Isadora Rigby had spared no expense recreating the forest fromA Midsummer Night’s Dream. Lush potted greenery, silky emerald carpets, and hanging lanterns created the illusion of a magical woodland. Masked guests carried on the theme in a scandalous fashion. A gentleman wearing a donkey’s head and a loincloth sprawled on a chaise longue. Beneath the skimpy piece of fabric, the outline of his member was clearly visible as he flirted with a trio of faeries bedecked in a few strategically placed flowers.
Devlin reclaimed Charlie’s attention, his breath warm against her ear.
“Do you see the target?” he asked softly.
Arching her neck as if in the throes of passion, Charlie scanned the room from beneath her lashes, which she’d thickened with a paste made of ash. The grey of her irises was unusual, and the last thing she needed was to be recognized. To the polite world, she was Lady Charlotte Fayne, widowed marchioness and paragon of propriety. A lady who used the fortune left to her by her dead husband to do good works. She, along with the young ladies she’d recruited for her charity, the Society of Angels, undertook projects that served women in need.
What people didn’t know was that her group did more than write pamphlets, sew clothing, and distribute food baskets. Charlie’s true objective was to mentor her charges to become investigators, and she’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. In the past three years, the Angels had assisted a score of female clients with every kind of peril, from blackmail to murder. While Charlie was inordinately proud of her team, she’d personally taken on tonight’s case.
You are the only one I trust to discover the truth. As much as I adore the Angels, the fewer who know of my husband’s perfidy, the better.Amara Quinton’s liquid brown eyes had beseeched Charlie.Find out what Gilbert is up to. I must know what secrets he is hiding.
Monitoring the room of cavorting guests, Charlie felt empathy tighten around her heart like a rusted wire. Time had dulled, but not entirely diminished, her pain. She knew all too well that a husband could destroy one’s happiness. One’s very soul, if one allowed it.
Whatever the night reveals, Amara deserves to know the truth. No matter how grievous reality turns out to be, I will be there for her. The way she has been there for me.
Charlie slid her fingers through Devlin’s dark wig. The younger son of an earl, Devlin also had a reputation to protect. He had, however, worked covertly on behalf of the Crown years before he’d entered Charlie’s employ. With the skills he’d honed through espionage, he was proving a worthy addition to her organization, and Amara had agreed to his participation this eve.
“No sign of him,” Charlie whispered back. “We’ll search the other rooms.”
They ventured deeper into the mansion. Beaded curtains took the place of doors between the public rooms, and wooden pearls slithered over Charlie’s bare shoulders as she passed into the library. This room was darker, lit only by a fire in the large stone hearth. As the light waned, so did inhibitions.
Before the blazing hearth, guests occupied the seating area, watching as two couples rutted on the Aubusson. A woman with long brown hair and a crucifix around her throat—Juliet, perhaps?—perched upon a hirsute fellow lying on his back. Beneath her Renaissance-style mask, her lips formed a scarletOas she sank onto his rigid shaft. Her Romeo’s groan echoed that of a nearby fellow whose pointy ears and curly, leaf-adorned wig identified him as Puck. He was pounding vigorously into a nymph on her hands and knees.
Thankfully, neither male was Gilbert Quinton.
“Let’s check the back of the room,” Devlin said under his breath.
The bookshelves that occupied this part of the library were draped with twisting ivy, creating the illusion of hedgerows. Wanton sounds emerged from the stacks: slapping skin, wet sucking, animal mewls. Charlie led the way down the arterial aisle, scanning the shadowy passages between the shelves for her friend’s husband.
“Bloody hell, that’s sweet.”
Did that deep male voice belong to Gilbert?
Pulse racing, Charlie halted so abruptly that Devlin collided into her. She twisted her head, pressing a finger to her lips, pointing another at the next row. She edged closer to the location of the baritone. Peering around the bookshelf, she saw two masked figures. The naked female was leaning back against the wall of books. She stood on one curvy leg, the other hooked on the wide shoulder of the man kneeling before her.
“Do you like being gamahuched, wench?”
Thickened with lust, his voice was difficult to identify. With a cold pang, Charlie saw that his build was similar to Gilbert’s.
“Your tongue is divine.” The woman wove her fingers through his hair. “I want it deeper. Yes, likethat…”
An unbidden memory shivered through Charlie. Of Sebastian performing this act upon her. She could still see the hunger in his gaze, feel the hot swipe of his tongue against her most intimate part. He’d kissed her there the way he’d kissed her everywhere: with ferocious greed and possession, as if he wanted to devour her whole. As if he could never get enough of her. He’d owned her with his tongue, made her shake and moan as she climaxed the way the woman in front of her was doing.
I love your pussy,Sebastian had once growled.I want to eat it for breakfast, lunch, and supper.
Despite being a nobleman, he’d never been polite about his pleasure. About anything. He eschewed refinement in favor of being himself, and she’d adored his confidence, his knowledge of who he was beyond his wealth and titles.
If only he hadn’t been a lying, cheating bastard.
Charlie shoved the past back where it belonged and focused on the couple. The man rose, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth, and removed his mask. His sharp features were not those of Gilbert Quinton.
Having seen enough, Charlie jerked back, accidentally bumping into Devlin. He steadied her by the waist and pulled her into an empty row. Through her thin tunic, she felt the unmistakable shape of his arousal poking into her backside.
When she turned on him with narrowed eyes, he released her, his grin decidedly unapologetic.
“Don’t take it personally,” he murmured. “You can’t bring a man to an orgy and blame him for reacting.”
“Remember you are a professional,” she said sternly.
