Текст книги "Demon's Bride"

Автор книги: Zoë Archer

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The whole of the theater echoed the tight regulations of class, for no one ventured where they were not welcome. Young noblemen and officers kept to the benches of the pit, where they could strut, paw prostitutes and orange sellers, and enjoy all the privileges of sex and birth. Less rowdy nobility gathered in the amphitheater. Then came the galleries—the first for tradesmen, the second for servants and ordinary people. The varying price of the seats enforced hierarchy, but tacit understanding did far more to keep everyone apart.

“We didn’t go to the theater,” Leo said, watching the crowds assemble. “Even after my father had made his fortune. He thought it frivolous, a waste of time and money.”

“Then this is your first time in a box, too.” Only the very wealthy took boxes, visible to the entire theater, as much part of the spectacle as what transpired on stage.

He shook his head. “Bram always found us one.” He nodded toward a box across the theater, empty at the moment. “We all came together, after supper. They’re probably all at the Snake and Sextant now. John and Bram anyway.”

At the mention of the other Hellraisers, Anne felt the strings of her nerves tighten further. She attempted a smile, yet it was brittle and could not be long sustained.

Leo pushed back the bench in their box, and seated Anne before settling beside her. She noted the neat movement of his wrists as he flicked the long tails of his coat out of the way. In all things, he was eff icient, tolerating no excess or unnecessary showmanship.

“We are the subject of scrutiny.” Anne tipped her folded, ebony-handled fan toward the many faces turned in their direction. “You are notorious.”

“Perhaps, but you are the one who draws attention, not me.”

She glanced down at her ruby brocade gown, gold lace frothing at the sleeves and low neckline. Still, she had not acclimated herself to wearing such fine clothing. “Is something amiss with my dress?”

He smiled. “Only that you look stunning in it. That is what has everyone intrigued. They are all wondering about the identity of the beautiful woman, and how a knave like me could be so fortunate.”

“Your skill with compliments grows daily.” She flicked open her fan and waved it, stirring hot air against her face.

“Only because I’ve reason to give them.”

Who were these people? These shimmering, shallow people she and Leo had become tonight? Words came from their mouths, but the words were empty, facile. Their emptiness echoed in direct opposition to what was not being said. For it lay between them, the river of doubt, that would drown them if they ventured even a toe into its waters. Fast and deadly, its currents, and so she and her husband stared at each other across the rapids, mouthing pleasantries over its roar.

After the performance at the Theatre Royal, they would proceed on to Ranelagh and its famed rotunda. She had never been, nor to Vauxhall with its Chinese temple and clockwork wonders, and felt no desire to go now, but Leo was determined to fill their hours with as many pleasures as possible—as if to distract her from the black abyss at the heart of their marriage.

The discordant orchestra silenced as a man strode onto the stage, shouting about the evening’s program.

“The performance is about to begin,” Leo murmured.

His breath upon her neck traveled warmly through her body, drawing forth memories of the night before, its furious passion. Only in absolute darkness had he finally stripped bare, so she knew him by touch alone. And in that heightened sensitivity, she discovered something upon the hard, solid muscles of his shoulder.

A scar. Thin, as if made by a rapier’s point.

Just as Lord Whitney had described.

Having a scar upon one’s shoulder did not constitute evidence that one was in league with the Devil. It meant only that, at some past moment, Leo had been wounded by a sword. And Lord Whitney knew about the wound.

And yet ... And yet ...

Anne gazed at Leo as he sat back to watch a flock of dancers in gauzy skirts take the stage. A chorus of hoots rose up from the pit. Long and sleek on the bench, Leo observed the dancers with a cool remove, as if indeed witnessing the behavior of a species of pretty, giddy birds. He watched the theatergoers with the same detachment. But when he looked at her, his wintry gaze warmed, and her heart responded with a painful, sweet throb.

I have fallen in love with my husband. But, God help me, I do not trust him.

People came and went across the stage. The dancers flung themselves around with more flamboyance than grace. A man came out and belted comic songs, earning him roars of approval. Then painted backdrops of Italian gardens were propped against the back wall of the stage, and a clot of actors pranced out, mouthing words of intrigue.

Many times in the past, Anne had sat in the gallery and wondered about the experience of sitting in a box. The unobstructed view of the stage. The even better view of the theatergoers. How marvelous, she had thought. What a rarified place, untouched by deprivation, rich with delight.

