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Dicing with the Dangerous Lord
Margaret McPhee
SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMYVenetia Fox is London’s most sought-after actress, darling of the demi-monde and every nobleman’s desire. But she’s about to face her toughest role yet – seducing a confession from the devilishly handsome and very dangerous Lord Linwood to bring her father’s murderer to justice!She might have the whole of London fooled, but Linwood can see through Venetia’s ardent attempts to persuade him to open up. His past is murky, but he’s no criminal. Her interest in him has Linwood intrigued – he might just have to play Miss Fox at her own seductive game…Gentlemen of Disrepute Rebellious rule-breakers, ready to wed!



‘You know all my secrets, Lord Linwood.’
‘Not all.’
‘No, not all,’ she said as she turned to look into his face.
He saw something flicker in her eyes—something that was not quite in keeping with the rest of her, something which he could not quite discern. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
‘I am intrigued, Miss Fox.’ It was the truth. She was the most celebrated and coveted actress in all London. Bewitching. Beguiling. Yet cool. Her reputation preceded her. Linwood had never met a woman like her.
‘By my secrets or by me?’
‘Both. But I thought you desired flattery to be confined to the green room?’
She laughed, her eyes silver in the moonlight beneath the dark, elegant curve of her brows. ‘I will tell you one of mine if you tell me one of yours.’ Her voice was husky and as alluring as that of a siren. Her gaze held his boldly. The sensual tension tightened as the silence stretched between them.
All around them was darkness as dense and black as the secrets he carried in his heart—secrets that he would take to his grave rather than spill.
‘Would you really, Miss Fox? Tell me your darkest secret in exchange for mine?’

About the Author
MARGARET MCPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.
Previous novels by the same author:
THE CAPTAIN’S LADY
MISTAKEN MISTRESS
THE WICKED EARL
UNTOUCHED MISTRESS
A SMUGGLER’S TALE
(part of Regency Christmas Weddings)
THE CAPTAIN’S FOBIDDEN MISS
UNLACING THE INNOCENT MISS
(part of Regency Silk & Scandal mini-series)
UNMASKING THE DUKE’S MISTRESS*
A DARK AND BROODING GENTLEMAN*
HIS MASK OF RETRIBUTION*
And in Mills & Boon HistoricalUndone!
HOW TO TEMPT A VISCOUNT*
*Gentlemen of Disrepute
Did you know that some of these novels
are also available as eBooks?
Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

AUTHOR NOTE
This story picks up where HIS MASK OF RETRIBUTION left off. As the dark-eyed Lord Linwood was cast in a rather villainous light in my previous books, I thought it was time for him to be the hero. Finding the right heroine was a challenge—until the sexy demi-monde celebrity Miss Venetia Fox popped into my head. I knew at once she was going to be more than a match for Linwood in the very dangerous game they play together.
So here is the story of how Venetia and Linwood come to fall in love. I sincerely hope that you like it.
I love to hear from readers: www.margaretmcphee.co.uk

Dicing with the
Dangerous Lord
Margaret McPhee







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my big Wee Sister, Andrea—
lots of spicy bits because I know you like them!

Chapter One
Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, London November 1810
The applause within the Theatre Royal at Covent Garden was deafening, even after the heavy red curtain had descended on Shakespeare’s As You Like It, to shield London’s most acclaimed darling of the theatre from the audience.
Miss Venetia Fox smiled and hugged her friend and fellow actress as they made their way from the stage. ‘They are still on their feet, Alice.’
‘I can’t believe it! It’s amazing! I’ve never seen a response like it.’ Alice Sweetly’s eyes were big as saucers. In her excitement her soft Irish lilt grew stronger.
Venetia laughed. ‘You will get used to it.’
‘You think this’ll happen again?’
Venetia smiled at her protégée and nodded.
‘You were right. Life doesn’t get much better than this.’ Alice’s face was lit with the same euphoria that was flowing through Venetia’s veins. Away from the glitz and glamour of the front of the house, the theatre’s corridors were mean and narrow and the décor shabby, but it could not suppress the women’s spirits.
Alice hesitated outside the door to the small dressing room that they shared and turned to look up into Venetia’s face. ‘Thank you, Venetia. For helping me. For persuading Mr Kemble to put me on stage with you tonight. For everything.’
‘I knew you would be a star.’ Venetia gave Alice another hug. ‘After the green room we will celebrate.’
‘Only after the green room,’ Alice agreed. ‘See, I’m learning to be professional, just like you taught me.’
Venetia laughed, and a joy welled up in her to see just how far Alice had come in the past year. Alice’s face showed confidence, self-respect and excitement. Venetia felt like she was walking on air as she opened the dressing-room door.
She was still smiling as she stepped across the threshold and saw the bunch of roses that lay upon the dressing table. The smile dropped from her face and the lightness of her mood evaporated in an instant.
Alice chattered on oblivious, her face lighting even brighter when she saw the roses. ‘Someone’s ahead of the game tonight. Got in early before the others.’ She touched a finger to the centre of the bouquet. ‘Nice little quirk from the usual arrangement, too. Which one of us is the lucky girl, do you think?’
Venetia knew the answer to that question without reading the small white card that had been tucked within the brown paper wrapping the stems. There were twelve roses, soft and velvety and of the deepest darkest red, and nestling in the centre of their arrangement, in such contrast, was a single creamy white rose, just as Robert had said. It was the message for which she had waited these weeks past. It had been so long in the coming that she had almost forgotten what she had agreed to. Almost.
Venetia picked up the card with its scrawl of black ink.
‘Looks like you’ve got yourself a new admirer. And one that hasn’t signed so much as his initial.’ Alice raised her eyebrows suggestively. ‘Very mysterious.’
Not mysterious at all. Venetia forced a smile, but it felt wooden upon her lips. Her eyes moved over the card and she read aloud the single word written upon it in handwriting that she could not fail to recognise—Tonight.
‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Alice. ‘Who is he?’
‘I have not the faintest idea,’ Venetia lied and threw the card down on the dressing table carelessly, as if it meant nothing.
‘That’ll put the cat amongst the pigeons with Hawick and Devlin,’ said Alice. ‘Hawick thinks he’s about to close the deal.’
‘Then Hawick is wrong.’ Venetia did not rise to the bait.
‘You’re leaning towards Devlin, then?’ There was a mischievous sparkle in her friend’s eye.
‘Alice!’
‘I’m teasing you!’ Alice grinned. ‘But if I had a duke and a viscount fighting to make me their mistress, believe you me, I wouldn’t be playing so hard to get.’
‘Better to earn your own money than put yourself in a rich man’s power,’ Venetia said, but the rich man she was not thinking of was not the Duke of Hawick or Viscount Devlin, and the woman enslaved, not herself.
She moved her mind away from the past to focus on the evening ahead… and just how she must snare a different rich man’s interest. According to Robert’s covert floral message the man would be waiting in the green room at this very moment. He was just another arrogant lust-ridden nobleman, like any other. Except he wasn’t. But she did not let herself dwell upon who he was and what he had done. Nor did she think about the danger. Instead, she focused herself with cool dispassion to the task that lay ahead.
‘Hurry yourself and turn around, Venetia. They’re waiting for us in the green room.’
‘A little waiting will serve to whet their appetites all the more.’ They were waiting. He was waiting. Venetia smiled a grim smile at the challenge ahead of her as she presented her back to Alice to unlace the bodice of her stage costume.
‘I should not have let you persuade me into coming here.’ Within the green room of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, Francis Winslow, or Viscount Linwood as he was known, moved his gaze over the mix of gentlemen and peers already flirting with those minor actresses who had come straight from the stage. The room was decorated in the rococo style, the green walls edged with elaborate gold-leafed plasterwork, and set with large ornate mirrors before which crystal-decked candles burned. From the centre of the ceiling a single chandelier had been suspended, studded with few enough candles to hide the shabbiness of the room’s gentility.
‘Why? Do you not want to see the celebrated Miss Fox, or Miss Sweetly?’ The Marquis of Razeby raised an arrogant eyebrow.
‘Some other time, perhaps.’
‘Hell, Linwood, it will do you good and I tell you they are worth the seeing. If you thought they looked good upon the stage, wait until you see them up close. Miss Fox is all cool silver moonlight, and Miss Sweetly, all warm golden sunshine. Both divine in their own ways.’ He moved his hands in the outline of the curves of a woman’s body. ‘If you know what I mean.’
‘So I saw.’
‘Which would you go for?’
‘I am not looking for a woman right now.’
‘Been a while since the last one.’ Razeby arched an eyebrow.
‘It has,’ agreed Linwood. ‘I have had other things on my mind. I still have.’
Razeby persisted. ‘Maybe. But I think what you need is an armful of something warm and curvaceous and soft to distract you…’
‘I do not wish to be distracted.’ There was only one thing on Linwood’s mind right now. And he would have given the world if it had been something as frivolous and meaningless and pleasurable as a light-skirt. But those days were long gone and, given the mess his life was in now, he knew they would never return.
‘I have been working on Miss Sweetly and she is ripe for the plucking, but Miss Fox, well, she is a different story altogether. Sweetness versus sophistication. Can you imagine having both of them together? At the same time?’ Razeby blew out a sigh.
He understood Razeby was only trying to help, but his friend knew nothing of the truth, of what had happened, of the things he had done. He pushed away the thoughts, the memory of that final scene with Rotherham. ‘I will leave you to your actresses and your imagining,’ Linwood said. ‘And wait for you on the balcony.’
‘Miserable sod!’ Razeby smiled in his good-natured way and shook his head.
Linwood’s lips curved in the ghost of a smile.
Venetia knew exactly how to identify the man for whom she was looking. He carries an ebony walking cane topped with a silver wolf’s-head in which the eyes are two set emeralds. Robert’s words rang in her head as she worked her way through the men around the green room, all the while scanning for the walking cane. There were canes aplenty, but not the one that she sought. Yet both it and its owner were here; Robert would not have sent the message had he not been certain. And then she noticed the dark red curtain, masking the French doors to the balcony, sway slightly in the breeze. A frisson of uneasiness whispered within her at the realisation of having to do this alone with him, out there in the darkness.
It took thirty minutes to reach the curtain, via Razeby and Haworth and Devlin. But then at last she was able to slip unnoticed behind it. The door was only slightly ajar. She took a deep breath, pushed it silently open and, closing it quietly behind her, stepped out into the cool dampness of the London night.
The moonlight silhouetted him where he stood looking out over the lamp-lit street; a dark, lithe figure, silent and unmoving as if he were carved of the same Portland stone as the balustrade that contained the balcony. Her gaze moved over the dark beaver hat and gloves held in his left hand, and then on to the walking cane in his right. The tip of it touched to the leather of his glossy black riding boot and beneath his hand she could see the glint of the stick’s silver wolf’s-head handle and the glow of two tiny green gems within. And in that small moment before he moved, all of Robert’s warnings about this man and what he had done seemed to whisper in her ear, making her blood run cold. But even then she did not consider changing her mind. She stepped forwards, relishing the challenge.
