My Scandalous Viscount Read online

  It was heavy, disguised in front with shelves full of real books, but it swung forward like an ordinary door.

  Carissa peered into the darkness beyond, her heart pounding. A dark passageway about two feet wide led off into the inky blackness in both directions.

  Oh, I cannot wait to tell Daphne about this!

  She dashed back to fetch the oil lamp, turning it up to its full illumination. Then she held it up into the darkness and leaned in to have a look.

  A secret passageway stretched in both directions. She peered this way and that, a frisson of excitement tingling down her limbs. I wonder where this goes.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the closed parlor door. No sign of Beauchamp yet. He must be sewing stitches on himself, poor man. Then she paused to gnaw her lip a bit in guilt to know that no one was helping him the way he had helped her.

  Oh, well, she quickly concluded, shrugging to herself. He seemed supremely self-sufficient, not the sort who’d want a woman fussing over him.

  More importantly, he would be back at any minute. If she wanted to continue exploring—which of course she did—this would likely be her only chance. She took a deep breath. Just a peek.

  Ever so cautiously, she stepped through the mysterious open doorway of the bookcase, leaving it open behind her to avoid any mishaps.

  Unfortunately, she hadn’t stopped to contemplate the workings of hidden weight-triggered mechanisms, and as soon as she placed her weight on the first floorboard past the threshold, the bookcase-door swung shut behind her.

  And locked.

  She whirled around with a gasp to find herself entombed inside the wall. With a gulp, she lifted the lantern, trying to find the latch or whatever to open the thing again.

  She spied a simple handle like that on a drawer. But when she pushed it, the bookcase wouldn’t budge.

  “Come on!” she whispered, trying to jiggle it free, but nothing happened. Lifting her lantern higher, she scanned all around the door and noticed above her eye level an odd little brass plaque set into the wall.

  It had a dial in the center with numbers encircling it like the face of a clock. Her eyes widened, and her heart sank as she realized what it was. A combination lock. You had to know the code. “Oh, no. No, no, no!” she whispered, her fingertips alighting on the center dial—but she stopped herself from turning it and yanked her hand away.

  She might only trigger some other bizarre mechanism.

  Calm down, she ordered herself, dry-mouthed.

  This passageway obviously led somewhere. She’d follow it and find another way out. Yes. Then she could sneak back to the parlor and resume her wilting-violet pose on the couch, and he’d never be the wiser.

  Very well, she thought, nodding to herself. She wasn’t sure which way to go, as the passage stretched both to the right and the left. With a shrug, she opted at random for the left, summoned up all her determination, and set off, lifting her lantern high. The flickering glow cast an eerie light in the close, narrow space. Carissa took comfort in knowing that while she might hate the sight of blood, at least she wasn’t claustrophobic. With each step forward, she grew more intrigued than scared.

  The smell inside the walls was damp and musty with age. Having seen Dante House from the outside many times before whenever she had traveled along the Strand, she knew it was one of the row of ancient Town mansions that sat beside the Thames, a relic of the Tudor period.

  Now inside the walls, she could feel the weight of its great age, and could only wonder at all the upheavals in London the house must have witnessed over the centuries. It groaned like it was haunted.

  Cobwebs fluttered in the draft.

  The secret passage turned and twisted like a labyrinth, trying to trip her up on uneven steps, taking her up and down ladders, offering branched paths here and there that left her wondering which way to turn.

  It was all a delicious mystery—like Beau himself—but she knew she did not have much time to explore and had not yet come across an exit. The inky black maze seemed to distort her sense of time and sense of space, as well, so it was hard to judge where the deuce she was inside the house, let alone how many minutes might have passed. Maybe ten? At the same time, she was trying to hurry and not to tax her strength too much after her ordeal.

  When she came to another dark intersection, she debated whether to go to the right or the left or straight down on the ladder that descended into empty space before her. If she did not have the lantern, she thought, she’d have stepped into that hole and broken her neck.

