Debra Mullins Read online

  As the admiral followed the earl from the room, Henrietta descended on her like the wrath of Zeus. “What is the matter with you tonight, Anna?” she hissed in a low tone. “You haven’t spoken more than two words to Lord Haverford all evening!”

  “There was no opportunity.”

  “Nonsense. This is the perfect time to engage his lordship in conversation.” Mrs. Rosewood took Anna by the arm and fairly dragged her toward the exit—and Rome. “This is your chance to show your future husband what an excellent hostess you will be.”

  They reached the doorway and paused while Rome’s sister passed through the portal. Rome cast Anna one last, enigmatic glance before offering his arm to his mother and escorting her through. Anna and her mother followed.

  In the drawing room, a card table had been set out. Lady Florington had dozed off again beside the fire, while Anna’s father and Lord Haverford stood by two of the four empty chairs.

  “Be charming, dearest,” her mother murmured. She sat in the chair her husband pulled out for her and gave Anna a pointed, sidelong look. With a mental sigh—for she was a very bad cardplayer—Anna resigned herself to taking the last chair.

  “Oh, it’s been ages since I played!” Before Anna could take a step, Lavinia had slipped into the fourth chair.

  Henrietta frowned, as did Lord Haverford. Anna just stood near the table, relieved and yet uncomfortable in the face of her mother’s displeasure.

  “Vin.” Rome approached the card table, having escorted his own mother to a chair by the fire. “Perhaps Marc would rather play with Miss Rosewood.”

  “Oh! How cloddish of me!” Flushing, Lavinia jumped from the chair. “Do sit down, Miss Rosewood.”

  “Nonsense. My daughter hasn’t the head for cards,” the admiral stated gruffly. “Do you, Mrs. Emberly?”

  “Roman taught me to play,” Lavinia admitted shyly. “But I haven’t really done so since my marriage.”

  Rome gave a bark of laughter. “Don’t be fooled, Admiral. My sister is very nearly a Captain Sharp.”

  “Indeed?” Anna’s father raised a brow in interest. “Then do take the fourth chair, Mrs. Emberly. I’ve a mind for a good hand of cards this evening.”

  Lavinia glanced in question at Anna.

  Regardless of her mother’s look of warning, Anna waved a hand at the table. “Do play, Mrs. Emberly. I assure you I shall be more comfortable as a spectator.”

  “You’re most gracious, Miss Rosewood.” Lavinia sat down at the table, a grin sweeping her face as Admiral Rosewood began to shuffle the deck.

  “Sit by the fire with me, Miss Rosewood,” Mrs. Devereaux invited. “We shall have a lovely coze.”

  “Thank you.” Stepping away from the card table and out of her mother’s range of vision, Anna made her way to the sofa, more than conscious of Rome’s towering presence as he trailed along behind her. She sat down beside his mother on the sofa with a respectful smile.

  “Have you been in London long?” Mrs. Devereaux asked by way of starting a conversation.

  “Not at all.” Anna grew momentarily distracted as Rome seated himself in the chair across from them, his expression forbidding.

  “And what sights have you seen?” Rome’s mother asked. Anna forced her gaze away from the distracting man and managed to formulate a coherent answer to Mrs. Devereaux’s question. Soon the two of them fell into the familiar rhythm of polite conversation.

  But it took all her concentration. Anna gave the correct replies by rote, her every sense alive with Rome. What was the matter with her? The man she was supposed to marry sat just on the other side of the room, yet she hadn’t given him a second thought since Rome appeared.

  She had to get ahold of herself. Her entire future lay with Lord Haverford, not with Roman Devereaux. She must forget their encounter and pretend nothing had happened. She should be focusing on finding out the truth about Anthony’s death. If she could just make it through this evening, then she would make it a point to avoid Roman Devereaux until the day she was finally wed to his cousin.

  Provided he didn’t blurt out her secret before then.