He glanced round, half turned to her.
‘Do you mind if I…?’ She gestured towards the coping that topped the balustrade just along from where he stood.
‘Not at all.’ It was a smooth, low, well-spoken voice, not harsh and cold as one might have imagined for such a man. ‘I was just leaving.’ His expression was serious, unsmiling, nothing of the hopeful flirtation that was upon every other male face within the green room.
‘Not on my account, I hope.’ She kept her voice low and lazy and seductive as she strolled over to the balustrade, stopping, not too close to him but close enough, and looking not at him but out over the same view he had been watching. ‘Who would have thought such a spot could offer such refuge?’ She knew the way to draw a man into conversation, to entice his interest by offering a little of herself. It was a necessary skill of any successful actress and Venetia had spent years perfecting the method.
‘Refuge?’ he asked.
She kept her gaze fixed on the lamp-lit streets below. The breeze breathed its chill against her cheeks, against her exposed décolletage.
‘A few precious moments of calm in a night full of frenzy and demand.’ She watched the carriages and the groups of gentlemen with their mistresses on their arms. ‘I often come out here before the performance… and after. To think. I find it helpful.’
‘You do not enjoy acting?’
‘I enjoy acting very much. But not that which goes with it.’
‘You mean the green room?’
‘And more. But—’ she inhaled deeply and slowly released the breath, and the chill of the night air lent it a misty quality ‘—it is all part of my job. Written into my contract, would you believe?’
‘To entice and delight.’
‘Some may call it that.’ She leaned slightly closer to him, presenting him with a better view of her cleavage. ‘But in reality to generate interest in, and donations to, the theatre. You paid more to visit the green room than you did for your theatre ticket, did you not, sir?’
‘I did.’
‘To be seduced.’
‘By you, Miss Fox?’
‘Perhaps…’ She let the word hang in the air as a suggestion before lowering her voice as if they were two conspirators speaking secrets. ‘Or then again, perhaps not. We actresses are not supposed to tell. Such truths quite spoil the illusion.’ She smiled, but only because the role called for it, then glanced across at him, and looked at the murderer properly for the first time. At his olive-skinned face with its chiselled angles and planes that lent him a handsomeness she had not expected. At his dark hair that hung in ebony-sheened waves, and his eyes that were black as midnight and held such dark brooding intensity within that had nothing to do with their colour. His gaze met hers and it was as if he had stroked a finger down the naked length of her spine.
She stared into those dark compelling eyes and her heart gave a stutter and her stomach turned a somersault. She stared, shocked and unable look away. The moment stretched between them and all the while he held her imprisoned in that steady, scrutinising gaze as surely as she did any other man’s. Her heart was pounding as she finally managed to tear her eyes away and lower her gaze. With a determination of iron she masked the fluster, reined herself in, but all the willpower in the world could not suppress the shiver that rippled right through her. It took every ounce of her experience upon the stage to regain her poise before she could look at him once again.
‘The nights grow colder and an actress can hardly wear her woollens and flannels to work,’ she said by way of excuse, knowing that he had seen the shiver.
‘Indeed.’ His eyes moved over her dress, over the bare skin it revealed and the pale swell of her breasts before coming back up to her face. ‘That would not do at all.’
Play the part. It is just another role. He is just another man. ‘So… what is your excuse?’ She held his gaze, her appearance once more the cool, calm, enticing Miss Fox, but beneath the surface her composure was still ruffled. ‘Why are you braving the chill of a November evening instead of enjoying the hospitality of the green room?’
His eyes moved back to the Bow Street view. ‘I have things on my mind.’
‘You disappoint me. There was me thinking that you had come outside alone to wait for me.’ He glanced round at her and she curved her lips to show that she was teasing him, even though her heart was still beating that bit too fast. ‘Things from which an evening at the theatre cannot distract you?’
‘Quite.’
‘They must be serious or perhaps it is a comment upon Miss Sweetly’s and my acting abilities.’
‘Rest assured your acting abilities remain unchallenged.’
‘You flatter me. And flattery is not permitted out here. I have a rule that it must remain confined to the green room.’
‘The truth is quite the contrary, Miss Fox. I enjoyed the performance very much.’
She smiled a wry smile and let her gaze wander back to the view. ‘In that case I am intrigued as to precisely what it is that so preoccupies your mind, sir.’
The sounds from the streets below drifted up to her. The silence seemed so long that she wondered if she had gone too far in asking so blatantly.
‘Trust me, you do not wish to know.’ And there was something in the way he said it, a dangerous, haunting honesty that quite chilled her to the bone.
She turned her gaze away, watching the view once more so that he would not see the truth in her eyes. ‘We all have things on our minds.’
‘Learning your lines, or deliberating in your choice of Hawick or Devlin?’ he asked.
‘Not quite,’ she said, and thought with irony of just what she had come out here to do to him.
‘Then what, may I ask?’
She looked at him across the small distance and wondered, just for the tiniest of moments, what he would do if she were to tell him and the thought made her smile in earnest. ‘You are asking me to spill my secrets and you have not even told me your name, sir.’ She arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow, the ultimate femme fatale. ‘What manner of woman do you take me for?’
He glanced at her again, the dark eyes studying her face.
Their gazes held and even though she was prepared this time, the same prickling sensation stroked against her nerves. Her heart was racing and not only because she feared that he meant to walk away.
‘Forgive me,’ he said at last and gave a small bow of his head. ‘I am Linwood.’
‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Linwood,’ she said with mocking polite formality.
‘And I yours, Miss Fox.’ Just the sound of his voice, rich and dark as chocolate, sent goose bumps erupting over her body.
She focused. Breathed. Let her gaze drop to his lips, to linger there for the smallest moment before returning to his eyes.
‘So now we are properly introduced.’ She lowered the pitch of her voice.
‘We are,’ he agreed.
She smiled, a slow, seductive, suggestive smile.
‘You can go ahead and tell me what is on your mind,’ he said.
‘Oh, you really do not wish to know, Lord Linwood. Trust me.’ It was a parody of the words he had used to her.
‘Touché, Miss Fox.’ There was a hint of amusement in his voice, although his face betrayed nothing of it.
Her mouth curved as she turned her attention once more to the London streets beyond and below. ‘So what brings you to the green room tonight? I have not seen you here before.’
‘I accompany my friend Razeby. To use your own words, he wishes to be seduced, or, perhaps more accurately, to do the seducing.’
‘And you?’
‘I am not in the market for a mistress, Miss Fox.’
‘Nor I in the market for a protector.’ Her eyes were cool and disdainful with truth.
‘Hawick and Devlin seem to be under another impression.’
‘Hawick and Devlin are mistaken.’ She let just enough steel show.
His eyes slid to hers. He paused. ‘And had I come outside alone to wait for you…?’
‘Just the two of us, out here, alone in the darkness…’ She raised her eyebrow ever so slightly. ‘Who knows what might have happened?’
Neither made any move, only looked at one another across the small space of darkness. She stood still, calm, everything of her posture inviting, alluring, sensual. And in her eyes and on her lips was the merest suggestion of a smile and so much more.
The balcony door opened. ‘Linwood, I—’ Razeby halted at the sight of her. ‘Forgive me, I did not realise—’
‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen.’ Only then did she break the gaze that bound her and Linwood together, and took her time over a small desultory curtsy. ‘Lord Linwood.’ Her eyes met his one last time before moving to Razeby. ‘Lord Razeby.’ And as she passed Linwood she leaned close enough to smell his cologne and whispered softly for his ears alone, ‘Until the next time, my lord.’
She walked past Razeby into the green room, without a backward glance at either man, even though she could feel the weight of both their gazes following her.
And just like that, the matter was begun.

Chapter Two
Venetia’s heart was still thudding too fast as she closed the door behind her and made her way across the room.
What had just happened between her and Linwood was something which, despite all the men she had dealt with, Venetia had never experienced before. Linwood was not what she had expected. Yes, he was most definitely dark and dangerous, but there was something about him. Something both disturbing and fascinating. She quashed the thought in its inception, unwilling to admit even to herself exactly what it was she had felt on looking into Lord Linwood’s eyes. It was too late to change her mind, and even were it not, she had no intention of turning away from this. The first step of the plan had been completed. She and Linwood were introduced. The seed had been sown. It had begun. And the next time it would be easier… now that she knew what she was up against.
‘Are you all right, Venetia?’ Alice whispered by her side, her eyes scanning her face.
Venetia smoothed her expression into its small calm smile, betraying nothing of her thoughts. ‘Of course.’
‘Hawick and Devlin have competition tonight.’ Alice gestured with her eyes to the corner of the room. ‘More admirers.’
Venetia followed her friend’s gaze over to the group of gentlemen waiting there, some holding large bouquets of flowers, others clutching bottles of champagne. Their faces were flushed from too much drink, their eyes arrogant and eager and lustful as they met hers. Men used to using women, men used to holding all the power. Men over whom she now held power of a sort. Walking away was not an option. Not for any actress, least of all for her. She had not lied to Linwood in that respect. Just the thought of him sent ripples of unease spreading through her, like a pebble thrown into a still lake.
As if summoned by her thoughts she saw Linwood and Razeby slip back into the room from the balcony. Linwood’s dark gaze sought hers across the room. She met his eyes and held them for just a second longer than was decent. Her heart missed a beat, stuttered, but no one in the room would have known. She was as poised and confident as ever she was—an act perfected by years of practice and determination.
He drew her the slightest incline of the head in acknowledgement.
And in return she let the hint of a smile play on her lips before deliberately turning her attention to Alice while he still watched.
‘They’re coming over.’ Alice’s focus was fixed on the gentlemen in the corner.
Venetia nodded. This was her job and she was good at it. It paid her well—very well—and let her run her own life. With a single look she could quell a conversation when it had overstepped the mark, and stay a wandering hand. She sparkled and enticed and then enforced her limits with an iron hand and was trying to teach Alice the same.
‘Have a care over Quigley, he is not so harmless as he appears,’ she whispered the warning to her friend. Pushing Linwood from her mind, Venetia turned to face the men and the rest of the night.
It was at Viscount Bullford’s ball two nights later that Linwood saw the enigmatic Venetia Fox again. He watched her in the ballroom, with her almond-shaped eyes, smiling that small seductive smile. There was definitely something fluid and feline in the way she moved. Men watched her with greedy eyes of which she was either unaware or did not care. She appeared relaxed, polished, comfortable in her own skin; seductive, but not in the way he had thought she would be. Not blatant and too readily available. Rather, tantalising but untouchable. The dress she wore was the colour of a glass of red wine held up and viewed before firelight—a deep translucent red that made the darkness of her hair only darker and the whiteness of her skin a shimmering pearl pallor.