  She held the lantern over it, trying to see what might lie beyond the darkness; but biting her lower lip, she decided that there was only one way to find out.

  Climbing carefully onto the ladder in her long, bloodstained evening gown, she hung the lantern over her wrist and gripped the top rung. Then she began her descent, laughing to herself to think of any club member who might happen to see her like this. She might well be mistaken for some macabre lady ghost haunting the old building.

  Reaching the bottom of the ladder, she stepped off into another wood-planked passageway, but here, she could feel a slightly stronger draft floating past her cheeks. It made her lantern flicker.

  She cupped her hand before the flame. “Don’t you even think about it,” she breathed. But the threat of losing her light did not deter her from pressing on into the darkness, smiling in spite of herself.

  What would Beau say if he knew what she was up to?

  Ahead, her lantern’s glow revealed an opening. “What’s this?” she murmured softly.

  A little room opened up before her, perhaps twelve by twelve, but she furrowed her brow to spy its main feature: a gaping hole in the middle of the floor. At nearly ten feet in diameter, it took up most of the room.

  Why would they want a giant hole in the floor?

  Mystified, she lifted her gaze and saw a sturdy rope hanging down from the ceiling, with thick knots at regular intervals. The knotted rope descended into the center of the hole—like a ladder, she thought—but it was out of reach unless you took a running leap.

  Of course, if you missed or did not hold on tightly enough, you’d fall, she mused. What on earth? Cautiously walking over to the edge, she peered into the hole, wondering what was down there. She must be at the level of the house’s deepest foundations, she thought, for beneath the mighty wood timbers, she now saw stone.

  The hole appeared to burrow straight down into the limestone. But why? If they wanted to put a simple cellar beneath the house, why make it accessible only by a treacherous rope ladder? It was too intriguing.

  She held her lantern out over the hole, trying to see down. There must be something down there that the men of the Inferno Club did not want anyone else discovering.

  Her spine tingled. She hoped it wasn’t something sinister. But if it were ordinary or harmless, then why take all these precautions to keep it hidden? She remembered how the Home Office had been speaking to Lord Beauchamp about something . . .

  Oh, God. What if there was something criminal going on here? What if there are, I don’t know, she thought, dead bodies or something down there? She swallowed hard.

  It suddenly struck her that she must have been completely out of her head to attempt this. There was harmless, ordinary snooping into gossip, then there was serious, wish-you-never-found-out-about-it prying into matters that were better left alone.

  Indeed, not even her outsized curiosity streak was strong enough to make her consider risking a leap onto that rope-ladder to see what was below. Especially since she would have to put down her lantern even to try it. Without light, she could get lost inside this labyrinth forever, she thought—and at that moment, right on cue, an uprush of clammy air suddenly snuffed out her lantern’s flame.

  She lurched back from the hole with a horrified gasp, lost her grip on the lantern in the process, and dropped it. She heard it clatter to a stone floor many feet below. Her heart pounding, she found herself staring blindly into utter da
rkness. Oh, dear Lord. How am I going to find my way back?

  She could not see anything, but at least she had the sense to back away from that hole. When she felt the solid wall behind her, she breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Right.

  Her first task was to find her way back to the ladder. Turning ever so cautiously, she felt her way to the corner of the passageway down which she had come.

  Panic snagged at the edges of her mind, but she managed to keep it in check as she groped along down the narrow passageway and found the ladder at last. Willing herself to stay calm, she started climbing, rung by rung.

  This, at least, was easily done.

  At the top, she now had another choice to make: right, left, straight. Well, she had come from the passage straight ahead and had not located any exits that way. She stared in one direction, then the other. With a shrug, she decided to try going to the right.

  As she made her way along the narrow passage, this had all become a lot less entertaining. The darkness closing in on her felt oppressive; the stuffy air choked her. Her head began to throb again. Her stitches burned.

  Worst of all, the darkness began to play tricks on her mind, filling her imagination with dire thoughts.