  “Miss Rosewood?” Mrs. Devereaux touched her hand. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Yes.” She pasted a polite smile on her face. “I’m sorry. I grew a bit light-headed for a moment. Perhaps it’s the proximity to the fire.”

  “Oh dear. We should move to the settee.”

  “No, no.” Anna held up a hand when the older lady made to rise. “Please, don’t. I’m fine now. Do continue your story.”

  “Are you certain?” Rome’s deep rumble sent a shiver down her spine. She turned to look at him, meeting his piercing green eyes with much more serenity than she felt.

  “I am quite certain, Mr. Devereaux. Thank you for your concern.”

  Trying to pretend he was just another piece of furniture, she attempted to block him from her mind and turned her attention back to his mother.

  Rome seethed with annoyance as Miss Anna Rosewood so neatly dismissed him.

  She sat there with her spine so straight it looked to crack, her hands folded demurely in her lap as she conversed with his mother. To anyone else, she looked like the perfect lady.

  But not to him. There was something about her, a secrecy that set his every instinct to full awareness. What was it? He watched the firelight flicker in her hair, and a hint of recognition swept over him, so fleeting that he could barely grab the thought. Frowning, he studied her, the curling brown hair with its glimmers of blond, the big brown eyes. She laughed, and an elusive dimple peeked briefly from beside her mouth. Where had he seen…?

  She turned her head, and the light fell on an angle, casting a brief shadow across the upper half of her face. Almost like a mask…

  Rose.

  He struggled with the incredulity of it. The innocent debutante chatting with his mother could not possibly be the bold and worldly beauty. Rose was a young woman whose circumstances had so degenerated that she’d had to resort to the oldest trade in order to survive. She had possessed a fire that had drawn him irrevocably toward her and driven him mad with frustration when she had slipped from his grasp.

  Anna Rosewood might be a flirt, but no young lady of her station would ever be caught dead masquerading as a courtesan, even in jest. It would mean the end of her social standing, and in Anna’s case, the end of her betrothal as well.

  He could not imagine any situation that would cause Anna to take such a risk. It was not possible. There was no way the two women could be the same person.

  Because if she were Rose…He recalled how he’d touched her, the intimacy they’re forged between them when he’d made her climax so easily, how he wanted her. The desire still burned like hell’s fire. He glanced at the woman seated primly before him. If it were true, then he had taken liberties with the woman Marc was courting. It was too horrible to contemplate.

  But what if he had?

  The notion refused to be dismissed. Even their names were similar…Rosewood…Rose.

  Dear God, what kind of wanton was Marc shackling himself to?

  He must get her alone and speak to her. At first he’d thought she was just a schoolroom miss with a wild streak. Now he didn’t know what to believe. Was she an adventuress of some sort? Had she masqueraded as a doxy for a bet or a dare? Or just for the sheer excitement of tasting the forbidden?

  He studied the well-bred young lady across from him. Every hair was in place, every button buttoned, every mannerism and expression the product of years of proper teaching. Miss Anna Rosewood appeared a lady.

  But he remembered a woman. Such a woman. His mouth went dry at the memories.

  Something didn’t fit, and he meant to discover what. If not tonight, then soon.

  He would not stand by while she made a laughingstock of the Earl of Haverford. The Devereaux name had suffered enough in past years, and Marc didn’t deserve the embarrassment. He was a good man, a fair man—and the only member of the family who would open his doo
rs to Rome and his mother and sister after the scandal.

  History would not repeat itself. As the son of the man who had once stolen a Haverford bride, Rome would see to it there was no more scandal brought upon the Haverford family.

  She would have to see him again.

  Anna accepted her wrap from the butler and followed her parents outside to their waiting carriage, lost in thought. What if Rome was a member of the secret society? What if he’d had a part in Anthony’s death? She would have to see him again, perhaps more than once, in order to determine what he knew about her brother’s last days. The knowledge dismayed her.

  She had let him touch her, take liberties no man had ever taken. And she’d reveled in the desire he ignited. Much to her chagrin, she wanted more.