Now she sat in one of those boxes. She could see everything, everyone. And she felt herself utterly removed, as if she were encased in glass. She could not smile or laugh. There were only the thorned vines knotted around her heart, piercing her with every breath.

Yet she was not alone in her disquiet. Throughout the theater, the crowds stirred, restless, ill at ease. The theater was never a calm place, but this night, it felt volatile. Voices from the crowd came too loud, people shoved one another. Tears from women, angry words from men, as if everyone tapped into a font of bitterness beneath the floorboards.

“There’s Bram and John,” Leo murmured.

She glanced across the theater and saw the two men come into a box. Heads turned at their entrance, and no wonder. They were striking men, both tall, commanding attention by their presence alone. John escorted a lady in a low-cut yellow gown, and Bram ushered in two women. Courtesans, clearly, by their gaudy laughter.

As Anne watched, the Hellraisers took their seats, the courtesans fluttering around them. Bram whispered something to one of the women and she giggled, nestling closer, while the other toyed with the buttons of his waistcoat. John seemed less engaged in the actions of his companion, spending his time surveying the crowds with an icy, critical eye. When his gaze fell on her and Leo, Anne suppressed a shiver.

Can he hear my thoughts? Does he know what I think, even across the expanse of the theater?

Leo raised a hand in greeting, but kept his seat.

She was glad he did not want to join his friends in their box. For at the Hellraisers’ entrance, the crowd grew yet more restless. The actors could barely be heard, bawling their lines above the growing din.

“An ill feeling tonight.” Leo frowned and leaned forward, scanning the theater. He looked down into the pit. Perhaps he recognized some faces there, for his expression tightened. He stood and placed his hand on her elbow. “Time to leave.”

Anne rose, grateful. She needed out of this place. Yet as she got to her feet, a girl down in the pit shouted.

Two orange sellers struggled. One of the girls had her hands wrapped around the throat of the other, whilst her opponent gripped her hair. Men close by tried to separate the orange sellers, but the girls could not be pulled away. They struggled with each other, knocking into the people around them. Like a pebble dropped in a lake, their violence rippled outward, as men in the pit began to fight one another. Elbows and fists were thrown. Someone drew a sword.

Several men threw a bench onto the stage. The actors scurried back, and shielded themselves as more benches came flying up. The actors fled into the wings as men clambered onto the stage.

Women in the amphitheater screamed. The galleries erupted. People strained to reach the exits, their progress impeded by brawls. What had been, moments earlier, simply a theater now became a scene of chaos. Even the boxes exploded into violence.

“Goddamn it.” Leo wrapped an arm around Anne’s shoulders and urged her back.

A man’s hands appeared at the railing of the box. He began to haul himself up, his eyes glassy and wild.

Leo released Anne, stepped forward, and slammed his fist into the intruder’s face. The man toppled backward, falling into the surging crowd below.

In an instant, Leo was with her again. Grim-faced, he guided her to the back of the box. He paused next to the door.

“Do not leave my side.” He drew a pistol from inside his coat.

Anne stared at the weapon. Her husband looked very comfortable holding it. Her gaze never leaving the gun, she managed a nod.

Leo checked to make sure the gun was primed, then returned it to his coat. Lips compressed into a tight line, he eased the door open. The narrow corridor was full of people, some running, some fighting. An impassable morass.

“We cannot make it,” she said.

“I am getting you out of here.” Resolution hardened his voice.

Intuitively, Anne knew the safest place was beside him. She pressed close and, at his signal, moved with him as he pushed his way through the corridor.

He cleared a path, shoving aside those who got in his way. Around her churned insanity, the thin veneer of civilization shattered like the wood and broken glass beneath her feet. She could scarce believe that these people, many in damask and lace, brawled like beasts. But there was Lady Corsley raking her nails down Mrs. Seaham’s face. And there was Sir Fredrick Tilford, trading punches with a top government minister. These were only the people Anne knew. Merchants, physicians, costermongers. Rank and profession made no difference—everyone had succumbed to madness.

And there were other faces, too. In the hectic blur, she thought she saw twisted, inhuman visages, the flash of talons, the gleam of fangs. Yet she could never gain a better look, for the crowd would surge, and she saw only more rioters.

God, would she and Leo survive the night?

