Demon's Bride

Chapter 1

London, England, 1763

The Honorable Anne Hartfield had married a stranger.

The thought drummed in her head all day, through the morning ceremony at Saint George’s and the recitation of vows.

I, Anne Elizabeth, take thee, Leopold, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.

He had slipped a ring upon her finger, of rubies and diamonds that had been purchased the day before—it was no family heirloom, no treasure passed from one generation to the next, but pristine from the jeweler’s workbench. It was beautiful, yet as Leopold Bailey had given her the ring, its red stones on the golden band reminded Anne of sunlight pierced by drops of blood.

With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

They were married. She was no longer her father’s responsibility, but everything of her keeping now relied upon her husband. The food she ate, the clothing covering her body. The bed in which she slept, which she would sometimes share with her husband when he so chose to exercise his rights and make use of her body.

The thought made her stomach pitch to her feet. This night would see her enter into the state of married women everywhere, leaving behind the solitude of virginity. She belonged to him now, his possession.

Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.

She watched him now, this stranger who was now her husband for the rest of her living days. Leopold Bailey. He stood with a group of guests, and though the breakfast at his Bloomsbury home was well attended, finding him in the glittering crowd proved itself an easy task.

“Admiring your new prize?” Lady Byton followed Anne’s gaze across the drawing room.

Heat spread through Anne’s cheeks, and her father’s cousin chuckled. “There’s no shame in it, child, for he’s worth admiration.”

“Then we share an opinion,” Anne said. She almost checked herself, then remembered that she was now a married woman, and had the liberty of speaking with greater boldness. Unwed girls hadn’t freedom of opinion, for they were to be at all times agreeable. As Mrs. Bailey, she could opine as she wished. Though she did not know if her husband would encourage such behavior. Perhaps he would be one of those stern men who wanted only silence and obedience from his wife.

She rather hoped not.

“In my youth,” said Lady Byton, “we would have called such a man a ‘strapper,’ and so he is. Mark me, child, you’ll have the devil’s own time in the bedchamber, but I warrant it will put more roses in your cheeks.”

Lady Byton lived in the country.

Her cheeks already red, Anne studied her new husband. Her cousin’s assessment, coarse as it was, proved correct. The drawing room of his Bloomsbury house was filled with the wealthiest and most influential of London Society, men of extraordinary power, and men of extraordinary affluence. Yet no one commanded attention as Leopold did.

He was not much taller than any of the other men, yet the eye sought him out with unerring frequency. Normally, he eschewed a wig and wore his sandy hair back in a simple queue—rather like a laborer—but today he marked the occasion by having his hair dressed and powdered.

Even in his wedding finery of gold velvet and cream satin, his lean, muscular build could not be disguised, nor the breadth of his shoulders or length of his legs. A few of the wedding breakfast guests were sportsmen, just as Anne’s own brothers were, but Leopold carried his physicality in a way that suggested use and purpose rather than idle recreation.

Easy to imagine that Leopold was, in fact, the son of a saddler. Not a gentleman.

“Is his father here?” Lady Byton scanned the chamber. “With a son so handsome, surely the father is as well favored.”

“The elder Mr. Bailey died two years ago.”

Lady Byton clicked her tongue. “Such a disappointment.”

“I imagine the greater disappointment belonged to Mr. Bailey.”

“And the elder Mr. Bailey’s wife?”

“She was likely disappointed by her husband’s death, as well.”

Lady Byton pursed her lips. “As a woman happily widowed, I beg you to reconsider that notion.”

Anne had witnessed many marriages amongst the ranks of the gentry. A select few could be called truly happy; even fewer might be considered love matches. Love had no commerce when it came to marriage. Only in the pages of sentimental novels did girls and young men of standing find love. For herself, she hoped only to earn her husband’s respect and to give it in return. That she was married at all was something of a miracle.

A cloud of gillyflower perfume announced the approaching presence of Anne’s Aunt Louise before she even spoke a word. She enveloped Anne in a fragrant embrace, crying, “Oh, my child, I wish you happy on this wondrous day.”

“My thanks, Aunt.” Anne extracted herself from her aunt’s arms. Wondrous. She supposed it was.

Aunt Louise and Lady Byton hailed from opposite sides of the family and, after curtsying, eyed each other warily like two strutting hens.

“Lud, Clarissa,” Louise chirped to Lady Byton. “Is it really you? You are so altered from last we saw each other. Ah, well, I suppose all that country air has a rather ripening effect.”

