The whole of the wedding had been paid for by Leopold. All her father had provided was her.
“Not at all,” Leopold said. “Plain speaking is my only form of address. I know no other way.” His expression darkened slightly. “A fault of my birth.”
“Honesty isn’t a fault.” She ducked her head. “Forgive me, I talk too boldly, and would hate to have you regret our marriage before it is scarce two hours old.”
“No.” He touched his finger to her chin and gently raised her head. “Don’t apologize for speaking your mind.” His gaze warmed. “You’re right. Honesty isn’t a fault—in and out of business. And I encourage you to always say what you think.”
Well—that was certainly different from the advice Anne had received from her mother.
Tell him what he wants to hear. Always agree, never contradict. That is how one maintains tranquility in marriage.
Perhaps it was different amongst people without titles. She had so little experience with them, every moment was a discovery.
“If it pleases you, sir,” she said.
“It does. It would also please me, Anne, if you called me ‘Leo,’ not ‘sir.’ ‘Sir’ feels ... cold.”
“Yes, sir ... I mean, Leo.” Her own parents called each other
my lord
and
my lady
or, when they were especially vexed with each other,
Lord Wansford
and
Lady Wansford
.
She and Leo fell into a silence that was not entirely comfortable. So much of him remained mysterious to her beyond only the barest outline of his history, and even that was cloaked in speculation and uncertainty. Together, they watched the room as people ate and drank and an occasional laugh floated through the room.
“I must admit that many of these guests are unknown to me,” she finally said. Gentry she might be, but her family’s circumstances had been reduced for so long that they seldom had the funds to make suitable appearances. New clothes cost money, as did tickets to the theater. “Are they all your friends?”
“Of the men in this room, I could claim less than half as acquaintances.”
Her brows rose. “Then why—”
There was little warmth in his chuckle. “A business investment. That fellow, over by the sweetmeats.” Leo nodded toward the man in question, a stout gentleman leaning on a cane as he selected one of the little confections. “He owns warehouses here and in Liverpool. By inviting him to my wedding festivities, he’ll be more inclined to give a reduced rate to store cotton arriving in from the Colonies.”
“Cotton shipments in which
you
have invested.”
“Precisely.” Leo turned his sharp gaze toward a lanky man in rust-colored satin. “That’s Lord Medway. His estate is in the prime location for a canal that will help get tin from Cornish mines to London. He’s been balking at the idea of cutting a canal, but after today and the amount of claret he’s drinking, he might be favorable to the scheme.”
“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
dis
honorable 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, some
one
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.”
“Have you seen him lately?” Lord Rothwell put the question to her with surprising keenness, verging on an interrogation.
Four pairs of eyes fixed on her, all of them sharp and demanding. And her husband’s gaze was hardest of all. Anne had to physically restrain herself from cringing.
“No,” she answered at once. “I have seen Lord Whitney but a handful of times, the last of which was likely a year ago.” She wished she could remember the specifics of the day, if only as an appeasement, but to be the object of such intense scrutiny rather unnerved her.
At her answer, the tension from the men lessened. Marginally.
Leo gave a tight nod. “It seems Lord Whitney is gone from here.”
Gone from here
could mean any number of things, yet Anne knew better than to press for an explanation. Whatever had happened, wherever Lord Whitney was, it left a cold shadow over the four men with her now. Including her husband. At his last mention of Lord Whitney’s name, Leo absently rubbed at his shoulder, and frowned at the floor. What he saw was not the Axminster carpet, but dark, ominous scenes. Scenes from his past, shared with the other Hellraisers—but not her.
She had thought it before, but she truly believed it now: her husband was a stranger. A stranger with secrets.
“She’s a bit undersized,” said Bram. He and Leo stood off to the side of the drawing room, watching as dancers made their figures. As the day had worn on, and the sun had set, musicians had arrived. Footmen had moved the table, the carpets had been rolled up, the candles were lit, and dancing had begun.
A fine tension ran through Leo. He felt it in Bram, and the other Hellraisers, yet none of them wanted to speak of it on this day. Anne, unknowing, had spoken of the very issue—the very
person
—none wanted to discuss. The one who had been their closest ally and now threatened everything.
“Delicate,” Leo corrected, forcing his mind toward less troubling subjects.