  Wanton girl! She was spoken for, all but betrothed, and this man could well have had a part in her brother’s death. Yet still her flesh sang when she remembered their encounter. Still she wanted to move closer to him, to revel in the deep rumble of his voice as he whispered passionate endearments. She wanted his hands and mouth on her again, longed to feel that devastating pleasure that had left her innocence shattered forever.

  Even if he was the enemy.

  “Well,” her mother said in icy tones as the carriage lurched into motion, “I am most displeased with you, Anna.”

  She jerked her gaze to her mother’s face. “Mama?”

  “You are not doing your part to secure your betrothal,” Henrietta said. Her mouth a grim line, she shook her head in disappointment. “You had all the charm of a potted plant this evening. Why, if Mrs. Emberly were not already wed, I’d swear you would have lost Lord Haverford to her.”

  “Oh, let the girl alone,” her father said. “The thing’s all but done. Just need to sign some papers.”

  “And I won’t be satisfied until those settlements are signed,” Henrietta snapped. “In the meantime, Lord Haverford might well come across a young lady who might possess enough charm and beauty to lure him away from our Anna. She must secure his affections, agreement or not.”

  “Haverford’s an honorable man,” the admiral said. “He won’t be dismissing a promise made by his father.”

  “I refuse to depend on that. Anna is nearly twenty-one, and Haverford has yet to make an offer. If he is so keen to keep his father’s promise, what’s keeping the man?”

  “He’ll come up to scratch and do what’s right. Invited the Devereaux bunch, didn’t he? And he had no reason to, none at all.”

  Henrietta made a sound of exasperation. “They’re his family.”

  “Lady Florington didn’t say a word to them, did you notice? Not a single word. They’re her family, too, but she doesn’t even acknowledge their presence.” The admiral shifted his position on the narrow seat.

  “What do you mean, Papa?” Anna asked.

  “’Tis not a tale for a young girl’s ears,” Henrietta declared with a disapproving sniff.

  “Then why are you talking about it in front of me?” Anna asked. “Really, if you want to keep such things secret, you shouldn’t discuss them openly.”

  “What cheek!” Henrietta gasped.

  The admiral laughed. “Shorten sail, Henrietta. The girl’s got a point.”

  “Disrespectful,” her mother mumbled, but she turned her gaze to the scenery outside the window.

  “She’s marrying into this family. She’s got a right to know.” He turned to his daughter. “Roman Devereaux’s father caused a scandal a while back, so his wife, son, and daughter are now no longer received in many circles.”

  “What happened?” Anna asked, fascinated.

  “Really, Quentin,” Henrietta interjected. “The details are not in any way a proper subject for a girl of Anna’s age to hear.”

  “She needs to know,” her father insisted.

  “Not all of it.” Her very posture declaring her displeasure, Henrietta returned her attention to the scenery outside.

  “Fine then.” The admiral gave a sigh, and said, “About ten-odd years ago, Oliver Devereaux ran off with Alicia Sefton, who was to marry the old earl. It was quite the scandal.”

  Anna’s mouth dropped open. “I should say so!”

  “Deplorable conduct,” her mother asserted.

  “Quite so,” her father agreed. “Suffice it to say that young Haverford holds no ill will toward the family of the man who humiliated his father. Honorable man, Haverford. He’ll make you a fine husband.”

  “If the betrothal ever comes to pass,” her mother grumbled. “Anna, the next time we are in Lord Haverford’s company, you really must be more amusing to keep his attention focused on you.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “I believe we are to accompany Lord Haverford to the theater on Thursday,” Henrietta said. “You should perhaps wear blue to remind Lord Haverford of the Devereaux sapphire…”

  Anna tuned out her mother’s strategies. She would wear what her mother wanted her to; she always did. Honestly, Mama seemed to enjoy Anna’s London activities more than Anna herself did. Henrietta plotted and planned each stage of the pursuit of Lord Haverford with the ruthlessness of a general.

