The Wicked House of Rohan

Prequel to the House of Rohan Series

Anne Stuart

A fallen woman. A most wicked plan for redemption.

Venice, 1740.

Desperate, starving, Kathleen Strong makes her way to a job interview that promises a chance at proper employment…and maybe a bite to eat. Accused of “gross immorality,” she’s adrift after being dismissed from her governess position, despite being entirely innocent.

That innocence is precisely what a mysterious group of debauched aristocrats finds so alluring about Miss Strong. When they propose a scandalous offer that she can’t refuse…she can’t refuse. But if the darkly gallant Alistair Rohan, a gentleman involved in all manner of wicked deeds himself, has anything to say about it, Kathleen can escape her disrepute in another way.

Of course, the escape route looks very similar to the group’s illicit proposition itself…

Contents

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1740, Venice

Miss Kathleen Strong was so hungry she could have eaten three of the pigeons that normally fluttered through St. Mark’s Square, raw. The only problem being that they were wily little creatures, and every time she got close they flapped away, knowing that a scarecrow like her wouldn’t be providing bread crumbs.

But today it was pouring rain. There were no tourists. The pigeons had deserted the place.

Still, she could be glad of the rain. It kept her awake and alert enough to make her appointment with Sir Wesley Marblethorpe. She hadn’t had a bed in two days, and sleeping in an alleyway had its drawbacks, like rats and other nighttime predators. She had no weapon apart from a particularly nasty hairpin about six inches long, fairly suitable for jabbing a miscreant in the eye. She was long past being squeamish.

She was reasonably clean, thanks to the presence of water everywhere. Her serviceable gray dress was stained, to be sure, but she’d gotten most of the darker spots out, and she’d even managed to plait her hair in severe braids, affixing them to the base of her neck with the hairpin cum Excalibur. She knew that Sir Wesley would see her just as she was, a proper British governess, down on her luck, admittedly, but starched and proper enough; presuming he didn’t look too closely, she would qualify for whatever form of employment Sir Wesley was offering.

If she got the job she might even have enough nerve to request an advance on her salary and she could liberate her meager belongings from Signora Montalba, the beady-eyed landlady who’d kicked her out two days ago. The very idea of asking such a boon made her shrink with shame, but her last meal had been a withered apple, and that was a day and a half ago. If she didn’t get something to eat soon she was going to end up facedown in the Grand Canal.

Palazzo del Zaglia was up ahead, on one of the less busy campos. There were none of Venice’s omnipresent cats around, and Kathleen wondered idly if she’d ever eat one. Probably not. She liked cats.

In truth, there was no way to tell for sure if this large, crumbling building was indeed Palazzo del Zaglia. She should have approached it from the water side, but she hadn’t enough money for a gondola.

She would just have to hope for the best. The steady beat of the rain had turned her bonnet into a sodden mass that hung limply around her face, and her hair was plastered to her head beneath it. She would look unprepossessing indeed, but the advertisement said Sir Wesley was quite desperate. As was she. Surely a match made in heaven.

She climbed the cracked stone steps to the intimidating door and pulled the bell. Next she’d have to face a superior servant, who might just send her off with a flea in her ear. She had no idea what she’d do in that case.

But the man who opened the door was a far cry from a servant. A bit on the short side, with a little too much paunch and a simple bag wig set askew on a balding pate, he wore a well-trimmed goatee and had the smallest, meanest eyes she’d ever seen.

“Miss Strong?” He had a high-pitched, almost effeminate voice. “Miss Kathleen Strong?”

She wondered if she was supposed to curtsy. If she tried she might very well pass out at his feet, which would hardly improve matters. She managed a slight dip. “Sir Wesley?” she said hopefully.

“Indeed. But my poor Miss Strong, you’re soaked! Please come in out of the rain and dry off. My friends won’t mind waiting.”

“Your friends?” she said doubtfully, relinquishing her bonnet and reticule into the hands of the supercilious servant she’d been expecting.

“Marcello, please take Miss Strong into the dining room or whatever the hell Alistair is calling it. Miss Strong, I’ll be joining you in a moment.”

Her brain hadn’t melted in the Venetian rain, even if it felt like it. She knew, immediately, that this was not the kind of employment she was seeking. She should say she’d made a mistake, turn and get out of there as fast as she possibly could.

But where could she go?

Sir Wesley must have read the indecision on her face, and he smiled winningly, like a chubby, naughty little boy intent on mischief.

She’d dealt with naughty little boys and she knew just how to handle them. The grown version couldn’t be so different.

“Just hear us out, Miss Strong,” he said with the right amount of earnestness and charm. “I just know we can be of service to each other. Please, go with Marcello.”

The absurdity of her suspicions hit so hard she laughed. Venice was filled with the most beautiful women in the world. No one would have any use for a skinny spinster nearing thirty years of age. She was being ridiculous.

“This way, miss,” the servant said, and, consigning her doubts to the Adriatic, she followed his stiff figure down a series of passageways, hallways and salons. They were in the same declining condition of every single palazzo she’d seen since she’d arrived in this beautiful, curst city. The palazzos must be built already disintegrating.

She heard the voices well before they reached the room, and her irrational misgivings came back. Men’s voices, loud, slightly drunken.

Courage, she reminded herself. There were almost as many courtesans as there were pigeons in Venice. They didn’t want her for that. Nobody did.

Marcello pushed open the door, and the noise and heat spilled forth, accompanied by the unmistakable smell of cinnamon and chocolate. Maybe they’d feed her even if they didn’t hire her—if she just had a decent meal she might be able to attend to her desperate problems with a fresh perspective.

She stopped in the doorway, unsure what to do. And then she saw him.

He sat at one end of the table, long legs propped up on the scarred surface, and for a moment she stared. He was jaded, beautiful, dissolute, and his faint smile was dangerously seductive. All the other men in the room seemed to fade into the shadows, and Kathleen stared at him as if she’d seen a ghost.

And ghost he was. The ghost of her girlhood, when she was young and hopeful and daydreamed with her sister about the man who would be her true love.

He’d looked very much like that man, from the tousled wave of thick brown hair, the piercing blue eyes—the mouth perfect for kissing. A knight on a white stallion, come to rescue her.

Madness. He caught sight of her, and his mouth curved in a smile so cynical that for a moment she was crushed.

“I believe we have a guest, gentleman,” he announced in a lazy voice, and the sudden silence was shocking. “A little gray wren has come to visit us. Let’s make her welcome, shall we?”

She wasn’t sure what she would have done next. This announcement was greeted with such raucous enthusiasm that she almost turned and ran, but Sir Wesley had come up behind her, taking her arm in his and escorting her into the room as though she were an honored visitor.

“This is the woman I told you about. Miss Kathleen Strong, may I introduce to you our little organization, the members of the Saving Grace?”

“I thought we decided on the Heavenly Host,” a drunken voice called out.

The man at the table spoke again, his voice low, pleasant. Implacable. “What is she doing here, Marblethorpe? I thought we discussed this.”

“We came to no consensus. And Miss Strong is in dire need of employment. Aren’t you, Miss Strong?”

She had a hard time pulling her gaze away from the man’s eyes. They were a golden color, like dark honey, and that made her think of toast and tea and rich pastries…. She forced herself to look at some of the other men. All expensively dressed, albeit their fine clothes were in sad disarray after what was presumably a night of carousing. “Yes,” she managed to say in a low voice. “I’m in need of employment.”

“I don’t like it,” her hero said flatly, forcing her to look at him again. He’d discarded his neckcloth and if he’d worn a wig it was long gone. His white shirt was open, exposing a quantity of beautiful golden skin, more skin than she’d ever seen on an adult male.