He watched her manage Razeby and Monteith, Bullford and Devlin, and even Hawick, flirting with each of them in turn, if it could be called that, for despite the smoulder in her eyes he noticed that she kept each one at arm’s length. Venetia Fox was very much in control of the situation. And although every man in the room was panting after her, she allowed not one of them to touch her as they must have been longing to. No wonder men were willing to bid so highly for her. And then he remembered what she had said of illusion and this flirtatious socialising being a part of her job. It was a dangerous game for any woman to play, but especially for one as beautiful as Venetia Fox.
He watched her because she was fascinating. He watched her because she was the only thing in all of these weeks past that, for the few moments he had been with her, had stopped him thinking of other, darker, things. It was the reason he was here tonight. She was the reason he was here tonight. Not that he had any intention of taking this flirtation any further.
Her gaze met his across the room and held for just that moment too long before she turned it back to the man with whom she was speaking.
He waited until she slipped out onto the balcony before following her. She was standing there, staring out over the moonlit garden when he appeared. He did not say a word, just walked up and leaned on the balustrade’s stone coping just along from her and looked out over the garden.
‘We have to stop meeting like this,’ she said without looking round and he could hear the tease in her voice. ‘People will start to gossip.’
‘Are you afraid of gossip?’
‘On the contrary, you know that I am obliged to court it.’
‘Then you should be glad that I am here.’
‘Should I, indeed?’ She turned her head and looked at him then. There was an edge to the words that made him unsure if she were glad or angry to see him. Her eyes held his and there was a certain coolness in them before it faded. He watched her gaze drop to his hat and gloves he carried in one hand and his cane in the other. She arched a sultry brow as if questioning if he meant to leave.
He set them down on the flat coping surface before him.
She returned her gaze to wander over the darkness of the garden, but not before he saw the small satisfied curve of her lips. They were not the small rosebud lips so sought in women, but full, passionate lips that reminded a man of the erotic pleasures a woman’s mouth could bring.
‘Another refuge?’ he asked.
‘You know all my secrets, Lord Linwood.’
‘Not all.’
‘No, not all,’ she said as she turned to look into his face. He saw something flicker in her eyes, something that was not quite in keeping with the rest of her, something which he could not quite discern. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. ‘And I do have so many.’
‘I am intrigued, Miss Fox.’ It was the truth. She was the most celebrated and coveted actress in all London. Bewitching. Beguiling. Yet cool. Her reputation preceded her. Linwood had never met a woman like her.
‘By my secrets or by me?’
‘Both. But I thought you desired flattery to be confined to the green room.’
She laughed, her eyes silver in the moonlight beneath the dark elegant curve of her brows, her skin pale and perfect as porcelain. ‘I will tell you one of mine if you tell me one of yours.’ Her voice was husky and as alluring as that of a siren. Her gaze held his boldly. The sensual tension tightened as the silence stretched between them.
All around them was darkness, as dense and black as the secrets he carried in his heart, secrets that he would take to his grave rather than spill.
‘Would you really, Miss Fox? Tell me your darkest secret in exchange for mine?’
She glanced towards the star-scattered inky blue of the night sky, before returning her gaze to him. Her eyes seemed to glitter in the moonlight. ‘No,’ she said softly, surprising him yet again with her candour. ‘I would not. Would you?’
‘I think you already know the answer to that question.’
‘I do.’
‘It seems we are two of a kind.’
‘Perhaps, when it comes to secrets.’ She looked directly into his eyes and again there was that coolness and distance. ‘But then again, I doubt you are anywhere as good at guarding your secrets as I am at guarding mine.’
‘I think you underestimate me, Miss Fox.’
‘No, Lord Linwood, I assure you the underestimating is all on your half.’
‘That sounds like a challenge.’
‘I do like a challenge,’ and her eyes held his and seemed to smoulder. The silence stretched between them, brimful with desire, before she turned her gaze to the garden once more. He felt the stirring of excitement, the need to know more of her. He studied her profile and did not want to take his eyes from her.
‘Were you on stage tonight?’
‘I am on stage every night. And every hour of every day. It is the price any actress must pay if she wants success.’
‘Are you on stage now, Miss Fox?’
She did not hesitate in her answer. ‘Of course.’ Another answer so contrary to everything he expected. And through him, over him, in him, he could feel the pull of the power that she held over men.
‘Are you always so honest?’
‘I am an actress, Lord Linwood. I am never honest.’ She smiled again and this time so did he, he who in all these past months had so rarely smiled.
‘And what of the real Venetia Fox, as opposed to Venetia Fox the actress? What of her?’ Questions he would never have asked any other woman. And yet he asked her, for he found that he wanted to know the answer.
‘What of her?’ She looked at him.
‘Is she content to stay hidden in the shadows of the divine Miss Fox?’
‘Divine…? You are flattering me again.’
‘And you are not answering my question.’
‘Then the answer is that she is very content to stay hidden.’
‘May I meet her?’
‘You would not care for her in the slightest.’
‘Why not let me be the judge of that?’ He was flirting with her, angling to catch just a little more of this fascinating woman—Linwood, to whom flirting and women should have been the last thing on his mind.
‘Expose myself to a stranger?’ She arched one perfectly shaped dark brow and leaned towards him ever so slightly so that he could not prevent his gaze sweeping down to the luscious curve of her breasts and imaging them naked and exposed before him. He knew she was toying with him, just like she toyed with all the others, but right at this moment in time he did not care. She was all that stood between him and the dread and bitterness of his memories and thoughts.
‘Maybe we will not always be strangers, Miss Fox.’ His gaze held hers.
‘Maybe,’ she said and smiled a slow sensual smile.
The music floated out from the ballroom, the notes so sweet and clear on the night air. ‘The Volga,’ she said. ‘My favourite dance.’
His eyes held hers. ‘I am afraid I do not dance tonight, Miss Fox.’ How could he, when so much hung in the balance?
She stepped towards him, slowly closed the distance between them until the hem of her dress was practically touching the toes of his boots. She angled her face up to his, and her eyes glittered full with secrets, and her lips made him want to place his own against them, to kiss her, to taste her, to take the temptation that she offered. It had been such a long time since he had had a woman. But when he would have yielded she moved her mouth away to whisper against his ear, and he could feel the warm caress of her breath against his cheek and smell the bittersweet heady scent of neroli, her lips so close yet not touching.
‘I was not asking,’ her whisper enunciated so clearly that it stroked the nerves that ran from his neck all the way down to his manhood. His blood stirred hot.
She paused before retreating beyond his reach.
‘Perhaps… we might go for a carriage drive one afternoon.’ The words were spoken before he could think better of them.
She held his gaze, her eyes the cool white-blue of sunshine on a winter sea, alluring and remote both at once so that he was sure that she meant to refuse him.
‘Perhaps,’ she said enigmatically. The light in her eyes changed to a teasing smoulder before she hooded them beneath her long black lashes and walked away, with that signature slow sensual sway of her hips, back into the ballroom.
The clock in the small parlour chimed eleven as Venetia topped up first Alice’s coffee cup and then her own.
‘In answer to your question, yes, it went very well last night. Razeby has offered me a thousand pounds a year to be his mistress. That, and a house in Hart Street, just over the back from here. Imagine that. We’d almost be neighbours. And he’ll see that the house is furnished with only the best, so he says. It’s nowhere near what Hawick offered you, I’m sure, but more money than I’m ever likely to see.’
‘Do not rate Hawick’s offer so highly, Alice.’
‘I heard on the grapevine that he offered you ten grand.’
‘You should know better than to listen to gossip.’
‘But it must have been a high sum all the same.’
‘Good enough, but nowhere near what you imagine,’ Venetia lied and thought of the astronomical amount of money the Duke of Hawick had actually offered her. Some men thought they could buy anything, that it always just came down to the price. It was all she could do to stop her lip curling at the thought.
‘And still you turned him down.’
Venetia sipped at her coffee and knew she must be careful in what she said. Alice’s attitude was understandable. It was Venetia who, for her own very personal reasons, was at odds with what was considered normal within the acting profession. ‘What answer did you give Razeby?’
‘I told him I needed time to consider his offer. I wanted to speak to you first.’
‘And what are you thinking?’
‘Whether to hold out for more money.’
Venetia looked into her friend’s eyes.
‘Please don’t look at me like that.’ Alice averted her gaze to the corner of the room. ‘I already know what you think of a woman selling herself to a man. But… a thousand pounds a year is so much.’
‘It is. But after your success in this run, Mr Kemble will increase your wages. He has no choice if he wishes to compete with other theatres who would offer you better. I know that you send money to your mother. If you need some help financially…’
Alice shook her head. ‘I couldn’t allow you to do that. You’ve already done so much for me, Venetia. Besides, it isn’t just about the money. Razeby’s a marquis and he’s young and handsome and I… I like him. It would be no hardship to be his mistress.’
‘Alice, Razeby may be all those things, but do not be fooled by his charm, he is a rake, every bit as much a gentleman of disrepute as the rest of that crowd. You have to be aware of that.’
‘I’m under no illusion, Venetia. Believe me, with my history I know how these things work. I’m not a fool, just practical. And I may as well get the best price I can.’
‘Well, in that case…’ Venetia gave a sigh ‘… hold out for more. Do not name your price. Do not appear persuaded or that you have reached a decision. Entice him with less rather than more. And, most importantly, do not so much as let him touch you until you have the arrangement legally drawn up, signed and a copy of it in your own hand.’
‘Yes, ma’am!’ Alice grinned. And then the grin faded, to be replaced with a thoughtful look. ‘Razeby said something… about you and Viscount Linwood. I saw Linwood in the green room the other night, but I hadn’t realised that you were with alone with him out on the balcony.’
Venetia did not deny it. Nor could she explain what she was involved in. Not even to Alice. She gave a tiny shrug as if it meant nothing.
‘You’re never alone with men in private places, Venetia. It’s the thing you’re always warning me against.’
‘I made an exception for Linwood.’
Alice frowned. ‘You should be careful of him.’
‘Why?’ she asked slowly. ‘Do you know something of him?’
The pause before Alice answered was just that little bit too long. She shook her head and glanced away. ‘Not really.’ Then bit her lip. ‘You aren’t… interested in him, are you?’
Venetia smiled to reassure her friend. ‘I am as interested in him as I am in Hawick or Devlin or any of the others. Which is not at all.’ But she was lying. She was very interested in Linwood, just not in the way that Alice thought. She did not allow herself to think of the unprecedented response she had felt on looking into his eyes, on being close to him, on spending just that short time within his company. ‘What have you heard of him?’
