“Shame, though,” continued John. “The match was spectacular. It went forty-one rounds, and ended only when McGill could no longer see, from all the blood in his eyes.”
“This hardly seems an appropriate topic,” said Edmund. “With ladies present.”
The woman sitting beside him merely smiled. Several times over the course of the evening, Anne simply forgot that Rosalind was in attendance. The pretty, fair-haired woman spoke but a handful of words, and these only when addressed directly. Perhaps she was shy. Yet Edmund’s wife kept a bright, wide smile on her face the whole of the night, her gaze cheerful but vacant.
Anne had met Rosalind before, during her previous marriage. She had been witty, given to wordplay, and a respected hostess of levees. But now ... Rosalind seemed empty, as if whatever had animated her before had drained away.
Lord Whitney’s letter was still inscribed in Anne’s memory. Edmund was given Rosalind. Like a child given a doll on Christmas. A pretty doll with no life of its own, merely propped up at the table and fed imaginary pudding.
Ridiculous. One cannot use magic to effect such a transformation. There is no magic.
“The subject of pugilism doesn’t trouble me,” Anne said. “Leo has been telling me all about it, and it sounds fascinating.”
“Violent,” said Edmund, “and bloody.”
Anne noted the wine in their glasses. “Most ancient traditions are.”
“Like marriage.” This, from Bram, sprawled at the farther end of the table. He took what light there was in the room, seeming to draw it into himself so that surrounding him was the absence of light, a palpable darkness.
“Spoken as one with no experience in the matter,” said Leo wryly.
Bram’s chuckle held little warmth. “To the contrary, I know much of married life.”
“Married women,” said John.
“Which provides me with an ample survey. Faithlessness is not reserved for men. Few women hold true to their vows.”
“Where you are concerned.” John smirked. “You are, indeed, very persuasive.”
When Bram’s arctic, calculating gaze fell on Anne, she made herself return the look, though she felt a cold shrinking inside her. “Perhaps, Mrs. Bailey, you might like to—”
“No.” Leo’s voice was no more than a growl. He sat forward, his fists braced against the table. His eyes blazed.
Anne expected him to launch himself across the table and beat his friend into a pile of bones and viscera.
Though Bram continued to sprawl in his chair, his whole body tensed, gathering strength. Anne had felt the hard, hewn muscles of her husband’s body; he would fight with brutal, efficient power. Few men could best him. She understood this with intrinsic knowledge. Yet she also understood that, if anyone could match Leo’s strength, it would be Bram.
They were wolves, circling each other. Ready to pounce and rip out each other’s throats.
Good God. Her very first dinner party was about to erupt into a brawl. The influence of dark magic?
“With such an abundance of opportunity,” said Edmund, “Bram may cast his net further afield.”
The thick tension in the room untangled. Both Leo and Bram eased their postures. Minutely. But enough.
Bram shrugged. “There are some who find the condition of marriage tolerable. Like Edmund, or young Leo. Far be it for me to disrupt such a happy state of affairs.”
“Which reminds me,” said John, “Ancroft announced his engagement.”
“Again?” Leo shook his head. “This will be his third.”
“His future brides have a habit of eloping with other men.”
“Perhaps he owns an inn in Gretna Green,” suggested Bram, “and can profit from the jilting.”
Good-humored banter resumed amongst the men. As they talked, Anne could only wonder. What had Bram been about to suggest to her? And why had Leo been so adamant that Bram not make that suggestion?
Bram received the power to persuade anyone to do his bidding.
Surely not. One could not force another to obey their will. That would exist in the unreal realm of the Otherworldly.
If Lord Whitney had spoken the truth, that meant that John could read others’ minds. And Leo ... could see the future.
She stared at her husband. In the candlelight, he was beautiful and gleaming, and whenever his gaze caught hers, she felt the tug of connection. A shared understanding, for not only did their bodies know each other now and the pleasure they gave each other, but their attachment went beyond the physical. They spent drowsing hours talking of many things, both fanciful and weighty.
He had told her of her father’s request, and his agreement to serve as broker. He even disclosed that her father had offered the estate as collateral. A shocking turn of events, and yet, not so shocking, for every day creditors came dunning. She was, in truth, more surprised that Leo had agreed to help. Instinct told her that it was not concern for her father that motivated Leo. She had been the motivation.
For a man who positioned himself in continual combat with the world, with her, his generosity knew no limit.
Yet still, some part of himself he kept locked away. She could not fathom what—if she had any questions about himself, he answered. No evasions or half-truths. Not that she could sense. Beneath it all, though, he still seemed as much a stranger as he had been on their wedding day. And the more intimacy they shared, the greater this discrepancy felt.
She might be able to discover more about him through knowing his friends. As the conversation fell into an amiable lull, Anne directed her words at John. “Leo tells me you are active in politics.”
“Rather a passion of mine,” he answered. “The era wherein the king held all the power is long over. This country is controlled by ministers and secretaries.”
“God help us all,” muttered Leo.
John’s mouth curled. “God is not part of the process.”
“Not with your hands in everyone’s dealings.”
Anne asked, “What lies on the horizon? Peace, I hope.” The war with France had been costly, both in terms of money and human lives. As she spoke, she saw Bram absently rub at the scar along his throat, and she recalled that he had been a soldier in the Colonies, fighting in that very war. He had paid a price, as well.
“There’s to be a treaty, and an exchange of territories in the coming months. Some secretly oppose the treaty, but they shan’t provide an obstacle, for all their cabals to prevent it.”
“Secretly? You must be kept in confidence, to know this.”
“In a manner,” he drawled.
Bram gave an amused snort but, at her questioning look, merely drank his wine.
She felt as though two conversations occurred simultaneously, yet she could understand only one of them, the other spoken in a language too subtle to be grasped.
More courses followed, more talk. The cook had been eager to display his talents, and Anne felt some comfort that her guests would not leave her table hungry. There were French ragoos, and beef collops, cakes, and fruits out of season, and Anne could only pick at her food. A fine tension tangled in her belly. Something hung over the table, something billowing and shadowed, that drew its strength from the four men who ate and laughed with hard animal gleams in their eyes. Was it only fancy? Or was it more?
Surely Lord Whitney had written his letter with a branding iron rather than a quill, for his words seared her, even now. Bargains with the Devil. Sinister magic. Phenomena reserved for sermons and lurid tales.
When, at last, it came time for the women to adjourn to the parlor, Anne did so with an inward sigh of relief. The men got to their feet as she stood. Rosalind watched with that same overbright smile, yet she did not rise.