And she really was losing her mind. She glanced back at Sir Wesley. The movement of her head was too swift, and for a moment blackness started to close in.

“You might get Miss Strong a seat if we’re going to continue with this nonsense,” the beautiful man said, and her heart sank. She’d already been judged not qualified for the position. She found herself settled into a large wooden chair, just moments before she took a header onto the none too clean marble floors of the Palazzo del Zaglia.

And she drifted into the golden-honey-colored eyes, as the voices flowed around her.

Alistair Rohan was annoyed, at Wesley Marblethorpe, at his dozen or so drunken boon companions, fellow intellectuals and degenerates, but most of all with himself.

He’d called this meeting of the nascent organization they’d dreamed up one drunken night. It was an organization dedicated to excess and debauchery, to questioning the status quo of faith, the existence of God and the devil, and the limits one could go to in search of pleasure. They’d taken their motto from the ancient Abbey of Theleme—DO WHAT THOU WILT—and Marblethorpe and the others were ready to jump in with enthusiasm.

Alistair was already bored with the notion. But then, he grew bored easily, particularly nowadays. What had seemed like a brilliant idea when he was roaring drunk now seemed tawdry and childish by the light of day. He didn’t need the approval of his friends to plumb the depths or heights of his erotic nature. He wasn’t interested in dressing in costumes or playing at blasphemy. He believed in nothing, therefore there was nothing he needed to flout. In truth, he had always done what he wished, from the time his bastard of a father died and left him his sole heir. There was no title—his cousin was the English Viscount Rohan—and all he’d inherited had been a crumbling castle in Ireland and enough money not to have to live there. He’d rented this moldering palazzo and availed himself of the myriad pleasures Venice had to offer, and there had been an impressive number of them, and never looked back.

In fact, it was because he’d finally run out of diversions that he and Marblethorpe and his friends had come up with this ludicrous idea of the Heavenly Host, and he hadn’t sobered up enough over the past few weeks to talk the others out of it.

He looked at the girl—no, woman—who’d been ushered in. She looked as if she might faint, which would have been an annoyance. He’d gotten her a chair because he didn’t want her smashing her skull on the floor—the marble was cracked and stained already and blood was the very devil to clean up. At least, his servants had never managed it well.

“So who the hell is this, Marblethorpe?” His voice was lazy, though he already knew exactly what this pathetic creature was.

“You know perfectly well, Alistair,” Wesley said in a stiff voice. “Miss Strong can provide the one element we need to make our revels complete. Indeed, she’s probably the only one in Venice, unless you’re willing to involve children, and I believe you all overruled me on that?”

“You’re a sick bastard, Wesley,” Alistair said evenly, turning to look at the woman. She’d started at the mention of his name—clearly his reputation preceded him, even among little gray wrens. She seemed oddly familiar, but he was certain he’d never seen her before.

“Miss Strong,” Wesley said, and the woman looked up, slightly dazed. She was pale, but her bone structure was lovely, he thought dispassionately. Too thin for the optimal sensual pleasures, but there was still something indisputably appealing.

There were no fresh glasses on the table, and he didn’t want any of his servants bothering them, so he refilled his own glass of wine, rose, and sauntered over to stand in front her. It took her a moment to look up, and when she did so, he noticed she had particularly lovely eyes. A warm brown, almost like rich chocolate, though at the moment she could barely focus. He wondered if she were a laudanum addict—they often were too thin and had that dazed look.

He put the wineglass in her cold, gloveless hand. “Here,” he said, “Drink this. You’ll need it before you hear Wesley’s proposition.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said, and it was no polite demurral. She really thought she shouldn’t.

He didn’t care what she thought. “Drink it.”

She did, and a faint blush of color rose to her pale cheeks. She started to thank him, but he turned away, taking his seat once more, ignoring the astonished looks from his fellow rakehells.

He shrugged in response to the unasked question. “She’s just so damned pathetic,” he said.

She raised her head at that, and her brown eyes sharpened. So, she was more alert than she seemed. Well, she was pathetic. Pale, thin, half-drowned.

He waved a hand at Marblethorpe to continue, and he did so with a portentous clearing of his throat.

“As I was saying,” he continued, his high, nasal voice only slightly slurred. “Miss Strong is a virtuous gentlewoman fallen on hard times. She arrived in Venice four months ago as the governess to the children of Mr. and Mrs. Brandon. After two months she was summarily turned out for improper behavior. She was able to secure another post, which lasted less than a week once Mrs. Brandon paid her new employers a visit. Since then she’s been eking out a living with English and Italian lessons and the occasional fine needlework. As you can see, the perfect impoverished English gentlewoman.”

Marblethorpe was like a cat with a mouse. He liked to torture any poor creature he managed to capture. Usually Alistair didn’t mind. In fact, he didn’t mind now, he told himself, watching her.

“Would you tell us why you were dismissed, Miss Strong?” Jasper Fenton was slightly less drunk than the evening’s ringleader and therefore able to form a coherent sentence.

She’d ducked her head again, her shoulders bowed, but she looked up at that. “Gross immorality, sir,” she whispered.

“Demme, Wesley, we need a virgin, not a blasted soiled rose,” Lord Maxwell protested.

“Hush, Maxwell,” Marblethorpe said. “Give the upright and pure Miss Strong a chance to defend herself. Were you, in fact, guilty of these immoral transgressions?”

“No, sir.” Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. She’d drained his glass of wine, Alistair noticed, and she was clinging to the empty glass so tightly he thought it might snap. It would cut her hand if it did, but he decided he’d used up his full allotment of Christian mercy for the next decade, so he waited.

“So you are, in fact, a virgin?” Maxwell continued.

She looked at Marblethorpe then, and he’d never seen anyone look more defeated in his life. “I was inquiring about a job as a governess to your little sister, Sir Wesley. I assure you that despite Mrs. Brandon’s unfortunate misapprehensions I am more than capable of providing a moral and challenging education for your sister.”

“A bit late for that,” Wesley said cheerfully. “Elspeth’s married with two brats, and she’s been having affairs since she got back from her honeymoon. I expect every man in this room has had her at one time or another.”

There was a chorus of drunken assents. Alistair said nothing. He’d been the first, seducing her away from her older husband out of boredom. If he hadn’t, the next man would have, he thought, still watching the drowned kitten before him.

No, that wasn’t quite it. A drowned cat. There was a flash of real fire in her eyes. “Then if you aren’t in need of a governess, why, pray, am I here?”

“In fact, we are in need of a virtuous woman,” Wesley announced. “A virgin, in fact. And it sounds as if, rumors to the contrary, you qualify?”

She said nothing, waiting.

“Well, then,” Wesley continued, only slightly ruffled by her lack of response. “We both appear to have problems that are easily solved. You’re in need of money to discharge your debts and pay passage home to London, am I right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “And you have a commodity that interests us, one we’re willing to pay highly for. Your virginity.”

She tried to rise, but Marblethorpe dropped his hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down.

Alistair rose then, ambling across the room, and removed Wesley’s thick hand. “If we’re doing this, and apparently we are, she needs to agree to it without any coercion from you. Look at me, Miss Strong.”

She didn’t move, her head and shoulders bowed.

“Look at me!” he snapped, and she jerked her head up. Her eyes were no longer a dull brown, they were blazing with rage. “That’s better,” he said in his coolest voice, the one his mistress once complained could freeze hell. “Do you understand what Sir Wesley is asking of you? What we’re asking of you?”

“A-all of you?” she stammered.

He glanced back at Wesley. “No, not all. One of us. We’re asking you to offer up your virginity in return for financial security and a swift trip home.”

