That only deepened his grin. Dashed rake.
Straightening her shoulders, she headed into the aisle, Devlin dogging her heels. Their next stop was the billiards room…or what had been the billiards room, at any rate. The place was now a forest, the billiards table covered in a swath of watered blue silk that continued to wind through the room in an artistic rendering of a brook. Upon the table was Ophelia, the death she was suffering far less tragic than that of The Bard’s original heroine.
Her dampened shift clung to her slender form as she shuddered with thepetit mortgiven to her by the masked man thrusting between her thighs. If Charlie wasn’t mistaken, she was observing a public display of marital relations between her hosts, Isadora and Ellsworth Rigby. She wasn’t the only one watching. Guests surrounded the heaving pair, some inspired to act out carnality of their own with a partner or two. The air was humid, ripe with perfume and sex.
“I think I’ve spotted the target,” Devlin said under his breath. “To the right, by the potted palm. With the blonde in feathers.”
Charlie swung her gaze in that direction, her pulse speeding up. The man with the blue mask had Gilbert Quinton’s burly build and face shape, and she saw with a wisp of rage that his eveningwear bore the stamp of his wife’s inimitable artistry. He was with a buxom blonde wearing a red dress trimmed with matching feathers, and she was leading him toward the exit.
Charlie followed, pushing past leering offers and grasping hands. In the packed corridor, she saw no sign of Gilbert or the blonde. She and Devlin pushed through the throng, and they arrived at the atrium just as Gilbert and the blonde reached the top of the staircase and vanished from view.
To avoid looking suspicious, she said to Devlin in a throaty voice, “You naughty fellow. That deed you suggested isfartoo wicked to try in public. Let us find some privacy upstairs, shall we?”
As she pulled Devlin toward the staircase, people gave knowing chuckles and let them pass. On the first floor, they found themselves in a corridor lined with oil paintings. Flickering sconces illuminated a line of closed doors—bedchambers. Occupied, if the muffled moans and grunts were any indication.
Charlie marched toward the door at the end of the hallway. “We’ll go through each chamber until we find the suspect.”
“Shall we dolovers stumbling into a room?” Devlin inquired. “If you prefer, I can carry you over the threshold.”
“I prefer that you keep your hands to yourself. Now follow me.”
“To the ends of the earth, oh fearless leader.”
Quelling her amusement at the rogue’s charm, Charlie grasped the knob and turned it. The heavy door swung open, releasing a swell of moans. She straightened her spine and headed to the oversized tester bed. The candlelight revealed a tangle of limbs and writhing bodies. In their frenzy, the participants had shed their masks (and everything else), making Charlie’s job easier. Gilbert was not part of theménage à…well, however many it was.
As she turned to go, a hand reached out and snared her wrist.
“Don’t go, darling.” The blonde winked first at her, then at Devlin. “Join us.”
Charlie tugged free. “Some other time.”
“Spoilsport,” Devlin murmured.
They continued their methodical search through the rooms. No sign of Gilbert or the woman in red feathers. Turning a corner, Charlie came upon the master suite. The double doors were open, revealing a dozen guests cavorting about. The chamber had a suffocating exoticism with its jungle-green paper, heavy mahogany furnishings, and jewel-hued upholstery. Large gilt-framed looking glasses hung on every wall…and on the ceiling above the occupied bed.
Devlin gripped her waist, steering her into an alcove adjacent to the door. He buried his face in her neck, appearing to be a fervent lover, but she understood his ploy: he’d positioned her so that she was sheltered from passersby and, thanks to the many mirrors, could monitor the room from all angles. A neat trick, that. Perhaps Devlin deserved the raise he’d been pestering her about after all. As his mouth coasted lightly along her neck, she felt an unexpected flutter in her belly, which she ruthlessly quelled.
The fact that she hadn’t had a lover in years was no excuse for her lack of professionalism. She composed herself. Then she gave a practiced moan, writhing against Devlin as if she were in the throes of passion. All the while, she scanned the room’s occupants.
The four on the bed…heavens, she recognized them. The Prices and the Kendalls, two blue-blooded couples whom she avoided like the plague. The ladies, in particular, enjoyed using their social clout to bully others over perceived improprieties. Yet here they were, tupping at a party, and not with their own spouses. The hypocrisy was galling but typical.
As for the trio on the chaise…all women.
Reviewing each component of the human train on the Aubusson, Charlie did not see her friend’s husband. She focused next on the spectators to the debauchery, and her attention snagged on a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with dark hair. His back was to her, and his build was too lean for him to be Gilbert, but for some reason, she couldn’t look away. Needed to see his face with an urgency she couldn’t explain.
She directed her gaze to the looking glass on the opposite wall. The stranger’s mask hid the upper portion of his face, yet her breath stuttered at the sculpted angles of the man’s cheekbones, the stubborn square of his jaw. Her gaze met his in the reflection. Her heart catapulted into her ribs, a keening sound leaving her as midnight eyes stared back and sucked her into the past?—
“Bloody hell, my sweet,” Devlin muttered against her ear. “I want you too.”
Suddenly, his mouth covered hers. Past and present crashed over her in a disorienting wave. She was being kissed, her lover’s lips smooth and practiced, his tongue as sly as a thief. He coaxed her lips apart, slipping inside with an experienced sweep. He tasted like spiced wine, dark and sweet…but he did not taste like her husband. He did not taste of whisky and mint and the unique male flavor that was Sebastian’s alone.
Sebastian is dead. Devlin is kissing me. What in blazes am I doing?
Regaining her senses, Charlie pulled on Devlin’s hair, enough to separate his lips from hers.
“Focus,” she mouthed.
His eyes widened. The nod he gave was quick, abashed.