  No wonder she and Papa got along so well.

  While she knew she should be trying to placate Mama by thinking of ways to attract Lord Haverford, another gentleman preoccupied her thoughts. Roman Devereaux just would not be dismissed.

  She would have to learn more about him, about his friends and the places he frequented. Perhaps she could learn the identity of the young man who’d accompanied him to the dinner at Vauxhall. One of them must know something about the society and maybe even about Anthony’s death.

  She would obtain the information she needed, even if it meant she had to spend time alone with a man who preoccupied her thoughts far more than he should.

  Chapter 4

  At precisely half past nine the next morning, Rome strode up to the door of the rooms frequented by Peter Brantley, curled his hand into a fist, and pounded. Then he paused to listen. A moan came from within the domicile, followed by a soft thud and the sound of something being dragged.

  A small smile curved his lips. Good. The lad was at home.

  He raised his fist and rapped again—solid thumps, designed to vibrate through the skull of a young man still in his cups—little caring that the racket would rouse not only Peter, but his neighbors as well.

  There was a crash, a groan. The slow shuffling of reluctant feet. And, finally, the click of the door latch.

  Peter peered through the crack in the door, squinting against the morning sunlight. “Who the devil—”

  “Good morning, Peter.” Shoving the portal wide, Rome strode inside.

  Peter clung to the latch as if to remain upright, staring at him with bleary eyes reddened by a night’s worth of drinking. “Devereaux,” he said. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Waking the dead, it seems.” Casting a disparaging look over the lad, Rome shook his head. He easily wrested the door from Peter’s tenuous grip and slammed it closed.

  Peter winced and pressed his palms to either side of his head. “Have a bit of compassion, won’t you?”

  “Where have you been? Don’t answer. I can tell by the look of you—and by the stench—what you have been doing.”

  Peter glared at him. “Shove off, Devereaux. You’re not my father.”

  “No, I’m not.” Rome grabbed the younger man by the front of his wrinkled shirt—slept in, from the look of it—and dragged him up on tiptoe. “But I promised your brother that I would look after you, and by God, I will do just that, with or without your cooperation.” He released his grip so suddenly that Peter staggered. “Now, we’re going to have a talk, beginning with where you disappeared to that night at Vauxhall.”

  Peter sent him a baleful look as he smoothed the front of his shirt. “I went out with friends is all.”

  “And would those ‘friends’ include the swordsman who disrupted the party?”

  Peter paled. “No.�
��

  “Let’s talk about the swordsman.” Rome shoved a crumpled coat off a chair and sat down. “Do you know who he was?”

  “It’s none of your affair.” The bravado faded from his voice with the last word.

  “On the contrary, Peter. Your brother made it my affair.”

  “When will you stop hanging that over my head?” Peter swiped a hand over his face. “I’m a grown man. My life is my own.”

  “Is it?” Rome rose and gripped Peter’s hand, the hand that wore a ring with a black rose crossed with a sword. “Or does it belong to them?”

  “You don’t know anything!” Peter wrenched his hand away. “And I don’t want you to know. This is my business. Mine.”

  The boy turned away, practically sobbing.

  “Peter,” Rome said quietly, “have they threatened you?”

  Peter froze for an instant, then nodded. He sank down on a chair, shoulders hunched, head bent, shuddering. “I want to get out,” he whispered.

  “Get out?” Rome came over, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Get out of what?”

  “The Black Rose Society.” The words erupted, strangled, from Peter’s throat. “I thought it would be fun, an adventure. And I would end up rich.”

  “Tell me.”

  Peter looked up at him, misery in his eyes. “I’m afraid, Rome.”

  Rome squeezed his shoulder. “I’m watching your back. Now tell me what’s going on.”

  Peter sighed, as if all the strength had left his body. “Very well. I was approached by a friend who had joined the society. He encouraged me to become a member. It sounded exciting.”

  “I imagine he made it appear so.”