“You are much the same as when last we met,” answered Lady Byton. She peered closer at Aunt Louise. “The paint is unchanged.”

Anne supposed she had better avert a full-scale war whilst there was still time, or else the iced cakes would be used as mortars and the wedding breakfast table would serve as battlements. “I was just telling Lady Byton that my husband’s mother resides in the country, and hasn’t the constitution for travel.”

“She sounds very delicate,” said Aunt Louise, “for a woman from the lower orders.”

Anne supposed that now she was Leopold’s wife, she would have to hear such comments frequently. “I have never met her, so I have no firsthand knowledge of her health. Only what Leopold relates to me.”

Lady Byton’s brows rose. “It is passing strange that you have not met your husband’s mother. But,” she added, “the whole courtship seemed to take place with extreme haste. No banns read. Everything done by special license, regardless of the expense.” Her kinswoman glanced at Anne’s silver-embroidered stomacher. “Perhaps you have acted quickly in anticipation of an event?”

The very idea nearly made Anne laugh. Her? Indulge in a dalliance? “You forget, cousin, how very little any man might have to gain by compromising me.”

“A hard truth, child,” agreed Aunt Louise. “A baron’s daughter you might be, but the estate loses capital like a cup made of lace.”

Lady Byton clearly felt the need to defend her side of the family. “But Anne has three brothers. Even the most profitable of titles would be hard-pressed in the keeping of all of them.”

“Yes, however,” smiled Aunt Louise with all the warmth of an adder, “I am obliged to note that the two younger boys must truly earn their bread through the military and the Church.”

Leaving Anne with a paltry dowry and even smaller annual income. Soon after her coming-out, she began to realize the futility of a Season as, one by one, young men learned how little she could bring them, and they fell away, petals from a dying blossom.

“If you are not enceinte,” said Lady Byton, pointedly turning from Aunt Louise, “then why the rapidity of the marriage?”

“Because Leopold wished it.” Honestly, Anne did not know how or why the courtship had progressed as fast as it had. It seemed a blur to her now. Within a few meetings, she had found herself engaged and, only weeks after that, married. It was as though she had been playing blindman’s buff: she’d been blindfolded and spun around, then she had grabbed the first person she could. Now she stood with sight and balance restored, the wife of a man she hardly knew.

As if sensing her watching him, Leopold turned, his gaze holding hers. Anne could not look away as he murmured something to the guests and then walked toward her, weaving through the guests. He moved beautifully, with a sleek animal fluidity that suggested barely restrained power. His gaze never left her, as if she were the prize he was determined to claim. The thought both thrilled and terrified.

She saw now how he had risen from his humble beginnings to who he was now: one of the wealthiest nontitled men in England. He permitted nothing to stand in his path.

Anne’s pulse quickened as Leopold came to stand before her. Good Lord, how had she managed to wed this gorgeous stranger? He had none of the well-bred gentleman’s softness, no insipid chin from generations of selective breeding. A bold jaw, high cheekbones, firm mouth that boasted a full lower lip. His morning shave had already lost its battle, and Anne could mark the faint trace where his beard gilded his cheeks and chin. As if the veneer of civility could not last long, and the marauder beneath came to the surface.

At eight and twenty, he was only five years older than she, yet he had the air of a man who had seen and knew the world. She had known ... only this. London. The circles of the polite. What she understood of life outside her conscripted patterns came from books, yet she knew that the world as depicted on the printed page did not reflect true experience.

Her new husband was experienced. Even a sheltered young woman like her could see it.

“Ladies,” he murmured, bowing.

Though Aunt Louise was surely on the other side of forty, and Lady Byton a good ten years older, both trilled and blushed as if barely out of the nursery. Anne could not fault their response. She was married to him, yet his nearness befuddled her senses to an alarming degree, and when he next spoke, her heartbeat raced.

“Might I speak with my lady wife in private?”

“Most certainly, Mr. Bailey,” warbled Aunt Louise.

“Emphatically, Mr. Bailey,” added Lady Byton. The two women nearly came to blows in their haste to curtsy prettily in their departure.

As her kinswomen drifted away, sudden panic gripped Anne. Don’t leave me alone with him!

She pushed that thought away. This man was her husband now. They would be alone together a great deal. And in all their interactions, he was always courteous. She had nothing to fear.

“The wedding breakfast pleases you, my lady wife,” he said. This was not a question, merely a statement of fact.