‘Nothing specific.’ Alice did not meet her gaze. ‘Only that he’s a dangerous man to get involved with. And, as they say, there’s no smoke without fire, Venetia.’
‘Indeed.’ Venetia had listened to Robert’s suspicions about Linwood and a fire that had razed an entire building to the ground and destroyed the possessions accumulated across a man’s lifetime.
The two women moved to talk of other things.
Venetia did not see Linwood the next night. She left Alice to Razeby and the green room and slipped out of the theatre by the stage door into Hart Street. Her carriage was waiting outside as usual, to take her home. As her footman opened the coach door she drew him a nod and, pulling the long black cloak tighter around her shoulders, climbed inside. The door closed behind her with a quiet click and the carriage was pulling away along the street before she saw the man lounging in the corner of the opposite seat. For a moment she thought it was Linwood and gave a small shriek before realising the man’s identity.
‘Robert!’ she chided, pressing her hand to her chest. ‘You frightened me!’
‘You need not be so jumpy, little sister. I am not Linwood.’
‘You should have warned me you were coming.’
‘I could hardly do that now, could I?’
She gave a sigh, knowing her half-brother was right.
‘How do matters progress with the viscount?’ he asked.
‘I have secured his interest.’
‘I did not doubt it. Your talent is unsurpassed. Who else could feign an interest in such a man?’
She looked away, unable to meet his eyes in case he saw the truth in them. She did not tell him that Linwood was a man who could have had his pick of many women. Not because of his handsome looks, but because of the danger and darkness and mystery that emanated from him. He was what other men were not. Acting an attraction to him was uncomfortably easy, even knowing what he had done.
‘This is one role I do not like playing, Robert.’
‘Understandably so. But it is the best way.’
‘As you said.’
‘I hate asking this of you, Venetia.’ Robert’s face looked grim. ‘Maybe I should call the villain out and be done with it.’
Venetia looked across the carriage at him. ‘He would kill you.’
‘Such confidence in me,’ he said drily.
‘We both know of what he is capable and I would not have you risk your life.’
‘I know and I am glad of your concern for me.’ He took her hand in his and gave it a little squeeze of reassurance before releasing it again. ‘We must proceed as planned. It is our best chance of bringing Linwood to justice.’
She nodded.
‘Have you learned anything of use yet?’
‘Nothing so far, except that he is definitely brooding upon something dark.’
‘I expect murder on his conscience might have such an effect.’ Robert’s voice was low and serious. ‘But a beautiful woman can always make a man lower his guard and loosen his tongue, even a man as careful as Linwood.’
She said nothing, just kept her mind focused on why they were doing this.
‘When are you seeing him again?’
‘He does not know it yet, but Monday night. At Razeby’s dinner party.’
‘Good.’ Robert rapped on the roof of the carriage with his cane and the carriage drew to a halt. He looked at her through the dim light. ‘You will be careful, won’t you, Venetia?’
‘Am I not always?’
Robert gave a low laugh before kissing her cheek and disappeared like a shadow into the darkness of the night. And when the carriage drove on, Venetia thought of Linwood. A man who had killed. A murderer. The only man that stirred a whisper of desire through her. She pulled the soft fur-lined cloak all the tighter around her, but it did nothing to warm the chill that crept in her bones.

Chapter Three
Linwood stood alone in the crowd of Razeby’s drawing room and wondered if it was Razeby or Venetia Fox who had lied. Razeby’s words from that afternoon played again in his head.
‘I am not gammoning you! I tell you, Miss Fox did send a note not two hours since. She will attend my little dinner on the proviso that she is seated next to you.’ There was an excitement in Razeby’s eyes as he had paced the drawing room of Linwood’s apartment. ‘So much for your denials that anything happened between the two of you on the green-room balcony, you sly dog!’
‘We exchanged polite conversation, nothing more.’
‘I do not know what you said to her, but evidently she liked it. She has never attended one of my dinners previously. Indeed, she has never attended any dinner held by a gentleman.’ He had given a wry smile. ‘God only knows why, but it seems that the divine Miss Fox is interested in you, Linwood.’
Linwood had shaken his head to deny it, but Razeby’s words had kindled something within him. Since then the pulse of desire that he felt for Venetia Fox had beat all the harder. What man would not respond to a woman like her?
‘Naturally I sent a note back by return, saying that the seating arrangements would be to her preference and that I looked forward to seeing her.’
The two men had looked at one another.
‘You cannot let me down, Linwood. You will have to come now.’ Razeby smiled before adding, ‘To have Venetia Fox grace my little soirée will be quite the coup. And you do owe me one.’
And so here Linwood was, waiting only for her.
He stood alone, the glass of champagne in his hand untouched, the bubbles rising in a riotous frenzy through the pale golden liquid. All around him the conversation buzzed loudly. Snatches of other people’s conversations reached his ears. Men’s talk of horses, gaming and politics. Women’s, of fashion and wealth and men. There was the chink of glass and silver as footmen glided silently through the small crowd, topping up glasses. And the high, tinkling, affected laughs of the women, mistresses and actresses and courtesans, not a respectable one amongst them. The latter were all beautiful creatures, all expensively and provocatively attired, their necklines so low as to reveal nipples that had been rouged to attract even more attention, the skirts revealing, even transparent in some cases. It was most certainly a demi-monde affair. And then all at once the talking seemed to fade away to leave a hush.
He saw the almost imperceptible effect that rippled through the room the instant she appeared. All eyes riveted to the door. In the men there was a sudden gleam of both interest and appreciation, a puffing out of chests, a preening, a sharpening of expression that was almost predatory. And beside them the change did not go unnoticed by the women who stood by their sides. While their men’s darkened with desire, the women’s eyes narrowed. Linwood did not need to look to know that it was Venetia Fox that stood there in the doorway, but he looked anyway… and was not sorry that he did. The murmur of conversation began again.
Venetia saw Linwood almost immediately. He was standing by the farthest window, alone, unsmiling, emanating an air of such dark, brooding intensity as if to ward off any that might approach him. Their eyes met through the crowd and her stomach tumbled and swooped and that tiniest of moments stretched and expanded to fill the room and render it empty save for the two of them. With every beat of her heart she could feel something of him calling to her, every thud that reverberated through her chest; inside knowledge spinning a false sense of connection between them.
‘Miss Fox, so delighted you could come this evening.’ Razeby’s voice smashed the illusion, bringing her back to reality, allowing her to break free from Linwood’s gaze. She smiled at Razeby with gratitude.
‘It is a pleasure to be here.’
‘A glass of champagne, first, and then allow me to introduce you to a few of my friends before we go in to dinner.’
She saw the way his eyes flickered towards Linwood before coming back to hers.
She met Razeby’s gaze boldly, almost daring him to say something of the request she had made, a hint of amusement playing around her lips. She knew that he would have told Linwood.
Razeby made no mention of it; he was too shrewd for that. She drew him a small wordless acknowledgement and accepted the crystal glass of sparkling wine, touching its rim to her lips without actually drinking anything of it. Then she allowed Razeby to make his introductions without a single word or glance in Linwood’s direction. And all the while, she prepared herself and focused her mind on what she was here to do—to see that a man guilty of murder did not evade justice. It was the least she owed to Robert and to the man she could only ever call Rotherham, even if he was so much more.
The forest-green silk she was wearing had cost her a fortune, but was worth every penny. Both the cut and colour suited her well and gave her a confidence in her appearance. The skirt clung just a little to her hips and legs, the neckline showed the promise of her breasts. To Venetia it was like donning her armour. She knew her weapons well and wielded them with expertise.
She exchanged pleasantries with Fallingham, Bullford and Monteith. Spoke to Razeby and Alice, who, having taken her advice, was wearing an almost-virginal gown of cream silk that Razeby seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes from. Until, eventually, she found Linwood before her.
‘I believe that you have already been introduced to Lord Linwood?’ Razeby said for the benefit of those that surrounded them. She knew her every move was being scrutinised, that who she spoke to and what she said had every chance of appearing in tomorrow’s gossip sheets.
‘We have met,’ she said and her eyes touched Linwood’s and, despite how much she had steeled herself against it, she felt that same nervous fluttering in her stomach.
‘If you will be so kind as to excuse me, for a moment…’ Razeby melted away, leaving her and Linwood alone in the crowd.
‘Miss Fox,’ he said, his eyes never leaving hers.
‘Lord Linwood.’
The dinner gong sounded before Razeby’s butler announced that dinner was served in the dining room.
‘Allow me to take you in to dinner.’ Linwood’s voice was low, the words polite, assertive rather than forceful, but there was something in the way he was looking at her that made a shiver run over her skin.
‘What a pleasant suggestion,’ she said and arched an eyebrow ever so slightly. Both of them knew it had been her suggestion. He was cleverer than most men, she thought, more perceptive.
‘I thought so.’ His smile was small, secret, the jest shared between just the two of them.
She flexed her lips in return and, tucking a hand into the crook of his arm, let him lead her into the dining room.
The food was exceptional, as it ever was at Razeby’s table, guinea fowl and peacock, goose and a pie of turkey and ham combined. A medley of the sweetest quinces, potatoes sliced and scalloped in a cream sauce with capers, rabbit jelly, spiced leeks and ginger-fried cabbage, and an enormous tart, each slice of which contained a different honeyed fruit, and on a fine glass dish all of its own a rich plum pudding. But afterwards, had he to say what they had eaten Linwood could not have told them. His attention was too much on the woman by his side.
She did not flirt. Indeed, she did nothing of what he expected. Rather, the conversation between them flowed easily and naturally. They spoke of Bonaparte and the war that was raging across the Continent, of the exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts and Captain Diamond’s wager with Milton. Anything and everything, but nothing that touched anywhere near the subject of Rotherham and all that worried him.
The time passed too quickly, too comfortably. Just an hour in her company and already he felt something of the darkness lift from him. The burden that he carried grew light. She engaged him completely, making him forget in a way that his family and friends and everyday life could not. And when the plates were cleared away and the table brushed down, he found that he did not want her to leave.
‘I believe our evening is at an end, Lord Linwood.’ Even just the sound of her voice stroked against him to both soothe and excite. He breathed in the scent of neroli that seemed to follow wherever she went and watched her beautiful face and those clear pale eyes that only hinted at the mysteries that lay beneath.
‘It does not have to be,’ he said in a voice that was for her ears only.
They looked at one another, her eyes scanning his as if she would take the measure of him.
At the head of the table, Razeby got to his feet. ‘And now I have a surprise. Something new to bring to my table. A feast for both the eyes and the lips.’
