Only Scandal Will Do (2 page)

Those images conjured a wide smile, but Duncan shook his head. Perhaps if things had been different. “What time’s the auction?”

“Due to start at nine, as usual. Didn’t you get the invitation?”

“I received it, although I didn’t open it.” Avoiding the astonished face before him, he glanced at the mantle clock. “It’s gone eight now. I can take you to Madame Vestry’s on the way to my aunt’s.”

“You’re really not going? I would have believed you’d be keener on this, after the long voyage.”

“Oh, I’m keen enough, but I can’t be seen at Amorina’s. You know that.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Duncan?”

“Left it in Italy.” He stared intently at the fire for a moment. “You heard about my cousin, Roger Ferrers?”

“Killed in a hold-up out on the Guildford road. Sorry, Duncan.” Tommy’s gaze now also focused on the dancing flames. “That’s what brought you back?”

“Yes.” He frowned at the memory. “My aunt wrote, telling me it was my duty to return, marry and produce an heir. Which is true.” He scowled. “Easier said than done, though.” After the series of scandals that rocked him last year, it might be a cold day in hell before he could convince a woman to walk down the aisle with him. “I envy you your two brothers.” Duncan rose, downing the rest of the cognac. Though his favorite, the brandy’s usual warm, nutty flavor seemed harsh tonight.

“You wouldn’t if you were a third son,” Tommy replied. “Having to make your own way isn’t as attractive as you might think.”

“Perhaps its charm would pall after a while.” Duncan laughed, dispelling the bleak mood, and left to don the black domino costume he’d brought from Italy. The cloak, hood and glittering gold half-mask fashioned like a lion’s head concealed him entirely. He’d remain anonymous at the masquerade tonight. Settling the voluminous folds over wine red coat and breeches, he entered the drawing room and stopped at the dismayed expression on his friend’s face.

“Are you wearing that to the auction?” Tommy asked.

“I’m not going to Madame Vestry’s.”

“Oh, you’re not becoming a Martin Marplot are you?” the young man whined. “What good is it to have you back if you’re going to spoil everybody’s fun?”

“I hardly found it fun to be accused of owning half-interest in my mistress’s brothel,” Duncan spat through clenched teeth. Then he relaxed. “I need a wife and I would wager I’ll have a better chance finding her at my aunt’s masquerade than at the auction.”

“Just come with me for a while,” Tommy pleaded. “Look over the tableaux and think what you’ll be missing.” He frowned, pulling his earnest face into a comic mask. “’Sblood, Duncan, you’re twenty-six years old. You’re entitled to one last scrape.”

After all this time, he did deserve a night of carousing, by God. “Damned if I won’t. But I’ll still wear this.” He gestured to his unusual attire. “I’d rather not announce my presence at Madam Vestry’s. I suspect I won’t be the only one stopping by the auction before heading to my aunt’s party.”

* * * *

The nightmare ride bumped to a halt at last. Katarina had a moment to be grateful for the stillness before the door crashed open and a kidnapper seized her ankles. She struggled to wrench them away, but her abductor resolutely dragged her from the carriage and slung her over the other kidnapper’s shoulder. From this precarious position, she twisted about, gaining a brief glimpse of a short, dark-haired woman, who opened the door of a gray, lapped board building.

A curt nod, then the woman lit their way with a single yellow candle down a shadowy corridor. Opening a door at the far end, she lifted the brass candlestick high to examine Katarina’s outfit, then cocked her head. The woman’s features were stark in the harsh light: ghostly white skin, delicate dark brows puckering over a petite nose, and a dark red mouth, pursed to speak. Uncommon beauty coupled with cruel detachment. Turning away, she called, “Marco! Change into the Roman costume now!”

A snarled reply from the dim hallway caused the woman to step toward the surly voice. “You’ll do it or I’ll turn your pretty face over to Nigel.” The discordant sound of her soft, menacing tone sent a chill racing down Katarina’s spine. The dark-haired woman thrust the candlestick at the other kidnapper and rushed off, her full skirts swishing.

