“You sound fond of him.” Diana knew she should end this conversation, but she couldn’t resist talking about Gervase.
“Oh, yes, he’s the best of good fellows.” Francis’s tone was briefly enthusiastic. Then the expression of strain returned and he looked down at his hands, which were twisting restlessly. “If you do see him, you won’t tell him what happened tonight—what they were saying about me?”
Diana felt a surge of compassion. If this young man indeed had unorthodox preferences, he must be terrified at the thought that those he loved most would hear about it and condemn him. Resting her hand on his, she said gently, “Of course not. Who could possibly be interested in the ramblings of drunken louts?”
His face eased at her words. There was little physical resemblance to Gervase, but he was pleasant and attractive, with a vulnerability that reminded her of Geoffrey. Though Francis must be near her own age, she felt much older. He looked up and said with a faint smile, “You are a very restful woman. Would you . . . may I call on you sometimes? Just to talk?”
She suspected that he needed to talk rather badly. “Of course. I live at seventeen Charles Street. Late morning and early afternoon are the best times.” She smiled and stood. “I suppose that we should leave together if we wish to maintain the charade, but I must find my friend Madeline first.”
He stood also and said with his first real amusement, “Leaving with not one, but two beautiful women would do my reputation no end of good.”
Madeline was located and was quite ready to leave and to accept Francis Brandelin’s escort. After introducing them, Diana excused herself to go to the ladies’ retiring room upstairs. Three Cyprians who had been very active about their trade earlier in the evening were resting, and their bawdy forthrightness made her blush to her ears. Even after her months as a mistress, she clearly had much to learn about what might occur between men and women, so she took care of her business and left hastily.
The hallway and stairs to the lower floor were empty and dark, and many of the candles in the wall brackets were burned out or guttering. At the bottom of the grand staircase she turned to go back to the main ballroom, not even seeing the man who waited under the stairs.
The first she knew of his presence was when a pair of strong arms seized her from behind and dragged her under the staircase. Before she could cry out, her arms were pinioned and a hard hand was clamped over her mouth as her captor pulled her back against his body. The man was tall and broad, and she guessed who he was even before the menacing French-accented voice whispered, “What a pleasant surprise,chérie. I did not expect you to appear in public with your own kind.”
Diana could smell spirits on Veseul’s breath, and there was an uncontrolled note in his voice more frightening than the cool ruthlessness she had seen in him before. He nipped her ear, his teeth sharp and painful. She struggled, trying to free her arms, but was helpless against his size and strength.
“Ah, you’re a lively wench.” Then, his breath quickening, he said hoarsely, “My God, but you can stir a man’s blood. Come home with me now and I’ll show you how a Frenchman makes love.” She felt his hard arousal against her buttocks, and he began rubbing against her, thrusting his hips rhythmically as one hand slid across her body. He fumbled at the bodice of her low-necked gown, sliding his hand inside to grasp her breast.
Revolted by his violation, she bit furiously at the hand across her mouth, managing to sink her teeth into one of his fingers. She tasted the metallic sweetness of his blood as he swore and tightened his grip on her face, at the same time squeezing her breast painfully, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh. His voice harsh and angry, he snarled, “Your lover won’t be back, you know. St. Aubyn will never escape the Continent alive. He is almost certainly dead already.”
He pinched her nipple viciously, but that pain was nothing compared to the agony his words caused. For a moment she froze, numb with shock. Above their heads she heard footsteps, and she took advantage of Veseul’s momentary distraction to twist free of his grip.
He could have recaptured her easily but he hesitated when the Cyprians from upstairs came down the steps and passed within three feet. Diana darted over, putting the bypassers between her and the count, gasping, “Please, help me.”
One of the women gave a scornful, half-drunk snort. “What’s the matter, muffy? Is ’e too much man for you?”
Diana shook her head, unable to speak, then made her escape, not looking back at the shadowy figure beneath the stairs. When she reached the ballroom, she paused for a moment, automatically straightening her gown and running a hand over her hair while she tried to compose herself.
