The Hunger (9 page)

“
I would be so sorry to leave you home tomorrow, my dear.” Stephan sighed. “But Beatrix and I will manage on our own, if you can’t behave.”

Asharti whirled, her delicate brows drawing together in a frown. “You wouldn’t.”

Stephan smiled
.

Beatrix was sweating. The memories would not let her alone. Did that centuries-old lesson come back to haunt her today because Mirso Monastery really
was
the only thing left to her? It was a final step, taking the Vow. But it might be her only defense against the darkness.

She felt her grip loosening. Was the darkness a result of boredom? True, no one said anything she couldn’t predict anymore. All disappointments had been experienced a hundred times. She had no passion for life, hadn’t for centuries. Art? Even art no longer solaced her as it once had. She would give anything to go back and find a different way through the pain Stephan and Asharti had caused. The scars they left were the only indication of what had been excised, surgically, one night more than six hundred years ago. A small sound escaped her, a cry of pain or protest, she wasn’t sure which.

She needn’t decide on Mirso and the Vow tonight.

Langley. She would think about how to know more about Langley.

John walked up to Albany House in Albany Court off Piccadilly, returning from Lady Hartford’s. The countess was definitely invited for Wednesday. How bold of Lady Hartford, he thought with satisfaction. Now if only her rout weren’t two whole days away. The doorman handed him an envelope addressed in a sloping, feminine hand. John traded a shilling for the card with an assumption of nonchalance. He took the stairs two at a time and slipped
into Number Six. He ripped open the envelope as Withering appeared.

The Countess of Lente requests the presence of the Earl of Langley at eight
P.M
. on Tuesday for a small gathering at Number Forty-six Berkeley Square. She hopes he will strive to remember the date
.

That was all. No signature, only the challenge in the last line to tell him it was a personal invitation. His mouth repressed a grin. “Brandy, Withering,” he said, exultation in his voice. “I am going to beard the lioness in her den tomorrow. Satin knee breeches. Or she won’t let me in.”

Five

Where is he, the wretch?
He wasn’t coming.

Beatrix rose suddenly. It was nearly midnight. She had made the others go half an hour before. They huffed to the street below, stiff with resentment. Now she went to the piano. Perhaps music would soothe her. She flipped through the tablature impatiently until she came to Beethoven’s Piano Sonata in C sharp minor. It had always reminded her of moonlight: melancholy and wise. It had the weight of emotion she needed to steady her. She sat, opened the sheet music.
Breathe
. Her hands hovered over the keys. Then she let the music sweep her away.

At that moment, the door opened and Symington stepped into the room. “John Staunton, Earl of Langley,” he announced in stentorian tones.

Beatrix looked up in time to see Langley stroll through the door. She took a breath, the realization of her expectation making her flush.
He is no better looking than any other man
, she told herself as she corrected the hesitation and let the music flow on, dramatic, sorrowful. She could not let him know how he affected her.
Yes, the green eyes and black hair are an unusual combination. True, too, the
downward slant of the eyes and the full mouth are not in the usual vein
. She normally liked men whose features were chiseled and austere. His weren’t. The cleft chin was almost jaunty, belying the serious eyes. Her gaze fell to his massive sloping shoulders, the thickly muscled thighs in those ridiculous knee breeches she required. Yet there were many built like that. She concentrated on the music.

So what is it about him?

The last notes hovered in the air. She stared at the keys, longing to look up.

“You are a quite a virtuoso, Countess,” Langley drawled, after clearing his throat once.

“Nonsense,” she murmured, chancing a glance up under her lashes. “All it takes is practice. I have had lots of time for that.” Langley stood, staring at her. She rose.

He inclined his head. She held out her hand. She could feel the emeralds heaving on her breast. He took her fingers lightly and brushed them with his lips. Thank God for the fashion of wearing gloves! The thought of his lips on her bare fingers made her throb. She pushed down other images that rose, unbidden. Damn, the man was dangerous!

“Lady Lente.” His baritone sounded half again as male as any other man she knew.