“A few short hours,” Wesley broke in eagerly. “No restraints, no whips. Just coitus.”

“Penetration and the breaking of your maidenhead,” Alistair continued. “With an audience.”

He wouldn’t have thought she could turn any paler. She looked up at him with such hatred in her eyes that he was taken aback. What had he ever done to hurt her that she would despise him so? It was Marblethorpe who had lured her here under false pretenses.

And then the animation left her eyes. “Yes,” she said in a voice so low he couldn’t believe he’d heard it.

“Louder, Miss Strong. We need everyone to hear your assent.” His voice was like a lash, trying to sting her. He was furious, and he couldn’t imagine why. Despoiling a willing virgin as part of their silly gathering was harmless. He was a firm believer that any excess was permissible so long as those involved were in agreement, and when Marblethorpe had proposed the notion of the ritual breaking of a hymen, he’d found the idea vaguely erotic. Still did, if he looked at Miss Kathleen Strong, though he wasn’t sure he’d like an audience for it.

“I said I agree,” she said in a stronger voice. “On one condition.”

“Name it,” Marblethorpe said eagerly, but she didn’t look away from Alistair.

“That the man chosen isn’t you.”

It shocked Alistair, when he thought he was past being surprised by anything. And then he laughed. “It shall be as you wish, though I do need to tell you that you’re rejecting a true master of the erotic arts. Be that as it may, how shall we decide who gets this particular treasure?” His voice was sarcastic, almost cruel, surprising himself. Had the wretched creature actually offended him? Apparently she had.

“I found her, I should get her,” Marblethorpe said eagerly.

“Not fair!” Jasper protested. “I say we wager for it.”

“Then do so,” Alistair said in a bored voice. “Take your prize and go away. I’m in need of a nap if I’m going to be up for a certifiable orgy tonight.”

“Tonight?” the woman whispered.

He glanced down at her. “Tonight. Don’t worry, Miss Strong. The sooner it’s done the sooner it’s over, and you can be on your way back to England and forget this ever happened.”

She said nothing, and he turned his back on her, washing his hands of the whole tedious situation. He’d done his best for the wretched creature, God knew why, when he himself had the irrational urge to bed her. An hour ago, after a vigorous night, he thought he’d never want sex again.

But he did. With her. And he didn’t want anyone else to have her, which was ridiculous. He’d always shared his lovers. The whole situation made no sense.

“You can see yourselves out,” he said. And he walked away from them, closing the door behind him.

Kathleen heard them talking. He was gone, and her last bit of strength left her.

“What’s wrong with Rohan?” one man said. “He hasn’t changed his mind about all this, has he? It isn’t like him.”

“Of course not,” another man said. “He’s been setting a prodigious example for all of us in his drinking and wenching. I imagine he’s worn out. I’m just demmed sorry he’s not going to have the virgin—I would have liked to observe his technique. I’m betting he could have made her climax.”

“I’m certain any of us are capable of doing the deed,” Marblethorpe said. “Come, let’s go to my place and play cards for her. Or shall we use the dice?”

“What will we do about her in the meantime?”

Oh, please God, feed me, she thought wearily.

“Leave her here. We’ll be gathering here tonight anyway and if we take her with us we might misplace her. Alistair won’t touch her, rules and all that.”

“An excellent idea. I’ll have Marcello keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t bolt.”

Their voices were fading away, but she was scarcely aware of them. The eventual silence was so blessed she almost wept.

Alistair Rohan. Why hadn’t she known him immediately? She’d never seen eyes that captivating color on anyone but her brother’s friend.

She’d been fifteen, he’d been twenty, sent down from Oxford with her brother Jack for some prank involving chickens and the dean’s office, much to her father’s annoyance.

She’d taken one look at him and fallen madly, desperately in love, as only a fifteen-year-old can love. Of course Rohan had barely noticed Jack’s gawky little sister, though he lightly flirted with her when they’d been thrown together.

He left, and she’d never seen him again. Jack had served in India and, like so many before him, died there. Mary had died in childbirth, and their parents were already gone. She was alone, and she’d had no qualms about becoming a governess, and proved to be an extremely good one. She’d leapt at the chance to travel to Venice with the Brandon family, and then disaster fell.

Leaving her destitute, and now a whore, facing her childhood crush. She pushed herself out of the chair and went to survey the littered table, hoping there might be a scrap of food left behind. Apparently the members of the Saving Grace or the Heaven Host or whatever they were calling themselves were only interested in drink, and that one glass of wine had been a very bad idea.

Death before dishonor. It was a lovely sentiment, but she didn’t want to die. If she had the chance to go back to England then she didn’t fancy a grave as an alternative. They buried the dead on a separate island here—she didn’t want her body dumped on a barge and carried over there with the other paupers.

An hour or two in exchange for getting out of this country. She had no sure idea what would await her in England, whether Mrs. Brandon’s slander would follow her there, but she had good enough references from other families. And no one would ever need know of this.

She would think of it as a medical procedure, close her eyes and endure. At least no one would cut her open, and the pain would be marginal and quick, or so her sister had told her.

She moved over to the window seat, curling up against the bolted shutters. If Marcello showed up she’d ask him for food, which he’d probably refuse, but starvation had its own compensations. She was already so muzzy-headed she’d probably barely notice what they did to her.

She had drifted off to sleep when the door opened and Alistair Rohan came in, heading purposefully toward the table. His head was wet, and clearly he’d just bathed. She would have killed for a bath.

She sank back into the alcove. A mistake, because her movement caught his attention and he turned to stare at her for a long moment, clearly surprised.

“What are you still doing here?” he asked in that lazy voice she remembered so well.

Somehow she found she was able to answer. “They were afraid they might misplace me.”

He gave a short, sharp laugh. “You look like you’re starving,” he said abruptly. “Can I offer you some food, or will you throw that back in my face?”

“Food…would be very nice,” she said in a faint voice.

He nodded, more to himself than to her. “Come with me.”

She followed, determined not to fall over, trailing behind the straight, tall back that she’d once sighed over. The room he brought her to was small and cozy, with a blazing fire to fight off the damp Venetian chill. She stood there, uncertain what to do.

“Go. Sit by the fire,” he said irritably, and disappeared.

She did as she was bid. The chair was cushioned, the fire so hot that her hands and feet finally began to warm, and she could see steam rising from her sodden garments. She ought to be embarrassed, but it was nothing compared to what was coming later that night.

She didn’t know how long he was gone. She had probably drifted off to sleep again, because when he appeared, the supercilious Marcello was with him, carrying a heavy tray.

She almost cried then. But she swallowed back the tears as Marcello set the tray down on the table beside her, then moved it in front of her. Soup, baked eels, cold chicken, hard cheese, bread, sweet confections. She couldn’t believe the food there, and she didn’t know where to start.

“If you think I’m going to hand-feed you you’re wrong,” Alistair said, throwing himself down in the chair opposite her.

“Don’t…don’t you want any?” She’d stab him if he did.

He shook his head. “I’ve been eating regular meals. Clearly you haven’t.”

It was all she could do not to fall on the food like a ravenous savage. She forced herself to eat slowly, knowing she’d make herself sick if she shoved it all in her mouth, knowing he was watching her out of those heavy-lidded honey-gold eyes. She was past feeling self-conscious. When she finally finished she sat back, her stomach pleasantly full for the first time in weeks.

She had no choice—she’d been brought up with manners. “Thank you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No longer wanting me dead? Though I can’t imagine what I’ve done to earn your enmity. I was trying to save you from the worst folly imaginable.”