“It does, sir,” she answered. “I commend your household for assembling such a feast in so short a time.”

He turned to survey the long table that spanned the length of the chamber. Rather than look at the pyramids of iced cakes, the platters of roast pheasant, the bowls of negus, Anne gazed at her husband. He studied the table as if assessing its profitability, sharp and shrewd.

“It isn’t enough,” he said. “I’ll have servants go to the shops and get more.”

“No, please.” Anne placed a hand on his sleeve. She felt solid muscle beneath his velvet coat, then snatched her hand back, shocked by the sudden intimacy of touch. During their brief courtship, she had taken his arm a time or two when walking, but that had been before. Before they were married, and the promise of his body existed only in theory rather than the soon-to-be-realized future.

She also did not know how he would respond to being contradicted.

“That is, sir,” she murmured, “no one can fault you for your hospitality. There is plenty for all of the guests.”

He looked unconvinced, so Anne continued. “There is such surplus, Lady Taplow is putting cake into her pockets. I wager her panniers are stuffed with bacon.”

A smile curved at the corners of his mouth, softening the hardness of his expression. “I pity those who have to carry her home in a sedan chair. Perhaps we should send her in a dray.”

“Drawn by draft horses.”

His gaze now turned back to her, and she grew warm to be under his scrutiny. His deep-set eyes were clear gray, the sky moments after dawn, and they missed nothing. She rather felt like the table bearing the wedding feast, being assessed, her worth judged.

Apparently, whatever he saw when he looked at her pleased him, for his smile widened. “With the business of the day, I neglected to tell you how pretty you look.”

“You are gracious, sir, and a flatterer.” He might well compliment her on her appearance: everything she wore had been purchased by him, from her open sack gown of blue Spitalfieds silk, to the silver lace frothing at the sleeves and pinned in her hair, to the pearls at her throat and the satin slippers on her feet. Even her fine West Indian cotton chemise was provided at his expense.

The whole of the wedding had been paid for by Leopold. All her father had provided was her.

“Not at all,” Leopold said. “Plain speaking is my only form of address. I know no other way.” His expression darkened slightly. “A fault of my birth.”

“Honesty isn’t a fault.” She ducked her head. “Forgive me, I talk too boldly, and would hate to have you regret our marriage before it is scarce two hours old.”

“No.” He touched his finger to her chin and gently raised her head. “Don’t apologize for speaking your mind.” His gaze warmed. “You’re right. Honesty isn’t a fault—in and out of business. And I encourage you to always say what you think.”

Well—that was certainly different from the advice Anne had received from her mother. Tell him what he wants to hear. Always agree, never contradict. That is how one maintains tranquility in marriage.

Perhaps it was different amongst people without titles. She had so little experience with them, every moment was a discovery.

“If it pleases you, sir,” she said.

“It does. It would also please me, Anne, if you called me ‘Leo,’ not ‘sir.’ ‘Sir’ feels ... cold.”

“Yes, sir ... I mean, Leo.” Her own parents called each other my lord and my lady or, when they were especially vexed with each other, Lord Wansford and Lady Wansford.

She and Leo fell into a silence that was not entirely comfortable. So much of him remained mysterious to her beyond only the barest outline of his history, and even that was cloaked in speculation and uncertainty. Together, they watched the room as people ate and drank and an occasional laugh floated through the room.

“I must admit that many of these guests are unknown to me,” she finally said. Gentry she might be, but her family’s circumstances had been reduced for so long that they seldom had the funds to make suitable appearances. New clothes cost money, as did tickets to the theater. “Are they all your friends?”

“Of the men in this room, I could claim less than half as acquaintances.”

Her brows rose. “Then why—”

There was little warmth in his chuckle. “A business investment. That fellow, over by the sweetmeats.” Leo nodded toward the man in question, a stout gentleman leaning on a cane as he selected one of the little confections. “He owns warehouses here and in Liverpool. By inviting him to my wedding festivities, he’ll be more inclined to give a reduced rate to store cotton arriving in from the Colonies.”

“Cotton shipments in which you have invested.”

“Precisely.” Leo turned his sharp gaze toward a lanky man in rust-colored satin. “That’s Lord Medway. His estate is in the prime location for a canal that will help get tin from Cornish mines to London. He’s been balking at the idea of cutting a canal, but after today and the amount of claret he’s drinking, he might be favorable to the scheme.”

“Not everyone must be here for the advancement of business, surely.”