As the woman disappeared, the kidnappers hustled Kat into a narrow room barely wide enough to hold its plain washstand and wooden close stool. They plopped her down on the convenience chair and untied the ropes. As soon as her hands were free, she drew one back for a blow at the nearest brigand, but the tall, thin man pushed a sword into her face and shook his head.

“Lay a hand on either one of us, girl, I’ll carve your face so your own mother wouldn’t know you.” His flat tone and the icy look in his gray eyes told Kat he spoke in earnest. She reached to untie the gag, and the sword tip waved dangerously near her nose. “Nay. The gag stays until the deal is done. Afterward, you can try to talk your way out of it.”

That last statement made no sense, but she lowered her hands as the other kidnapper, an unremarkable man with a jovial face, finished untying her legs. She rotated her ankles, wiggled her toes, tried to force feeling back into them. She needed to be able to run at the first opportunity.

The kneeling kidnapper grabbed first one, then the other foot, stripping off shoes and stockings with lightning efficiency. He stood up, grinning, which made her long to kick him for his effrontery. The man elbowed his companion, remarking, “I’m thinking that’s not all’s coming off before the night’s over, eh, Nigel?”

The swordsman said nothing, although a lecherous gleam in his eye told its own tale. Nigel. The dark-haired woman’s threat to Marco now made sense. The woman must employ them all. Had she engineered the kidnapping? Outrage won out over fear, and Katarina narrowed her eyes at the pair, memorizing their features. They would pay for their part in tonight’s assault when she got out of this predicament.

The woman in charge burst into the room and handed Nigel a white full-face plaster mask. “Put this on her, Nigel. No one will see the gag under it. And for God’s sake, hurry. The first auction is already underway.”

Before Kat could protest, the woman’s eyes flashed and she raised a finger in warning. “Use your head, girl. The mask protects your identity. Unless, of course, you wish to become tomorrow’s scandal.” She sped from the room without a backward glance.

Nigel shoved the mask onto Katarina’s face, almost suffocating her. Flailing, she tried to pry the mask from her face and was rewarded with a cuff to her head. By the time the world stopped spinning, she was pressed tight against Nigel’s chest and being borne down the corridor. The rank smell of his sweaty, unwashed body permeated the mask. She fought back a wave of nausea. A thunderous roar emanated from behind a dull red curtain, as though an entire army caroused there. Her stomach cramped with fear.

They stopped before the doorway. The swordsman bent his head to whisper, “If you try to run, to take the mask off–anything at all–my sword will find its mark before the night is over.” Then he heaved her over the shoulder of a blond giant dressed in the purple and white robes of a Roman senator. A soft “ugh” escaped her along with her breath as she landed on his collarbone. She hung there, struggling to breathe, less afraid of suffocating than of what lay beyond the red curtain.

Chapter 2

“My God, look at the crowd!” Duncan said as he and Tommy entered the main public room of the House of Pleasure. So many patrons were sandwiched together. The brothel could easily hold upward of five hundred patrons; tonight it burst at the seams, the crowd swollen by the novelty of the tableau auction. Notorious for its ability to instigate debauchery, the house’s atmosphere already approached that of a drunken orgy.

A former gambling club, the establishment boasted a style hovering barely one rung above the vulgar. Cut-crystal chandeliers illuminated walls painted with murals, reputedly by Boucher himself, depicting highly erotic mythological and pastoral scenes. Marble statuary throughout posed in lascivious and provocative positions. Exotic, Chippendale chinoiserie sofas–their woodwork carved to resemble delectable parts of the female anatomy–invited patrons to fondle and fantasize. The decor alone had been known to make men hard.

As he and Tommy joined the carousing horde, Duncan noticed several gentlemen in costumes more extreme than his own, and relaxed. No one would pay attention to him. They shoved their way toward the first scene, set up at the back of the room. An eight-by-eight foot square platform raised five feet in the air, draped in swaths of red velvet, provided an impromptu stage. Despite his resolve to not be impressed with the theatrical offering, blood quickened in his veins, heat rose up his neck and his groin throbbed insistently.