“Why? Oh, I remember. I’m just so damned pathetic,” she said.

He grinned at that. “I can tell you’re feeling better already. I’ve had Marcello prepare a room for you and a bath. You look as if you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, and you’re going to need your strength if you expect to get through tonight’s festivities.”

“A bath?” she echoed. “I’ve changed my mind—you can have me after all.” It was meant to be a joke, but it was a poor choice of words.

His eyebrow lifted again. “Kind of you,” he murmured, “but I think I’ll decline the sacrifice.”

She could feel her face redden. “I was being facetious,” she said stiffly. “But the thought of a warm bath is quite…wonderful. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Or not, as the case may be.”

“When…when do things start tonight?” He was wrong. The better she felt the more difficult it was going to be. An hour ago she’d been numb. She was coming back to life now, and the thought of what lay ahead of her was daunting.

“Late. I believe your part involves the thrust of midnight, so to speak.” He ran a careless hand through his thick brown hair, frowning at her. “You know they won’t let you change your mind. They’ll hold you down if you tell them no.”

“I won’t change my mind.” She had no choice. Back out to wander the streets of Venice like a lost soul? She’d end up raped or dead.

He shrugged. “So be it. Marcello is waiting for you. Don’t let him give you any trouble. He’s a surly bastard.”

She was being dismissed. She rose, no longer as shaky as she had been, and he stayed where he was, watching her. She’d already gotten used to the fact that gentlemen didn’t rise when she did. As a governess she was only slightly higher than a servant, but it still felt strange to have him lounge there insolently.

He was no longer the same man, she reminded herself, moving past him. But then his hand caught her wrist, halting her, and heat ran through her entire body, like an electric shock. She looked down at him, schooling her expression.

“You really don’t know what you’re doing, Miss Strong.”

“No, I don’t. If I had experience of all this I’d be of no use to you and your degenerate friends.”

He released her, and she resisted the impulse to rub her wrist. It had been a light touch, and it burned. “Get some rest, Miss Strong,” he said. And turned away from her to stare into the fire.

Marcello was beyond surly. He was more like a guard than a servant, and when he ushered her into the dark dressing room he was clearly impatient. But the copper bath was there, steam rising from the water, and she didn’t care, barely noticing that he locked the door behind her.

There was a bright fire blazing in the fireplace, and the room was positively warm. She pulled off her clothes, her fingers clumsy in her hair, dumping them on the floor. Everything, including her chemise, when she usually kept that one for bathing. It wasn’t until she slid into the hot water that she put her face in her hands and wept.

She stopped as quickly as she could, stiffening her shoulders. She didn’t want to waste the warm water with foolish regrets. There was rose-scented soap, and she ducked her head under the water then scrubbed her hair with the soap. She washed every inch of her body twice over, until the water was growing cool, and then she lay back, resting her head on the edge of the tub and closing her eyes. She wanted to stay there forever.

She heard the lock in the door, but she was too sated with pleasure to pay attention, until the door opened. She started to sit up in panic, then realized that her breasts would be exposed if she did, so she sank lower in the tub, glaring as Alistair Rohan strolled into the room, closing the door behind him.

“I thought you would have been done by now,” he murmured.

“If you’ll go away then I’ll finish,” she snapped.

He leaned back against the door, surveying her lazily. “Oh, don’t mind me. It’s nothing I won’t be seeing in full in about twelve hours.”

“Go away.”

“No,” he said in a sweet voice. “But I’ll give you a towel.”

She put out her hand, trying to keep the rest of her under the rose-clouded water. He pushed away from the door and came to stand over her, and she suddenly felt hot, so hot she wondered if the water would start to heat up around her once more. She took the towel and waited for him to move back.

He didn’t. She glared up at him. “Go away,” she said again.

“Don’t waste your breath, my love. I’m not going anywhere. Here, I’ll hold the towel for you.”

Even in the shadowy light he could see her glare, and he laughed. “Very well, I’ll back off. A few feet. But we’re going to have to talk, sooner or later.”

He really would stay there until she gave in. It was difficult, holding the towel in front of her as some kind of blanket, then trying to angle herself out of the tub without getting her hair wet all over again.

She slipped, and he was there to catch her, lifting her out, the towel a thin layer between them, his hands on her naked back as he held her.

He looked down at her, surprise clear on his face. A moment later it was gone, replaced by the sardonic languor she was fast growing accustomed to. “You’re much too thin,” he observed. “I can feel your ribs.” His cool fingers stroked her heated skin. “But I find you’re much more interesting with your clothes off.”

She yanked herself out of his arms, wrapping the towel around her. He caught her arm before she could move completely out of reach, and he picked up a thick strand of her hair. Once she’d washed it she’d let it hang over the edge of the tub and it was almost dry, its familiar strawberry-blond color warm in the firelight. “And your hair is quite lovely. Such an unusual combination—chocolate-brown eyes and strawberry hair.”

She froze. Fifteen years ago he’d teased her, flirting with her, telling her she had chocolate eyes, and it had been a joke between them. She allowed herself a brief, searching look at him, but he didn’t appear to have made any connection. He’d probably seen any number of women with chocolate eyes.

“The bed is in the adjoining room,” he said.

“Wh…what?”

His smile was wry. “You were going to take a nap, remember? Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“Please release me,” she said in response. She couldn’t think straight when he was touching her. Even the simple hold on her wrist sent waves of heat through her body, to places she didn’t even want to think about.

“Why?”

She yanked, but he didn’t let go. “If you bruise me your fellow degenerates might complain,” she said bitterly.

“I expect they’ll bruise you far worse than I will. Why do you want me to take my hand off you?”

“Because I don’t like you.”

“Try again. Don’t you have any idea why you shiver when I touch you?”

“Revulsion? Extreme dislike? Nausea?”

His slow smile widened until it was absolutely wicked, and he trailed his other hand up her bare arm, to the base of her neck, letting his fingers dance over her racing pulse. “No. But then, you wouldn’t be likely to recognize it. Try this.”

And before she realized what he was going to do he’d leaned forward and brushed his mouth against hers, a light, clinging kiss, pulling away before she could react.

She stared up at him in consternation. “Why did you do that?” she whispered.

“To make a point. It’s called sexual attraction, my innocent one. It’s a powerful force when it hits this hard. It’s animal instinct, the mating urge, and for some bizarre reason it exists between you and me.”

“Ridiculous.” She barely managed to get the word out.

He was trailing his hand up and down her arm while his other one captured her wrist. “Not at all. It’s perfectly natural. It’s just surprising it’s so powerful between us. You’re hardly my type.”

Her heart was thudding against her breast, so hard she thought he might hear it. The touch of his mouth had been devastating, and he was right, she wanted more.

“Let. Go. Of. Me.”

He smiled ruefully. “Of course,” he said, and released her, stepping back. “There are clothes waiting in the other room, though I have to admit I’d rather you didn’t put them on.”

“Whore’s clothes?”

“On the contrary. You’re missing the point. They want you because you’re innocent. For all I know they’ll dress you up like a nun.”

She slammed the door behind her, then looked for a key. Of course there wasn’t one, but he didn’t seem to be interested in following her. The clothes that lay across the bed were pristine and lovely—fresh white batiste undergarments, modest and understated, with nothing to cover them. She dressed quickly in what they’d left her—shift, drawers, petticoat and light corset. She laced it loosely, then climbed up onto the bed. She wasn’t going to think about it, wasn’t going to think about anything. She was going to fall asleep, immediately.

Which she did. But as she drifted off she remembered his mouth on hers, his hand brushing against her neck, and she wanted to weep.

