Chapter 30

30

The servant’s cap did little to tame the riotous wig of ink-dark curls spilling over Caroline’s shoulders. She adjusted it with gloved fingers, tucking a few stray locks beneath the brim. Her cloak concealed her daring obsidian gown and the item hidden within its voluminous folds – a demi-mask crafted of black silk and lace to shield her identity.

These were her weapons tonight, not satin and diamonds.

A knock preceded Julian’s entrance, and Caroline met those frost-coloured eyes in the mirror as he filled the doorway. Broad shoulders stretched the fine fabric of his evening kit.

“Where did you get that cap?” His gaze moved over her, no doubt cataloguing each detail.

Caroline turned to face him, offering a coy smile. “It’s on loan from one of the maids.”

In two swift strides, he had her backed against the armoire, palms planted on either side of her head. He towered over her, all imposing height and lean muscle. The scent of spice and smoke enveloped her. Caroline inhaled sharply as his hard body pressed to hers.

“Tell me,” Julian said, his voice dropping to a silken caress that set her nerves alight. “What do you have on under the cloak?”

Caroline smiled up at him, doing her best to affect innocence. “Betsy’s uniform, of course.”

His hands slid lower, palms skating over her hips through the concealing cloak. His touch was pure temptation.

“Would you care to play at servant and employer sometime? I suddenly find myself longing to discipline you.”

Oh, she just bet he did. Imagination supplied several vivid ways he might choose to chastise her later.

“I think that could be arranged,” she said. “Would ‘Your Grace’, ‘my lord’, or ‘sir’ please you more?”

“Mmm. I’ve never been a ‘sir’. It holds an undeniable appeal.” As punishment, he nipped at her jaw, just sharp enough to sting. Caroline gasped as the brief flash of pain melted into molten pleasure. “We could stay in tonight,” he suggested, voice rough with want. “Play out that naughty fantasy right here.”

Oh, she burned to take him up on that tantalising offer, to stoke the smouldering desire that arced hot between them.

But duty called tonight.

Caroline reached up and patted his cheek. “As delightful as that sounds, we have an assassin to catch.”

Julian released her with a soft huff of frustration. He offered his arm, and they descended the grand staircase to the carriage waiting below.

Inside the darkened interior, Caroline smoothed her clothes as she fought to slow her racing heart. She only hoped her disguise would prove distraction enough for Bartholomew Pritchard.

When the carriage slowed to a halt, her husband turned to her. Tension radiated from him in palpable waves. “You’ll stay with the staff tonight,” he instructed. “Don’t speak to the patrons or do anything reckless to put yourself in harm’s way. The moment you discover anything about Pritchard, you return to the carriage to wait for me. No unnecessary risks, do you understand?”

She gave him a teasing smile, hoping to ease his concern. “Only the necessary ones.”

His mouth flattened into a grim line, clearly unconvinced. “Somehow, that does little to reassure me. Need I remind you that you took a bullet weeks ago?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Maybe I’m impervious to bullets now. I might even catch them in my teeth.”

“Promise me you won’t attempt to catch any projectiles tonight. Not with your teeth or any other part of your anatomy.”

“No bullets,” she promised. She knew Julian only lectured because he cared. Because the memory of her injured and bleeding still haunted him. “No unnecessary risks. I’ll go around back and alert the staff I’m here.”

Her boots clicked out a rapid staccato on the cobbles as she hurried to the servants’ entrance, stripping off her cap and donning the demi-mask she’d hidden in her pocket.

She knocked. Caroline listened to heavy footsteps approach from within, the bolt scraping back. The weathered door swung inward to reveal Leo O’Sullivan’s imposing silhouette.

Rumour held the club’s factotum had once killed a man with his bare hands. Violence lurked in him, coiled tight and leashed. He had the golden good looks of a fallen angel – beautiful, but remote.

Squaring her shoulders, she offered him a smile. “Mr O’Sullivan. How lovely to see you.”

He sighed, clearly unenthused by her presence. “As I’ve said a thousand times, the ladies from Maxine’s go to the front—”

“And what about the Duchess of Hastings?” Caroline interjected before he could dismiss her.

He raked her with a look, taking in her disguise. “Her Grace forgets whatever mischief brought her here and goes home. Now.”

Mr O’Sullivan moved to shut the door, but Caroline slapped a hand against the scarred wood to stop him.

“I don’t think so. I’ve come on urgent business regarding a gentleman who gambles here. Bartholomew Pritchard.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Might we speak inside where prying ears won’t overhear? I’d hate for whispers to reach Lady Alexandra about your discourteous treatment of a duchess.”

“Christ,” he muttered, stepping back and letting her slip inside. “Fine. Get in before someone sees you skulking around.”

There wasn’t a soul in London not terrified of Richard’s sister.

“My apologies for barging in unannounced,” Caroline said. “But surely you’ve heard of the recent attempts on my husband’s life?”

O’Sullivan’s stern gaze flicked over her once more, slow and assessing. “Word is you took a bullet for the duke.”