The double dining-room doors opened and six footmen, three on each side, carried in what looked to be a long silver salver on which lay a masked naked woman who had been strategically and artistically decorated in fruit. Sliced oranges overlapped sliced lemons and limes, apples, green grapes and red ones, blackberries and gooseberries—the rainbow medley lay against her skin and over it all a fine white powder of silvered icing sugar had been dusted. He doubted that any of the men would be wondering where the hell Razeby had found such a variety of fruit so late in the year.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Miss Vert.’ Miss Vert, whom no gentleman in the room could fail to be aware of, was a courtesan from the London’s most famous high-class bordello, Mrs Silver’s House of Rainbow Pleasures.
Razeby’s footmen placed the salver on the table before them.
Linwood felt Miss Fox stiffen beside him. He glanced round at where she sat on his left-hand side and caught the look that passed between her and Miss Sweetly. Miss Sweetly gave a tiny shake of her head and smiled at Miss Fox, then the younger actress’s gaze shifted to his, lingering there for only a moment, before moving back to Razeby by whose side she was seated. He saw Razeby thread his fingers through hers where their hands lay on the table, uncaring of who saw it.
He and Miss Fox were seated close to Razeby at the head of the table. Miss Vert’s head lay on the salver before them, so close that he would not have had to stretch out his arm if he wanted to touch her, so close that he could see the slight quiver of the soft green feathers and glittering glass beads that made up the mask that hid the upper half of the woman’s face. Against her mouth a cherry had been placed like a glossy red pearl on the cushion of her lips.
‘Something beautiful to grace the scene while the ladies withdraw to their own refreshment and the gentlemen enjoy their port,’ Razeby said.
The room was filled with lewd laughter and ribaldry, even though the women’s chair legs were yet scraping the floor and not one of them had left. But then they were the demi-monde and did not warrant handling with the same consideration accorded to the respectable women.
Venetia Fox’s expression had not changed. It remained unfazed, controlled, unreadable, yet Linwood could sense that it was as much a mask as the green feathers of the courtesan spread out on the table before them. Her eyes met his and for the smallest of moments they were unguarded and he saw in them outrage and anger and a strength so formidable that it shocked him. Not one word passed her lips, not so much as a frown marred her face, but the tension that rolled off her in great crashing waves was a living, breathing, palpable thing. He wondered that no one else in the room seemed to be aware of it. And then the door closed as suddenly as it had opened and there was nothing there to suggest that she was in any way discomfited.
‘If you will excuse me, Lord Linwood,’ she said in a voice that made him doubt what he had seen in her eyes. And then she was gone.
Venetia asked the footman to fetch her cloak, then discreetly took Alice to one side in the hallway instead of entering the drawing room with the rest of the women.
‘Come with me. Do not stay here.’ Venetia spoke low and urgently, for her friend only. But Alice shook her head.
‘I think Razeby means to increase his offer and I know how to handle him.’ She touched a hand to Venetia’s arm. ‘You shouldn’t trouble yourself about Ellen…’ her eyes slid in the direction of the dining room they had just left ‘… Miss Vert, that is. Razeby won’t let anything happen to her and he’s paying her well enough.’
‘The woman in there, Ellen… was she a friend of yours?’
Alice nodded. ‘Still is. All Mrs Silver’s girls look out for one another, always.’
‘Tell her she can come to me. Tell her I can help her to leave Mrs Silver’s just like I did you.’
‘She doesn’t want to leave. She earns more money than I do. And she likes what she does.’
‘Does she like being at the mercy of all those men in the dining room right now?’
Alice glanced away, an uncomfortable expression on her face. ‘It’s the way of the world, Venetia.’
‘Just make her the offer, Alice.’ Venetia looked at her friend. ‘Please.’
Alice nodded. ‘I will, but I know what she’ll say.’
The two women looked at one another.
‘I will see you back at the house later.’
‘Maybe.’
Venetia knew it was pointless to argue with Alice. ‘Remember what I said about holding out despite all of Razeby’s persuasions.’
Alice nodded. ‘I will.’
The footman arrived with her dark fur-lined cloak, sweeping it around Venetia’s shoulders. She thanked him before he disappeared into the background once more.
‘And I’ll convey your apologies to Razeby.’
‘With the utmost insincerity, please.’ Venetia smiled and watched her friend slip into the drawing room.
‘Has my carriage arrived?’ she enquired of the same footman who had brought her cloak.
‘It has, ma’am, but there’s been an accident involving two carts along at the junction. None of the carriages can get out that way. They think it will be an hour before the road will be cleared. Shall you be joining the other ladies while you wait?’
The ribald laughter of the men sounded from the dining room, stoking the disgust and anger in Venetia’s belly. ‘No.’ She would be damned if she’d stay in this house a moment longer. Her stomach cramped tight at the thought. ‘My home is not so far. I will walk.’
‘Walk, ma’am? Alone, ma’am?’
‘Positively scandalous, is it not?’ She smiled at the footman, who was staring at her as if she had grown two heads, and swept through the door that he scrambled to open.
It was a relief to feel the chill of the night air against her skin and in her lungs. And even more of a relief to hear the front door close behind her. She instructed her carriage to wait in case Alice decided to use it. Her slippers made no noise against the pavement as she made her way past the few carriages that waited there, along to the end of the street and past the scene of the collision of the two carts.
She thought of Miss Vert lying there on the salver, exposed and vulnerable, and the thought made a hollow of her stomach. She thought, too, of Linwood in there with the other men, feasting upon the woman, and a wave of disgust flooded through her blood. She walked on, turning down Bear Street and heading towards Cecil Court. She was listening, watching, aware of the darkness that surrounded her and the emptiness of the streets. There was a risk in walking, especially alone, but the thought of staying in that house, knowing what was happening in the dining room, made the risk one she was prepared to take. Ten minutes more and she would be home. Ten minutes more and she would be safe.
The street lamps in this stretch had not been lit, which whetted her nervousness all the more. She found herself walking faster and clutching all the tighter to her reticule. A small dark shape darted out from the stairs that led down to beneath the door of the smart town house she was passing, making her start and inhale a breathy gasp. The cat mewed at her before running off into the night, its sooty fur merging with the blackness of the night. She gave a small shaky laugh, annoyed at herself for being so jumpy, telling herself not to be so ridiculous… just as the two men stepped out from where they had been sitting on the same stone-hewn stairs and, side by side, sauntered towards her.
Venetia stopped.
‘Didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am.’ The man’s voice was as rough as he looked. He was about thirty years of age, of medium height and bulky build. A dark cap had been pulled over his head, hiding his hair. There was a sleazy insolence in the way he was looking at her that negated the politeness of his words. His companion was younger, with a face that had been ravaged by the pox and eyes that threatened violence and more. Venetia’s heart began to thud in earnest.
She saw their gazes wander over the heavy fineness of her long cloak, over the small glittering reticule, the handle of which was looped around her wrist beside the sparkle of her diamond bracelet, before sweeping back up to her face.
‘Bit dangerous for a lady to be walkin’ the streets all alone at this time of night,’ the bulky man said. ‘Especially one that looks like you.’
Venetia did not deign a reply.
‘But then again, maybe you’re no lady.’ That brazen appraisal swept the length of her body again, as if he could see through the thickness of the cloak that shrouded her. ‘Ain’t you that actress?’
Her mouth felt as arid as a desert as she hid her hands and the reticule within her cloak.
The man saw the slight movement and laughed. ‘That’s not gonna help you, darlin’.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she said, ‘but this might.’ She slipped her hand from the cloak and aimed the small ivory-handled pistol at the ruffian.
He smiled, but she saw something flicker in his eyes. ‘So you want to play it the hard way?’
Her own lips curved in the semblance of a smile. ‘Walk away now and I will not shoot you.’
‘I don’t think so, lady. Besides, I doubt you even know how to—’
‘Oh, but I assure you….’ her finger squeezed before the sentence was finished ‘… that I do.’ The shot was loud for such a small weapon.
‘You shot me!’ He stared at her as if he could not believe it, clutching at his blood-seeping thigh.
Venetia began to run, but the other thug tackled her as she passed, grabbing her and holding her in a vicelike grip that she could not escape.
‘We gotta get out of here, Spike. The noise of the shot’ll have the watch here. What will we do with her?’
‘Bring her with us. I’ve got a score to settle with the bitch.’
Venetia tried to control the panic.
‘I do not think so.’ A voice sounded from a little away, a voice that was low, but so deadly and certain that it cut through the night like an arrow, and made her heart tumble with recognition: Linwood.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Spike asked.
‘That is irrelevant. Move away from the woman.’ The expression on Linwood’s face did not alter. It was closed, indifferent almost. And all the while his gaze remained fixed and steady on the villain. There was an unnerving stillness about him, a calm that was more dangerous than any swagger or shouted bravado. The very air was ripe with danger, the threat so real that only a complete fool would fail to recognise it.
No one moved. No one spoke. But Venetia felt the villain’s fingers tighten around her arms.
And even though she was waiting for it, holding her breath in expectation, Linwood’s move, when it came, still shocked her. He lashed out quick and deadly as a viper, the wolf’s-head of his walking cane flashing silver in the moonlight as he swung it to land hard against the head of the villain who held her, sending the villain reeling and freeing her. Then Linwood kicked the leg of his accomplice that held her bullet. The man screamed with pain as he crumpled to writhe in agony on the pavement.
Linwood did not even look at the men he had felled. Just walked up to her and, taking hold of her arm, guided her briskly away down the street. By the time the doors of the surrounding houses had opened and lanterns were being held aloft, Venetia and Linwood had been swallowed up by the darkness. Only when they turned the corner into the next street, the street in which she lived, did Venetia stop and stare up into his face.
‘What are you doing here? I thought that you were still at Razeby’s. I thought you were…’ Eating fruit from a courtesan’s naked body like every other debauched gentleman in the marquis’s dining room.
‘The after-dinner entertainment was not to my taste.’
Her eyes searched his, looking for the lie and finding no hint of it.
‘And then I learned that you had decided to walk home alone.’ He sounded as if he were distinctly not amused. His face was as stern as when he had faced the two ruffians. ‘A foolhardy decision, Miss Fox, and I had not thought you foolish.’
She flushed beneath the harshness of his criticism, knowing he was right and balking all the more because of it. ‘I had no mind to stay in that house a moment longer. Besides, I was not exactly defenceless.’
‘So I saw.’ And she was not sure if he meant what he said or was being ironic. Her cheeks burned hotter. They both knew what would have happened had he not arrived.
‘Next time, wait for me.’
‘Next time?’ she demanded, her temper sharpened by her wounded pride. ‘I believe you are a trifle presumptive, my lord.’
He said nothing, gave no hint of reaction upon his face. Just looked at her and there was something in those dark eyes that made her feel ashamed of her pettiness.
‘Forgive me,’ she murmured, glancing away. ‘I am grateful for your intervention.’