“You’re late, Langley.” Her voice came out a hoarse whisper. She cleared her throat. “I suppose I should be flattered that you made it in the same week as the invitation.”

“My deepest apologies. I was engaged. The notice was so short,” he murmured.

The rogue! She would wager a pony he had no other engagement. And he should be flattered he got an invitation for this evening instead of a month hence. As if she could have waited a month to see him. A voice inside her said her interest would be short-lived. She told it to be quiet. Short-lived or not, she would enjoy that sense of expectation. “Symington, brandy.”

Symington bowed and retreated.

Beatrix tried to look demure. “Tell me about your engagement.” Let the battle begin.

He smiled and shook his head. How that smile changed his face! “I think discretion is in order,” he murmured. “How are you feeling tonight?” What cheek! How dare he bring up her indisposition. And wait—discretion implied he visited another woman? How dare he?

“Ah, I see. Well, you are here now. Perhaps you can share some of the conversation that makes you so in demand.”

“Conversation is not what makes me in demand.” Langley cocked his head, daring her to match him, truth for truth.

“You put a female to the blush.” She did feel hot, but it was just the room. She moved away from the fire.

“I think not, my lady,” he murmured.

Her eyes could not help but open a little wider. “Then tell me about yourself, Langley. I would know more of such a man. Where do you hale from?”

His face closed. “The north. Poor land, harsh climate, crags and moors mostly.”

He didn’t want to talk about himself, unlike any other man she had entertained here. “You don’t seem poor.”

“As Alvaney said, I’m lucky at cards.” His voice had an edge. Bitterness?

“Lord Melford says enclosing the commons is a way to get more from the land. Perhaps you could try enclosures.” She was talking inanities in order to avoid talking about anything else.

Langley drew himself up. “And what is Melford doing to provide for his poorer tenants who supplemented their income by grazing a few animals or planting a garden on the commons? What will happen to them?”

Was he outraged? Unexpected. “Parliament approves the petitions all the time.”

“Just because Parliament approves it, doesn’t make it right.”

“You must have a seat in your House of Lords. You could speak out for your beliefs most eloquently, I should think.”

“Waste of time with the lot in there now,” Langley said, downing his brandy.

So, the most debauched man in England had social views. Had no one noticed, or did they just dismiss the fact? He was more complicated than they imagined.

“But back to you and your background.” Beatrix felt relentless tonight. “We are bordering on politics, and you know how I feel about that. Siblings, Langley?”

He took a brandy from the tray Symington offered. Symington melted into the background. “None my father acknowledged.” His voice was steady.

“No siblings,” Beatrix noted. “Father deceased since you hold the title. Mother?” It was unseemly to ask about someone’s background. And she knew the answer. But it was part of her public persona to be outrageous. And she wanted to see his expression as he answered.

“Died when I was a child,” he said shortly. A flash of pain. Ah. Loved his mother, or regretted that he didn’t? Complicated.

“Alone in the world, then.” She could see he hoped she would move on. “And yet not alone, for our parents live on in us, do they not?”

“I hope not.” He tossed back a gulp of brandy.

“I hear you are the image of your father.”

Langley forced a smile. “Unfortunate, but true,” he said lightly. “And now, perhaps you will answer similar questions.” He lifted his brows. “Your parents’ influence?”

Sauce for the goose was the last thing she wanted. “I think early mentors can be more important even then parents.” Dangerous direction. How dare he make her slip?

“Then who mentored you?”

She cocked her head. The devil! And she had given him the opening. What would he think if she talked of Stephan? But then, she wanted to shock him. “Ahhhh, that was a man, not my parents. His name was Stephan Sincai. He showed me . . . everything important.” Langley poured himself another glass of brandy. She pressed on. “He showed me how the world worked, even when that wasn’t pretty.” She stared up at Langley, daring him to judge her.

“I wonder why you like to shock people, Lady Lente,” he observed, not shocked at all.

“Normally I am the soul of discretion.” He must have realized she was hunting him after receiving her invitation. Fine. Men liked to be desired, as long as no one mentioned marriage.