“There’s a new production of
The Beggar’s Opera
at Drury Lane.” Tommy gestured toward the platform. “Or maybe it’s
The Beggar’s Wedding
. Anyway, I think this is supposed to represent Dick Turpin, the highwayman.”

A man in a scarlet coat wearing a black mask and tricorn hat pressed a sword to the well-exposed breast of a fair
maiden
from whom he demanded jewelry, one piece at a time. When the jewelry was at an end, other things likely would be removed as well. The girl’s exaggerated gasps and protests as she stripped off her jewels caused whistles and cheers among the audience. Unexpectedly, the tableau appealed because he could imagine himself as the highwayman, with the power to demand anything of the girl in the privacy of a bedroom.

Duncan shoved his way closer to the stage. The woman removed her jacket to reveal rouged nipples through a sheer white chemise. One of Amorina’s regular girls, Jenny. A good sort, though he had never bedded her. That tantalizing look of mock terror would be for him if he won her. The vision of a timid, upturned face, entreating him to spare her, turned the dull pulse in his groin into an unrelenting ache. Acting such a part had never appealed to him before, except for one time when Amorina had dressed as a bawdy shepherdess for a masquerade. After the party, she’d played the part of the submissive maiden to his lord and master. He’d been sated for days afterward.

That memory made him turn away from the stage, scanning the room for his ex-mistress. Then he relaxed. He was disguised. Amorina could not possibly recognize him, nor could anyone else. The last thing he needed was for the scandals of the previous year to rear their ugly heads. If Aunt Phoebe found out he’d attended an auction instead of her ball...

Duncan returned to the tableau, only to have Tommy snare his arm and propel him past the second stage, still unlit, to the third. Reclining there in white robes, stark against the bold magenta, canary and cerulean satin pillows, lay a leering sultan. Before him danced a black-haired harem girl, attired in a vivid emerald bolero bodice and pantaloons of filmy multi-colored silk chiffon that blatantly displayed her legs and the dark triangle where they joined.

“’Struth, Tommy. She might as well have nothing on.” Amorina’s house had grown bolder in his absence.

“I believe you’ll find quite a few changes here since you went abroad.” Tommy raised his voice and leaned toward him to be heard above the din of the room. “I told you this was going to be special, didn’t I?” He chuckled, and nudged Duncan. “Which one are you going to bid on? I suppose your pockets are deep enough you can outbid almost anyone here for any of these morsels.”

“I’m not bidding.” He shook his head firmly. Why should Tommy be so sure this would appeal to him? It did, on a dark level that disturbed him. Perhaps his recently enforced celibacy factored into that. “Where’s number two, do you think?”

“Don’t know. But look at number four, would you? This gets better and better.”

Draped in black, the last stage sported a plank extended over a deep tub of water at the edge of the crowd. There a man dressed as a pirate waved a sword, making the
lady
walk the plank. The dainty miss, attired in a fashionable ensemble, pled theatrically as she tiptoed down the board. When she reached the end, the pirate prodded her one last time. With a final cry of “Oh, save me!” she jumped into the vat of water.

A cheer went up for her pluck, then when she emerged, dripping wet, an even bigger shout. Her sodden dress hugged every curve, revealing each charming feature of her shapely figure.

Duncan swallowed hard as audience members helped her back up onto the platform. He needed to leave now. The woman standing before him was as good as nude.

No support to be had from Tommy. His face mirrored the rest of the cheering men, their mouths leering at the woman, raucous calls and suggestions thick in the air. They radiated lust in a palpable wave which his aching flesh echoed as it strained against his tight breeches. Damn, it had been too long.

A nudge from Tommy distracted him long enough to take a deep breath, breaking the spell of the tableau. Taking charge of their direction, Duncan shouldered his way toward the first scene, where the bidding was about to commence.

“So what’s it to be?” Tommy shouted, struggling against the jostling crowd. “Do you fancy yourself a highwayman, a sultan, or a pirate?”

“Which one will you bid on, Tom?” He turned the tables. “Wouldn’t want to bid against my best friend, now would I?” He stopped before the unlit tableau, his back to the highwayman scene where bidding was escalating. Temptation pricked him like a knife. He really shouldn’t have come.