She turned her eyes back to his and they looked at one another through the darkness. She should feel as afraid of him as the two ruffians that they had left behind. But what she felt was wary curiosity and physical attraction, not fear.
‘I will see you safely home, Miss Fox.’ He did not offer her his arm. He did not smile.
She gave a nod, knowing that she was close to ruining all that she had worked upon with him, knowing that she should say something to redeem herself and the situation, but unable to do so. She felt uneasy, uncomfortable, shaken more than she wanted to admit. Not by the two men, but by Linwood.
They walked side by side, in silence, an awkwardness between them that had not been there before, only stopping when they reached the front door of her home.
‘Goodnight, Miss Fox.’ She felt as if there were a hundred miles between them, that all of the rapport that had flowed between them earlier in the evening had gone, that she was in danger of losing the game when it had barely begun. He rapped the knocker on her front door, then walked away.
‘Linwood,’ she called out, before she could change her mind.
The dark figure stopped by the railings. He turned slowly and looked at her, and the light of the nearby street lamp illuminated him in its soft yellow glow. She walked slowly towards him, ignoring the front door opening behind her, walked right up to him, her gaze never breaking from his, reached her face up to his and brushed his lips with her own.
‘The next time I will wait for you,’ she said softly.
She saw something flicker in the darkness of his eyes, then she found herself in his arms, his mouth upon hers, kissing her.
Linwood’s mouth was masterful. He kissed her and she forgot what any of this was supposed to be about. He kissed her and Venetia had never known a kiss like it. Her heart thundered, her pulse raced, every inch of her skin shimmered with a desire that was all for him. She had never experienced anything so raw, so powerful, so shockingly arousing. Her body melded to his, her arms winding themselves around his neck as she clung to him, wanting him with a passion that roared in her ears and fired her blood to unbearable heat. His tongue stroked against hers, lapped, teased, enticed, and her own leapt to meet it. He kissed her and everything else in the world seemed to slip away and the heat for him, the desire for him, roared with a primitive ferocity.
She broke the kiss, drawing her face back and staring into his eyes, those dark dangerous eyes that hid so many secrets. She was shocked at her loss of control, shocked at the strength of feeling coursing through her, at the blatant physical desire that had her body pressed to his and a heat scalding the tender skin of her thighs. She stepped back, opening up a space between them, feigning a control she did not feel.
They stared at one another through the darkness, both their breaths loud and ragged in the still silence of the night. The tension hummed in the small space between them. She did not trust herself to speak, only to turn and slowly walk away into her bright-lit hallway. Only then did she glance back to find him still standing there, watching her. Their eyes met once more before the door closed and her butler turned the key.
She sagged back against the solid support of the thick oaken barrier, wondering if he was standing out there still. Her legs felt weak. She touched a finger to her kiss-swollen lips.
‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ Albert, her elderly butler, peered at her with concern.
She nodded. ‘Perfectly.’ She forced a smile to allay the worry from his face. But it was a lie. Venetia was not all right. She felt hot, aroused and more disturbed than anything by her reaction to Viscount Linwood.
‘There is no need for a night porter tonight. Miss Sweetly will not be home until tomorrow,’ she said and made her way towards the large sweeping staircase.
‘Very good, ma’am. I’ll send Daisy up to attend you in your bedchamber.’
‘Thank you.’
But even when her maid had helped her to change into her nightdress and Venetia had climbed beneath the bedclothes she could not sleep. She could not even lie still, let alone close her eyes. There was a tension throbbing through her that had not been there before. Her body felt restless and twitchy, her mind, milling a thousand thoughts.
The after-dinner entertainment was not to my taste. Linwood’s words seemed to have etched themselves upon her brain. It should not have mattered to her in the slightest. Even if he had climbed upon Razeby’s dining-room table and ridden Miss Vert before them all, such an act paled in comparison to what he had done. And yet Venetia found that it did matter, very much. He had not stayed to indulge a base appetite with the other men. He had come after her. And only because of Linwood was she lying here safe now within her own bed. There was a heavy irony in that. And in the fact that she was attracted to him… and he to her. She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that it made her objective both more difficult and easier at once. The sooner she discovered something useful against him, the sooner all of this would come to an end. But she would have to be careful, careful in a way that neither she nor her brother had ever contemplated. Careful not of Linwood, but of her own response to him.

Chapter Four
Linwood stood alone in his rooms, gazing down into the dying embers of the fire. The open newspaper still lay on the table behind him, the London Messenger, the newspaper that Linwood owned, discarded where he had left it earlier that day. The last rallying flicker of the flames danced upon the crystal glass held within his hand, burnishing the brandy within a rich deep auburn. He swigged a mouthful, relishing the smooth aromatic burn against his tongue and the back of his throat, and for the first night in such a long time he had not given a thought to Rotherham.
Her image was etched upon his mind. It seemed that he could still smell the faint scent of her perfume and taste her upon his lips. And just the memory of that kiss, of her body against his, and all that had flared between them, made him hard. He wanted Venetia Fox. He had wanted her since that first night on the green-room balcony. Linwood had had his share of women, but none compared with her. She was a woman more beautiful than any other. Intriguing. Irresistible. And it seemed that the attraction that he felt for her was reciprocated. There was definitely something of a connection between them. Desire rippled through him. Maybe Razeby was right. Maybe a little distraction would be no bad thing. Maybe then he would be able to sleep at night without first drinking half a bottle of brandy.
He set the glass down on the table, and as he did so his eye went to the article uppermost on the neatly folded page; the same article he had read and reread since yesterday. Lord Dawson of Bow Street announces that the shooting of the Duke of Rotherham was murder. His arousal was gone in an instant. His mind sharpened. The problem was not going to go away. He had the horrible feeling that instead of the ending it should have been, Rotherham’s death had started something, something that, if not contained, would destroy them all. He could not afford distraction, even distraction as enticing as Venetia Fox, not when he had a murder to hide. He lifted the bottle of brandy and topped up his glass.
Venetia was still out of sorts the next afternoon. Because of what had happened the night before with Linwood. Because he had not yet called upon her, even though, had he called unannounced, she would not have received him. And because of what Alice was now saying as she sat opposite her in their drawing room.
Venetia studied her friend’s face, the pallor of her skin and shadows beneath her eyes that betrayed a night spent not in sleep, and the triumph and the excitement that radiated from her every pore.
There was an uncomfortable silence, in which Alice had the grace to blush.
‘You have accepted Razeby’s offer.’ Venetia could not keep the disappointment from her voice.
‘He’s offered me two thousand a year, and the house in Hart Street. How can I refuse?’ She paused. ‘Please understand.’
‘You are placing yourself at his mercy, Alice. What happens when he tires of you and takes a new mistress?’
She shrugged. ‘If it happens, then I’ll move on and find another protector.’
‘When it happens.’
‘I’m going into this with my eyes wide open, Venetia. I’ve made up my mind.’
‘Flirt with him, tease him. Sleep with him if that is what you so truly desire, but do not give yourself into his power.’
‘It’s too late,’ said Alice. ‘I’ve accepted him.’
‘It is never too late,’ said Venetia.
‘Really it is.’ Alice’s gaze met hers. There was a small silence. ‘I want him,’ she said simply, as if that explained it all. ‘I want this. Please be glad for me, Venetia.’
Venetia gave a sigh, followed by a smile of resignation. ‘If you are happy, then I am glad.’
Alice smiled. ‘And what of you, last night? Linwood came looking for you. Did he find you?’
‘He did.’
‘And?’ Alice demanded.
‘He walked me home.’ She made no mention of the ruffians who had attacked her, or of Linwood saving her.
‘You really do like him, don’t you?’ Alice looked worried.
She could not like a man like Linwood. Not when she knew the secret he was hiding. And yet… She thought of the way he had not taken part in the feasting upon Miss Vert; the way he had come to protect her, instead. And the dark sensual attraction that simmered between them. ‘He is different to any other man I have met.’ It was the truth.
‘Venetia…’ Alice chewed on her lower lip. ‘You should be careful of Linwood. He’s not a good man.’
A chill stirred in Venetia’s blood. Her gaze sharpened. ‘That is the second warning you have given me of him, Alice. If there is something I should know…’
Alice bit her lip again as she always did when she was uncertain or worried.
‘I concede I have an interest in him, if that makes a difference in your decision to speak.’
‘I swore I’d never tell, but…’ Alice hesitated. ‘I think you need to know, Venetia… the part with Linwood at least.’
Venetia nodded, her senses quickening, her heart beating that bit faster. ‘Go on.’
‘It was when I worked for Mrs Silver. Linwood came to her House of Rainbow Pleasures and—’
Venetia felt her stomach contract and a sudden sick feeling of dread. ‘Linwood was your client?’ she whispered in horror.
‘No!’ Alice glanced up, shocked at the suggestion. ‘Not mine, or any of the other girls. No,’ she said again and frowned as if the memory was unpleasant. ‘He came for information. Offered a fortune for us to betray one of our own.’
‘One of your own? I do not understand.’
‘The identity of one of Mrs Silver’s girls. As you know, none of us ever revealed our faces or our real names in full. But this one girl, well, it was a bit more than that. We were all sworn to extra secrecy over her. Paid a lot of money to keep our mouths shut. So I can’t speak of her, but I can tell you that Linwood offered much money for even the smallest scrap of information on her.’
‘He wanted her?’ Venetia’s voice was quiet.
‘Not in the way you’re thinking. There was a big scandal over the girl and a certain eminent nobleman. Linwood wanted information, for himself, for his father and their newspapers. He owns the London Messenger, you know.’
‘I did not,’ said Venetia, making a mental note to inform Robert of that fact at their next meeting.
‘He’s dangerous.’
‘Did he threaten you?’
‘No, nothing like that. He and his father are reputed to have been up to all sorts of shady dealings. He’s handsome, Venetia, handsome as the very devil, and with something of that same darkness about him. I would that you would take Devlin or Hawick instead.’
‘I do not want Devlin or Hawick.’
There was a silence.
‘Then be very careful over Linwood, Venetia.’ The same words Robert had used. ‘He is cold and untouched by emotion. Nothing affects him. Linwood may make for an exciting lover, but… he’s dangerous.’
And Venetia meant to discover precisely how dangerous.
Linwood sat in his box in the Theatre Royal that night and watched Venetia Fox upon the stage. That she could absorb him in the story she was weaving upon the stage, even though he had seen the play already, rather than studying the woman herself, was testament to her acting abilities. He dragged his attention away, swept his gaze over first his mother and then his sister sitting by his side. Marianne’s focus was intent upon the play, the emotions that played across her face showing that she was caught entirely in the fate of the character Venetia was portraying. There was a contentment and a confidence about his sister these days, and Linwood was glad of it. His eyes moved to the man responsible, her husband who sat on the other side of the box, Rafe Knight.