He cut steady progress down the stairs. When a man stepped into his path, fists swinging, Leo rammed his own fist into the man’s chest, then knocked him back with a blow to the jaw. As Leo shepherded her from one level to the next, he continuously beat away attacks. He moved with lethal grace, swift and clean. No extraneous movement, no attempts at showmanship. His was a violence of intent, of purpose, and it was brutally beautiful to see him fight.

Anne felt a sharp tug on the train of her gown. She staggered backward, and found herself suddenly facing a wall and pinned against it, a man’s hulking form pressed into her back.

“Pretty bird,” he said, his breath rank and hot in her ear. Coarse hands fumbled with her clothing.

She did not have thought to scream. Instead, ferocious instinct gripped her. She took her folded fan and rammed it hard into what she hoped was her attacker’s eye. She must have succeeded, for he howled in agony and released her. Anne pushed back from the wall in time to see her assailant fall to the floor. He disappeared from her sight as panicked audience members scrambled around and on him.

A hand closed around her wrist. She spun, swinging out with her fan. But it was Leo, his face an icy mask. He neatly ducked, avoiding her blow. Before she could apologize, he was pulling her behind him.

“When we get out of here,” he threw over his shoulder, “I’m teaching you how to throw a punch. A fan does no bloody good.”

She might have mentioned that her fan had caused a grown man a good deal of pain. Might have, but she could find no words to speak, no thoughts to think other than they must get out of this place before it was torn to the ground, before the candles were knocked over and the building went up in a curtain of smoke and flame.

At last, they made it down to the ground-floor lobby. Chaos was thick here. Anne had never seen so many people brawling before. She caught glimpses of blood on the floor. Men’s shouts and women’s screams thickened the air. There, on the other side of the lobby, were Bram and John. While John ducked and wove through the crowd, Bram had his rapier out, and he slashed at a group of advancing men. As skilled as Leo was with his fists, so Bram was with his sword, and she understood now how he had survived the long-ago attack in the Colonies. Even to her untrained eyes, she saw few could best him with steel.

There again—strange faces swirled within the crowd. Unearthly faces that came straight from the depths of a nightmare. Yet they vanished before she could verify whether they were real or products of wild imagination.

Leo tugged her forward, carving a route for them both to the doors. Closer and closer they crept, their progress impeded by the hundreds of others all fighting to also get free. There were too many people trying to get through too small a space. Someone cried out as he was trampled in the doorway.

Leo encircled Anne with his arms. His heart beat hard against hers. “Hold tight to me,” he said.

She wrapped her own arms around his waist. Felt the solidness and heat of him through his damp clothing. And she clung to him as he barreled through the door. His arms served as a protective cage, keeping her from being crushed.

Then, at last, they were out. Yet here was little better than inside, for the riot had spread into the streets, drawing in those who had not been in the theater. Those within spilled onto the street in every direction, and those on the outside met them in a fierce clash.

Another surge of people shoved against her and Leo. Her grasp around his waist broke. Suddenly she was alone in the mob. She was caught on a tide of humanity, noise and pandemonium on every side. Perhaps those strange creatures she had thought she saw were truly part of the throng, were moving closer to her. Though she fought against it, shouting for Leo, the flood was too strong. She was borne away, deeper into the storm.

Chapter 11

He had to find her. Everywhere was noise, anarchy. Windows shattered and voices shouted. Leo had seen mobs, knew what they were capable of, the sudden violence that razed buildings and caused men to turn to animals. It never took much in London to incite a riot.

Add demons to the mix, and what followed was inevitable.

Demons. Damn him. Demons. Real, and inciting the crowds to violence. He had seen the creatures in the pit. Things with horns and fangs. Yet they were disguised somehow, wearing the clothing of ordinary humans. No one else had noticed, but Leo recognized the beasts for what they were. Part of his bonds with the Devil, he could only assume. It did not matter how he knew the things for what they were. What mattered was getting Anne out of the theater—yet he had been too late.

Now some of the city’s most esteemed residents were brawling in the streets like Saint Giles rowdies, and on the cobbles lay a few insensate people, trampled by the feet of hundreds. Having broken the chain about its neck, humanity went wild.

Leo shoved through the crowd, searching for Anne. He roared her name. The noise was too great to hear if she responded.

Fear unlike anything he’d experienced throbbed through him. Demons were out there. Creatures of darkest magic. They might have her. She could be hurt, or worse ...

