Chapter 2

If he was honest with himself, Silvester Beresford, the seventh Earl of Langley, probably didn't need to have organised the orgy for tonight. He was just too good-natured and susceptible to his various friends pleading suggestions that it had been an age since he'd hosted one. Which was true. It had been at least six weeks since his last one.

His reputation did demand some upkeep, he had reasoned with himself. This urge did battle against his previous resolution to not indulge during the Season, or at least to avoid his prior flame Lady Georgianna Herbert, but she had arrived here tonight uninvited. And Langley would never be so mean as to throw her out.

So much for all his good intentions. All it had taken to break his will were some bright, enquiring eyes, a feminine pair of curved red lips, and the promise of something new, something erotic, something unexpected from his friends, and he was swayed.

He was disappointed to discover that this orgy was precisely like all the others he had arranged. The party had begun at ten in the evening with cards and wine, from there it had rapidly descended into a hedonistic display, with members of the toncompeting to outdo one another. Everyone who had arrived had been issued a mask, to best obscure their identities. Lords and ladies here for the famous Langley's debauchery might want at least a shred of deniability.

"Darling," Lady Herbert drawled. She had been badgering Langley all evening, and while he had enjoyed their previous couplings, he had found her to be a romantic, and he preferred to avoid such ladies—it tended to end badly. For them. Langley liked to think if he was going to tup a woman, he would never give her the wrong impression. Still, Lady Herbert was smirking at him, her hand trailing up his leg, her fingers making a beeline for his cock. A stronger man than him would have stood up. No, a stronger man than him wouldn't have removed his trousers in the first place.

Her fingers suddenly paused, her nails digging into the muscles of his thighs.

His annoyed outcry at her sharp piercing move was muffled by Lady Georgianna's question, "Who the hell is she?"

Langley's eyes moved around the salon. There were at least a dozen people present, not assigned into single couples, so it was difficult to make out everyone clearly. Close to the fireplace, it was hard to make out, but Silvester thought he could see Cyrus Thompson and Lord Henry Randolph interlocked together, each of them busy pleasuring the other. Tangled on top of the sofa was Sir Gerald Pickering, whose cock was being serviced by Lady Olivia Wilson, whilst the youthful, blushing Mrs. Doyle balanced on the baronet's mouth. She was giggling, her head thrown back, and her ginger curls cascading down to her plump bottom. Baron Edmond Babington was occupied on the desk with Thompson's wife, one of his hands gripping her breast as he rode her hard against the wooden table. Laird Fleming sat upright in the nearby armchair, one hand between Adela Desmond's cleft as she sat on him, her back leaning heavily against him as the two of them kissed hungrily. There was another woman who Langley did not know, who had donned one of the men's waistcoats. She was dancing out of reach of Lord Adrian Preston, who had brought his mistress, Constance Norton, along tonight. Those two were currently self-consciously adjusting themselves to a third member in their set, but Langley thought that, within the next five minutes, they would have arranged themselves according to Preston's tastes. It was a shame, he knew, how much women needed to appease men's tastes, rather than their own. Certainly, when he tupped, he liked to ensure his own partner was satisfied completely.

"Who's that woman?" Lady Georgianna pressed, and Langley forced himself to focus on whoever she was pointing to.

The garden doorway had been left ajar, and an uninvited girl had entered the salon. There was no mask on her face, and shock at the sight before her was writ large over her features. She stood out immediately. In part because she was so tall. Quite the tallest woman he could remember ever seeing. Those amongst the ton would probably call her a maypole, although if they ever did in his earshot, he'd have words with them. Looking her over, Langley saw that she was willowy, her slim figure visible in what looked like a puritanical white nightrobe. Her bare feet stuck out of the bottom and somehow the sight was more titillating than all those pulsating bodies that surrounded him. Langley's imagination ran riot. This unknown girl could play at being an Amazon, a warrior, his Boudica. In his bed, ideally… She was even carrying a weapon, a poker brandished in her right hand.

For the first time that evening, Langley's cock stirred. Why that would happen was beyond him, but since he was used to being led by his desires, he had learnt not to question his wants too closely.

He was on his feet, walking forward, determined to know precisely who this stranger was. To his annoyance, Lady Georgianna hung on to his arm. As he drew nearer, he adjusted his expectations. She was not a girl, no, that sight was definitely all woman. The night rail hid her thighs, but Langley could see she had powerful legs. The material was thicker and far primmer than any of the multiple women Langley had tupped previously, but if he strained his eyes, he could swear there was the faintest of outlines of her nipples peeking through. He wondered crudely how pink they would be—there was a fair bet among his friends that a lot of women's areolas matched the colour of their lips, although they had never specified which lips. A flame of curiosity beat through him at that thought.

