Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Of all the craven bastards in Christendom, Lord Harland topped the list. Did the man have no shame? He could debauch a widow, blackmail her into silence, permit his daughter to face humiliation, and still sleep soundly in his feathered bed.
Dominic had paced through his suite at Mivart’s hotel for the better part of eight hours, the carpet near threadbare beneath his boots.
He would have downed an entire decanter of brandy had he not needed to keep his wits.
Hell, he’d opened the gold case on his full hunter so many times he’d nearly worn out the clasp.
Was Harland arrogant enough to believe himself untouchable? Did he not have a shred of honour to his name?
Dominic had considered seeking the blackguard out, dragging him from whatever vice-ridden corner of London he currently infested.
But what greater insult was there than silence?
Harland hadn’t sent a second. Hadn’t issued a reply.
He’d ignored the challenge entirely, as though Dominic and the disgrace he’d orchestrated were beneath his notice.
Now, on the road to Kingston in the cold light of day, Dominic thought of the woman he’d tried his damnedest to forget.
Miss Daphne Harland had been a surprise. A pleasant one.
Few people left a lasting impression. Perhaps that’s why he’d done the unthinkable and offered her a way to escape her predicament.
But that wasn’t what bothered him now.
He should have been plotting to destroy Harland. Or, at the very least, sleeping against the squab so he didn’t feel half-dead. So why did every thought circle back to the woman he’d ruined?
Had her father locked her in her chamber?
Was she already warming some profligate’s bed?
The last thought landed like a punch to the gut, ridiculous, given she owed him nothing. So why the hell did he care?
Had she taken his advice and sought out Lady Soanes? Was she at the modiste’s, seeking ways to display her sumptuous body to perfection? Which licentious lord would earn the privilege of that clever mouth?
They were all undeserving.
A darker thought took root.
Someone else would have the gift of her virginity.
For some baffling reason, he kicked the seat.
The carriage slowed, his coachman mistaking the sound for a summons. “Drive on, Jones,” he barked.
He never raised his voice.
He never assaulted the furniture.
Woe betide anyone who crossed him today.
Keen to put his thoughts in order, he had Jones stop at All Saints Church. He took the posy from the seat, the one he’d bought before leaving London, and walked the gravel path to his mother’s grave.
He knelt—she was the only woman to bring him to his knees—and picked the few weeds, brushing dust from the new Carrara marble he’d had imported from Italy.
He laid the posy for his mother, her beloved white roses, and refused to glance at the lichen-covered stone marking his father’s plot.
“I’d hoped to bring good news. To say you could finally rest in peace, that the debt was paid.” His throat tightened at the memory of her final breath. He had failed her again. “But my mission is far from over.”
A bitter vow pulsed beneath his ribs.
God help him, he would avenge her.
He took the single rosebud and said a prayer for his sister. He’d never met her. Never would. But his mother had been certain the child growing inside her was a girl, and he’d never doubted her word.
He left the churchyard, the chill of loneliness seeping into his bones.
It was the reminder he needed.
The coldness that gave him the will to fight on.
If only he’d known the truth years ago. But his mother had been secretive; Harland, cunning. Which begged the question: where had London’s finest enquiry agent found the information?
With a new sense of resolve, he returned to Shadowmere.
Some called his castle-like home Lucifer’s Palace. It certainly rose from the earth like a curse on the landscape. Its old stone walls had surely witnessed many sacrifices, none more so than his mother’s.
Had she not sold her soul to keep it, he would burn it to the ground.
He approached the great studded doors and tugged the iron bell crank, its peal echoing through the vast entrance hall, the belly of the underworld, some said.
Shadowmere was barred to visitors. Few came or went unless he was hosting an event.
Even then, the doors were locked after the guests were patted down like common thieves, their fine leather luggage rifled through.
Ramsey opened the door hatch, suspicion giving way to relief when he eyed Dominic. “I was beginning to fear the fool had shot you.” He slid the heavy bolts with the ease of a man who enjoyed keeping enemies out. “Or you’d been tossed into Newgate to rot.”
Broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, with hair that held the amber depth of good cognac, Ramsey served as Dominic’s bodyguard, butler, and occasional second. In short, he was damned indispensable.
Dominic marched into the entrance hall, where the crimson walls drank what little light the day offered. One look at the gilt paintings of naked nymphs, and he thought of Miss Harland.