No. No. He would find her.

But where the hell was she? He scanned the mob massed on Russell Street outside the theater. There. He caught a flash of light brown hair and ruby silk, before it disappeared into the crowd spilling into other streets.

He plowed through anyone in his path, his gaze fixed on where he’d last seen her. As he did, he cursed his useless gift of foresight, which showed him only financial disasters but could not help him in this, his greatest moment of need.

Nearing where he had spotted her, the rioters still thick around him, he finally heard her, calling his name. He shouted back to her, but could not catch her response or if she even knew he was nearby. But it gave him a sense of where she might be. Off Russell Street, and into the twisting, dark lanes surrounding the theater.

He moved into a narrow, shadowed street, where the crowd thinned. At the farther end of the street, he saw her at last. Three men had her, pulling on her arms as she struggled to break free. They tugged her into an alley.

Rage blackened thought. He bolted down the street, shouldering aside anyone in his way, seeing nothing but where Anne had been a moment ago. He did not pause at the entrance to the alley. It was almost pitch black, and stank of rotting mutton, but he plunged in.

Four darker shapes revealed where Anne battled against her captors. Judging by the sounds of struggle, she was putting up an admirable fight.

“Filthy rogues,” she snarled. “Swine.”

He could not see, but so long as she kept talking, he knew where she was. And his presence had not been noticed by the bastards who had her. That gave him one advantage. His other advantage lay in his coat pocket, but he had only one shot, and in dark, close quarters, he could not run the risk of missing and accidentally hitting her.

He merged with the shadows, slipping forward unseen. Then, at the precise moment, he launched himself into the fray.

Tackling one of the men, Leo grappled with the assailant, getting a sense of the man’s size, his position. Leo rammed his fist into the man’s face, and his opponent went down with a groan.

Anne cried out a warning as two others rushed him. Darkness helped and hindered as he repulsed their attack. He grunted as one man’s fist connected with his shoulder, but Leo knew the ways of street fighting. Long before he began training at the boxing salon, he had been a hot-tempered young man in countless brawls.

He wrestled now with the attackers in rough, ugly combat. No art here, only the desire to hurt, and survive. In the darkness, they fought, threw punches, kicked. But the assailants did not have Leo’s motivation, for he fought not just for himself, but Anne. He punched one of the men in the side of the head. The attacker formed a dark lump as he crumpled to the ground.

Leaving Leo with two remaining opponents. He heard Anne’s angry curses as she continued to fight against one of the men.

He could not wait for the next attack. His hand brushed against a broken board lying on the pavement, and he grabbed it. Noting the sounds of his adversary’s shoes on the cobbles, he shot forward, swinging the board. It must have connected with the man’s stomach, for he made retching sounds. Using the noise as guidance, Leo struck the gagging man under the chin, knocking him backward. The board broke in Leo’s hands as the man groaned. He did not rise again.

Only one bastard left. The son of a bitch who had Anne. But Leo could not attack—he might hurt her in the process.

“Don’t know who you are, bloke,” the man sneered. “But I’m taking this here piece.”

“I’m the piece’s husband.” Leo’s old, coarse accent had returned but he did not give a damn.

The man chuckled. “Tonight she gets a new man.”

“No she bloody won’t,” Anne spat.

“Anne, with your free hand, grab his little finger,” commanded Leo.

By the sounds of the man’s grunting, Leo understood she had done what he asked.

“Now pull back. Hard.”

Her attacker yelped. “No—”

Anne did not hesitate. A sharp cracking sound filled the alley, followed immediately by the man’s scream.

“Get to the wall,” Leo directed.

“I’m there,” she said a moment later.

As soon as the words left her mouth, Leo attacked. He threw himself toward where he suspected the man would be. And he was not wrong. Finding him in the darkness, Leo rained punches down on him, mercilessly hammering at Anne’s would-be attacker. The injury to the man’s hand made him reckless and angry, and while his punches weren’t accurate, they packed a great deal of power. Leo lost his breath as he took a fist to the chest. He recovered, gasping, his own fury blazing.

He riddled the bastard with hits, until Leo felt his own hands wet with the other man’s blood. It wasn’t enough. Leo wanted more. He kept up his barrage. Finally, Leo heard the man fall to the ground. Leo continued his assault, the demand for more and more blood urging him on. Nothing would satisfy him but destruction. He picked the man’s head up, ready to smash it to the pavement.