She had seen him. Her steps and body froze. Colour rose in her face, and Langley's ego was sufficiently stroked—he felt sure she liked what she saw of him, despite herself.

This woman's eyes raked over him. Her fingers tightened instinctively on the poker. Her mobile mouth, the shape of which he likened to the curve of a full bow, tightened as she saw his bare legs and thighs.

Then she yelled at the top of her voice, her arm and weapon raised. "Murderer!"

For one crazy moment, Langley thought she was pointing at, or accusing him. He had certainly been guilty of numerous crimes—adultery far too many times to count or even really remember. Once he had played a second in a duel. There was also his gaming, racing, betting… But he would draw the line at murder. No one else in the room, save for Lady Georgianna, seemed to be paying her any attention. Perhaps everyone else thought it was part of the fun. Or, in fairness to them, Langley reasoned they were preoccupied given every single one of them had a least one orifice filled, or they were doing the filling…

Her second cry echoed out louder in the busy room, and Fleming finally looked up, laughing, and pausing to ask, "This more of your entertainment, Langley?"

This response seemed to hold sway in the room. Anyone who had paused resumed their activities, but Langley saw where this odd woman was pointing. It was right behind him, towards the doorway out onto the corridor. He whipped round to see the door slam closed.

The woman was already moving forward, and in an effort to know more about her, Langley pivoted, shaking Lady Georgianna lose, and fell into stride alongside her, who he was playfully calling his Amazon.

"In terms of accusations, that's quite a new one for this situation," he said. His tone light and, he hoped, charming.

"I don't know who you are, sir, but that man who is escaping through this house just shot the Duke of Ashmore," she said. Then she paused as the only options before her were to either climb over the entangled Lord Bridgemore and Madam Weddell, or to go around the sofa. Bridgemore had the Welsh madam bent over a smallish ottoman, his hands keeping her ass steady as he pumped in and out of her with practised ease.

His Amazon shifted to her left, just a couple of inches closer to him, and more out of manners than anything else, Langley offered out his hand to her.

Her eyebrow rose in surprise.

"To help you over the…" He paused, thinking how best to explain the fucking couple in front of them. Maybe she could move over Bridgemore's over-long legs.

"Oh, for goodness' sake. You are quite absurd," his Amazon said. She pushed off his hand to scramble over the couple and make for the doorway. Her bare skin on his palm should have been nothing, but the touch sent a noticeable frisson of awareness through him.

"Who's that?" Lady Georgianna asked, joining him. "An errant maid, or some virgin run amok here? Not really your sort of thing."

Bending and snatching her hand, Langley brushed a kiss on Lady Herbert's fingers. "I have no idea, love, but I must leave you to immediately find out."

With that, he followed his Amazon's direction. Thankfully Bridgemore had paused to notice and beckon Georgianna closer to join their fun, and Langley made his break into the hallway.

It was cool, and dark after the lit decadence of the salon behind him. His Amazon had paused. Her eyes were bright in the fall of moonlight that eked into the corridor.

"Love," he said, his common term for other ladies, whether high and mighty or just a maid.

"Oh no." She looked back at him, clearly annoyed that he had followed her out here.

"I will choose to ignore that." Langley wouldn't risk getting too close to her, it never did any man's chances any good to spook or unnerve a woman. But now with it being just the two of them, he studied her features again with as much dispassionate curiosity as he could. There was a patrician severeness to her face. She had a sharp nose, large eyes, and an expression that spoke of a fierce intelligence he appreciated. "You said Ashmore was dead."

"Yes." There was a wobble to her voice. "Grievously injured, he was shot by that intruder. The attacker wore a mask, to hide himself." She motioned with her hand back towards the closed door, where there was the soft but persistent noise of pleasure trickling out. "So, he must have been one of your guests. They too were wearing masks."

Langley thought about the duke next door. In his limited acquaintance, Ashmore was one of the least likely to be shot. The man was a bookish bachelor, with a taste in antiques and a limited interest in parties. He had no mistress, no wife… no children. Although there were some old rumours about how libertine the Ashmore dukedom was. Langley's eyes narrowed on the girl before him.

"I am his goddaughter," she said as if she had worked out where his mind was going.

"I see," Langley said. He moved over to the bell. "I suspect your intruder has left my house, as the front door is only at the end of the corridor. But I will ask my servants to search my home just in case."