Bloody hell.
“Harland didn’t give a damn that I danced with his daughter.” Anger sparked at the memory. Perhaps insulting the lord’s paramour would have drawn a reaction. “I could have stripped the girl bare and he wouldn’t have batted an eye.”
Miss Harland was no mere girl.
She was every bit a woman. A devious one at that.
“He left me waiting at Mivart’s like a buck with a measly grudge.”
“Can’t say I’m sorry.” Ramsey closed the door and drew the locks, plunging the hall into shadow. “I’d rather not see you hanged for murder. Happen you must have been three sheets cut when you cooked up that plan.”
Humiliation had been the primary goal. Then isolation. Most would distance themselves from Harland now. He’d wanted him to feel the indignity of having doors slammed in his face. Yes, he might have shot him, but only to maim, not kill.
“And it’s not like you to cause an innocent woman distress, even if she is the spawn of Satan. Did you tell her you’d see her right? Give her that windfall we discussed?”
“Not in so many words.”
If he’d had a cat-o’-nine-tails, he’d have whipped his own back. But the moment he’d entered the ballroom and seen arrogance worn like a buttonhole bloom, something inside him had snapped.
“I believe she wanted me to ruin her.” He should have phrased it differently, because all the ways he might deflower Miss Harland filled his head. “We danced, albeit too close for propriety, but she kissed me as the musicians struck the final notes.”
It was brief, closed mouths, so why could he still feel the hot press of her virtuous lips, seared like a brand?
Ramsey stepped back, his frown giving way to a mocking grin. “She kissed you? An innocent threw herself at the Prince of Darkness, in full view of the ton? Were you drinking?”
“A glass of champagne foul enough to sober a corpse.”
Ramsey laughed so hard he had to clutch his ribs and gasp for breath. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard since you told Lord Burrows his wig needed a valet. I mean the kiss, not the drink.”
“The lady has a titan’s courage,” Dominic admitted.
Ramsey wiped his eyes, still grinning. “Did she know who you were? That she was besting the devil?”
“Apparently, I top the list of men to avoid.” Doubtless the next three places belonged to his friends. A quartet of ruin, as one scandal sheet had called them.
“By a mile, I’d say.”
Dominic managed a smile. He’d rather be feared than feel that crippling vulnerability again. “Might I remind you I paint, play piano, and read Virgil. There is an elegant man beneath this villainous charm.”
“Aye, you could compose a concerto with one hand while torturing a man with the other.”
“Nothing would please me more than strapping Harland to the rack and stretching that lily-liver inch by inch.” Keen to wash road dust off his skin—and the elusive trace of Miss Harland’s perfume, something floral and far too memorable—he strode towards the dark oak staircase.
“Have William bring warm water for the shower-bath. Then meet me in the study. I want to run through the preparations for the Autumn Masque.”
Ramsey called after him. “Beattie has compiled a list. It’s exact down to the number of berries on the wreaths.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Dominic said, mounting the steps. Beattie ran the house like a field marshal and did nothing by halves. If he ever plotted murder, it would be timed to the second, not a drop of blood left behind.
“I’ll have him join us once he’s finished with the new maid.” Ramsey chuckled. “He’s putting her through the usual paces, though there are more crosses than ticks on his list.”
Dominic froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned. “New maid?”
“The one you had Lady Soanes hire while in town.”
“I didn’t ask Lady Soanes to hire a maid. You know my views on employing female staff. I keep them to a minimum.” The last thing he needed was virtue in a house that catered for vice. Monsters needed little encouragement once free of their cages.
Ramsey’s smile died. He approached the stairs, eager to explain. “She came with references. Carried a note from you. I know your mark like I know my own name. She arrived in Lady Soanes’ carriage.”
Dominic did not move, but his mind raced.
What the devil had Charlotte done?
Ramsey gripped the newel post. “She knew the code word.”
“Of course she bloody did,” Dominic snapped. “Lady Soanes told her.” Give him strength. “Where is she now?”
“Lady Soanes?”
“No. The maid.”
Ramsey rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. “With Beattie. He had her lay the fire in the servants’ hall three times this morning. Now she’s polishing silver. Said he doubts she’s buffed anything in her life.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or groan, to applaud Miss Harland’s gall or chastise her for it. Assuming, of course, it was the lady who’d disgraced him on the dance floor. Who else would be so bold?