Anne’s touch on his shoulder stopped him. “He’s not hitting back.”

“Don’t care.” Leo’s voice was rough in his throat, someone else’s voice.

She tugged on his coat. “The way is clear.”

Reluctant, he loosened his grip on the man’s head. Though he did not smash it on the cobbles, he did let it drop, and it hit the ground with a thick, meaty sound.

He straightened, his body screaming with demands for more violence. Only Anne’s arms around him kept the beast within at bay. She urged him toward the entry to the alley, stepping over the prone bodies of the other men.

At the entrance to the alley, Leo stopped. He heard one of the men stagger to his feet behind them. A metallic hissing echoed in the narrow space—the sound of a knife being drawn. And then footsteps rushed toward them. Leo whirled around.

A brief flash lit the alley, followed by the bark of a pistol. Powder scented the air. There was a groan, and then the sound of a body tumbling to the ground.

Leo lowered his pistol.

“Is he dead?” asked Anne.

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

A brief pause, then: “I don’t, either.”

Leo tucked his gun back into his coat. He threaded his fingers with Anne’s. Together, they ran off into the night.

Dawn lightened the sky to the color of ash. Leo watched the coming of day from a wing-backed chair in his study. He still wore his clothing from the night before, though there were tears at the shoulders and elbows. A gentleman’s finery was not cut for brawling. But despite the plush carpets at his feet or the morocco-bound books lining the shelves of his study, he was not and never would be a gentleman.

He was glad.

Curled into a ball in the other wing-backed chair, with a blanket tucked around her, dozed Anne. She had not changed out of her gown, either. In the half-light of morning, her face was pale, and her lashes formed dark fringes against her cheeks. At her feet tipped a half-empty glass of brandy, the same he had pressed on her as soon as they had returned home last night.

The flames in the fireplace burned bright and hot, casting warmth. Though she had fought bravely, she shivered the whole way back to Bloomsbury. Yet she refused to go to bed. So he tried to make her as comfortable as possible here, in the study, which meant a strong fire and brandy. He had moved her chair close to the fireplace so she might warm quickly. At least her shivering had stopped.

Leo studied the raw patches on his knuckles. His hand ached a little. He welcomed the ache, for it meant that he had done exactly what he needed to in order to secure Anne’s safety. He had not fought like a gentleman. He’d broken men’s faces and splattered their blood upon the ground. He had shot someone. Perhaps killed him. And left the scene without a blemish of concern on his heart. Not the actions of a man of genteel birth.

He did not care. All that mattered was that Anne was safe.

Leo pushed up from his chair. He stoked the fire, then strode to the window. He braced his hands on the inside casing and stared out at the approach of morning. There had been a time when he knew this hour of the day because it meant he was just coming home from his night’s revels. It had left him enough time to bolt down some coffee before heading back out again to the Exchange. Little reason to keep him home, for his house in Bloomsbury was costly but empty.

Never did he think he would be awake at this hour because he had battled through a riot.

He glanced over his shoulder. Anne still slept. Fitfully, but deep enough.

With no eyes on him, Leo at last gave in. His head hung down between his outstretched arms, and a shudder passed through him.

God. God. He had come so bloody close to losing her.

His mind reared back from the possibility. Thinking it felt like a cold knife cutting him into large, bleeding pieces.

And with Whit out there, somewhere, last night’s dangers were but a foretaste of possible disaster. He might have even been in the mob, waiting for his moment to strike, to steal her away.

Leo swung away from the window, lest he smash his fist through the glass.

A soft tap sounded on the door. Leo strode over and opened it, careful to keep his steps quiet.

The head footman, Munslow, stood in the hallway, and Leo moved out to meet him. “Brought a morning paper, as you asked, sir.”

Leo took the newspaper and scanned the front page. Wet ink smeared on his fingers, but he could still read it. Most shocking Violence and Disorder at Drury-Lane Theatre transpired yesterday evening, the Cause of which is yet Undetermined. Three Deaths are reported with greater numbers of Injury, including a Sergeant of His Majesty’s 15 ^thRegiment of Light Dragoons. It is noted by the Author of this article that lately such grievous Events are occurring with greater and greater Frequency in this noble City ...

Reading on, Leo found an extensive list of localized disorders, from fights all around town to an increase in arson, theft, and even murder.

