believe you were expecting me.’ She used her most imperial tone, the one she reserved for desecrating debutantes who dared speak ill of her family. Tightening her spine, she approached the beautifully carved mahogany desk behind which Damien Sinclair lounged.
If she ever wondered what the Devil might look like, she no longer needed to guess.
He could very well have been carved from obsidian, so hard was his expression.
But harsh features didn’t detract from his masculine beauty.
A menacing sort of charm flashed in eyes so dark, she couldn’t determine if they were blue or brown.
While Cynthia appreciated the aesthetically pleasing high cheekbones, powerful jaw, rakish hair, and sinister smirk, she felt nothing.
No hint of attraction, no whisp of need, no stirring low in her belly.
This is why she questioned her ability to feel desire.
If any man could inspire that elusive emotion, it would be this dangerous creature so clearly comfortable with all manner of wickedness.
But nothing shifted within her until she glanced back and caught Helena’s gaze. There it was. That long, liquid pull.
Her desire was not dead. It had lain dormant until a woman with hair like fire and eyes like a stormy sea brought it to life within Cynthia.
Keep your focus on the deadly man behind the desk and stop mooning over the dashing witch behind your back, silly ninny!