Alistair Rohan stared at the closed door for a long moment. This was quite the most interesting day he’d had in a long time, perhaps years. It wasn’t the birth of the Heavenly Host after months of drunken planning, it wasn’t the incipient erotic events coming up. It was his own reactions that astonished him.

He wanted her. That pathetic little dab of a thing—who wanted anyone but him—and he was more aroused by her than by the most experienced, beautiful women in Venice, Paris or London. She was too thin, she was absolutely ignorant of any kind of pleasure, and, while her eyes brought back some hazy sense of a long-lost happiness, they weren’t enough to account for this powerful attraction.

He’d like to believe it was her animosity, but there were any number of women were wise enough not to want to have anything to do with him. His reputation was widespread—most women with sense would keep their distance.

Perhaps it was because he felt her strong attraction to him, the attraction she was too innocent to recognize. She was so untutored that she had no idea that it was sexual longing raging in her pure veins.

He could have her later. After Marblethorpe or whoever had finished with her, he could soothe the hurt and show her what love was like. He was sick of this city—he could take her back to England himself. Or even Ireland, to the crumbling old castle that was hardly as bad as this crumbling city.

He was out of his mind. Yes, he wanted to have her. He wanted to stretch her out on the bed and taste every bit of her; he wanted to push inside her, so deeply; he wanted to hear her cry out her release in his ear. He wanted her mouth on him, he wanted to…

Damn, he was hard just thinking about her. It was absurd. She’d sold herself to the Heavenly Host for a pittance and a ticket home, and the sooner he stopped thinking about her the better.

Except he’d put her in his bed. Her skin was warm and pink from the bath, smelling like roses. His sheets would smell like roses.

Marcello was waiting outside the door, the ring of heavy keys in his hand. Despite the munificent sum he paid him, Alistair was perfectly aware that Marblethorpe paid him more. “Don’t lock her in,” he said.

“No, sir,” Marcello said. And Alistair no more believed him than he would have believed Sir Wesley Marblethorpe.

He held out longer than he would have thought. It was late afternoon, and she’d slept at least four hours, while Alistair tried to distract himself with anything he could think of. In the end he gave in. He sent his valet out with instructions, poured an ewer of cold water over his head, and went to his bedroom.

She was locked in, of course. He didn’t bother with Marcello—there were other ways. There was a narrow balcony overlooking the canal that ran along the side of the palazzo, one in front of each of the main rooms, with a few feet between them. He simply jumped across to the one in front of his bedroom.

He’d done it before, dead drunk. Sober, it was admittedly easier, and he landed lightly, then pushed open the windows.

She was a small lump in the middle of his bed. She hadn’t done anything with her hair—it spread around her, and he wanted to wrap himself in it. She was still asleep. The fire had died, but the room was still warm, and he pushed the windows closed behind him, moving toward the bed.

Kathleen heard him come into the room, and she didn’t move. She’d already realized that this was, indeed, his private bedroom. Perhaps he’d just come in search of something and would leave the way he’d come.

And perhaps pigs could fly and Venice had roads. She knew why he was here, and she’d been unconsciously waiting for him. Wondering what kept him so long.

She’d even been able to sleep, which astonished her. But when she slept she dreamed of Alistair, and not the sweet, innocent hero of her childhood. She dreamed of the beautiful, dissolute rake, his hands on her breasts, between her legs, his body naked against her skin. She dreamed of heat and sweat and sex without even knowing what she was dreaming of, and when she awoke he was looking down at her.

“You’re not doing it,” he said. “Marblethorpe will have to find somebody else.”

“I have to,” she said wearily, as if to a recalcitrant child who wasn’t paying attention. “I have no other options.”

“I’m taking you back to England. My valet has secured passage for us on a packet ship that leaves tomorrow morning.”

She wasn’t sure whether she felt despair or elation. “So I get to be your whore instead of a virgin sacrifice? How is that any better? With the other, I only have to put up with it one time.”

“Wretch,” he said in his lazy voice. “Move over.”

“Now?” Her eyes widened.

“No,” he said patiently. “You don’t have to put up with anything you don’t want. I told Simpson to book two rooms. If you don’t want to share mine then Simpson can.”

“You’re telling me you’ll save me even if I don’t become your mistress?”

He sat down on the bed, next to her hip, and she scuttled over, afraid to touch him. “I’m telling you…” he began, then stopped, staring down at her. “Why do you look so familiar? Why do I suddenly feel as if I have to take care of you whenever I look at you, when frankly I don’t feel the slightest bit of responsibility for anyone else? Which makes life very difficult, because I also want to fuck you, and the two don’t go together.”

She flinched at the ugly word. What would he say if she told him the truth? Would he remember? After all these years?

And if he did, what would happen? He probably had enough decency left in him that he would leap from the bed in horror that he’d talked that way to Jack Lunning-Strong’s little sister.

It would be revenge. It would be rescue. It would be despair.

She’d come this far. She lay in his bed, practically naked, and even the touch of his eyes made her skin warm. If she told him the truth she’d get home safely, her virginity intact, and she’d die that way.

“Make up your mind,” she said, looking into his dark amber eyes. “What is it you want to do?”

He stretched out beside her, and his hand slid down her throat, brushing across the top of her breast, and she wanted to arch into it. “I want to render you unusable for Marblethorpe’s little game. I want to get in bed with you and make love to you until you weep with pleasure, and then I want to do it all over again. And the thing is, my innocent little angel, that you really want it too. You just don’t recognize it.” He pushed her hair away from her face in a gentle caress.

“You’re wrong.”

He leaned over her and pressed his lips to the corner of her eye, a light, butterfly kiss. “Of course you’d say that.” His smile was self-deprecatory.

“I do recognize it.”

He froze, as if he couldn’t believe what she’d said. It was no wonder—she couldn’t believe it either. All she knew was that if he pulled away from her now she would die.

“Well,” he said after a long moment. “Then what are we going to do about this, Miss Strong?”

She reached up and cupped his face between her hands. Bad things had happened to him since she’d once fallen in love with him, turning him cynical, but in truth she was a constant soul. When she fell in love it was forever, and in fifteen years the one thing that hadn’t changed were her feelings for him. If this was the only way she could have him then she’d take him this way. “I think we are going to render me unusable for tonight’s ceremony.”

For a moment he didn’t move. And then he leaned over and kissed her softly at first, and she wanted to cry from the sweetness of it. And then he deepened the kiss, his mouth open, and he used his tongue, shocking her, arousing her. Her hands were clutching his shoulders, and she touched his tongue with hers, shivering in response. Her breasts felt swollen, sensitive, and she was wet between her legs. She didn’t know why, all she knew was that she wanted his hands on her, all over her. He touched her breasts, his thumbs rubbing against her nipples, and the heat inside her began to build. He slid her shift down, so that her breasts were exposed in the cool night air, and then he bent down, his tongue dancing across one breast, and she heard a quiet moan, one that had to have come from her.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered against her skin, untying the corset and pulling it from her. “But I need to feed you more.”

“I like to eat,” she murmured.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said with a soft laugh, then moved to her other breast, sucking it into his mouth, and her moan was louder this time. “But we’ll save that for another time. Tonight we’ll concentrate on you.”

She had no idea what he was talking about, but whatever it was sounded wicked and wonderful. The petticoat was off her now, and all that was left was her shift and her drawers. And then they were gone as well, and she was naked beneath him, as he moved his mouth down her body, letting his tongue dip into her navel. “You taste like roses,” he murmured. “I like that.”

“Good,” she said in a strangled voice, as he slid his fingers into the curls between her legs. Of course he was going to touch her there—that was how it was done. But she knew she was wet, and she suddenly felt very shy.

