‘A ball?’ Liam shook his head. ‘Of course, a woman would suggest a ball. Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘The last man who called me ridiculous lost certain body parts to which he had grown immeasurably attached. Yes, you idiot. A masque ball, to be precise.’
‘Why in the devil would I throw a masque?’
‘Because the man who rules the Devil’s Sons is a coward. He will never meet with you in the open. So let him come to you cloaked and believing he is safe behind his disguise. Convince the little baron’s son to extend your request to join the Devil’s Sons to their leader. You will meet with the man at your ball. He need never reveal his identity to you, but we’ll be watching. We can mark him, follow him back to his lair. Identify the bastard and cut off the head of this snake.’
Damnation.
It was a good idea. He never would have thought to host a ball as a trap to catch a killer. But, of course, a duchess would. If that duchess was Lady Philippa Winterbourne.
6
Penny tried to turn quietly in her bed, but the boards creaked.
‘Penny!’ Molly thumped a pillow over her head. ‘It’s the middle of the night. Please, let a girl rest!’
‘Sorry, Molly.’ Penny whispered, knowing they both needed to be up in a few short hours. But sleep eluded her. She couldn’t stop thinking about Lord Renquist’s meeting with the duchess. It had to mean something. She just couldn’t puzzle out what. When Lady Winterbourne left, the marquess had no visible wounds. There was no blood on the carpet, nor any dead bodies littering the hall, so she must not have found him guilty… yet. But surely the duchess felt he might be responsible for something nefarious, or she wouldn’t have dropped in for an unannounced spot of whiskey. Unless the two of them were conspiring together.
That makes no sense. I know the duchess is working to destroy this group of men.
Slipping quietly out of bed, Penny grabbed her wrapper from the peg and tiptoed to the door, wincing as it creaked open. While she’d been lying to Renquist the night before about wanting a glass of warm milk to help her sleep, perhaps it wouldhelp her tonight. As she crept down the servants’ hall, feeling her way in the darkness, a haunting melody drifted through the walls.
Fear coursed through Penny as she stood still as death, holding her breath.
Ghosts are playing the piano.
She shook her head. She was being nonsensical. Ghosts clanked in the hallway with chains or scratched on the window. The angry ones banged pots and pans around. Sometimes, they moaned. They didn’t play pianos in the middle of the night.
Without thought or reason, her feet followed the echoing notes. She pushed open the discreet servants’ door to the foyer, padded through the entry with its marble floors and panelled walls, and snuck down the main hallway until she stood outside the library. The door was open and buttery light from a lamp illuminated a small circle around the piano. Lord Renquist sat at the stool, bent over the ivory keys as he coaxed a resonant song from the instrument. He was still dressed in his breeches, but his coat, waistcoat and cravat were gone. His shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled past his elbows. The marquess had thick forearms dusted in golden hair that caught the lamplight. Penny was mesmerised by the shift and flex of muscles in those arms as his fingers danced over the keys.
Lord William Renquist plays the piano?
Monsters didn’t create such beautifully desolate refrains. As she drew closer, his music wrapped around her like a web, holding her steady when she should turn and flee. His eyes were closed, his head cocked as if he were listening to something just beyond the vibration of the piano strings. She felt like a thief, stealing something infinitely precious. Watching someone as powerful and predatory as the Marquess of Stoneway in such a raw, unguarded moment.
She should retreat into the shadows, the places designated for the servants. Hidden and inconsequential. But she didn’t want to do that. Music was a luxury rarely enjoyed by the likes of Penny Smith, and she wasn’t about to squander this unexpected gift.
Besides, Lord Renquist didn’t know she was listening. She was causing no harm by lingering, watching, sinking into the ebbs and flows of his melancholy melody. And she could disappear back into the darkness in a heartbeat if she feared detection. But first, she would let the reverberations of sound spin and spiral around her, infiltrating the dark spaces in her heart and transporting her soul to a place of mist and shadows.
She took a tentative step closer, seduced by the beauty and pain etched on the marquess’ face. He was lost in the music, caught in yellow light, and she ached to join him there. But even in the madness of the moment, she knew it was impossible. They existed in different worlds. Separate planes that only intersected for moments of utility.
Without warning, the music stopped. Lord Renquist turned. He was a man accustomed to darkness, and he saw her there hovering on the edge where the light didn’t quite reach. Penny forgot to scuttle away. His shirt was unbuttoned, and she was caught by the fascinating ridges of his chest peeking out from the V of silk, so vastly different from her own anatomy. Her breath came fast and harsh, her skin stretched hot and tight. She could feel the blood coursing through her veins, pulsing with the race of her heartbeat. Trapped in his sharp gaze, she didn’t know whether she wanted to escape or draw closer.
‘Miss Smith.’ His low voice, so gravelled it could have been a growl, created a low hum in her belly.
Belatedly, she took a halting step backward. But it was too late. Faster than she could track, he stood and strode toward her, catching her wrist, halting her retreat. Heat from his bodyseeped through the thin flannel of her wrapper and threadbare cotton nightdress. She should have pulled away, but she bowed closer, seeking his warmth, longing for something undefined.
‘I heard the music.’ It was a stupid, obvious thing to say. Penny’s brain stalled. The intensity of his stare shattered her wits.
‘You shouldn’t be here.’ His breath fanned across her cheeks as he leaned closer and inhaled deeply. ‘God, you smell sweet.’
Her lungs seized right along with her heart. ‘I, umm…’What does one say to that?‘It’s just soap.’Ah. Brilliant.
The blade of his nose tracked up her cheek before he buried it in her hair.
This shouldn’t be happening.
The Marquess of Stoneway, a man she suspected of hideous crimes, her enemy, her employer, was breathing her in like smoke from a cheroot. She should be horrified. But she wasn’t. She was enthralled.
