“Begone, fair lady!” Dudley screeched at her, bouncing on his feet. “We be in the Devil’s lair!”
Thea paused mid-step. “Oh, is that what they call Mayfair these days?”
“Here lives a wild man! He consorts with demons!”
“Don’t be silly. He doesn’t consort with anyone. All that talking.”
Behind Rafe, Nicholas chuckled. “This one’s going to liven you right up.”
Rafe twisted around. “I told you to go.”
“Not a chance, my boy. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Chapter 7
Thea had intended to walk straight past the man in black. As a Londoner, she was familiar with such men. Every market square in the city had people like this, yelling warnings at the world, while the world either ignored them or threw slops at their head.
Besides, her day in London had left her weary. First, she had gone with Gilbert to deliver her manuscript to Arabella’s publisher and to meet Mr. Witherspoon, the man who would oversee her advertising campaign. He was as excellent as Arabella promised: He listened to her wishes and suggested improvements, before briskly stating how he would achieve each item, how many delivery boys he would hire, which artists he would commission, and, of course, how much it would all cost. The amount made her heart sink, but she confidently assured him the money would be forthcoming, and dashed off on her risky shopping expedition, praying no one would recognize her.
She had hoped to get home before Luxborough did, so she could plead a headache, lock her door, and avoid awkward questions about her shopping.
And perhaps she would have succeeded, if not for her rash decision to have the carriage stop in Warren Street, a little down from the blue door with the brass mermaid knocker. Ma had planted pink flowers in the window boxes and changed the curtains upstairs.
As Thea sat watching, that blue door had swung open to reveal Ma, as if she sensed in her heart that her eldest daughter had come home. But then Pa had dashed up the stairs with his usual vigor and they were both laughing as he whirled Ma about, and they laughed harder when Pa clutched at his lower back.
Thea had blinked away tears, though she smiled for them too. It was too soon to hear from Helen, so the Knight family must have scored some other victory. If only Thea could share in their celebration! If only she could skip through that blue door, wink at the brass mermaid, and know that she was home.
But then another carriage had rumbled past, blocking her view, and when it had passed, her parents were gone and the blue door was shut.
Nothing to do but wait until her pamphlets were ready, and never forget that the Earl of Luxborough was her enemy, and it signified not at all that he was kind to weeping women and plants.
Neither did it signify, she reminded herself sternly, as Lord Luxborough stepped through his front door, his dark hair curling damply over his forehead and collar, that his lordship looked deliciously fresh after a bath.
Dismay shot through her. At least, she thought it was dismay, though it felt like a mix of excitement and pleasure. Their eyes met, and she was reminded of their very first encounter, for that same glee lit his brown eyes as he slowly descended three steps.
Suddenly, Thea didn’t feel so tired after all.
She was preparing to greet Lord Luxborough, when she was distracted first by the appearance in the doorway of a grinning, gray-haired man, whose sleeves marked him as a bishop, and then by the zealot, who addressed her again.
“Yet you visit his devil’s lair, my lady,” the zealot said, continuing their peculiar conversation. “Be you a witch?”
She bestowed upon him the imperious look she had been practicing all day. “If you please! I am the countess.”
After a quick glance at Luxborough, the man recoiled in horror. “You came back from the dead!”
“I did what?”
“First did he kill you with his sorcery!”
“He did what?”
“Then did he raise you from the grave!”
Thea hesitated. As ludicrous as the rumors about Luxborough’s first wife were, she could not quell her curiosity about the kind of woman he had married.
“I am his second wife,” she said quietly, so Luxborough could not hear. “What can you tell me of the first one?”
“He poisoned her, ensorcelled her, enslaved her to his devilry.”
“That sounds like a lot of work. Why would he do all that?”
“Because he is a demon! A witch! A sorcerer! A—”
“Yes, yes, I comprehend that part,” she interrupted impatiently. “But if he has all this power, why use it to harm his wife? This has always puzzled me. Consider, if you will, the plight of a woman accused of witchcraft because two days after she argues with her neighbor, the man gets a pox on his tickle-tail. And this man, he says, ‘By George, that woman must have caused this pox through the power of the Devil. If she can do magic, she won’t use her magic to get a decent house or some gold, by George no, her only use for magical powers is to put a pox on my tickle-tail.’”
The zealot blinked at her, then tugged at his hair. “Have you a demon inside you, my lady?”
“I am rather hungry. Does that count?”
“Beware the beast! Kill you, he will!”
Oh, for pity’s sake. Thea was hungry and her feet hurt, and the best way to stop nonsense was with more nonsense.
“But after he kills me, he will raise me from the dead,” she proclaimed loudly. “Like he did his first wife. Like he did a thousand women.”
“He… What?”
“Oh yes!” she cried. “A thousand women, killed and raised to make an army of the dead! Beware the day when an army of dead wives marches on London. Beware, little man, beware.”
The zealot stared at her, wide eyed, and when he spoke, his tone was perfectly rational. “You’re mad.” He looked past her to the earl. “She’s mad.”
Thea turned. Up on the steps, the bishop was laughing, holding his belly as his shoulders shook. Luxborough elbowed him in the ribs, which only made the older man laugh harder.
Yet a smile played around Luxborough’s lips too, as he came down the last steps toward her. He was in his shirtsleeves, which might be why his shoulders looked so broad, and his wine-red waistcoat hugged a narrow waist and hips. How fascinating it was, that a man could have such broad shoulders and powerful thighs and yet such narrow hips.
Until Luxborough, Thea had never noticed how fascinating men could be.
“You continue to astonish me, Countess,” Luxborough said. “That you make such a response.”
She dragged her gaze off his torso and looked up to meet his eyes, humor glinting in their brandy-colored depths. Again, she felt that little skip of dismay-masquerading-as-excitement. “Response to what?”
“You were screaming at Dudley about an army of dead wives.”
“Oh. Yes. Right. I forgot.” Then his words sank in. “Dudley? You know him?”
“His name is William Dudley and he— Oh hell.” Luxborough’s curse startled her. He gripped her forearm, and she was so surprised by the firmness of his fingers that she did not seek the cause of his alarm, until he said, “It’s Ventnor. Go inside now.”