“Oh, no.” He flicked a glance toward a cluster of people, men and women Anne vaguely recognized as being well above her in rank, including a duke and duchess, and two viscounts. “Seven years ago, none of those people would have admitted me or my father into their kitchens, let alone their ballrooms. Yet now they gather in my house, eating my food, drinking my wine.”

The coldness of his tone startled her, as did the predatory animal lurking behind his wintry eyes. Good God, whom had she married?

“There must be some guests in attendance that are truly your friends,” she protested.

At this, his expression thawed. “Over there, by the windows. Those men are my friends.”

Anne followed his gaze, yet knew already who she would see. The only men other than her husband who drew attention. Certainly, even though the trio were merely conversing amongst themselves, all the guests kept glancing over at them warily as if they were dangerous beasts about to slip their tethers.

The Hellraisers.

Sheltered Anne might be, yet even she had heard of these men, her husband’s closest associates. He was, in fact, one of their ranks. Whoever had access to a scandal sheet knew of the Hellraisers. Their exploits were well documented, and if only half of the stories were true, they lived very wild lives indeed. Carousing, gambling, racing, duels, and opera dancers.

They were never mentioned directly by name. Lord W—y, habitué of the gaming tables. Lord R—l, a veteran of warfare against the French in the Colonies, lately seeing more action at certain establishments of pleasure in our fair metropolis. Mr. B—y, as feared at the Exchange as he is known for the noble company he keeps.

These three Hellraisers were spotted without their companions Sir E F-S and the Hon. Mr. G—y in a den of fashionable iniquity, after which they retired to more private entertainments at the home of Lord R—l.

The one reason why men of such wicked reputation saw admittance to polite society was by virtue of their titles. Only Leo lacked a title, but his vast fortune admitted him where absence of breeding might deny.

Surely it must be wonderful to be a man, to have such freedom.

Yet she should not trust the scandal sheets. Everyone understood that they manufactured most of what they printed, and Anne would be foolish indeed if she attributed such wild behavior to her new husband. Not without learning who he truly was.

“Come, and I’ll introduce you to them.”

Before Anne could speak, Leo took her hand and led her across the room. He’d never held her hand before, and she felt the heat of his touch travel up her arm and through her body. His hand was large, the texture of his skin rough, and she felt fragile almost to the point of breaking in his grasp.

It wasn’t an entirely pleasant sensation.

Distracted as she was by Leo’s touch, she found herself nearing a trio of men she had read about many times, but never met.

Strange. As Anne approached them, she felt a odd humming sensation, as if passing through a spider’s web made of dark, almost sinister energy. She fought the shudder that ran through her, and dismissed the thought as the product of nervous humors, or bridal trepidation.

Sinister energy, indeed. I’m merely hungry. Couldn’t even finish my chocolate this morning.

She shook off her peculiar mood, and made herself smile politely as Leo performed the introductions.

“Anne, let me give you the questionable privilege of introducing my friends. This is the Honorable John Godfrey.”

“My felicitations, Mrs. Bailey.” Thin and gingery, Mr. Godfrey bowed over her hand, and it surprised Anne that a man with a scandalous reputation could look so scholarly. In snatches of overheard conversations, she had heard her brothers and father make mention of him, that he was a figure of considerable influence within the government. There had been undercurrents of something tight and edged in the voices of her family, something she might identify as fear, but it had been more tone than actual words spoken.

How could such a bookish man also be a profligate and a political threat? Surely she must have misheard, and the reports in the papers were scurrilous.

She curtsied her greeting, murmuring pleasantries.

“Here we have Sir Edmund Fawley-Smith,” continued Leo.

“You illuminate the room, Mrs. Bailey.” Sir Edmund offered her a very charming bow, and she could not help but smile at him. He was a very pleasant young gentleman, of shorter stature than the other Hellraisers, with kindly eyes and a rather rumpled appearance. Certainly he could not be a rake.

“And lastly, this is the extremely dishonorable Abraham Stirling, Lord Rothwell.”

Anne turned to the final member of the group, fully anticipating that she would find him as undeserving of a rake’s reputation as the other men. But that was not the case at all. She had actually seen caricatures of Baron Rothwell in a few news sheets, usually depicting him with his arms around whole seraglios of women, and Anne had believed the illustrator to be exercising a good deal of artistic license when it came to Lord Rothwell’s appearance. Surely no actual man could be so darkly handsome, with a blade-sharp profile, black hair, and vivid blue eyes. Yet the illustrator had not exaggerated. With the exception of Leo, Anne had never beheld a man so physically arresting.