Could Veseul know if something had happened to Gervase? Diana would not, could not, believe it. If disaster had befallen her lover, surely she would know it, would feel his absence from the emotional bond that linked them. Veseul merely knew that the viscount was away and used that knowledge to throw her off balance, perhaps hoping confusion would make her more easily swayed. But she was not quite the innocent she had been the first time she had encountered the Frenchman and his dark demands, and she would not allow herself to break down.
Maddy and Francis Brandelin looked at her oddly but made no comment on her flushed face or breathlessness. Instead, Francis offered both women an arm and led them outside to the carriage, covering Diana’s silence with witty gallantries.
None of the three noticed an older man coming late to the ball. The gentleman stopped and stared as the group passed him on the stairs, so close he knew he could not be mistaken in his identification. He didn’t stay long at the ball, and on his return home he wrote a note before retiring. It was very short and began with the words:The Black Velvet Rose has returned.
* * *
Raging, the Count de Veseul left the Argyle Rooms and went to an expensive brothel he sometimes frequented. Even though he’d desired Diana Lindsay from the moment he saw her, he had not expected to feel such virulent, ungovernable passion when he actually held her in his arms. She had caused him to make a fool of himself, and he was grimly determined that someday she would pay for that humiliation.
At the brothel he demanded that the madam parade all of her available girls, as attractive a group of whores as could be found in London. None had Diana Lindsay’s refinement or stunning beauty, but one called Meggie was the right height, with chestnut hair and blue eyes, and in dim light she would do well enough.
He chose her with a curt gesture. Upstairs in the sumptuous candlelit bedroom, he ordered the girl to strip her clothes off and lie on the bed. After locking the door, he removed his cravat and used it to tie her wrists to the bedposts. Unsurprised, Meggie said, “This’ll cost you extra, my lord,” in a harsh cockney accent quite different from the musical, educated tones of the woman who was becoming his obsession.
His eyes rested on Meggie without expression as he lifted his cane and stroked her with the gold serpent head, drawing it across the curves and valleys of her body, teasing and jabbing with increasing intimacy. Experienced in the ways of men, she gave practiced little moans of pleasure, as if all her life she had been waiting for a man to make love to her with a cane.
But it wasn’t cooperation that he wanted, it was fear.
Swearing with vexation, he withdrew the cane and twisted the gold head off to reveal the thin, glittering blade of a swordstick. As candlelight reflected along the bright edge, he said with a silky threat, “Will you enjoy this as much, littleputain?”
Meggie’s eyes were blue-gray, not the deep lapis lazuli of Diana Lindsay’s. They opened now, and the bored compliance of a prostitute was replaced by horror as he laid the blade on her breast. The tip was so sharp that only the lightest of pressure was required to break the skin and draw a shallow slash from nipple to navel. She screamed, a high-pitched shriek of pure terror as he raised the sword over her, paused to let her fully understand her danger, then lunged forward to stab the blade into a mattress a bare inch from her throat.
Her fear was everything he could wish for. With leisurely unconcern, the Frenchman unbuttoned his breeches and covered her, thrusting into her body as she continued to scream and fists began pounding on the door. He allowed himself the luxury of imagining that the writhing body and panic-stricken face beneath him belonged to Diana Lindsay, and his violent assault relieved some of his angry frustration.
Hissing a string of French profanities, he culminated, his arms holding him fastidiously above the woman’s bleeding torso. Then he withdrew from her and stood, pulling the swordstick from the mattress and screwing the head of the cane on. He was buttoning himself, once more in control, when the door burst open and a gigantic footman crashed into the room, followed by the hard-faced madam with a pistol in her hand.
As Meggie’s hysterical sobs filled the room, Veseul said calmly, “Your whore is not seriously injured. She is not worth the effort.” Ignoring the pistol aimed at his heart, he dug gold coins from his wallet, dropping them negligently on a table. “For her cooperation, and for the temporary loss of her services.”