  She almost felt as though the house were alive; it did not want her there, an intruder. She had the sense of countless crawly things all around her in the darkness, and the absurd fear whispered through her mind that once in, she was never getting out . . .

  Just when panic welled up into her throat, she turned a corner—and saw a light ahead. Oh, thank God. She approached silently, drawn to it like a moth.

  The dim light ahead became a softly glowing oval on the wall of the dark passageway.

  It did not look large enough to be a door of any kind. Indeed, she did not know quite what it was until she reached it and looked at it . . . through it . . . into a dining room.

  Fascinated, she realized she was staring through what appeared to be a typical convex wall-mirror, with twin candle sconces attached to either side. Every upper-class home had them; the curve of the glass helped amplify the light. But you could not normally see through them!

  She marveled at the brilliant invention with no idea how it was made, though as a lady of information, she knew she had to have one. A spying window disguised as a mirror!

  The dancing flames atop the candles were obviously the light source that had drawn her. Then, peering through the treated glass into the room, she beheld Lord Beauchamp.

  Shirtless.

  Tending to his wound. Oh, my. She stared.

  The man was utterly beautiful.

  No wonder the scandalous hussies of the ton couldn’t leave him alone. A mild swooning sensation made her feel light-headed, but she assured herself it was only due to blood loss. Still, she barely blinked, staring at his magnificent body with only a hint of guilt, safely hidden behind the glass.

  Perhaps it was just as well for her morals that whatever treatment had been applied to the mirror to render it transparent had also darkened the glass a bit. Her view was slightly veiled, as if she were gazing through brown bottle glass. She could see line, but not much in the way of color . . . and, truthfully, that was enough of a visual feast. The shape of his broad shoulders. The muscled swells of his chest, his brawny arms. Sleek waist. The breathtaking sight of his chiseled abdomen. To be sure, all that was quite enough without adding to it the true, warm tones of his skin, the jade blue seduction of his eyes, and the angelic gold of his hair.

  But she jerked herself out of her dazed staring, for she could also hear through the mirror, and the conversation in progress was most intriguing.

  “I can hardly believe Lord Forrester shot you!”

  She leaned forward to see who had spoken.

  An aged butler with a gaunt, unsmiling visage marched into view, bringing the viscount a writing set. The butler stepped around the large guard dogs lying on the floor and placed it on the table near Lord Beauchamp.

  Egads, she thought, staring at those panting beasts sprawled on the floor, their big, fanged mouths drooling as they panted. She’d be lucky not to get eaten if she ever managed to find a way out of this labyrinth.

  Beau, meanwhile, had shrugged. “Well, but how can I be angry? The man’s like a brother to me. I’m just glad he’s alive.” He winced as he doused the wound on his arm with a slosh of brandy. She was relieved to note that the bullet had only grazed him. “I got him, too. In the leg. Obviously, neither of us really wanted to hurt the other. It’s the girl’s doing, frankly.”

  Carissa frowned.

  “She hit me in the back with the door. I thought Nick had brought reinforcements. She’s lucky I didn’t accidentally kill her, thinking I was being attacked from both sides.”

  The butler nodded. “Well, a leg wound should slow the baron down, at least.”

  Beauchamp nodded. Drying the wound with a fresh rag, he dabbed blood and liquor off his arm. “Anyway, that’s why I’m not angry. You must know what I’ve been thinking all this time, Gray, though I refused to say it aloud.”

  “Indeed, my lord. We all feared the worst,” the old fellow agreed with a sympathetic look.

  “Now that I know he and Trevor are alive, that’s all that matters.”

  “Do you mean to tell the Elders?” the butler asked with a nod toward the writing set.

  “Certainly. Just not . . . yet.”

  “Sir?” he countered in surprise.

  Elders? Carissa wondered.

  “Gray, they won’t understand,” he said with a frustrated glance. “They’ll put a price on his head, just like they did with Drake. I’m not sending assassins out after my best friend. I’ll tell them everything, after I’ve got all this sorted out.”

  “After?”

