Chapter 1
Dante D’Angelo might be slightly drunk, but he was not stupid. He was used to the fervent gazes of women caressing his masculine form as he sauntered through the ballrooms of the ton, yet the golden-haired snoop dressed in midnight blue silk watched his movements as if stalking prey.
No, those inquisitive eyes—he’d wager they were ice blue, cold and frigidly formal—had no interest in devouring his muscular physique. She didn’t flash a coy grin. An invitation to slip into a dark room, slip into something warm and wet so he might banish his demons temporarily. So what did she want? And how was it he knew every woman in attendance tonight, every woman except her?
As an enquiry agent for the Order, a group of men who helped the weak and needy, those without funds or connections, those persecuted by the wicked, it was his business to know every person of quality. As the grandson of the deceased Earl of Deighton, he’d been fed on a hearty diet of genealogy.
A man must know his allies and his enemies, boy!
And yet he did not know her.
Intrigued beyond measure, and with a need to rid himself of the depressing ennui consuming him of late, he decided to play a game with this stranger. Lure her into Lucifer’s lair, see if she could withstand the heat.
Excitement thumped in his chest. Hell. It made a change from the need to murder every man breathing.
Dante swallowed his champagne and placed the empty flute on a passing footman’s tray. Now, where amid Babington’s crush of a party might a man find a little privacy? With the house having the most extensive garden in Great Russell Street, outdoors was the obvious choice. And it was a little early in the evening to stumble upon couples fornicating in nature. A little cold, too.
Not too cold or too early for him. Not too cold or too early for the lady who grabbed his wrist as he strode towards the terrace doors.
“Dante, how dashing you—”
“Not tonight, Charlotte.” He did not make eye contact.
“But you said—”
“Not tonight. I’m here on business.” It wasn’t a lie. And now the woman who occasionally warmed his bed knew to cross him off her long list of lovers. Had he bothered to glance back, he would find she had already set her sights on his replacement.
Dante descended the terrace steps, took a moment to warm his hands against the flames roaring in the brazier before stealing deep into the shadows. Through the arched arbour lay an evergreen jungle of dense foliage and high topiary hedges. If one knew where to look, one might find a secluded seat hidden amid the lush greenery. A perfect place to hide and wait.
He did not wait long.
The hesitant patter of footsteps on the path were those of a woman, though he prayed Charlotte hadn’t followed him outside, intent on seduction.
He almost chuckled when he heard a swish of silk and a disappointed sigh. The moment he saw the halo of golden curls, he knew the stranger lacked sense when it came to her penchant for spying.
“Do you know me, madam?” Dante stepped out from the verdure.
The stranger gasped, sending a puff of white mist into the chilly night air. “Heavens above! Did you have to do that? I might have died of apoplexy.”
“When a lady wanders through the darkness alone, she should be prepared for surprises. But I ask you again. Do you know me, madam?”
She seemed flustered by the question. “Know you? Well, yes and no.”
Dante couldn’t help but smile. “Your mother lied when she told you men find indecisive women attractive.”
“And you’re vain if you think every woman seeks to capture your attention. I spoke the truth. Both answers are correct.” She stepped closer, close enough for him to notice the pretty little mole sitting proudly above her bow-shaped lips. “As I’m sure you’re aware, we have never met.”
“No, I would have remembered the determined set of your chin.” He would have remembered the teasing, heart-shaped mole on the swell of her breasts, too.
“But I know who you are, sir. You’re the Dark Angel. That’s the moniker given to you by your colleagues at the Order—Mr Cole, Mr Sloane and Mr Ashwood. And while Mr Ashwood should be addressed as Lord Hawkridge, he despises the fact he inherited a title.”
Cursed saints!
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d attracted the attention of an obsessed debutante, though why she’d risked her reputation to attend this bawdy soiree was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he should tell her why his friends chose the fitting moniker. Warn her not to dance with the devil.
“I am the Dark Angel. But make no mistake, I possess neither temperance nor virtue. Angel is merely a reference to my surname. It is the dark element you should fear.”
Most women would quiver upon hearing his menacing undertone.
Not this one.
“Fear is a construct of the mind, sir.”