CHAPTER 1
The Devil’s Poetry Night, as it was commonly called, was certainly not one that Tristan would ever miss. A young man with a truly hideous mustache descended from the stage with a grin, having delivered a raunchy and somewhat incomprehensible poem.
“Now, perhaps I am simply a poetic ignoramus,” Miss Juliana Bolt murmured in Tristan’s ear, “but I believe that rhyming ‘folds’ with ‘curds’ is something of a stretch.”
“A stretch?” Tristan responded with a snort. “The man didn’t even try.”
Juliana leaned more heavily against him, clearly trying to press her breasts against his shoulder. She had insisted that they share a velvet armchair which could, at a squeeze, accommodate two small and sprightly personages.
Neither Juliana nor Tristan was small or sprightly. Tristan was well over six and a half feet tall, with a boxer’s bulk and broad shoulders. Juliana herself was close to six feet tall, if not six feet already, with generous shoulders and a full figure.
The chair, in short, was full to bursting. Tristan did not particularly enjoy the closeness, although closeness was clearly what Juliana had wanted.
“I’m sorry to have invited you here,” Tristan remarked bluntly. “You must be terribly bored. I won’t be offended if you leave.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of Juliana looking at him. She had keen, crisp blue eyes that missed nothing—eyes that were well-remarked on in society in general. He was vaguely aware that he sat side-by-side with the most beautiful woman in the room, and that half of the men here envied him with all their hearts.
“How thoughtful you are, Your Grace,” Juliana answered at last, her voice soft. “But I’d rather be here, with you. Besides, an opera singer ought to be cultured, should she not? I should like to hear some decent poetry.”
“Decent poetry? You won’t find any of that at a Devil’s Poetry Night, my dear.”
Juliana chuckled as though he were making a joke, and nestled closer.
Tristan bit back a sigh. He was not fond of poetry, but he was a leading member of the Ton’s Devils, and as such, he simply had to show his face tonight. Many of the members took the ‘devil’ part of the poetry night rather too literally. They recited poems of their own making regarding romance, sex, murder, ghosts, and anything else they could think of that might shock their audience.
Unfortunately, the audience came here tobeshocked, and therefore brought along high expectations with them. The mustached man, for example, had managed to create what appeared to be three sonnets stacked on top of each other, all about fellatio.
Charming.
Tristan sighed again, stretching out his legs. There was never enough at these damn events. He’d lost track of his friends, and with the lights half-extinguished to create a taut and gloomy atmosphere, he wasn’t likely to find them again.
Only an hour or so left before I can reasonably excuse myself.
Juliana pressed closer to him, managing to ‘accidentally’ brush her fingers against his thigh. Tristan wished she would leave him alone.
A woman was climbing onto the platform next. It wasn’t unheard of for a woman to recite at a Devil’s Poetry Night, but it was unusual. Tristan leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.
He estimated that she was twenty years old, no older. Her fair hair was pulled back in a simple, demure style—she would suit something more complex, he thought—and she had chosen a gray gown that made her almost blend into the background.
She was small, perhaps no more than five feet tall, and her features were tight with anxiety. Round, wire-rimmed spectacles sat on her nose, and she adjusted them awkwardly.
She did not introduce herself as the others had done, but simply cleared her throat and began.
“My ears are stopped with wool so fine.
My hands, I’m told, they are not mine.
My mind is just as sharp as yours,
But not to be used without just cause.
A blindfold wound around my eyes,
Wrapped up pretty, like a prize.
What am I?”
There was a moment of silence.