He waited until the interval, then left with Knight to fetch the women refreshments.
‘You saw yesterday’s copy of the Messenger?’
‘Of course.’ Knight’s mouth tightened. ‘The Bow Street office has discovered that Rotherham did not die by his own hand.’
Linwood thought of the rumour of suicide, the seeds of which his own newspaper had sown.
‘Murder or suicide, either way there will be an end to it now,’ said Knight.
Linwood shook his head. ‘There will be questions and digging into the past. An investigation risks stirring up that which should remain hidden.’
‘The bastard is causing trouble even from beyond the grave.’
‘Maybe you should leave town, take Marianne to the country for the winter.’
‘We’re better off here, knowing what is happening. If the truth comes out…’
Linwood felt his face harden. ‘It will not come out. I will see to that.’
The two men looked at one another with respect. Neither liked the other, but they were united in a common cause.
Knight gave a nod. ‘You have not asked me.’
‘And you have not asked me,’ said Linwood. ‘It is better if we leave it that way, for Marianne’s sake.’
Knight gave a grim nod of agreement.
It was the night after Linwood had brought his family to the theatre. Venetia’s night off, if attending Fallingham’s ball could be described as such a thing. She was so busy keeping track of where Linwood was in the ballroom that she did not notice Hawick’s approach.
‘Venetia…’ His voice was low and possessive. She felt her heart sink even as she turned to face him.
‘Your Grace.’ She curtsied.
Hawick’s gaze lingered over her breasts as he spoke. ‘Come now, there is no need for such formality between us.’
‘There is every need and I do not wish to insult you,’ she said.
‘As if you could ever do that.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Are we not friends?’
‘In as far as men and women can ever be friends.’
He laughed.
She smiled up at him, her smooth practised smile that held just the hint of seduction.
‘Are you enjoying the ball?’
‘Indeed. It is a sumptuous affair, your Grace.’
‘My name is Anthony, Venetia. I would that you used it.’
She smiled again, as if in agreement, but she did not use his given name. ‘Lord Fallingham has gone to much expense.’
‘It is nothing compared to the ball I will give for you.’
‘We have been through all of this before.’
‘Indulge me,’ he whispered.
She smiled and looked into his eyes. ‘You know that I indulge no one save myself.’
He smiled. ‘You are a cruel woman, Venetia.’
‘But an honest one.’
He laughed again. ‘Come place your hand within my arm and let us take a small promenade around the room.’
Despite the antipathy she felt towards Hawick and his arrogance, she tucked her hand into his elbow and let him lead her round the edge of the ballroom. She was confident in her ability to remain in control, but when they got to the small exhibition room in which Fallingham had his collection of antiquities, Hawick made a quick unexpected move and, before she realised what was happening, he had steered her into the exhibition room.
‘Your Grace! I must protest.’ Venetia had spent a lifetime avoiding situations such as this. She knew that flirting with men in the safety of a crowd was one thing, but being alone with them in private was quite another.
Hawick was dressed more expensively than any other man or woman in the room. With his title and riches and classically handsome looks she supposed he was the epitome of what most women in her position sought. But Venetia had no intention of ever being any man’s mistress. Hell would freeze over before she would put herself in that position—selling herself to some rich man, letting him take everything of her before he grew tired and cast her aside as if she were a worthless piece of rubbish. Echoes of her childhood whispered through her mind, fuelling her determination and disgust all the more.
‘I am sure that you will agree it is far beyond the time that we spoke with a degree of privacy, Venetia.’ His eyes, so clear and blue, bored down into hers. ‘Enough of letters and notes and conducting our negotiations in public.’
The moon lit the gallery in soft silver, casting shadows before the carved marble statues, gifting them with a life they did not possess.
‘Stay here and contemplate what you will. If you will excuse me, I have other dances to dance.’
He caught her wrist as she turned to walk away, pulling her back to him. ‘Not until we have spoken together.’
She raised her eyebrow and looked pointedly at where he gripped her, before shifting her gaze to his. There was nothing of enticement now, only cool wrath.
‘Please, Venetia,’ he begged, but he did not ease the tightness of his fingers around her wrist.
‘Very well,’ she said, trying to control both her anger and the little germ of panic. ‘As you are so impolitely insistent.’
‘Let us not prevaricate any longer. You know that I want you, that I have wanted you for months. I have offered you more than any other woman and always it seems the sum is never quite enough.’
‘You misunderstand, Your Grace—’
But he held up his other hand to stop her. ‘And now Devlin is on the scene, bidding against me.’
‘You are mistaken.’
‘I do not think so, Venetia. Your ploy has worked.’
‘Ploy?’
‘Using Devlin to drive up your price.’ He smiled. ‘I know the game as well as you, and, indeed, I commend you on the way you have played it. I bow to your shrewdness.’ His fair hair glinted silver in the moonlight as he bowed his head to her in acknowledgement. ‘You win. You shall have whatever you want. Carte blanche. I am yours to command. Name your price and I will pay it.’
‘As I said, you misunderstand me, Your Grace.’
‘On the contrary, I think I understand you very well, Venetia.’
‘I am not for sale.’ She spoke slowly, coldly, all the while holding his gaze with an implacable force that matched those of the words. ‘So if you would be so kind as to release my wrist I do not believe we have anything more to say to one another.’
She saw the flare of incredulity in his eyes.
‘What new tactic is this?’
‘No tactic. It is the truth.’
‘We have been in negotiations for months.’
‘No, we have not. You have sent me letters making offers. I have never replied to a single one of them.’
There was a silence in which the light in his eyes hardened. ‘You led me to believe…’
‘If I did, then I apologise, for it was never my intent.’
‘Never your intent?’ The incredulity was still there, but laced with anger this time. ‘I beg to differ, madam. You have been teasing me, cultivating my interest all of these months past.’
‘I have made my position clear.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Have you already reached an arrangement with Devlin?’
‘I have not,’ she said with a calmness that belied the harried beat of her heart and the prickle of fear that was driving it even faster. ‘Although it would be none of your business were I to do so.’
‘You think to make a fool of me before all of London. To dangle me from your fingers for yours and the ton’s amusement.’
‘This conversation is at an end.’ She tried to wrench her wrist from his grip, but Hawick’s fingers tightened, imprisoning her.
‘Not yet, Venetia.’
She felt the spiralling panic and quelled it with a will of iron.
‘You go too far, sir.’
‘Or not far enough.’ He leaned closer and the brandy was strong upon his breath. His eyes stared down into hers for a moment and she could see in them both anger and lust.
‘Unhand me!’
‘I do not like to be made a fool of.’
‘The ballroom is full,’ she threatened.
‘But we are all alone in here, Miss Fox.’ His free hand ranged over her hip, over her buttock, pulling her close enough that her thigh brushed against his arousal. ‘Besides, they all know the situation between us.’
‘No!’ she snapped. Her mind was whirring. She knew she could not start screaming like a débutante. And he was right, no one would believe her. She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Release me,’ she said again, more fiercely this time, and struggled against him, but his mouth was already moving to take hers.
‘I believe the lady does not wish your attentions, Hawick.’ The familiar voice came from the shadows, low in volume, but loud in menace.
Hawick’s gaze shot round as Linwood stepped from the corner of the room. The moonlight cast his features in stark relief, making his dark hair look only darker and his eyes as black as the devil’s. His features were as perfect and cold and sculpted as those of the marble statues that surrounded them. The wolf’s eyes in his walking cane glittered as hard as his own. In the moonlight and shadows, he looked like the most handsome, most dangerous man in the world. Danger and threat exuded from his every pore. Everything of his stance, everything of his posture was sleek, poised and watchful, and yet with that underlying edge of aggression.
‘This is between me and Miss Fox. You are not stupid, Linwood. I am a powerful man, a rich man.’ Hawick glared at Linwood. ‘If you know what is good for you, you will turn around and walk away.’
‘That sounds like a threat.’
‘Take it as you will.’
The tension in the small gallery bristled. Venetia’s heart was beating so fast she felt sick. She held her breath, waiting for Linwood to do just that. Turn. Walk away. Leave her to Hawick.
‘I am not going anywhere,’ Linwood said in his quiet, dangerous voice.
The silence that followed was tight and tense. The two men watched one another, like two dogs with hackles raised.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Hawick with the air of a man making a discovery. ‘It’s not Devlin bidding against me, after at all, is it? It’s you.’
‘Step away from Miss Fox.’
‘And if I choose not to?’ Hawick said.
Linwood looked at Hawick and the expression in his eyes was one of absolute violence, a declaration that nothing was too far, a promise of death. She felt her blood run cold just at the sight of it. Hawick must have seen it, too, for where he held her still she felt the change in him.
‘Get out,’ Hawick said to her and, releasing his grip on her, pushed her across the gallery towards the door. ‘But know that this is not finished between us, Venetia.’
‘It is more than finished, Hawick,’ said Linwood darkly.
‘We will see about that, Linwood.’
‘Close the door behind you, Miss Fox,’ said Linwood.
She hesitated to leave, afraid of what might happen between the two men. Hawick was taller and heavier than Linwood, but Linwood was lithe and lean and strong, and with such dark deadliness about him.
Linwood’s gaze met hers for the first time since he had interrupted Hawick.
She gave a nod and, turning, hurried from the gallery, leaving the two men alone.
Venetia took her time threading her way around the periphery of the floor, as if she were as cool and unfazed as ever when the truth was quite the opposite, until at last she found Alice.
‘You enjoying yourself?’ Alice looked happy.
‘As ever.’
‘Bleedin’ hell!’ Alice blurted, but she was no longer looking at Venetia. She was staring instead at a point somewhere in the distance over Venetia’s shoulder with a look of fascinated horror.
The faces around them were staring, too, at the same thing that held Alice transfixed. The music came to a natural halt and in the gap there was the spread of the hushed murmur like a wave across the ballroom.
Venetia felt the shiver of foreboding ripple across her scalp and all the way down her spine. She did not want to look, but she was already turning, just as everyone else was.
Hawick was making his way through the crowd towards the door. The white of his shirt and cravat was splattered scarlet with blood and he was holding a large bloodied handkerchief to his nose.
Venetia’s eyes widened.
‘What on earth happened to him?’ Alice whispered.
Venetia gave no reply, even though she knew the answer very well. She watched Hawick like every other person in that ballroom.
‘Devlin?’ Alice murmured almost to herself. A number of others must have been having the same thought, for once Hawick disappeared through the door, all heads turned to find Devlin. But Devlin stood at the farthest side of the room from the gallery, by the French windows, looking as shocked as the rest of Fallingham’s guests.