  “After,” he repeated. “And I’m counting on you, Gray. I’m going to need your silence and your cooperation. You’ll be as loyal to me as you were to Virgil, I trust?”

  Carissa watched the scene unfolding in confusion. To be sure, this was far more intriguing than the play at Covent Garden Theatre.

  The butler, Gray, meanwhile, had folded his hands behind his back and fixed the rakehelly viscount with a skeptical stare.

  “You sound very sure about this.”

  “Nick is confused right now. That much was obvious.” He shook his head. “I have to help him. I can make him listen to reason, I’m sure of that. I just need to track him down.”

  “What about the girl? She’s compromised you, sir.”

  I’ve compromised him? she mentally retorted. I daresay it’s the other way around!

  “I’m aware of that, believe me. Of course, I’m sure I’ve compromised her, too. And you know what the worst part is? Her uncle is the bloody Earl of Denbury. Highest of high sticklers! I wish like hell that Rotherstone and his team were here.”

  Carissa furrowed her brow in confusion at Beau’s mention of Daphne’s husband. Lord Rotherstone was involved in this somehow? Team? she wondered, increasingly bewildered.

  “I mean, I don’t see why Falconridge had to go with them. He shouldn’t even have gone on that mission, not with his injuries.”

  Mission? Carissa tilted her head. I thought they were on a hunting trip.

  “It’s been over a month since he killed the assassin,” Gray replied. “I’m sure he’s doing fine.”

  Carissa’s eyes widened. Assassin?

  Gentlemanly Lord Falconridge? The paragon of the universe, the wonderful, scholarly earl she most would’ve loved to have for an elder brother had killed . . . an assassin?

  “Well, he should have stayed in Town. Unflappable as he is, he’d have been perfect for dealing with Ezra Green. Better than I am at it, anyway.”

  “If the Elders did not think you equal to the task, my lord, they would not have hesitated to give it to someone else.”

  “Thanks.” Beau exchanged the rag he’d been pressing against his arm for a long strip of bandage.

  He began winding it around his biceps and finally tuc
ked the end of the bandage under like he’d done it a hundred times before. “I’ve got to take Miss Portland home.”

  “Very good, sir.” The butler gave a cordial nod, but then hesitated, lowering his head with a worried look. “My lord, do you really think Lord Forrester has betrayed the Order?”

  Order?

  Beau let out a sigh and shook his head. “I don’t know, Gray,” he admitted. “I know Nick would never work against us.” He shrugged. “He said he just wants out, and truthfully, after tonight, I can’t say I blame him. When I saw that girl get hit—” A murderous look hardened his face. His big body bristled, but he shook it off. “He’s lucky he didn’t hurt her.”

  Hullo, a bullet scraped my head.

  “Hell, after the night I’ve had, I rather hate the spy life myself.”

  Her jaw dropped as he reached for his shirt, and all the puzzle pieces flew together in her mind. Her eyes were as round as moons, her heart thumping. Her mouth hung open in the darkness; she covered it with both hands, staring with the greatest astonishment of her life.

  But there was no mistake. Her ears had not deceived her. Lord Beauchamp was a spy, the Inferno Club a front for some sort of covert ring. Daphne’s and Kate’s husbands . . . and even dear, chivalrous Lord Falconridge!

  How can this be? She did not know. But it was. All that she had overheard left no doubt on the matter.

  No wonder Dante House had all these mysterious passageways! Her heart pounded like it would burst right out of her rib cage with her excitement at this treasure trove of secret information.

  She had never heard one rumor in Society that ever came close to anything like this.

  As for the “hunting trip” to the Alps that Lord Rotherstone, Lord Falconridge, and the Duke of Warrington had gone on—well, now, there was a half-truth!

  So much else about her friends finally made sense.

  Even the Home Office investigation. Of course!

  Surely it had to do with their spy stuff, not with Beau himself. She suddenly furrowed her brow, wondering if this was the real reason why Daphne and Kate had disappeared from Town.