The only thing marring his masculine beauty was the large, ugly scar that traced from just beneath his right ear to disappear beneath the folds of his stock. It looked as though someone long ago had tried to cut Lord Rothwell’s throat, and very nearly succeeded.

That Lord Rothwell stood before her now, bowing, proved that not only had the attacker not succeeded, but it was highly likely that Lord Rothwell had dispatched the assailant. Killed him. Looking into his glacial eyes, Anne could easily believe him capable of violence.

Violence, or seduction. Doubtless both.

“You have done England a great service, Mrs. Bailey,” he said, straightening from his bow. Anne had to tilt her head back to look at him, for he was even taller than Leo.

“How so, Lord Rothwell?”

“By marrying this villain, you have removed a great danger from the London streets.”

Leo scowled as Mr. Godfrey and Sir Edmund laughed. “I’m no more a danger than you, Bram.”

Lord Rothwell spread his hands. “Thus you prove my thesis.”

“Quod erat demonstrandum,” said Mr. Godfrey, grinning.

Anne made herself smile, for though she did not understand precisely what the men discussed, she knew it would serve her well in married life to ingratiate herself as best she could with her husband’s friends.

Still, something, or rather, someone seemed missing.

“Is Lord Whitney here?” she asked. The scandal sheets had been very specific in naming five men as Hellraisers: the four who stood before her now, and James Sherbourne, the Earl of Whitney, or Lord W—y. Wherever one of the Hellraisers went, the others were certain to follow.

She may as well have dropped a moldering carcass in the middle of the room. Whatever lightheartedness the men might have been feeling disappeared immediately. Everyone looked grim, and something very like grief flashed in Lord Rothwell’s eyes.

“Oh, dear,” Anne stammered. “He isn’t ... that is, I didn’t know ... has Lord Whitney passed on?” Mortified, she wanted to sink into the ground. “I’m so ... sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Leo patted her hand, but the gesture did not soothe her. “Whit ... Lord Whitney is alive. Last I heard.”

“Have you seen him lately?” Lord Rothwell put the question to her with surprising keenness, verging on an interrogation.

Four pairs of eyes fixed on her, all of them sharp and demanding. And her husband’s gaze was hardest of all. Anne had to physically restrain herself from cringing.

“No,” she answered at once. “I have seen Lord Whitney but a handful of times, the last of which was likely a year ago.” She wished she could remember the specifics of the day, if only as an appeasement, but to be the object of such intense scrutiny rather unnerved her.

At her answer, the tension from the men lessened. Marginally.

Leo gave a tight nod. “It seems Lord Whitney is gone from here.”

Gone from here could mean any number of things, yet Anne knew better than to press for an explanation. Whatever had happened, wherever Lord Whitney was, it left a cold shadow over the four men with her now. Including her husband. At his last mention of Lord Whitney’s name, Leo absently rubbed at his shoulder, and frowned at the floor. What he saw was not the Axminster carpet, but dark, ominous scenes. Scenes from his past, shared with the other Hellraisers—but not her.

She had thought it before, but she truly believed it now: her husband was a stranger. A stranger with secrets.

“She’s a bit undersized,” said Bram. He and Leo stood off to the side of the drawing room, watching as dancers made their figures. As the day had worn on, and the sun had set, musicians had arrived. Footmen had moved the table, the carpets had been rolled up, the candles were lit, and dancing had begun.

A fine tension ran through Leo. He felt it in Bram, and the other Hellraisers, yet none of them wanted to speak of it on this day. Anne, unknowing, had spoken of the very issue—the very person—none wanted to discuss. The one who had been their closest ally and now threatened everything.

“Delicate,” Leo corrected, forcing his mind toward less troubling subjects.

“I would have thought you might favor a more robust girl.”

Over the rim of his glass, Leo watched his new wife move through the patterns of a dance. It was the Friar and the Nun. Or maybe Gathering Peascods. He could never remember all the names of the dances, nor their figures. It mattered little—he never stayed at assemblies and balls long enough to dance, and other, more important thoughts filled his brain. The cost of transporting pepper from Sumatra. The profitability of shipping English ale to India.

Today, he’d done his duty and danced one figure with Anne, then quickly retired to the side of the chamber, leaving the celebrating to others, including his wife.

