“Not everyone must be here for the advancement of business, surely.”
“Oh, no.” He flicked a glance toward a cluster of people, men and women Anne vaguely recognized as being well above her in rank, including a duke and duchess, and two viscounts. “Seven years ago, none of those people would have admitted me or my father into their kitchens, let alone their ballrooms. Yet now they gather in my house, eating my food, drinking my wine.”
The coldness of his tone startled her, as did the predatory animal lurking behind his wintry eyes. Good God, whom had she married?
“There must be some guests in attendance that are truly your friends,” she protested.
At this, his expression thawed. “Over there, by the windows. Those men are my friends.”
Anne followed his gaze, yet knew already who she would see. The only men other than her husband who drew attention. Certainly, even though the trio were merely conversing amongst themselves, all the guests kept glancing over at them warily as if they were dangerous beasts about to slip their tethers.
The Hellraisers.
Sheltered Anne might be, yet even she had heard of these men, her husband’s closest associates. He was, in fact, one of their ranks. Whoever had access to a scandal sheet knew of the Hellraisers. Their exploits were well documented, and if only half of the stories were true, they lived very wild lives indeed. Carousing, gambling, racing, duels, and opera dancers.
They were never mentioned directly by name. Lord W—y, habitué of the gaming tables. Lord R—l, a veteran of warfare against the French in the Colonies, lately seeing more action at certain establishments of pleasure in our fair metropolis. Mr. B—y, as feared at the Exchange as he is known for the noble company he keeps.
These three Hellraisers were spotted without their companions Sir E F-S and the Hon. Mr. G—y in a den of fashionable iniquity, after which they retired to more private entertainments at the home of Lord R—l.
The one reason why men of such wicked reputation saw admittance to polite society was by virtue of their titles. Only Leo lacked a title, but his vast fortune admitted him where absence of breeding might deny.
Surely it must be wonderful to be a man, to have such freedom.
Yet she should not trust the scandal sheets. Everyone understood that they manufactured most of what they printed, and Anne would be foolish indeed if she attributed such wild behavior to her new husband. Not without learning who he truly was.
“Come, and I’ll introduce you to them.”
Before Anne could speak, Leo took her hand and led her across the room. He’d never held her hand before, and she felt the heat of his touch travel up her arm and through her body. His hand was large, the texture of his skin rough, and she felt fragile almost to the point of breaking in his grasp.
It wasn’t an entirely pleasant sensation.
Distracted as she was by Leo’s touch, she found herself nearing a trio of men she had read about many times, but never met.
Strange. As Anne approached them, she felt a odd humming sensation, as if passing through a spider’s web made of dark, almost sinister energy. She fought the shudder that ran through her, and dismissed the thought as the product of nervous humors, or bridal trepidation.
Sinister energy, indeed. I’m merely hungry. Couldn’t even finish my chocolate this morning.
She shook off her peculiar mood, and made herself smile politely as Leo performed the introductions.
“Anne, let me give you the questionable privilege of introducing my friends. This is the Honorable John Godfrey.”
“My felicitations, Mrs. Bailey.” Thin and gingery, Mr. Godfrey bowed over her hand, and it surprised Anne that a man with a scandalous reputation could look so scholarly. In snatches of overheard conversations, she had heard her brothers and father make mention of him, that he was a figure of considerable influence within the government. There had been undercurrents of something tight and edged in the voices of her family, something she might identify as fear, but it had been more tone than actual words spoken.
How could such a bookish man also be a profligate and a political threat? Surely she must have misheard, and the reports in the papers were scurrilous.
She curtsied her greeting, murmuring pleasantries.
“Here we have Sir Edmund Fawley-Smith,” continued Leo.
“You illuminate the room, Mrs. Bailey.” Sir Edmund offered her a very charming bow, and she could not help but smile at him. He was a very pleasant young gentleman, of shorter stature than the other Hellraisers, with kindly eyes and a rather rumpled appearance. Certainly he could not be a rake.
“And lastly, this is the extremely dishonorable Abraham Stirling, Lord Rothwell.”
Anne turned to the final member of the group, fully anticipating that she would find him as undeserving of a rake’s reputation as the other men. But that was not the case at all. She had actually seen caricatures of Baron Rothwell in a few news sheets, usually depicting him with his arms around whole seraglios of women, and Anne had believed the illustrator to be exercising a good deal of artistic license when it came to Lord Rothwell’s appearance. Surely no actual man could be so darkly handsome, with a blade-sharp profile, black hair, and vivid blue eyes. Yet the illustrator had not exaggerated. With the exception of Leo, Anne had never beheld a man so physically arresting.
The only thing marring his masculine beauty was the large, ugly scar that traced from just beneath his right ear to disappear beneath the folds of his stock. It looked as though someone long ago had tried to cut Lord Rothwell’s throat, and very nearly succeeded.
That Lord Rothwell stood before her now, bowing, proved that not only had the attacker not succeeded, but it was highly likely that Lord Rothwell had dispatched the assailant. Killed him. Looking into his glacial eyes, Anne could easily believe him capable of violence.
Violence, or seduction. Doubtless both.
“You have done England a great service, Mrs. Bailey,” he said, straightening from his bow. Anne had to tilt her head back to look at him, for he was even taller than Leo.
“How so, Lord Rothwell?”
“By marrying this villain, you have removed a great danger from the London streets.”
Leo scowled as Mr. Godfrey and Sir Edmund laughed. “I’m no more a danger than you, Bram.”
Lord Rothwell spread his hands. “Thus you prove my thesis.”
“Quod erat demonstrandum,” said Mr. Godfrey, grinning.
Anne made herself smile, for though she did not understand precisely what the men discussed, she knew it would serve her well in married life to ingratiate herself as best she could with her husband’s friends.
Still, something, or rather, someone seemed missing.
“Is Lord Whitney here?” she asked. The scandal sheets had been very specific in naming five men as Hellraisers: the four who stood before her now, and James Sherbourne, the Earl of Whitney, or Lord W—y. Wherever one of the Hellraisers went, the others were certain to follow.
She may as well have dropped a moldering carcass in the middle of the room. Whatever lightheartedness the men might have been feeling disappeared immediately. Everyone looked grim, and something very like grief flashed in Lord Rothwell’s eyes.
“Oh, dear,” Anne stammered. “He isn’t ... that is, I didn’t know ... has Lord Whitney passed on?” Mortified, she wanted to sink into the ground. “I’m so ... sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Leo patted her hand, but the gesture did not soothe her. “Whit ... Lord Whitney is alive. Last I heard.”