"This place is yours?" she asked. A furrow appeared between her dark brows.

"I am Langley," he replied. Even in the silvery moonlight he saw her reaction clearly enough. Normally his reputation stirred an emotion even in people that Langley had never formally met. It was evident that his Amazon had heard of him, and everything amoral that went along with him. But to his annoyance, she did not volunteer her own name.

Reaching out, Langley shook the bell. It echoed through the house, and from below he heard the start of movement beneath their feet. "I would recommend you return to your godfather's home."

"I…" For a brief moment, his Amazon looked confused, her face creasing, the emotions evidently pushing and pulling her in two different directions. "That is the front door?"

"I can escort you if you wish?"

His Amazon immediately shook her head, rejecting what Langley thought was a generous offer, given she had entirely ruined his party.

"That won't be necessary," she pertly replied, but hesitated when she reached the doorway.

He followed slowly in her wake. "It will not take you to another orgy, I promise you."

"Humour at this time is not appropriate."

"And if I do locate your intruder within my home, who should I ask for?"

"Why, the authorities of course."

"No, I meant which person—" He indicated her. "—should I say is accusing this man?"

She had paused, as if this was not a consideration she had previously thought of. Annoyance flashed over her face. "I am Miss Keating."

To him the name spoke of naivety, and when she said it, there seemed a slight accent to her surname that hinted at the countryside. Miss Keating though, had already grasped the handle to the front door, and was yanking it open.

"I look forward, my lord, to hearing a list of your guests' names, and with that, I hope we will be able to identify the assailant if you cannot find the man in the upper floors."

Of all the naive statements Miss Keating could have uttered, this had to be the silliest. Langley found himself already shaking his head.

"My guests expect a certain degree of anonymity." Of course, he knew a vast majority of them personally, and in the case of the female guests, most of them intimately. But that did not mean he would be handing out those names to whichever Bow Street Runners she happened to hire.

"Why on earth not? A man—a duke, no less—has been shot in his home. And you will do nothing to help." She still held her poker, and she raised it accusingly to point it at his chin, as if it were a rapier.

"Are you going to add another act of violence to tonight's activities?" Langley asked, curious why the thought of her being barbarous still charmed him.

"I have failed," she continued, not lowering the poker, but there was a change in her face, as if regret and sorrow were blending painfully together. "He asked me to catch the intruder, retrieve an item…" She stopped herself from revealing whatever Ashmore had wanted rescued, and this further piqued Langley's interest in the girl. "It was his last request."

"He sent his goddaughter after a dangerous and armed individual. I do not think you have anything to feel guilty about."

A slight cough echoed behind him, and Langley turned to see his butler, Tampere, and one of the footmen standing at the rear end of the hallway, having come up the stairs from the kitchen.

"Tampere, will you please escort this lady next door to Ashmore's residence." He then turned to the footman. "Adams, will you help search the residence in case one of my guests has got lost."

"Proceed with caution." Miss Keating wore a look of touching concern for Langley's footman. "The man is violent and armed." She offered the man her poker, and in mild confusion Adams accepted it.

"I will also be assisting Adams, have you no weapon for me?" Langley asked.

"I suspect, my lord, you would somehow manage to weasel out of any real danger." Miss Keating accepted the butler's arm and turned on her heel. Langley's pride ruffled at this, after all, he spent the required amount of time at Jackson's to be reckoned a reasonable pugilist, although in truth he much preferred his early morning bouts of riding on the Heath, as this he had found far improved his physique and did not run the risk of breaking his perfect nose. None of this Miss Keating knew, and her slight was a sure hit, but one which nonetheless brought a smile to Langley's mouth. He rather liked that she was a spitfire. His wicked grin made her drop her eyes and depart.

For a moment Langley watched her go. It helped that he knew where she was headed, because he had no intention of letting his Amazon go, not without a proper… fight, he mused? No, he didn't want to fight her. Tackle her was what he supposed he might call it, as it blended the right notes of confrontation and physical interaction, but it did not have quite the right je ne sais quoi… He tried to locate the proper word, and then the front door clicked closed, and Adams coughed lightly.

"Right you are, Adams, let us begin our search. I don't hold out much hope, but it is better to be on the safe side."

"Yes, my lord," Adams replied.

And, dutifully, Langley did exactly that. All thoughts of the orgy, and the contemplation that he might be missing something crucial in the sexual decadence taking place on the floor below him, was wiped from his mind by the promise of this new mystery and the Amazon at the centre of it.