Chapter Five

Dare left the salon, tasting victory yet strangely dissatisfied. Inexplicably he felt like a villain for forcing Julienne to accept his invitation for a week in the country.

He was unable to dismiss her from his mind as he made his way to Brooks's Club on St. James Street. He kept remembering how Julienne had looked when he first spied her across the salon this afternoon: the exquisite oval of her face, her long, slender neck, her elegant shoulders, how that bronzed-hued gown set off her skin to perfection…

Her sudden appearance had tightened his loins and set his pulse leaping in midbeat.

He had expected his body to be affected, of course, but his natural physical reaction couldn't explain the fierce quickening of his heart.

He couldn't comprehend why he still wanted Julienne so desperately after all this time. Why should he crave a woman who had betrayed him without remorse? What was it about her that obsessed him so?

True, Julienne was beautiful, passionate, intelligent- the embodiment of everything he had ever desired in a woman. Of all the lovers he had ever enjoyed, none had ever measured up to her.

But she had almost destroyed him. Why was it so difficult for him to remember that?

Even now he couldn't deny the excitement she stirred in him with a single glance. Couldn't dispute that her siren's voice could still seduce him with a mere whisper. And her kiss… He couldn't possibly forget the incredible softness of her lips.

Julienne was an unforgettable woman who made him burn.

Dare swore in frustration, willing himself to shed the taste of her mouth and the memory of her body as she writhed beneath him.

Hell and damnation, his desire for her was nothing more than lust. Pure, raw, primal lust. Julienne had the face of a goddess, the body of a whore. The heart of a marble statue. If four nights ago he had felt a glimmer of any deeper emotion in her lovemaking, he knew he must have imagined it.

The damnable thing was, he wanted that luscious body beneath him again. He wanted to be riding between her white thighs, tangling his fingers in her glorious hair, tasting the warmth and passion he knew her capable of.

He'd thought of little else the past few days. He had slept restlessly, haunted by dreams of making love to her. He'd awakened each morning hard and aching, still dreaming of her, still touching her, smelling her, feeling her. Still yearning for her.

And for one foolish moment this afternoon he had almost let his yearning overwhelm his common sense.

It had surprised him to hear Julienne speak of her position in society, of being caught in the netherworld between the aristocracy and demimonde, between her exiled former countrymen and those of her adopted country. Her admission had sounded so much like the truth. And to his dismay, it had touched a responsive chord within him. He had recognized her feelings of isolation, had realized that she must be lonely, as he was, although for vastly different reasons. In response he had only wanted to comfort her, to take her in his arms and soothe the hurt.

Now, however, Dare forced himself to crush the urge. Julienne Laurent was a superb actress. She knew well how to employ her arts to her own advantage. How to garner sympathy from unsuspecting fools like himself. She had that air of sensual allure perfected, along with that fragile, feminine hint of vulnerability that made him question his own urge for revenge.

But he wasn't about to be taken in by her this time, Dare promised himself. His pursuit of Julienne was merely a cover, a means to get close to Riddingham. He would never let himself become so damned susceptible again.

Dare had been surprised to receive Lucian's message this morning, for he'd thought his friend was in Devonshire. Lately Lucian was spending more of his time at his country seat with his wife as Brynn's time grew near. He couldn't retire altogether from the Foreign Office, though; his country needed him too much.

They were to meet at the library at Brooks's, when few members would be present, since the hour was much too early for dinner or gaming.

When Dare arrived at the club, however, he discovered that the meeting place had changed. He was intercepted on the street by one of Lucian's grooms, who led him to the carriage that Lucian had sent for him.

More curious than alarmed, Dare willingly made the short drive to a less elegant part of the city and was set down before a coffin maker's shop. Puzzled, he entered what appeared to be a workroom, where he was met by the smells of fresh-cut pine and the sounds of hammering and sawing. Several apprentices looked to be hard at work, although the din stopped momentarily when the solemn-face proprietor welcomed Dare as if his arrival was expected.

Immediately he was shown into a small sitting room, where Lucian awaited him.