“I did.” She reached for the top clasp of her cloak, working it free. “The duke is already inside looking for Pritchard. I suspect the man has information about the culprit, and while Hastings is skilled in many areas…” She flashed a wry smile. “I believe I would fare better convincing Pritchard to share what he knows.”

The cloak dropped to her feet. She heard the sharp inhale, saw Leo’s gaze skim down over scandalous curves barely concealed by silk. Watched faint colour stain his cheeks as he averted his eyes to the ceiling.

She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile at having rendered the unflappable Leo O’Sullivan speechless.

“This.” He waved a flustered hand at her state of undress. “This was your cunning plan?”

“Come now. I make a flawless fallen woman. I’ll blend in with the ladies of the night in your club.”

O’Sullivan dragged a palm over his face. “Jesus wept. You’ll cause a bloody riot. Thorne will roast my bollocks on a spit when he hears of this, and then your savage beast of a husband will carve what remains into a souvenir.”

“You have such a flair for the dramatic, Mr O’Sullivan. I’m touched you feel so protective of my honour.”

“I don’t give a damn about honour,” he said. “But I’d like to keep my bollocks, if it’s all the same to you. Does your husband know you’re here prancing around dressed as a doxy, making demands?”

“He thinks I’m dressed as a maid. He would have forbidden me to come otherwise.”

“A sensible man,” O’Sullivan muttered. “I can’t, in good conscience, be party to the Duke of Hastings’ wife parading around a gambling hall dressed like… you.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not asking your permission.” She turned and peered down the dim hallway, contemplating. “Of course, I could always invite Lady Alexandra to accompany me—”

“Good God, no.” He dragged both hands through his hair before spearing her with a stern look. “You’ll stay by my side. No exceptions, understand?”

Muttering under his breath, O’Sullivan turned and strode back down the cramped staircase into the bowels of the club. Caroline hastened after him. As they navigated down into the pulsing heart of the club, raucous sounds filtered up – shouts and gritty laughter, the clink of glasses and slap of cards. The cloying stale air was choked with expensive cigars favoured by aristocrats.

At the base of the stairs, Leo turned back with a warning look. “If your husband murders me, I will haunt you until the end of time. Stay close. And for the love of God, try not to get us both killed tonight.”

She took his arm. “I make no promises.”

He led her through a stained oak door into pulsing chaos – the press of bodies hunched around card tables, the heady aroma of liquor and tobacco choking the air. Scantily dressed women draped themselves on laps, pouring amber liquid into waiting glasses. Entwined limbs and bared skin abounded in shadowy corners.

O’Sullivan kept them along the periphery, navigating through the crush of patrons towards the back rooms. But Caroline felt the heavy weight of assessing male eyes tracking her. Heard their lewd laughs and jests, the crass whispered speculation regarding what they wished to do with her. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, spine stiff beneath their scrutiny.

Her instincts prickled in warning an instant before she saw him. Julian sat at a hazard table against the far wall, an untouched glass of brandy near his elbow. He appeared relaxed, long legs stretched out casually before him.

As if sensing her attention, his piercing blue gaze found hers across the crowded room. She watched him catalogue each scandalous detail of her attire, mentally stripping away the flimsy barrier of her dress. Fury warred with lust in the harsh lines of his beautiful face.

She almost smiled. Oh yes. Later, he was going to punish her thoroughly for this little deception.

“Which one is Pritchard?” she asked O’Sullivan under her breath, dragging her attention back to the task at hand.

“The one in the grey coat at your husband’s table.”

Caroline followed his subtle gesture. Pritchard sat with his back to them, broad shoulders hunched as he stared at his cards. An unlit cigar dangled from his lips.

“Does he often bring women home from the club?” she murmured, watching Pritchard leer at the serving girl leaning over his shoulder. His hand reached out to slide low on her hip, proprietary. Claiming. The girl flinched almost imperceptibly.

O’Sullivan cut her a sharp glance. “No decent woman would tolerate his vile appetites for long.”

“No, he doesn’t often bring women home, then?” Caroline clarified.

“Yes, he does,” O’Sullivan bit out. “But you’re not going anywhere near the blackguard, so it hardly matters.”

She flashed him a coy smile. “I’d like a drink first.”

With a muttered oath, O’Sullivan signalled the barman to bring them two glasses. The man wiped his hands on a rag and thumped the drinks down. O’Sullivan slid coins across the bar in payment before nudging her elbow.

“I’ll not have you swooning halfway through this farce. Just enough to take the edge off, understand?”

Caroline slid him a playful look and lifted her glass, allowing the barest sip to wet her lips before setting it back down. Warmth trickled down her throat, mingling with the heady taste of nerves and anticipation already intoxicating her. She felt powerful tonight. Reckless. The realisation made her want to smile, sharp and dangerous.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, turning away, “I have information to extract.”

Before O’Sullivan could seize her elbow again, Caroline strode with purpose towards Bartholomew Pritchard.