Chapter 1
ENGLAND,JUNE 1816
“I’m a spy, not a bloody nursemaid!”
William de l’Isle, Viscount Ravenwood, glared across the desk at his mentor, Lord Castlereagh.
The older man shook his head, supremely unmoved by his outburst. “Miss Hampden needs immediate protection. Someone’s targeting my code breakers and whoever killed Edward could also have discovered her identity. I can’t afford to lose her, too.”
Raven narrowed his eyes. “Use another agent.”
Castlereagh gave him one of those level, penetrating looks he so excelled at. “Who? Neither of her brothers are here; Nic’s in Paris, and Richard’s following a lead on that French forger he’s been after for months. Who else is left?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’ve lost too many good men. First Tony got himself killed in France, then Kit disappeared. There’s been no news of him for months.”
Raven frowned. He refused to consider the distasteful probability that his friend was dead. Kit was like him, a master of survival. He could be deep undercover. But with every week that went by with no word it became harder and harder to stay positive.
“And now another good man, Edward Lamb, had been murdered,” Castlereagh sighed. “I don’t want Miss Hampden to be next.”
The older man was a master of applying just the right amount of pressure and guilt. He hadn’t made it to head of the Foreign Office without knowing how to manipulate people.
“You think I should entrust her to a less competent operative?” Castlereagh mused softly. “You’re not burdened by false modesty, Ravenwood. You know you’re the best I have. I was hoping you’d use your exceptional talent for survival to keep Miss Hampden alive, too.”
Raven sighed, well aware he was being backed into a corner. If it had been anyone else he wouldn’t have hesitated. But Heloise Hampden was the fly in his ointment. The spoke in his wheel.
A total bloody menace.
Hellcat Hampden had been the subject of his guilty daydreams for years. What had started out as adolescent musings had matured into fevered erotic fantasies that showed absolutely no sign of abating. He’d told himself the attraction was because she was forbidden, tried to lose himself in other, far more available women. Nothing had worked. And while he’d rarely paid much attention to the monotonous sermons preached by the clergy, he was fairly sure there was something in the bible that said “thou shalt not covet thy best friend’s little sister.” Or words to that effect.
He was thelastperson she should be entrusted to. He’d sworn to stay away from her. Had avoided her quite successfully—give or take a few blessedly brief skirmishes—for the past six years. Hell, he’d traveled to the far corners of war-torn Europe to try to forget her.
And now here he was, drawn back to her by some malevolent twist of fate.
As if his life wasn’t cursed enough already.
Over the past few years they’d settled into an uneasy, albeit barbed, truce; it was a sad reflection on his twisted nature that he preferred sparring with her to holding a reasonable conversation with anyone else.
His blood thrummed at the prospect of seeing her again and he smiled in self-directed mockery. Few things increased his heartbeat anymore. In combat he was a master of his emotions, sleek and deadly and efficient. Fighting barely elevated his pulse. He could kill a man without breaking a sweat. But put him ten paces away from that slip of a girl and a furious drummer took up residence in his chest, battering away against his ribs.
He shook his head. Being near her was a torture he both craved and abhorred, but he had a duty to keep her safe. A duty to her family, to Castlereagh, to the whole damn country. Much as he’d like someone else to deal with her, he didn’ttrustanyone else. She washisto torment.
Castlereagh, the old devil, smiled, as if he already sensed Raven’s grudging acceptance. “That’s settled, then. She’s safe at home right now. You can go over and get her in the morning.”
He rose and strode to the door of the study, then flashed an amused glance at Raven’s immaculate evening attire and the mask resting on the desk. “I apologize for interrupting your evening, Ravenwood. I’ll leave you to your entertainments.”
—
She was in.
Heloise smiled in triumph as she trailed a group of masked revelers toward Lord Ravenwood’s infamous ballroom.
She’d never been invited to one of these masquerades. Raven and her brothers had always excluded her from anything remotely interesting as a child, and the situation hadn’t improved now that she was twenty-two and perfectly capable of looking after herself. Tonight, however, she had a perfectly valid reason for sneaking in; the crumpled translation she’d stuffed down the front of her bodice. Raven would forgive her when he heard what she’d discovered.
The extravagant debauchery of his annual gathering was the stuff of legend. Even the most sophisticated members of thetondiscussed it in scandalized whispers, behind twitching fans. She was finally going to discover whether its reputation was justified.
Heloise reached the entrance to the ballroom, glanced up, and stopped dead. Her lips formed a soundless O of astonishment. The gilt-edged invitation she’d “borrowed” from Richard’s study had promised “An Evening of Heaven and Hell.” The rumors hadnotbeen exaggerated.
She blinked. The guests had embraced the suggestion of depraved licentiousness with enthusiasm. Scantily clad gods and goddesses mingled with angels and devils in a dizzying sea of color. Grotesque masks, all curved beaks and twisting horns, swirled above acres of exposed flesh. A hundred perfumes entwined with the smell of warm bodies, hair powder, and wine, while the string quartet in the corner was almost inaudible over the boisterous hum of conversation.
Heloise glanced down at her own comparatively simple costume. She’d pilfered an authentic second-dynasty Egyptian beadwork collar from her father’s collection of Ancient jewelry and improved a black silk half-mask with whiskers and a pair of papier-mâché ears. There: Bastet, the Ancient Egyptian cat goddess. Not that anyone here would have any idea who she was supposed to be.