"Weren't you supposed to be in Devonshire?" Dare said, disturbed by the grim set of his friend's features.

"I was called back to deal with a crisis." Lucian kept his voice low, no doubt so he couldn't be overheard. "It's possible that Caliban has struck again."

"Oh?"

"Lady Castlereagh's companion was found floating in the Thames yesterday morning. Come and see."

He led Dare through a door and dismissed the guard who stood watch. Corpses usually rested in rooms such as this until a coffin could be fashioned, Dare knew, to prevent body snatchers from stealing the cadavers and selling them for medical studies.

In the windowless, airless room, the stench of death struck Dare like a blow.

On a wooden table lay a shrouded body. Lucian drew down the covering to reveal a woman who had perhaps been in her early twenties. She wore a dark gown, and her bloodless, bloated face and hands contrasted starkly with the drab fabric.

"This is Alice Watson," Lucian said tersely. "Her burial was delayed until I could examine her body. And then I decided you should see what dire manner of problem we are dealing with."

Dare felt his stomach churning. He hadn't seen much death in his hedonistic past-he'd even refused to attend his grandfather's funeral-so it came as something of a shock to see Alice Watson's body lying there so brutally lifeless. A shock that Lucian no doubt had intended, Dare suspected.

"She was murdered?"

Lucian pressed his lips together. "I believe so, even though on the surface her death appears to be a suicide. She left a note expressing remorse and asking forgiveness for her sins. But the handwriting was not hers. And there are bruises on her throat that shouldn't be there if she had simply thrown herself into the river."

"What sins?"

"That wasn't clear, but for some months she apparently had been sneaking out of the house, presumably to meet a lover. You cannot tell it now, but Miss Watson was said to be pretty. She was a poor relation who came to London to keep her ladyship company after Lord Castlereagh left for France last December."

"Could her lover have killed her?" Dare mused.

"Possibly. Miss Watson suddenly started wearing a rose-shaped pearl broach that was thought to be a gift from him. But the broach is missing from her possessions. And see, the collar of her gown is torn. She could have been wearing the broach the night she was killed. And why would she have ripped it off if she committed suicide?"

"It could have been taken from her body by whoever fished her out of the river-mudlarks, rookery thieves…"

"Perhaps," Lucian conceded. "But there is another coincidence that seems highly suspicious-and the reason I was called. Several of Lord Castlereagh's letters to his wife are missing. The girl could easily have taken them. Admittedly the odds are long, but Caliban could have seduced her in an attempt to gain state secrets and learn of Castlereagh's plans."

Dare frowned thoughtfully. Since the end of last year, England's foreign secretary had been in France, negotiating with the Allied Powers not only to ensure Napoleon's defeat but to begin discussions on how to settle Europe afterward-the most pressing issue being whether to put a Bourbon king back on the French throne.

"Caliban could not have been pleased by the recent treaty Castlereagh orchestrated at Chaumont," Dare observed.

"No. And doubtless he would like nothing better than to scuttle any future negotiations. England holds the purse strings, but Castlereagh controls those strings, which makes him nearly as powerful as Napoleon himself."

"You think Lord Castlereagh might be in danger?"

"I confess that worries me. I've sent a report to him at Chaumont, warning him to be on his guard. And I've put an agent of my own both in his London household and on his staff in France. But that might be inadequate." With a final glance at the poor girl's body, Lucian covered her again. "Come. I expect you've seen enough."

He led Dare from the room and nodded brusquely to the coffin maker, who scurried off to ready the body for burial.

Out on the street, Dare dragged in a deep breath. The London air was ripe with the usual odors of soot and refuse, but it seemed like perfume after the fetid stench of decaying flesh behind him.

Yet he thought he understood his friend's reason for bringing him: Lucian intended to drive home the seriousness of their mission-finding Caliban and putting an end to the death and destruction he orchestrated.

Dare waited until they had settled into Lucian's carriage and were on their way back to Brooks's Club before he asked the question that had struck him almost from his first moment of seeing Lady Castlereagh's companion's corpse. "Was Riddingham involved in any way with the Watson girl?"