Chapter 8
Cosette awoke several hours later in Davien’s bed. When she realized that he wasn’t there, she gave a sigh of relief. To his credit, he hadn’t laid a single hand on her all night—at least none that she was aware of. Then again, she’d shot him a threatening look before lying down, pulling the covers up to her chin and scooting as close to the edge as possible. She’d heard him chuckle as the bed dipped with his weight, and although she had felt his warmth surround her as he slipped beneath the sheets, he remained true to his word.
Now, in the bright light of morning, she found herself wondering where he was, if he might just appear and demand that the time had come to take care of his needs.
A thought that wasn’t as repugnant as it should have been.
She threw the blankets off, and stomped to her chamber. The only reason she should be wondering about Davien, is if he’d done as promised and set out to learn of Charlotte’s whereabouts. Any further thought was a waste of time.
She refused to think that she truly did owe her life to him after last night—where she’d nearly met her demise at the bottom of a pool of water.
Cosette shuddered at the recollection, before pushing it aside.
She didn’t have time to live in the past, even if the locket she wore around her neck was a constant memory of what could have been.
After washing with the bowl of warm water that had been waiting for her, Cosette dressed in a peach-colored day dress. Thankfully, the stays laced up the front and didn’t require the assistance of a ladies’ maid, but considering there wasn’t a servant to be found at Shadowlawn, it would have been a rather difficult task to achieve anyway. Thankfully, she had dressed herself for years and had come rather adept at it. She would certainly never ask the duke for his assistance, for he might very well give it, but only to remove her attire.
She went downstairs and surreptitiously checked all of the places that she thought Blackburn might be lurking, but when each room she entered was empty, even the library, she stood in the foyer with her hands on her hips, looking about with a frown.
Surely he hadn’t left without telling her?
Her scowl increased. Well, if he could come and go when he chose, then so could she. Cosette recalled seeing a fur-lined cloak in her wardrobe, so she went back upstairs and pulled the velvet plum garment free, along with a matching bonnet. As she threw it across her shoulders, tying the bonnet around her chin, she was enveloped in warmth. Tears instantly sprang to her eyes without warning. For years, she had prayed for such simple comforts as shutting out the cold.
Now, thanks to Blackburn, her long-held wishes had been granted.
But after what he’d told her last night—after the crude way he’d spoken to her about his past and what he had become—how could she possibly move past that?
Cosette shook her head. Perhaps if she found Charlotte, she wouldn’t have to.
She headed toward the stables where she knew at least one servant could be located.
~ ~ ~
Davien had been summoned.
He hadn’t wanted to leave Cosette this morning, but when the leader of the Hellfire Club sent a request to meet, you had no choice but to answer, especially if that meant keeping her safe. Sir Francis Dashwood was one of the most licentious libertines that ever walked the face of the earth, and if Davien was considered a demon, then the baron was the devil himself.
But if Davien had his way, it wouldn’t be long before he brought all of it crashing down upon that particular deviant’s head. While Davien’s own succubus continued to elude him, at least he could have the satisfaction of knowing that the man responsible for his father’s demise that fateful night in Rome would meet with a fitting end.
Peace wasn’t the only reason he’d returned to England, for vengeance was just as sweet.
Davien crossed the countryside as the wolf, resuming human form only when he crossed the Thames. He strode up the narrow stairs of the former Abbey two at a time, the other members of the Order giving him a mere passing glance as he passed them by.
They all knew why he was here.
As his eyes penetrated the dim glow of the interior, he heard the moans of sex as it wafted through the corridors all around him, causing the beast within him to hunger so uncontrollably that he was nearly shaking with need. It was a constant battle to keep it at bay, for ever since he was cursed all those years ago, he had been a slave to his physical desires. Not only had he been damned as a mortal creature, one that grew old, yet condemned to his own personal hell, but the gratification to be found from these primal urges never fully diminished. When he finally gave in to his body’s demands, he was left with an empty, hollow feeling, for nothing seemed to truly calm the monster within.
Except when he thought of Cosette, and finally the beast settled.
“Good to see you, Brother.” Davien knew the snidely, familiar voice, even though the man was covered in a white shroud that concealed his face. It was John Montagu, the Earl of Sandwich, and arguably, one of Sir Frances Dashwood’s co-founders of the Club. If one discounted Davien’s father, of course. “We feared you had been lost to us.”
“I was merely detained,” Davien replied smoothly. “Even I can take my cock in hand now and then and convince myself it was a good time.”
As the earl laughed, Sir Francis took that moment to join them. Tonight he was clad in red and referred to as Eminence, for he was the current Abbot of ceremonies until the next one was crowned. “Our group has much to offer a man with healthy appetites. I thought I should remind you of that fact, Blackburn.”
Davien thought back to all the rituals he had been actively involved with in recent months. It effectively turned his stomach.
As Sir Francis murmured a few words to Montagu, the other lord sauntered off with a bow, leaving the two men alone. Dashwood removed his hood to expose his face. “Have a drink with me.” He led Davien over to a table near the middle of the dining area. This far away from the depths of the catacombs, their association almost appeared respectable, as if they were merely two gentlemen sharing a beverage.