“That would be a requirement for a life such as yours.”

There,
there
, he was judging her! “And yours as well, I should think.”

He looked startled. Why would he look startled over her accusation of his infidelities? He had acknowledged his reputation. And he couldn’t doubt she would retaliate. Interesting.

She came to herself and smiled. “Truce?”

Had she smoked out that he had a secret life? Or did she know because she was a spy? Lord, but she was beautiful when she smiled! But even smiling there was something distant about her, as though she found the world wanting. The courtesans he had encountered, and they had been legion, fueled their success by hanging on every word of men who wanted to talk about themselves. Not Lady Lente. She made the men around her struggle to catch her interest. That kept them coming back. But he would wager they didn’t truly interest her.

She was everything he hated in a woman. No virtue, no
loyalty—she was the logical extension of Angela and Celia. She hated men and longed to betray them. A perfect spy.

And yet, there was a sadness about her that he found . . . intriguing.
Don’t lose your head, Langley
, he told himself.
Just remember what she is
.

“Let’s see . . . truce on the personal, no politics,” he mused to bait her, “what is left?”

“I didn’t say ‘nothing personal,’ ” she remarked pointedly, that smile still lying somewhere in her eyes. “How about poetry? I always think a man’s favorite poet says quite a bit about him.” She picked up her own glass of champagne from a side table and sipped delicately. “For instance, our prime minister. Mr. Perceval’s favorite is our poet laureate, Mr. Southey. You see how appropriate, do you not?”

He knit his brow. Perceval was not exactly daring. Southey did make sense.

“And Mr. Castlereagh’s favorite is Alexander Pope. The young men are, of course, all devotees of Lord Byron.”

“You judge them ill for their choices?”

She shrugged. “Southey perhaps counts against Perceval. But Pope is a genius, if a structured one; a realist if you will, like Castlereagh. As for Byron—he is rampantly popular, which should count against him, but his poetry isn’t ill made. Byron told me himself his favorite poet was Pope. He needn’t have bothered, of course. It’s there in his verses.”

So, Lady Lente thought she was in control again, did she? John kept his silence, waiting.

She turned those brown eyes that knew everything on John, and put a finger to lips rouged slightly for effect. The rouge was not needed. “And you? Hmm. Should I guess Shelley for his social idealism? You obviously feel strongly about social issues. Or Wordsworth because underneath you still believe in traditional values like virtue?” She paused, thinking.

Her words struck to John’s heart. She had guessed his penchant for virtue? But he had never thought himself traditional. He wanted to shock her. “Neither, Lady Lente. Blake.”

Her eyes opened, before she cast them down. ” ‘Tiger, Tiger burning bright, in the forest of the Night,’ ” she murmured. ‘ “What Immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?’ ”

“You, too, are a force of nature, Countess.” He bowed slightly.

“Don’t distract me from the issue, Langley,” she said sharply. “So you like Blake’s traditional view of God, but you love the syncopation of his verse—not traditional at all.”

“I would hardly consider Blake’s view of God traditional,” John protested.

“He believes there is one. That is traditional in itself.” She tapped one finger to her lips. “But then there is his leap of faith . . .”

John felt himself blushing. Perhaps one’s favorite poet did reveal too much about one. “You refer to ‘second innocence’?”

“How else could one believe that one can be transformed into a being with an ability to wonder, even after one has seen all the horror of the world?” Lady Lente’s voice sank. “Or perhaps it is only hope, not belief.”

John felt his soul had been stripped bare. He was casting about for a distraction when the countess rose suddenly, all insouciance laid aside. He had never seen her so energetic.

“Come,” she said. Her green silks rustled. She strode to the far end of the long drawing room and threw open a pair of double doors. John poured himself a brandy from the side table and lounged after her so as not to look too eager. He found himself in a much more intimate room. Magazines were strewn over the floor, papers were scattered
across a desk along with a teacup, still half full. This was where the countess lived.

She glanced around. “Well? Are you going to come and look or not?”