“What do you know of this?” He held the paper in front of Munslow, who peered at the type.

“Can’t say if that’s all true, sir.” The footman scratched beneath his wig. “But it has been rough out there. On his half-day, Davy Jenks, who waits for the gent across the street, he got beat by a gang with truncheons. And the fire brigade were summoned only two nights ago when someone tried to burn down Mrs. Lee’s pie shop on Smithy Street. Lately, seems like all of London’s become Bedlam. Don’t need to pay to see lunatics—not when everyone’s mad.”

Leo frowned. “I haven’t heard any of this.”

The footman offered a half smile. “Well, sir, seeing as how you been busy with the missus, it might’ve missed your attention.”

Leo thrust the newspaper back into Munslow’s hands. “Bring coffee. And something to eat for when Mrs. Bailey wakes.”

The footman bowed and hurried off. Quietly, Leo went back into the study, picking over what Munslow had said. The footman had no cause to lie. And Leo remembered how, not very long ago, he’d been caught in a melee on his way to the Exchange. He had been wrapped too deeply in his own concerns to notice, but thinking on it now, images flickered through his mind. Of thrown fists and broken windows and weeping women and slack-faced men, spread all throughout the city like rot. London’s going mad.

Why now? What was the cause? It was never a peaceful place, but something was stirring up poison.

Across his back, his flesh grew heated. Unease tightened his belly.

Despite the heat on his back, the room itself felt chilled. And no wonder. The fire had gone out. It had been blazing not a few minutes prior. Now it was cold, its embers faintly smoking.

He crossed and pulled the tinderbox down from the mantel. Using a flint, he lit some tinder, and so brought the fire back to life again. He crouched, watching the flames for a moment, their shift and dance.

Turning his head, he saw Anne gazing at him. They stared at each other, mute.

At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to tell her everything: the gift he had received from the Devil, the true threat that Whit represented. No more secrets between them. Only the truth of themselves.

Yet even if she did believe him, he could not predict what her response might be. Disgust, horror. Terror. All possibilities ended with her fleeing. None with her cleaving to him, swearing eternal devotion.

She must never know. Her innocence had to be preserved.

He stroked his hand down the side of her face. She leaned into his touch, but her gaze stayed fixed on his.

“That trick you showed me last night,” she said. “With the man’s finger—breaking it so he would let me go. I want you to show me more.”

He knew dozens, if not hundreds, of ways to hurt a man. Part of his less-than-genteel education. Ladies did not know how to jam their thumbs into a man’s throat or ram an elbow in a man’s groin. He did not care if Anne was a lady. Keeping her safe—that was all that mattered.

“We’ll start later today,” he said. “After you get some rest.”

She clasped his wrist. “Show me now.”

Before he could speak, another tap sounded on the door. It must be the breakfast he’d sent for. He straightened up from his crouch. “Enter.”

Munslow opened the door, but he did not have a tray with him. “Beg pardon, sir. Lord Wansford is come calling.”

“My father?” Anne glanced at the clock on the mantel, which showed the hour to be barely past seven. “He is never up this early.”

“I would’ve told him you weren’t taking callers, sir, but he seemed insistent, and you and the missus are awake.”

Leo frowned. Of all the times to deal with his father-in-law, the morning after escaping a deadly rampage ranked at the bottom of a very long list. Still, if he was here this early, it must be important.

“Give Mrs. Bailey a moment to retire, and then show him in.”

Anne rose. “I want to stay.”

“Show him in now. And bring that coffee.”

The footman bowed. “Yes, sir.”

When they were alone, Anne looked at her reflection in the pier glass over the mantel. During the night, the pins had escaped her hair, and now it spilled over her shoulders and down her back in tangled caramel waves. She briefly fussed with her hair, but the struggle did not last long. “I look like I was in a riot.”

He came to stand behind her and gathered up the mass of her hair so he might press a kiss to the back of her neck. “You were. And you look beautiful.”

“Like a ruffian.”

They stared at each other in the glass, their mirror selves. His own hair was undone from its queue, stubble roughened his cheeks, his clothes were torn, and his hands curved over her shoulders showed red, raw knuckles.

“A well-suited couple,” he said, and as he’d hoped, she smiled.

The footman’s reflection appeared in the mirror. “Lord Wansford.”

A moment later, the baron stepped into the study. He visibly started when he saw not only Leo, but Anne, both of them looking ragged.