But he’d already slid his hand lower, and she felt his fingers lightly touching the most secret parts of her, and it was too late. “You’re wet,” he said, rubbing his face against her stomach. “I love it.”

All right, she thought. Then maybe the wetness wasn’t a bad thing. He slid one finger into her, and she arched up, understanding why. He brought it out and put two in, spreading the moisture around, touching her, stretching her, getting her used to the feel of his hand, before she got used to the feel of his penis.

His thumb brushed against something, and she cried out in surprise as a rush of pleasure surged through her. She reached for him then, pulling at his shirt. She heard his chuckle, and he pulled it over his head and tossed it, then rolled over on top of her, still wearing his breeches, settling between her legs. She could feel that part of him, that thick, insistent bulge against her, and she shivered in reaction, arching up for him, wanting him, needing him.

He bumped against her, gently, and she cried out, trying to pull him closer. “Slow down, my angel. I want to make this last.”

“I don’t,” she said in a choked voice. “I want you now. I need you.”

He laughed against her throat, and his fingers moved between her legs again, three now, moving deep into the dampness, stretching her as he stroked her. “I know you do. And I could take you this minute and lose myself in you. But you need to know the pleasure if you’re going to take the pain.” His fingers trailed upward, touching that secret place that made her shiver and cry out. “I want you to unfasten my breeches,” he whispered, as he slid, and then rubbed, and slid, and rubbed, until she thought she’d go mad with it, and she fumbled with his breeches, practically ripping them off him, releasing him.

She was afraid to touch him, but he took her hand and placed it on his erection, and for a moment she was terrified. That would never fit inside her, it would rip her apart. But he moved her hand on him, cupping her fingers, sliding her fist up and down the way her body would grip him, and the excitement built again, wiping out her fear. This had been happening since the dawn of time, and the parts were made to fit together, even if it seemed unlikely. She ran her fingers over the head, and felt his dampness as well, and she wanted more.

“Please,” she said, stroking him, pulling gently at him, marveling at the hardness beneath the silken skin, and he muttered a low curse.

“You’re being difficult,” he chided her. “And if you keep doing that I won’t be able to hold out.”

“I don’t want you to hold out. I want you…”

“Where do you want me, Miss Strong?” he whispered in her ear, taking the lobe between his teeth and biting lightly.

She groaned in unexpected pleasure. “Inside me,” she said.

“Then let’s get this virginity done with, shall we?” he said with a laugh, and he pushed her legs apart, settling down, the head of him resting against her. He pushed in, just a little bit, and she knew a slight burning along with exquisite pleasure. Yes, this was what she wanted. This was where he belonged, the joining that would stay forever in her heart. He pushed deeper, and the pain increased, as well as the joy. She put her arms around him, sliding her hands up his sleek, beautiful back, and then she tugged at him, lifting her hips.

“More,” she said.

“Oh, God,” he moaned, and thrust deep, breaking through the barrier and coming up hard against her.

It hurt. She couldn’t help it, she cried out, and for a moment the pain was searing. And then as quickly as it came it began to recede, not completely, but to a point where it was simply a reminder that this was part of the price.

He was holding very still, looking down at her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“God, no,” she said, holding him tight against her. There was more, she knew it, and it was just out of reach, but already she was feeling waves of pleasure, the feeling of rightness. “It feels…wonderful.”

He began to move then, a slow, gentle withdrawal and surge to get her used to the feel of him. He did it again, and it felt better. “More,” she said, and he laughed, thrusting deeper, and she took it without pain, glorying in the feel of him tight inside her, filling her, joined so tightly they might never be truly apart again.

She felt her body begin to loosen, adapting to his, and she caught the rhythm, moving in answer to his thrusts. He made a guttural sound, deeper still, and she felt a shudder run across her body.

“More,” she whispered, and he moved faster, harder, and he took her hands and wrapped his own around them, his mouth on hers.

Strange feelings were rippling through her body, and she fought it, afraid. “Let go,” he whispered in her ear, arching over her, staring down at her as his hips pumped, his thick, hard penis sliding deeper and deeper. “Just…let…go.”

She shook her head, distressed, unable to speak as something dark and terrifying seemed ready to sweep over her. She didn’t want it, she wanted safety, she wanted…

“Let…go…” he said. “Don’t fight it. Let…go.”

“Don’t…want…” she gasped, and then it was too late. She seemed to explode, as her body went rigid and darkness shut down around her. Wave after wave shook her, and as each one died another took its place. Then he slid his hand between their joined bodies, touching her, and she cried out, as she felt him fill her with his seed. When she fell back, weeping, he collapsed on top of her, panting, unable to catch his breath.

Reality came back, slowly. He pulled away from her, getting up, and she was afraid he was leaving her, but he was back in a moment, a wet cloth in his hand, and he lay back down beside her and began to clean her, with gentle, loving hands.

And then he gathered her into his arms, holding her against him. His heart was still racing, his hold on her tight and protective. “I think,” he said after a few minutes, “that we should get the hell out of here. Marblethorpe is not a pretty sight when he’s thwarted, and I really don’t feel like killing him.”

She rubbed her face against his chest like a kitten. “Aren’t we locked in?” she murmured sleepily. “I don’t know if I can climb across the balconies like you did.”

“Oh, you saw that, did you? I should have known you weren’t really asleep. The thing is, I’m a very resourceful man. Marcello may have taken possession of the household keys, but I have one tucked away in here just in case I wanted to keep people out. I never thought anyone would be trying to keep me in.” He sat up, reaching for his discarded clothes. “Simpson has already packed and taken enough of my clothes with him to tide us over until we reach England, and if I know my valet he’ll have been able to provide something suitable for you as well. Simpson’s a most excellent valet.”

She sat up in the bed, her hair covering her, and watched him. “Am I going to leave in my underwear then?” she asked, pulling on her shift as he tossed it to her.

He glanced at her. “I think you’re going to need to be totally indecent and wear some of my clothes.”

“I’m not going to look like a boy—my hair is too long.”

“This is Venice, my love. No one will care.”

My love. It was a casual endearment—surely he didn’t mean it. “And what about your organization of degenerates? What will happen to them?”

“Clearly there’ll be no midnight ritual deflowering of a virgin, unless Marblethorpe can find another. In Venice it’s unlikely,” he said with a grin. “As for the Heavenly Host, I bequeath them to Wesley and his friends. Whether I like the idea or not, I expect to be quite busy enough with you.” He tossed her a pair of blue satin breeches and a loose white shirt.

She looked at him. “You don’t like the idea? You certainly don’t need to feel obligated….”

He moved back to her and pulled her off the bed, into his arms. “The only obligation I ever listen to are my own desires. I realized something when I was deep inside you.”

His words made the heat start forming again inside her, and she wanted to touch him again, go to him. Instead she reached for the breeches, pulling them up and over her shift. They were tight on her, but then, men had no hips. She pulled the shirt over her head, emerging with enough calm to say, “And what was that?”

“If you lust after someone and have an absurd and overwhelming need to protect them, then the best way to deal with the situation is to marry the person.”

She froze, looking at him. “Besides,” he said with a rueful smile, “Jack would have killed me if he knew I’d despoiled his beautiful baby sister with the huge crush on me.”

She felt the color flood her face. She swallowed. “How long have you known?” Of course he’d insist on marrying her. He was basically decent beneath it all. And she had no choice but to refuse.

“About halfway through the whole process. If I had even a shred of honor I would have stopped, but I’m afraid I’m quite impossible. You’re going to have your hands full with me.”

“I won’t marry you.”