Venetia took a deep breath and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman, even though inside she was still shaking and her mind was reeling from the shock. All she could think of was how close she had just come to ruin, and that the man who had saved her was the one man she had thought would not. To shoot a man, unarmed and with his leg not yet fully recovered from a hunting accident, as he sat at his own desk—it took a certain type of villain to do that. Across the ballroom chatting to Razeby she saw Linwood. His dark gaze met hers across the floor and held. It lasted for only the briefest of moments, then the dance progressed and the bodies of the dancers hid him from her. And by the time the dance progressed again he was gone.
Her heart was beating fit to burst, her blood rushing too fast. She lowered her gaze, composing herself, conscious that Miss Fox must maintain her cool, collected air. So she held her head high and nodded as if she were listening to Alice’s chatter. The music played on, sweet and loud and vibrant, but all that Venetia could hear was the echo of Linwood’s voice playing again in her mind. I am not going anywhere.
He had saved her. Again. The uneasiness stirred all the more in her breast and she wondered if what she had learned of Linwood so far would disquiet her brother as much as it did her.

Chapter Five
There was a note from Linwood the next morning.
If it is not presumptive of me, may I request the pleasure of your company this afternoon for a drive in Hyde Park?
Your servant,
L.
His letters were angular, sharp, boldly formed by a pen nib pressed firm against the paper, the ink a deep opaque black, expensive as the embossed paper upon which the words were written. As she read the words it seemed that she could hear the rich smooth voice speaking them, the slight irony of his reference to ‘presumption’ following her taunt the night he had saved her from the ruffians, and see the dark handsome face, all cheekbones and harsh angles, with its lips that could drive every last vestige of sense from a woman’s head.
She screwed the cut sheet of paper into a ball, her fingers curling tight, crushing it within, tempted to throw it onto the coals of the fire and watch it burn away to nothing. She did not want to go driving with him, not when, against all rhyme and reason, he made her feel the way he did. Aroused. Attracted. Out of control. She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that she could not refuse him. This was part of what she had agreed to do, the game she had willingly entered into. With a sigh, she carefully eased the paper open, smoothing out every crease she had inflicted upon it. She stood by the window and stared at the paper for a long time in the cold autumn light, thinking of the man who had written the words and of the man he had murdered in cold blood. Then, taking a deep breath, she sat down at the small desk within her little parlour. She slipped Linwood’s letter into the drawer, then set a clean sheet of paper before her. Taking up her pen, she dipped it into the inkwell and began to write.
When Albert told her Linwood was waiting in her drawing room she felt a sense of dread and beneath it, for all she would deny it, a stab of satisfaction that he had come. Part of her wanted to have Albert send him away, and part, for all she was loath to admit it, was eager to see him. She felt unusually unsettled and told herself that she could not send him away, that she had a job to do here, that that was the only reason she must see him. She sat in front of her dressing table, staring into the oval peering glass and seeing nothing. Deliberately slowing her actions, she took her time inserting the wire of the pearl-drop earrings through the lobes of her ears, before smoothing butterfly fingers over the soft white-rabbit fur of her hat and checking the pins that held it in place.
Her dress and matching pelisse were of icy blue silk, the same colour as the sea on a sunny winter morning, clear and pale as her eyes. She was stalling, making him wait, calming herself as she did just before any performance, except that she had never felt this nervous before any other role. Taking a deep breath, she moved to resume the game.
‘Lord Linwood.’
He was standing by the fireplace, dressed in a midnight-blue fitted tailcoat, buff-coloured breeches and glossy black riding boots, as if he had known the colour of her outfit and dressed to complement it. Every time she saw him she felt that same small shock at the effect his dark handsome looks had upon her. Her eyes moved over him, noting that his hat, wolf’s-head walking cane and gloves, were still in his left hand, even though Albert must have offered to relieve him of them. The dark eyes met hers and she, the famously cool, calm and collected Miss Fox, felt herself blush. And that small betrayal made her angry and determined—which was exactly what she needed to be when she was with him.
She saw his gaze rove over her.
‘You are beautiful.’
‘You flatter me.’
‘You know I do not.’
They looked at one another and all of her body seemed to shimmer with the memory of the kiss they had shared.
‘Hyde Park,’ she said.
‘Unless you have another preference.’ And there was that same darkness in his eyes that had been there before he had kissed her. The air seemed too thin for her lungs, making it hard to breath and the atmosphere was thick and writhing with sensual suggestion. Images flashed in her mind. Too real. Too potent. His lips on hers, their tongues entwining, breathing his breath, tasting him, feeling the hard muscle beneath her fingers, her palms; the flickering flame of desire that just the scent of him seemed to fan to an inferno. She stepped back from him, from temptation, from danger.
She shook her head, the small lazy smile that curved her lips in such contrast to the race of her heart and the simmer of her blood. ‘All in good time, my lord.’
He drew her a small nod of acknowledgement, as if what would happen between them had just been agreed. Her heart fluttered with fear, but she had already turned away and was walking out of the room, out of her house, towards Linwood’s carriage.
He sat with his back to the horses, giving the direction of travel to Miss Fox.
His gaze studied her as he leaned back against the squabs. She was a woman he could have looked at for a lifetime and never grown tired. She appeared as relaxed, as cool and in control as ever she had been. But when he looked into those clear pale eyes, it was as if she had drawn a curtain behind them to hide herself from him.
‘A new landau.’ She stroked over the leather of the seats and bolster, the soft pale-cream kid of her gloves so stark in contrast to the black leather interior of the carriage.
‘My father’s,’ he said.
Her fingers touched the small neat coat of arms embroidered upon the bolster. ‘The Earl of Misbourne. Does he know that you are using it to squire actresses about London?’
‘One actress only,’ said Linwood and deliberately did not answer the rest of her question.
‘And yet you have taken an apartment in St James’s Place when your father’s house is not so very far away.’
‘You have been enquiring about me.’ The realisation would have been a compliment to any man’s ego and Linwood was no exception.
‘No more than you have been enquiring about me. You knew my direction without my telling you the other night.’
‘Then it seems we both are caught with an interest in the other.’
She glanced away, as if unwilling to admit it.
‘And yet you are not looking for a protector,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Nor you for a mistress,’ she replied silkily.
She looked over at him, her eyes meeting his so directly that he felt the desire lance through him swift and sharp. Her mouth curved to a small enticing smile that did not touch her eyes, before she turned her attention to their surroundings.
They had entered through Hyde Park Corner, taking the fashionable route along Rotten Row, although the lateness of year and the chill in the air meant the park was relatively quiet. They passed only two other carriages, one a group of elderly dowagers, who, having scrutinised the occupants of the landau, turned away as respectability deemed they must. And the other, the Duke of Arlesford and his wife. The two men exchanged a look that held distinct animosity, but Linwood was not troubled by it.
Overhead the sky was a clear white-blue and the sun hung so low that its pale dazzling light made him narrow his eyes. The chill in the air held the dampness of autumn and the leaves on the trees rustled in the flame-vivid colours, littering the grass around them. But the vibrant vital beauty of the surroundings paled to nothing against the woman sitting opposite him.
‘Your performance the other night was excellent.’
She seemed to still and, for a moment, he saw the flicker of confusion and a slight underlying fear in her eyes. ‘My performance?’
‘I brought my mother, my sister and her husband to see the play.’
She closed her eyes and smiled, and he could sense the release of tension, the relief that flowed through her in its place. He wondered at her reaction, but when she opened her eyes she was her normal self once more. ‘I saw you there, in your father’s box. How did your mother and sister find the evening?’
‘Most enjoyable.’
‘Your father did not accompany you?’
‘He did not.’ He did not expand upon it.
The breeze stroked against the fur of her hat, so that it quivered soft as down. They drove the rest of the time, speaking occasionally of nothing important, small things, and silences that were comfortable. He had never known a woman who did not try to fill them. Eventually the carriage reached the north-east Cumberland Gate. Her eyes moved to sweep over the greenery of the park and above to the sky and the sunlight. She inhaled deeply.
‘Such a fine day,’ she murmured almost to herself, ‘too often I see only evenings and nights’, and then she turned her gaze to him and smiled such a radiant warm smile. ‘Thank you for bringing me out in it.’
‘You are welcome’, and he felt his own mouth curve in response to the pleasure that lit her face.
‘Perhaps I could tempt you to a hot chocolate at Gunter’s?’ he asked as they left the park. Anything to prolong this time in her company.
‘You really have been enquiring of my vices, Lord Linwood.’ She smiled again.
And so did he.
And then the carriage turned into Park Lane and the sight there that, for Linwood, shrivelled all the sunshine of the day to darkness.
A costermonger’s barrow had overturned not far from the corner, spilling shiny red-and-green-striped apples across the road. Children swooped like starlings, chattering and grabbing and quarrelling with each other over the spoils. Linwood’s carriage was forced to stop directly outside the place he least wanted to be—the lone dark scar in the row of pale Portland-stone town houses.
Venetia stared at the charred wreckage of the burnt house, wondering if it were fate or Robert’s intervention that had brought the carriage to a halt at this very spot.
‘The Duke of Rotherham’s house,’ she said softly and the companionship that had been between her and Linwood only a moment early was ripped away, exposing it for the sham it was, even though it had felt real enough to fool her.
Linwood said nothing, but she sensed the change in him without even looking. Or perhaps the change was all in herself.
‘Apparently it was an act of arson.’ Venetia kept her voice light as if it were not a matter of such consequence of which she spoke.
‘Was it?’ All of Linwood’s reserve and caution had slotted back into place.
‘Someone must have disliked Rotherham very much indeed.’
‘So it seems.’ His expression was closed, cool, almost uninterested in the subject.
She turned her eyes to his, held his gaze with her own. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Of a fashion. My father and he ran together when they were young.’ His eyes did not so much as flicker. ‘Did you?’
She felt caught unawares by his question. She doubted any other man would have asked it of her. ‘Only a very little,’ she answered, and it was not a lie. ‘He was a patron of the theatre.’ But Rotherham had also been a lot more than that to her.
‘What was your opinion of him?’
She thought carefully. ‘He was a cold, precise man who liked things his own way, cruel in many respects, arrogant and rich, a man with too much power and yet one who did not default from his duty.’
‘Duty?’ Linwood gave a small ironic laugh.
‘He was a man of his word, to the letter,’ she said, knowing that, much as she had disliked Rotherham, she would defend him over this.
‘He was most certainly that,’ said Linwood with a hard edge to his tone as if he were referring to something specific that had happened between the two men in the past. ‘It seems that you knew Rotherham more than a little.’
Her heart gave a judder at his words. The seconds seemed too long before she found a reply. ‘Hardly,’ she said in a lazy tone she hoped hid the sudden fear coursing through her. Linwood could not know, she reassured herself. Hardly anyone knew. But it reminded her of how carefully she must tread in this game they were playing.
‘Did you like him?’ he asked.
‘No.’ Another truthful answer. ‘I tried, but I could not.’

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