She was a delicate thing. When Leo had first seen Anne Hartfield at an assembly, she’d made little impression on him. Small of stature, her hair somewhere between blond and brunette, eyes more distinctive for their liveliness than their hazel color. There were other girls, girls of more vivid beauty and sparkling dispositions, who giggled and artfully fanned themselves whenever he made mildly flirtatious remarks. Anne had only smiled and looked away, as if uncertain how to respond.

Even now, partnered with one of her elder brothers, she moved tentatively through the steps of the dance, though it was part of every genteel girl’s education to have a dancing master and learn to make pretty figures at assemblies. Her family’s reduced circumstances were no secret, however, so perhaps she never had a dancing master.

“I’ll own,” he said lowly, “that when I decided it was time to wed, there had been other girls that first attracted my notice. But I came to see that Anne was perfect.”

Bram looked skeptical. “Some of your Exchange logic?”

“I’m never without it. It was simply a matter of the best return for my investment.”

“An aristocratic bride—I see the reasoning behind that decision.”

As one of Leo’s closest friends, Bram could read his heart well. Nor did Leo make much secret of his demands. He burned for entry into a world long denied him. That could only be achieved by marrying a peer’s daughter rather than a daughter of one of the wealthy ironmongers or heads of a trade corporation. Such a marriage might net him wealth, and valuable business connections. But he already had wealth. He had connections. What he wanted, demanded, could only be gained through blood ties.

He would not gain a title, but by the Devil’s fire, he would have what his father had been denied: a place in Society.

And he refused to let Whit endanger that.

“Yet why not pick a bride with a fortune?” Bram asked. “Why the daughter of a baron treading the waters of genteel poverty?”

“For that very reason.” When Bram continued to look unconvinced, Leo continued. “Had she come with a fortune of her own, one that matched or was greater than the one I possess, it would serve only to divide us. She would hold it over my head as proof of her superiority.”

“I had no idea you were so mercenary, young Leopold.”

Leo looked askance at Bram. “A lecture? From the man who has debauched most of the female populace of London?”

His friend chuckled, though the sound was more a shadowed representation of laughter rather than the thing itself. “No lecture. All of us Hellraisers live in glass houses.”

“Damned drafty, those houses.” Leo shrugged. “Yet they’re better than dull, dense piles of stone.”

Bram patted an ornate plaster embellishment on the wall behind him. Everything in Leo’s home was new, this portion of Bloomsbury having been developed within the past few years. He had considered purchasing a townhome in Mayfair or Saint James’s. He had the money. Yet he wanted his own place, something entirely his.

“Now you have your house and your aristocratic bride. What more could you want?”

Now it was Leo’s turn to laugh. “There is always more. You, of all people, should know that.”

Understanding darkened Bram’s face. “Perhaps that is why Mr. Holliday picked us to be recipients of his gifts.”

The mention of the Hellraisers’ benefactor reminded Leo that the threat could no longer be ignored. “Find John. I’ll collect Edmund, then we shall all meet in my study.”

“Leave your wedding celebration?”

“For a few moments only. We must discuss Whit.”

Bram’s expression tightened. Of all of the Hellraisers, Bram had been closest to Whit. The betrayal had cut Bram deeply. Even months later, Leo saw the pain was still fresh.

Bram strode away in search of John, while Leo went to find Edmund. As he strolled through the chamber, guests continued to come up and wish him joy of his marriage. He accepted their felicitations, and felt a hard, sharp thrill to see his noble guests’ silken finery strewn with crumbs and stained with wine from his table.

Eat and drink, you bastards. Stuff yourselves stupid, drink yourselves senseless. You’ll be too fat and drunk to notice me tearing you to pieces.

He found Edmund watching the dancers and clapping along with the music.

“You aren’t dancing,” Leo noted. “You always dance.”

“Now my dances are reserved for Rosalind.”

“Dancing only with your wife? How provincial.”

Edmund merely smiled. “With her, I am content to be the most unfashionable of men.”

“You should have brought her.”

At this, Edmund’s usually cheerful expression dimmed. “Having her attend a social function such as this so soon ...”

Leo nodded in understanding. Rosalind’s first husband had died in a carriage accident not two months earlier. A month after that, she and Edmund had wed. There had been scandalized murmurs about how quickly the marriage had taken place. A few had even suspected that Edmund had somehow engineered the accident in order to finally gain the hand of the woman denied him years ago. The rumors never took seed—nobody could believe such an amiable man as Edmund could possibly do something so brutal and calculating.