“Of course you will,” he said. “Why wouldn’t you? You followed me around like a puppy dog all those years ago, which was pure misery, because I wanted nothing more than to toss you down in the straw and despoil you, and you were too damned young. Back then I had scruples. Fortunately, nowadays I have none.”

“Then why do you want to marry me?” she said, shoving her hair away from her face.

“I have no idea,” he said idly. “I expect I love you. Nothing else could account for such bizarre behavior on my part. I imagine the captain of the packet ship can perform the ceremony. Are you ready?”

She didn’t move. She couldn’t marry him, and she needed shoes, and she wasn’t sure which was the more important to argue about.

“Oh, shoes,” he said, noting the obvious. “I have a pair of boots that will do. If you have trouble navigating, I’ll carry you.”

“Through the streets?” she said, aghast and amused.

“It’s Venice,” he said. He reached over the bed and produced a key. “Shall we go, my love?” He held out his arm for her.

She hesitated for just a moment. “Oh, what the hell,” she said, and ran into his arms, feeling them wrap tightly around her. He kissed her again, kissed her until she was breathless, and then unlocked the door.

“We’ll live in Ireland, I think,” he mused as they left the palazzo, wandering down one of the back alleyways. “You’ll like it.”

She looked up at him. “I still love you,” she said.

“I know you do,” he replied with a cheeky grin. “I think we’ll have horses.” And they strolled down the narrow alley, across St. Mark’s Square, heading for the docks, and no one looked twice.

After all, it was Venice.

The House of Rohan

If you liked this story, be sure to read more scandalous stories about the Heavenly Host in the House of Rohan trilogy by Anne Stuart!

Ruthless

(August 2010)

Reckless

(September 2010)

Breathless

(October 2010)

“Anne Stuart proves once again why she is one of the most beloved and reliably entertaining authors in the genre. Every book she writes is witty, inventive, dark and sexy—a wild adventure for the mind…and the heart.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs on the House of Rohan series

Turn the page for an excerpt from Ruthless….

Ruthless

Paris, 1768

The visit with the lawyer had not gone well. Elinor Harriman arrived home just as her sister, Lydia, had finished dealing with their landlord, and she ducked out of sight so the old lecher wouldn’t see her. Monsieur Picot had no patience for either her or her mother, but her baby sister was a different matter. All Lydia had to do was let tears fill her limpid blue eyes and make her Cupid’s bow mouth tremble and M. Picot was destroyed, awash with apologies and assurances. He didn’t realize he was being played until the door was firmly closed behind him and Elinor could sneak up the stairs, grateful that she hadn’t had to defend Lydia’s honor if M. Picot got carried away.

He never did. None of the landlords and butchers and greengrocers ever took advantage of Lydia’s delicate beauty. She radiated such an exquisite innocence that no one would dare. Even in this less than felicitous area of town, no one would even think of offering her an insult.

“Told you,” Lydia said with an impish grin far removed from her Madonna smile. “It works every time.”

Elinor flopped into the nearest chair, letting out a groan as an errant spring poked her backside. During their last enforced move they’d had to relinquish all but their most wretched of furniture. The tiny parlor on the edge of one of the least savory neighborhoods in Paris held three chairs and a meager table that served as a desk, a dining surface and a dressing table, and the chairs were barely functional. The bedrooms were as bad. One sagging bed in the first room held their mother’s snoring body, in the other there was only a shared mattress on the hard floor. She refused to think about how Nanny Maude or Jacobs the coachman slept in the back area that served as kitchen and servants’ quarters.

And how absurd it was to have a coachman when it had been years since they’d even had a horse, much less a coach. Not since their very first days in Paris, when their mother had been in love and the two sisters had reveled in their new adventure. But Jacobs had come with them from England, under Lady Caroline’s spell as most men were, and nothing, not even a total lack of wages, could induce him to leave.

The lover and the money had disappeared quickly, to be replaced by someone almost as wealthy. In the last ten years Lady Caroline Harriman had been working her way down to a state Elinor couldn’t bear to consider. At least right now her mother was too ill to cause trouble, to go looking for another bottle of blue ruin, another game of chance, another man to finance her more important needs, which had never included her daughters.

“So how much time have we got?” she asked, reaching for her knitting. She was a wretched knitter—her handwork was atrocious but she convinced herself she could do something useful, even if her socks and vests were full of dropped stitches. Nanny Maude had taught her, but as usual she was proving less than adept.

Lydia sighed. “He’ll be back in a week, and I don’t think I’ll be able to put him off again.” Sweet Lydia was perfect in everyway, pretty and darling and clever, and her handwork was flawless. She could dance perfectly with only the cursory lessons their mother had once paid for, she could paint a pretty picture, sing like a bird, and any man who met her became her willing slave, from Jacobs, their elderly manservant, to the wealthy young Vicomte de Miraboux whom she’d met at the lending library. For a brief time Elinor had hoped their problems were solved, until the Vicomte’s family caught wind of what was going on and the Vicomte had been swept away on a grand tour of Europe.

They’d offered her money, Elinor thought, rubbing her chilled hands, and she’d probably been a fool to throw it back in their smug faces. As if a Harriman would ever stoop to being bribed. But at that moment, with M. Picot just walking away, she suddenly thought she could do almost anything if it ensured safety for Lydia and their little family. Even for their reckless mother.

Lady Caroline had been too ill to cause trouble recently. They had no money for a doctor or medicine, and the flush that had covered her body and disordered her never clear mind was a mixed blessing. Ill as she was, at least for the time being she was bedridden, unable to get them deeper in debt.

“So tell me about the lawyer, Nell,” Lydia said, calling her the pet name only she used. “Has our father left us some vast fortune to ease Maman’s final days? Or at least a minor pittance?”

“He’s left us something, though a vast fortune might be too optimistic,” Elinor said morosely. “His title and estates have been left to a Mr. Marcus Harriman, and another, undoubtedly smaller amount for us. He probably wouldn’t have left us anything if he could have helped it.” She carefully avoided the fact that whatever inheritance existed belonged, nominally, to her. Lydia’s parentage was cloudy, but most definitely had nothing to do with Elinor’s father, and everyone knew it. Though British law declared a child born within a marriage to be the legal offspring of the husband, her father had been infinitely inventive in denying either child or his ex-wife any kind of support.

Lydia sighed. “Perhaps M. Picot would be put off another week if I allowed him a few liberties. A kiss would hardly compromise my soul if it kept a roof over our heads.”

“No!” Elinor dropped another stitch, and tossed her knitting aside in frustration. She looked up at her sister. “The lawyer definitely said our father had left us something, though apparently there was some ridiculous stipulation that I would have to go to England to receive it. I just wish we’d known of his death sooner—we could have put this in motion months ago. I expect the death notice would have gone to our former residence, and since we left in the middle of the night with our bills unpaid they would have been unlikely to pass along any correspondence that might have showed up. I’m sure it won’t be too miserable an amount. He wouldn’t let his daughters starve.”

Lydia’s brief smile was wry. “Don’t try to sweeten things for me. He always said he wanted nothing to do with the spawn of the harlot he’d had the misfortune to marry. Why should he change his mind on his deathbed?”

“Well, he was still angry. It was only a few years after mother had left him, and he was the laughingstock of London. Sooner or later he must remember that we are his blood and he has some responsibility to us.”

“I thought he claimed we aren’t actually his children, didn’t he?”

Elinor could barely remember their father. He’d been a tall, singularly unpleasant man with little interest in anything but his horses and hiswomen. It had always seemed patently unfair to Elinor that his wife had been denounced for following similar interests, but she’d learned fairness had little to do with reality. “Of course we’re his children,” she said. At least Lydia had never suspected the truth about her own parentage. “I’m as tall as most men, and I have his wretched nose.”

“It’s a very nice nose, Nell,” Lydia said gently. “It gives you character, whereas I’m just a pretty little nothing.”

“There are times when I would have given a great deal to be a pretty little nothing,” Elinor said morosely.

“No, you wouldn’t. I don’t really think you want to be anyone but yourself, if truth be told,” Lydia said.

Elinor forced a laugh. “You’re probably right. I always was wretchedly strong-minded. I’d like to be exactly as I am, only fabulously wealthy. That’s a reasonable enough request, isn’t it? Unfortunately the only way to obtain a fortune is to marry one, and The Nose precludes that.”

“A very good man would appreciate you, elegant nose and all,” Lydia said firmly. “And I have every intention of marrying someone fabulously wealthy, so you don’t need to worry about it. You will be free to marry for love.”

Elinor snorted in disbelief, a very unladylike reaction. “A lovely thought, dear. But how are you going to meet this very rich man when we’re living on the edge of the Paris slums? The next move will put us in the heart of them. It’s going to come to that, eventually, and I’m not quite sure we’ll survive.”

“I have faith,” Lydia said simply. “The answer will be provided when we need it.” On top of everything else Lydia was a devout Christian, whereas Elinor had lost her faith years ago, when she’d met Sir Christopher Spatts, and now she accompanied Lydia to church only as a matter of form.

“I think the answer is long overdue,” she grumbled. “If you could make it hurry up I’d appreciate it.”

She heard the commotion coming from the back of the apartment, and Jacobs burst into the room, his hat in his hand, his weathered old face creased with worry, Nanny Maude close behind him.

“She’s gone, miss,” he announced.

There was never any question who he was talking about. “What do you mean, gone?” Elinor said, jumping up. “Is she dead?”

“No, Miss Elinor,” Nanny said, her voice thick with worry. “Your mother managed to find the last of the money I’d had for food, and she put on her fancy dress and left.”

“Oh, dear God. How did she manage that? I thought she could barely move,” Elinor said, chilled. “We can find her, can’t we? She can’t have gotten far.”

“I almost caught her, miss,” Jacobs said miserably, crushing his hat with his big, strong hands. “I thought I recognized her running down the streets, but she got in a coach before I could catch her.”

“A coach? Are you sure it was my mother? I didn’t realize she still knew anyone with a coach.”

“It was her,” Jacobs said grimly. “And I recognized the coach. Even in the streetlights I could see the crest.”

“Oh, Lord,” Elinor moaned. “What new disaster has she gotten us into? Whose was it?”

“St. Philippe.”

“Bloody hell,” Elinor said. “Don’t look at me like that, Nanny Maude. I know you raised me better, but if any occasion deserved a curse then this one does. You know who St. Philippe’s friend is, don’t you, Jacobs?”

“I don’t,” Lydia piped up, her blue eyes shining with curiosity.

“You don’t need to know,” Elinor snapped.

“It’s that devil, isn’t it?” Nanny said, her voice grim. “She’s gone and taken herself off to the devil’s lair, where there’s orgies and such, and she’ll lose the tiny bit of money we have left and probably end up sacrificed to the dark one.”

“I don’t think they do sacrifices, Nanny,” Elinor said in her most practical voice, trying to ignore her own racing heart.

“They do,” Nanny said, nodding her head so vigorously her lace cap slipped off her silver hair. “Women go in there and are never seen again. They kill virgins and drink their blood.”

“Well, if it’s virgins they kill then I think our mother’s safe,” Elinor drawled, determined to take the terrified look off her sister’s face. “And I doubt anyone will be so besotted with her that she’ll disappear. She’ll gamble away the money and then come crawling home, sick and helpless.”

“You don’t understand, miss,” said Nanny. “It’s the only money we have left. And she took the diamond brooch.”

A cold chill ran down the center of Elinor’s body. It was the last thing of value they owned, a poor piece with tiny, flawed diamonds that was worth very little, but she’d kept it hidden for an emergency that didn’t involve their deliberately self-destructive mother. She straightened her shoulders. “Then I’ll simply have to go after her.”

She ignored Nanny’s howl of protest. Jacobs said nothing—he knew there was no other choice. Lydia rose. “I’m going with you, Nell.”

“You certainly are not. If I walk into that den of iniquity I know I’m safe. They’d be on you like a pack of ravening wolves.”

“I think you overestimate my irresistibility,” Lydia said with a grin.

“And I think you underestimate it. Nanny said they drink the blood of virgins, remember?” she said with just enough lightness to allay her sister’s fears.

Unfortunately Lydia could see right through her.

“You’re a virgin too, darling, unless you’ve been keeping something from me. They’ll drink your blood too.”

Elinor didn’t even flinch. “They won’t be drinking anyone’s blood. They thrive on scandal and secrecy, but I suspect they’re not nearly as dangerous as they pretend to be,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“They murder babies,” Nanny contributed helpfully.

“Hush,” Elinor said. “I’m hardly a baby. Jacobs will takeme to the house of the Comte de Giverney and we will extract our mother and be back before midnight.”

“Begging your pardon, miss, but they were heading out of town,” Jacobs said. “I think they’ve gone to his château.”

Elinor remained calm. “And how far away is that?”

“Not far, miss. An hour out of town if we hurry.”

“Then we’ll be back by dawn,” she said. “Safe and sound, and this time we’ll tie mother to the bed when we can’t watch her.”

“And how do you intend to get there?” Lydia said.

“Last I heard we had no coach, nor horses, nor money to rent them. Are you intending to walk?”

Elinor shared a knowing glance with Jacobs, who backed out of the room without another word. “Jacobs will handle it,” she said smoothly. “In the meantime I’m counting on you to make certain Mother’s room is clean and ready for her. We’ll probably have to use the restraints we had from the time she was raving. It will depend on how much gin she’s drunk and if she’s been fed anything else dangerous.”

“I don’t want you going there alone.”

“I’ll go with her,” Nanny said, bless her elderly heart. She was so crippled with the rheumatics that she could hardly walk, but she’d fight a dragoon of soldiers for her babies.

“No, Nanny,” she said gently. “I need you to look after Lydia.” She met Nanny’s gaze for a moment, and a world of understanding passed between them. If by any bizarre chance Elinor didn’t come back Lydia would need someone, and Nanny was their only choice.

Nanny nodded her head, and Elinor could see tears shining in her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, you two. I’m not walking into the gates of hell. The Comte de Giverney is just a man who throws decadent parties, not Satan himself, and I’m hardly the type of female to inflame his darker passions. Besides, Jacobs carries a pistol, and he’d shoot the first man who tried to harm me. I’ll go in, ask for my mother, and they’ll probably be happy enough to get rid of her. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Except the diamond brooch,” Nanny said grimly.

If Elinor had been closer she would have kicked one of Nanny’s painful shins. The old lady had a very gloomy outlook on life, and right then Lydia needed to be hopeful. She didn’t need to learn their last hope of rescue had vanished, and if the jewelry was lost they were well and truly doomed.

Anne Stuart loves Japanese rock and roll, wearable art, Spike, her two kids, Clairefontaine paper, her springer spaniel Rosie, her delicious husband of over thirty years, fellow writers, her two cats, telling stories and living in Vermont. She’s not too crazy about politics and diets and a winter that never ends, but then, life’s always a trade-off.

For more information please check out Anne’s Web site at www.anne-stuart.com.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-6105-5

The Wicked House of Rohan

Copyright © 2010 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge

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