But Leo knew the truth. As did Bram and John. And they would tell no one. For it was their truth, too. One far beyond the understanding of ordinary folk.

Whit also knew the truth. Yet he could do much worse than damage their reputations.

“Join me and Bram and John in the study,” Leo said now. “We need to discuss the traitor.”

Edmund nodded tightly, determination writ plain on his face. As Leo and Edmund skirted the edge of the chamber, the dance ended. Anne glided toward him with an anxious frown.

“Is everything well?” she asked.

“Private business, my dear. Between old friends,” he added, with a glance toward Edmund.

“Of course.” She was quick to make herself amenable, which oddly disturbed him. He supposed most men desired an acquiescent wife. Yet he found just then that a display of spine might suit Anne. He admired strength and determination in others—his wife would be no exception.

Hell, he hoped his choice in a bride hadn’t been a mistake, guided by his own sense of retribution.

“Only,” she added, “there is talk of putting us to bed soon, and it would be rather awkward if there was no groom to join me in the bedchamber.” Pink flooded her cheeks, yet he was pleased to see that she did not look away, but held his gaze. Tremulously.

“You will find me at the head of the procession.”

She smiled, relieved, and dipped into a curtsy. “I shall see you then.”

“A very sweet girl,” Edmund said after Anne moved away. He raised a brow. “How very unlike you.”

Leo scowled. “I desire sweetness, too.”

“Have a care with her.” Edmund’s normally genial expression grew serious. “Women are not trade routes to be aggressively negotiated.”

“And my brutish peasant hands might crush her.”

“Don’t be an ass.” Even affable Edmund could lose his temper. “Only, use that clever brain of yours to see your wife. What she thinks. What she feels. You will find it a better path to happiness.”

Leo laughed. “I’m married now. Happiness has nothing to do with it.”

Edmund shook his head, yet he followed as Leo led him from the chamber and down the corridor to his study. Sounds of music and merriment faded the deeper he went into his house. The sounds of an unknowing, innocent world, beholden to no one, subject only to reason and scientific principles. But Leo and the other Hellraisers knew differently.

A thought leapt into Leo’s mind: What if Anne learned the truth about him? About the nature of the meeting he was about to have? What might she do?

He shrugged. If Anne ever discovered his secret, she could do nothing. He was the one with the power. Even if someone believed her allegations—which they never would—she had no leverage and could not harm him. No, the bigger threat came from Whit.

Within the book-lined room, he found Bram and John already there, illuminated by a single candle on his desk. Full night had fallen, and shadows were thick in the room, so that in the light of the candle, Leo and his friends appeared to be shades emerging from the Underworld.

Leo locked the door, and made sure all the windows were closed, the curtains drawn. With actions deliberate and ceremonial, he poured five glasses of brandy and handed them to his fellow Hellraisers.

“There’s only four of us now,” John said, eyeing the remaining glass.

As if Leo, or any of their company, could forget. That was what this private meeting was about. Whit’s absence, and its tacit condemnation, howled like a cavern. Three months had passed since Whit had severed his ties with the Hellraisers, had urged Leo and John and Edmund to turn their backs on the source of their power. But Whit had been troubled, and misled. Especially by that Gypsy girl.

Leo had the scar on his shoulder as proof of his erstwhile friend’s perfidy. Whit had made his choice, and no one had seen him these past months. Running scared, Leo supposed.

Only to himself did he admit that he missed Whit, his company, his counsel. Leo could not step into White’s and see the hazard tables without thinking of Whit, for he had been a familiar figure there, wagering outrageous sums of money only for the thrill of risk. Gone now. All gone. Once inseparable, the five of them had been cleaved apart, never to be whole again.

Whit was a danger, one that had to be found and contained. And Leo knew the best way to find him, but he required assistance.

“For our guest,” said Leo. He drew a breath, then spoke. “Veni, geminus.”

The candle guttered. Went out. The room became a black chasm, and the scent of burnt paper thickened in the air.

By touch, Leo struck a flint, lit a tinder, and brought it to the candle.

The doors to the study were locked, the windows shut. No one could get in or out of the room unnoticed.

Yet now a fifth man stood before Leo and the others. As always, the man wore elegant, expensive clothing, and he glittered as he bowed.

“Compliments, Hellraisers,” the man said, smiling and making his leg. “And compliments from my master, the Devil.”